Dear Kamala,

It has been exactly 23 years since you left me. And every minute of those years I have missed you. I have missed your smile, I have missed your grace, I have missed your words that were always the ones I needed to hear. I have memories of you that go way back to when I was still a child, memories of walking holding your hand in new cities, under sun or rain, discovering new sites and I remember how you never tired of the million of questions I asked. You always answered them with a smile. Yes your smile, that incredible wand that made the darkest moment into a sun drenched one. I remember how you were always there for me be I a child or a middle aged woman. It is in your arms and at your feet that I found every answer I needed and healed every hurt from the scraped knee to the harshest blow. You were always there to soothe away any grief or pain your child had suffered.

You wanted an army of kids, you only got one! For the 38 years we lived together you made me feel loved at every instant, even when I threw a childish  tantrum or behaved unpardonably. I feel tiny and shamefaced when I recall some of those instants, specially those when I was grown up!

We lived together for 38 years + nine months, and each of those years, months and days were blessed. This year I too have been a mother for 38 years. But I can tell you now without hesitation that I was and could not be a mother like you! And somewhere it is because you were too perfect a mom! Having married late and lived a difficult yet extraordinary childhood and young womanhood, where you broke so many social mores to get your way, you became a mother who could bring to her child innumerable and astounding examples of life. You were the woman who had battled every more and tradition to not accept marriage before your country became independent as you were part and parcel of the fight for Independence being a  freedom fighter’s daughter. In times were women were still in purdah you were the one who had to apply homemade balm on the lacerated backs of your father and his camarades in arm. I think if was that terrifying experience for a child that made you decide not to have yours before India became free. You did not want to bear a ‘slave’ child. You would rather remain an old maid. But you had made a sacred pact with your father: should you still be of marriageable age you would marry any man your father chose for you. And you did even if it meant leaving your home and loved ones in an age where communication across the world were in their infancy. I married the man I chose and ensured that I live close to you and when my husband was posted out of India and I was unwilling to make the move, you scripted a act that would make things easier for your precious child: you left with papa for a European holiday and made you sure that your last port of call was the place we were in.

You were the woman who had to battle to get educated. Your father would have, like all fathers happily stopped your studies in class VI, if there were any studies at all. If I remember well, you told me that in those days girls were put to test by potential in laws. The ‘tests’ were  whether the would be bride knew simple arithmetic, whether she could talk – lest she be deaf and dumb – whether she could sing devotional songs, whether she could read the holy scriptures or more often whether she knew them by rote. That would have been the sum all of your education had you played by the rules. But you were made of some other mettle. The first school for girls  opened in the small mofussil town where you lived. The two exceptional assets you had were your mom and your paternal grandmother both born women’s libbers and what I would call your education drama in umpteen acts began. Needless to say you were Roll no 1 in the said school and your Gandhian methods of fasting (while you were fed at nigh by your two partners in crime) ensured you pass your class whether she could sing devotional songs, go for your Bachelor’s degree to Benares Hindu University and live in a hostel, secure your MA, LLB and a PHD in Prague. My education came on a silver tray as everything else in my life. The best schools across the world, the best Governesses, the best of everything. But what you did manage to make me understand was the importance of education, specially for women. Something I always remembered and valued and perhaps the first seed of what awaited me when you would not be there with me.

My life was replete with amazing and unique lessons that would take volumes to recount if I were to do you justice. Maybe I will some day. The one I very often recall is how you stopped me from leaving food in my plate and wasting it. You who had known hunger and want at a tiny age could not see your child not value food. You had to teach an Ambassador’s daughter the pains of hunger pangs. You did. You just kept the food I had left in the plate in the refrigerator and placed it cold and congealed in front of me for all subsequent meals. Being stubborn and spoilt it took 3 days fro me to break and believe me when I tell you that never did a morsel taste so good. What I came to know much later was that you and Pa had not eaten for those fateful days. You would be appalled and saddened so see how much food is wasted today whilst millions sleep hungry in the country you fought for.

I could go on and on as memories of you are so easy to recall.

You died on the 13th June 1990. But you somehow knew that I would need you again years later to show me the way and heal my hurt. You knew that one of the ways I dealt with hurt and anger was to turn the house upside down and go on a cleaning spree. On one of those occasions I stumbled upon a diary you must have written in the last year of your life when your knew you were losing what you cherished the most: your mind! You scribbled feverish words that you knew I would read at the appropriate time. I did find the diary and it was as if you had guessed everything about my morrows. But that was not all. You shared your pain and in some ways shattered many images that I had held as true as you had always put up a smiling face for your child be it when you sat in a car after a major crash with all your bones broken or when my father hurt you because he loved you too much. Love can sometimes be so smothering and even hurtful. I thank you for sharing that pain with me even if it was after you were gone. I wrote you a letter last year on this very day to share what I felt reading those poignant words.

I have strived to be worthy of you mama. I guess I will know the truth when we meet. I know we will.

Your child

anou

It went from my head and out through my feet! Wonder what that means? I give you three guesses or maybe I should just reveal the meaning! But to get to that a little background. When my grandson left India a few months ago he spoke Hindi like a native, English with a pwhy why tinge and a spattering of French with an undecipherable accent. Then he left us and flew to St Louis in the Missouri. He quickly learnt all the ‘Oh man!’ and other local expressions and in spite of our I would say meagre efforts to speak to him in Hindi on Skype and spite of his regular watching of Chotta Bheem and his mom’s occasional Hindi tirades, we slowly realised that his Hindi was slowly and ineluctably being devoured by Midwest American if such a language there is. And has he speaks at an incredible speed Nani and Nanou sometimes needed an interpreter aka his mom, to understand what we were being told.

When his mom one day asked him why he had forgotten his Hindi his first answer was that it was broken, then more recently he came up with the statement cited above: his Hindi went from his head out through his feet.

At present the house is almost like a Tower of Babel with all kind and shades and hues of Hindi and English being spoken everyone trying to communicate at best. It is really amusing seeing Radhey the auto driver speaking his version of Hinglish and the rest of the staff making yeoman’s effort at conversing with the prodigal boy and Utpal is practicing his English. He is here for two months and I wonder whether his Hindi will shoot back to his head or whether the rest of his favourite gang will find his version of English crawling slowly from  their feet to their heads!

The best language classes I have ever witnessed!

My little grandson is back. He will fly in tonight and revive our home and hearts for the next 2 months and one week. The last months have been bleak for more reasons than one. Nanou has not been well, Nani has been running like a headless chicken not knowing which way to go, or what to tackle first and quite honestly not been very good at keeping things on course. But to my little Angel Nani is the best girl in the world! So Nani aka me, has to put her best face on, her best foot forward and live up to the little chap’s expectations. The last week has been hectic: trying to finish Utpal’s homework – dreaded each and every year particularly the innumerable pages of inane writing that still sort of incomplete –   so that the rest of the holidays can be spent playing and having fun. Now with the mercury at 45 plus, a lot of planning is required specially with a boy whose mom is very strict on TV viewing and a child who cannot stay indoors.

Utpal has been a huge help as we have set up the playroom. washed all the old toys and brought some new ones and loads of crayons and paint so that the boys can be creative. The old air conditioner has been repaired and all fingers crossed. But there will still be the power cuts and the fact that Agastya moves like a bolide across the house. As the trusted Doc is on leave for the next three weeks, a visit was made and all the medication for all the potential problems that could arise has been bought and kept in the medicine cabinet.

All the favourite foods have been bought and put in the fridge or the store room. The favourite menu of pharatha, dal and alu gobhi (flat bread, lentils and potato and cauliflower curry) has been ordered. Just need to buy some bits and bobs and we are ready for the return of the beloved child! I am thrilled beyond words at the fact that Utpal still has a month holiday and the two little loves of my life can bond and play to their heart’s content under Nani’s moist eyes.

But just like Utpal, Nani has not been good with her homework. I still do not know what colour Percy or Gordon are and have still not seen Toy Story 2 and learnt about Buzz whatever is name is. And it took me visits to a 6 toy shops to find one Buzz! They seemed to be out of stock.

The next weeks are going to hectic and for all the right reasons. Welcome home beloved Agastya!

Heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of wrote Blaise Pascal. This saying often crops in my mind when I find myself doing something that defies my Cartesian upbringing and my ever questioning mind. Yet I often find myself sprouting out words that seem to bypass reason, or agreeing to something that seems more than ludicrous, or extending my hand while my reason is screaming that there is no way ahead. I guess these are the times when the heart takes over, or to once again quote the Little Prince, I see, hear and speak with my heart. I guess we have all had our share of such instants, and I am sure Descartes must have had them too!

Of the occurrences that come to mind I could cite the day when a man came hobbling on a stick and sought monetary help for the operation of his son, and I heard myself say instinctively: I’ll see what I can do. As the words were uttered, reason took centre stage and reminded me that the sum that was being asked was what it cost us the run project why for one whole month. But what was said was said and we conjured the amount. The child in question is now in class XII! Subsequently we sponsored more than 18 heart surgeries. And what about the instance when while reading a medical discharge slip of a little child with third degree burns that stated that his chances for survival were close to nil, I found myself looking into his eyes and saying to his desolate mother: he will live! Today he is all of 11 and a lovely lad studying in class VI!

Over the past years there have been such occasion where I have promised the moon and managed to fulfil my promises. And every time some miracle happened. Reason did not find a suitable answer but I did. I created my God of Lesser Beings who was the one who made me say the seemingly absurd words and then ensured that everything played to his perfect script. The last instance even baffled me. This how he it went: as I was above to leave the office and had settled book in hand in my three wheeler, a man came to me seeking monetary help for his wife’s surgery. It had been along time since we had stopped medical help as most of the donors had vanished. In spite of every things screaming against my saying yes, I did! Within hours we had the money pledged. A gentle reminder that my God of Lesser Beings had not finished his plans for me.

For the past few months, my life partner has been unwell, and no one has been able to diagnose the problem. Reason failed and stood exposed. So I found myself knocking at every door that could help. I was told that he was going through a bad astrological period and I should perform some prayers. I did. Then someone told me to keep a wow and visit the Kalka Temple every day for 40 days. For one who is agoraphobic it was asking the impossible. Reason reminded me gently and then forcefully of all the instances when I had fainted in crowds. But I accepted without batting an eyelid and go every morning to the said temple. Someone else suggested the offering of alcohol to Lord Bhairon. I do it every Saturday. I am sure that I will accept the next suggestion without hesitation.

As Pascal said Heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of !

I am hurt! I had thought that some passed aberrations that plagued my personal life for quite some time had been, if not healed, at least laid to rest. I had made my peace with all the ugly and unnecessary yet distressing events that shook the very core of my family  and have left scars that can never heal on the soul of one who has never hurt a fly.

Every family has its share of issues and problems, some real, some imaginary and some created with animus. The panacea of all problems, big or small is and will always be honesty and communication remembering that there is always two sides to any conflict. When you chose to resolve a conflict by listening to only one side it always results in hostility that slowly mutates to at best indifference, or most of the times hatred.

Communicating at an early stage with all protagonists brings solutions that can lead to healing or at least understanding. When you chose to take sides all that happens is ugly words and more words, some so reprehensible that there is no coming back. One of the lessons of my parents that I cherish the most, was to always think before you speak, specially in a situation of conflict. When I was little, my mother never reprimanded me on the spot, but waited for the right moment to talk over what had happened.

Unfortunately in my situation the worst was said. I would have kept quiet and I did, till the day when unacceptable remarks were uttered about the ones I love. I withdrew and preferred keeping away and silent as I am no saint, and the things that were mouthed would had resulted in more hurt had I decided to counter them.

Alas, in spite of hoping that the status quo would remain, circumstances beyond one’s control entailed  communication and resulted in pain and anger. My simple statement urging to keep things as they were led to my being hit below the belt.

In any situation there is a thin line that should never be crossed. Once it is then, you must be prepared for the consequences. The accusation that was flung at me crossed that invisible line. I was told I do not value relationships because of a turbulent childhood and because of having no siblings!

Let us begin with the ‘turbulent’ childhood. In the dictionary turbulent means characterised by conflict disorder or confusion. I wish people understood words before using them! My childhood was a blessed one, devoid of any conflict or disorder. True it may not have been your run in the mill one as my father’s job took us the different part of the world and thus I had to deal with rupture and partings. True I had older parents who smothered with love and I admit that made me a rebel in my teens, but it was all par to the course. There was no confusion as my parents inculcated the right values and never made me believe I was a class apart. I went to regular schools and not those where expat kids went. I was never confused about who I was. I was primarily Indian with a western education. My parents taught me to  value relationships to the hilt.

I had a sibling but never knew him. I do miss him, more so today when I feel so alone and lost. I often wonder what my like would have been if he were around. I recently wrote about my feelings should anyone care to read them. I am who I am because my brother passed away. I do not understand how not having a sibling makes you incapable of valuing relationships.

And last of all I am quite shocked to be told that I do not value relationships. It have actually been checked for believing in people at the drop of a hat and have many a times paid for my credulity.

I value relationships more than anything. But if a relationship crossed the invisible line then for me it is curtains as once the line has been crossed nothing can ever heal the hurt incurred.

I know I will have to face my Maker, and I will face him with my head held high.

PS. Needed to write this post. It is my catharsis.

“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose” wrote St Exupery in the Little Prince, a book that I have always found solace in. To some it may just be a children’s story but to me every word has a deep meaning and hidden  but only if you read the book with your heart. This quote is not about a fox and a rose but about going all the way when you extend a hand  to someone in need. If you do so there is no going back; there is no half measure and above all there is no certitude to how the future will enfold. You can make all the plans you want but you must be prepared for them to go awry and for you to have to conjure all the solutions needed. It is a one way road and you have to walk it till the end.

Two Angels landed in my life without any warning and changed my life forever. The first was Manu. Manu was the kind of being you pass on the street and never look at. To many he would be just a beggar who seemed deranged and bedraggled. He roamed a street I passed regularly. I often wondered what could have got him there, but it was a fleeting thought that disappeared in a trice. But one fateful day a heart rendering cry he let out as he was being riled by someone pierced my heart and soul in a way that I cannot describe in words. It was like a deafening cry for help targeted at me and demanding to be heard. I did hear it. The rest is history, something I have written about time and again. Manu was a mirror to my soul, the reason that really made me take the less travelled road. His mission as I see it was to show me the way at a time when I was somewhat confused and did not know which way to go. All I knew at that instant was that I had to help him. How to help a beggar who roams the streets is not written in any book, you just have to find your way. And in finding my way, a larger plan enfolded called Project Why! I made myself a promise that no one knew till maybe much later. Manu would one day have a warm bed, a set of friends; would share a meal around a table, and would watch TV to his heart’s content. To many it would have sounded ludicrous but to me it became a life and death decision.  At that moment the ‘how’ and ‘when’ were of no consequence. As time passed we moved a step at a time towards a dream that I rested in the recesses of my mind.

Project Why grew by leaps and bounds. Every day was better than the previous specially for Manu. He was bathed, fed and had his own bed in the veranda of what was our office. And when we launched our class for special kids, he was Roll no !1 So to some perhaps it could seem that the game was over, never mind the dining table or the TV. Not not for me. The small challenges and big ones we managed to overcome gave me the audacity to start dreaming big, too big. Was it hubris? I do not know. Maybe.

The idea emerged in my mind when we began thinking about long term sustainability. While on the ground the ideas were mundane – chocolates, earthen lamps, candles, paper bags and even pongamia oil soaps – my mind was busy conjuring what came to be know as Planet Why! In its first iteration that was in my head it was to be a place where Manu and his mates could grow old and die with dignity. I imagined a green building, with terracotta bricks and old style floors, with arches and little windows that would let the breeze in. It would be Manu’s home, and workplace as he was able enough to learn gardening. And the strange things is that many believed in this dream. We bought the land, drew the architectural plans and set out looking for funds. But then on a cold January Day in 2011, my dreams did not fit with those of the Gods of Lesser beings. They decided Manu had completed his mission and he breathed his last leaving me lost and rudderless. There would be no Planet Why for Manu. The best I could  do was to craft a small residential unit where Manu and a bunch of special and regular kids lived together. Yes there was a dining table, there was a TV, there was a refrigerator and cold water and special treats. Often it was Manu who decided the menu and of course we never ran out of biscuits, Manu’s all time favourite. Manu died quietly after having had his tea and biscuits. The Angel who sustained and protected me for more than a decade flew away leaving me with one unanswered question: did I fulfil the silent promise I had made to myself. When I feel a little lost , all I have to do is look at his smiling face that sits on my wall frozen in time and remember that the only way to honour his memory is to continue my journey.

The second Angel that landed on my planet was a broken one! True I had tapped his little head many a times as he lived in a tiny room adjacent to my office. He was barely one and his mother use to bathe him outside just around the time I walked into my office. He was a bonny boy with incredibly beautiful eyes. I often asked his mother when she would send him to the creche and she use to reply soon! One day in March 2002 I saw a lock on the door of their house. I was told the little fellow had fallen in to a boiling wok and was dead! I felt terrible but thought that with third degree burns maybe death was a better option than a maimed life. Imagine my surprise when I week later I was told that the baby was back! He had been sent home to die was what I was told! I walked into their tiny home and saw him swathed in bandages and as I looked into his eyes something happened and I simply said: he will live. The first few months were spent fighting for his life and every day we were treated to miracles. Soon his wounds were healed and he met all his milestones on time.

I had discovered by then that his mom was an alkie. And there I was, making plans again! We would find them a nicer home, I would give the mom a job and when he was older he would go to a good school and .. the list was endless. But the bottle was too big an adversary and even after many rehabs mom was back drinking and the child living in pure hell. When he was just 4, I sent him to boarding school. And when he was 6 his mom vanished. By then I had got his partial guardianship from the authorities. I have often written about Utpal’s story on this blog and shared the lovely and touching moments we have lived together. He has also taught me many things about life and about myself. I also made my dream of being published true as it is for him and about him that I wrote Dear Popples.

Today he is a lovely boy in class VI, a master on skates, and a regular kid who can be trying at times like any regular 11 year old! But he is a bundle of joy and a child that can amaze you many a times in the most touching manner. It has been a slow and difficult road to make him believe that he is cared for and find answers for questions that none. The most poignant one being: where is my mother? You do not lie to a child and the only honest answer you can come up with is: I do not know?  And for a kid that is not enough. Utpal had to go into therapy to deal with difficult questions in school be it what do you parents do, or sneer at his scars. Children can be very cruel. That is only one aspect of the tale. Coming back to the rose, and the fox and the responsibility, as that is where we began, reaching out to another is never as simple as one would like to think. You find a scalded kid, you nurse him back to health because you have the wherewithal, you peep into his life and find out the issues that need to be sorted out, you again think you can do it, you make plans way into the future because you think you can foresee it, and sit back and wait to watch the script you have written play itself out. But then everything goes awry and you find yourself having to rewrite it word after word as events beyond your control engulf you and you need to find your breath to carry on. So the fairy tale that began as once upon a time there was a child you got burnt and saved, his mother found a good job, the child went to school and university and found a good job and they lived happily ever after, turns into a survival story with rude awakenings at every turn.

Today Utpal’s future has to be rewritten without drama, one day at a time. You have to be prepared to do so: deal with the tantrums, the homework – my bete noire – with the tears and the questions. But you are rewarded with the smiles, the hugs, the unexpected occurrences like finding him ready at 6 am to accompany me to the temple when normally you have to battle to wake him up. You have to make him accept that he has a home and security and make others understand that he has no other place to go.

And last but not the least you have to think of the after Maam’ji days and craft a support mechanism wich can deal with the emotional as well as the financial side. Someone to mentor him, to guide him through his life and be with him at every step, and also ensure that he is never a financial liability to anyone. So it is time to create a Trust Fund for him now. I have been mulling over it and procrastinating for far too long.

It this story I do not know know who tamed who, but I know I am the one responsible for the little Angel who dropped into my life and changed it forever.

Exactly one year ago, almost to the day I was learning about Chutki, Doraemon and seeing Mamma Mia at least 4 times a day! You guessed my teacher was no other than my grandson Agastya. I had also mastered expressions like: this is my spot! The preferred toys were cars of all kinds and of course the oko aka auto rickshaw. My baby could digest a car a day and Nani was there to make it happen much to the displeasure of Mommy! For the past months my darling lives in St Louis and when we talk on skype I have to ask my daughter what he is saying as there are new expressions in his Midwest vocabulary that old Nani does not know.

Last time he kept on saying: To infinity and Beyond and I was lost as I am not  Toy Story savvy and do not know Buzz Light Year. You would not believe me but t I have been by told by my little fellow that when he lands, and that is in 5 sleeps as he says – for the uninitiated after you have slept five nights –  he will test me on the names all of Thomas the Engine and his friends and the colour they are.  I must confess I know the names but am not yet proficient in the colours. Have 5 sleeps to brush them up and learn up on Buzz whoever he is.

I like the expression to Infinity and Beyond. Somehow it appeals to me. When you google for its meaning this is what you get: There, and anywhere else, it is a hyperbole, i.e. a purposeful statement of excess beyond reason,  exaggeration as a rhetorical device or figure of speech.  There is no reasonable meaning to the term. It has amusement value. I would interpret it in a different manner. Maybe it just means walking the less travelled road, or even the road never travelled!
I like that!

Now back to my homework. I have only 4 sleeps to do it!

Think Eat Save is the theme of this year’s Environment day. Many of us often brush aside the warnings  environmentalists send our way. We often feel it does not concern us as we have plenty of everything and are quite comfortable wasting water and food, using plastic bags and so on. I urge you to read this week’s Tehelka magazine. It should move you out of the comfort zone in which you live and should really be an eye opener. We have to stop living in a fool’s paradise, believing that the money we worship will keep us safe from all the horrors that the green brigade wants us to accept.

The article begins with these words: From farm to plate, we waste 30-50% of our food even as every seventh person on earth goes hungry. With the 7 billion global population poised to grow by nearly one-third by 2075, we could rethink food or starve. The choice is now! There are one billion hungry people in the world. Quite shameful for a civilisation that I presume wants to be remembered for all the larger than life inventions that have come our way be it flying in the air, conquering space, or I guess one can say trying to compete with the Gods. On the way we had to sacrifice values like compassion and empathy to the alter of success. We can pass by beggar children without batting an eye lid, without wondering why these children are denied their rights or why people should chose to live under bridges, their meagre belongings in bundles. Have you ever watched these beggar families tending to their morning chores. I have more than once as I pass them every morning on my sway to work. Some are brushing their teeth with dirty tooth brushes, women are lighting their stoves made of a few bricks and some wood, others are already slapping their chapatis (bread) on the heated griddle. Some are still asleep. Last week I was touched beyond words when I saw a little boy, probably 3 years old washing two decrepit soft toys with a tiny bit of soap and a small can of water. A few weeks back I saw a young woman wrapped in a thin sari bathing on the main road. Her daughter was helping her and scrubbing her back while the woman tried to make sure that her sari did not slip and reveal her body and maintain the shreds of her dignity. It was I who felt ashamed as I and all of us were in some way responsible for her plight.

Have you ever asked yourself how the poor survive in your city. The kind of homes they live in. How they earn their daily bread. I will answer you in one word: with dignity, dignity and a smile. Their houses or what goes by that name are often dark sunk in holes with a corrugated tin roof. The rooms are tiny and often house more than 5 or 6 people. In the heat they are ovens where you can barely breathe. Often rucked between factories in places like Okhla, they are often surrounded by open drains that spew chemicals laden water. Many are daily wage workers who sit around at specified points hoping someone will that day need a carpenter, mason or simply someone to carry loads. If they work there is food on the table provided they have not returned via the watering hole. You will be surprised how many liquor shops, run by the State, exist in the most unlikely places. They are great revenue earners. Many of these sleep hungry. Many of them are malnourished children. Many of them are anemic moms with tiny babies. Many have to fight for water as water is scarce. Many are in deep debt to the local money lender as they often have to borrow to manage a meal or a medical emergency. Most of them left their villages because the land was not giving them enough to survive on. And the city, with its mad building frenzy, was always in need of cheap labour.

Most of these people do not know what their rights are, are barely aware of the innumerable social programmes that are initiated for them at regular intervals, following a political time table that they are unaware of. The fruits of these programmes are often hijacked because of their ignorance or because of the wiliness of those who are better educated and have learnt the ropes. I guess it is time for us to think of the millions who go hungry and take ownership of the problem so that solutions can be found.

Charity begins at home it is said. So maybe it is time we honestly look at ourselves. The article states that at least 30 percent of the food that survives bad roads and poor storage is simply thrown away.  This is not only in rich countries. It happens in India, the land where 5000 children still die every day. Look at the waste at each wedding, at each party or religious feeding. Look at the food we leave in our plates. Look at the food we leave in restaurants. Tehelka went looking in rich homes dustbins! Do look in yours. We urbanites waste 100kg of food per person per year. This is shocking and criminal. Ponder over this: Forget swank hotels in the metros, a city like Bhubaneswar wastes around 26,000 tonnes of food in its restaurants, food joints, social gatherings and households annually. That works out to around 70 tonnes of food wasted on a daily basis. Even if we were to put out a decent meal of 275 g a person, this could feed close to 95,000 people. Is it not time we started doing something. Think next time you shop!

The sad part that has shocked me over the last 10 years when I have worked with slum people, is the amount of food the urban poor waste. I have always checked my staff, but often to no avail. There is a uncontrollable urge to fill your plate and then leave part of it that goes into the dustbin. I have seen rice, chapatis, and vegetables thrown in the garbage, and food wasted at marriages in the slums. Is waste an indicator of having climbed the social ladder by one rung. In slums water is wasted, food is wasted, electricity is wasted with impunity! This makes my blood boil.

Water soon become scarce and that is because again we feel that water is perennial. Just this morning I saw workers cementing the little strip of soil that was still there between the concrete road and the so called pavement. That tiny strip allowed some water to percolate into the soil. The reason for this inane idea is probably a last ditch effort to rake in some money before the coming elections. All the cementing is choking the remaining trees and killing them slowly. It takes a lot of water to produce food. If our diet is 80 percent plant and 20 percent animal products, the water needed to produce that quantity of food will be around 1,300 m3 or half an Olympic-size swimming pool per person per year. One kilogram of meant needs 50 times more water than one kilogram of vegetables. Should we not turn at least partly vegetarian if not fully!

But to grow food you need good quality top soil. This top soil takes thousands of years  to form. Top soil erosion is the biggest environmental danger. 60 years is all it will take to exhaust the earth’s top soil if business as usual continues. Only last year, the world lost an estimated 24 billion tonnes of topsoil — blown off by wind, washed away by water, made sterile by chemicals or simply covered with concrete. The fingers points at us Delhizens as we see this happening in front of our eyes and say nothing. We cynically brush it away as ‘yet another way for politicians and corrupt bureaucrats to make money’! The amount of concrete that has been laid in front of our eyes is mind blogging. As I write these words the last tiny stretch of soil is being covered! Now there is not a square mm of top soil visible in front of our house. 60 years is not eternity. If we do not do anything now our children and grand children will starve unless we ‘invent’ a food pill or find a way to consume money, the God we all pray to!

Water is wasted by each one of us every day. Overflowing tanks, washing cars, watering huge lawns etc. How many of us in Delhi have bothered installing a rain harvesting system? Mea Culpa too! WE simply complain when drains overflow and streets are water logged. A simple water harvesting system would take care of that. And don’t tell me you cannot afford it. Just give up a couple of meals at your favourite restaurant.

I was also surprised and a tad amused to see an article on obesity in the special issue on Environment. The world produces 4 billion tonnes of food every year, enough to feed its 7 billion people. Yet, every seventh person on earth sleeps hungry. Is it only because we waste 30-50 percent of our food? Or do 2.6 million children die of malnutrition every year because another 40 million under the age of five are overweight? Ironically, obesity has already become a bigger killer than starvation. Think about it. I am sure we can do something on this one!

The special issue of Tehelka as more information and also many success stories that are like oasis in the desert but prove that we can change things of we act now. I will not enumerate them. If what I have written has been a wake up call then go on line and read the rest. You do not even have to walk out in the heat to purchase a copy. It is on line!

If you believe in some of what I have written then there a few things you can do now. Buy one of those contraptions that alert you loud and clear, a  bit like railway station announcements, that ‘tank is full, please switch off the pump’. It also has entertainment value as you smile each time you heart the electronic voice. Make sure you buy as much as you need. You do not have to go to wholesale markets and purchase groceries and vegetables for an army. You have vegetable vendors who come to your door step from dawn to even late night. They are a little more expensive but remember they feed their families so you would be doing a good deed! If you have a garden, even a small one and a lawn that needs constant watering why don’t you try to grow a forest. Yes you can! You will be saving water and also helping the earth heal!

Look at your dustbin every day and work towards ensuring that no edible food is thrown away. If you cannot eat it, then I am sure you can find a cow or other animal who would. Don’t look at beggars with contempt or cynicism. Look at them as people fighting to keep alive in the same land where you thrive.

Scream at your local representative each time you see more concrete being laid or trees being suffocated. We are literate and have a voice should we chose to use it. It is sad to see that the Highest Court of the land had to intervene to stop choking trees, and sadly even they are not heard!

Mother Earth treats you the same way. She does not  care about cast, creed, social background, gender, age, nationalities. Stop raping her every day! 

The class X and XII results are out! As always all our kids have passed! As always they have done us proud! For me it was the moment to walk down memory lane, to the day when it all began. It was in 2001 when we ran spoken English classes for primary and secondary children. In one of the classes were a bunch of class X lads from the nearby secondary school named no1. One day one of them turned up with what looked like welt marks on his arms. It turned out that he had been beaten with a stick by his teacher for some sundry gaffe that at best should have entailed a verbal admonition.

Not conversant with the realities prevailing in Government school. I set out with a few colleagues to find out what happened and expressed my dismay at the use of corporal punishment that I knew had been declared illegal following a Court Order. The school looked like something out of Dickens novel with grim corridors and masters wielding heavy sticks. The Principal sat behind a huge desk in a huge room his stick lying on his desk. He listened to us with what seemed like amused contempt and then asked for the boys in question to be called. They came, with their heads bowed wondering what would befall on them next. The dour Principal looked at them with disdain and asked us why we were wasting   time on such guttersnipes who would never be able to pass their exams. I do not know why but my immediate reaction was to look at the boys and ask them whether they were ready to take on a challenge to prove their Headmaster wrong. I will never forget the way the boys’ body language changed and the beaming smiles on their face and the loud yes Maa’am!

It was then that I realised what my on the spot decision entailed. What was I thinking.We had scant resources to pay any teacher or rent space. But I had to walk the talk.

The reason I chose this picture to illustrate this blog was that we began our classes the very next morning on the pavement and the teacher was Naresh – who still teaches at pwhy – who had completed his BA and was looking for a job. He had a passion for teaching and had been tutoring children. I told him we could not pay him at this moment but would do as soon as possible, but it was a matter of honour that these kids pass their Xth. It was already December and the exams were in March. We had no time to waste.

Classes were held from 7 to 9 am on cold winter mornings. Rani’s family provided tea to warm the kids up. Naresh roped in a friend and the two of them did the impossible: all kids passed and I won my challenge. My honour was intact.

That was more than  a decade ago. Since we have had 11 batches who have all cleared  their Boards and are in good jobs. The boy with the welts is now father of a little boy and all set to immigrate to Australia after having completed his higher education.

This year again 16 class X students and 16 class XII students have passed their Boards with success. Deepak, Arvind, Vikas and Vineet topped their respective schools.

I guess the challenge I took over a decade ago was not foolhardy.

Well done Kids and we love you Naresh Sir!

When the Government announced with great fanfare the passing of the Right to Education (RTE) Bill, I was among those who hoped against hope that the Government would adopt the neighbourhood school policy and upgrade all State run schools to Central school quality so that every child could walk to a good school. The RTE per se should provide quality education in their own schools to thus allow every child in India to access such education. The model elucidated in the Section 12 of the Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act  2009 states that the Act has made it compulsory for every private unaided school to admit at least 25% of its entry level class from children belonging to weaker and disadvantaged groups. The article cited above shows the many flaws of this proposal and is worth a read. One of the comments I agree with in toto is the following: This minor social engineering has produced some ridiculous protests from the elite. Yet, equally ridiculous is the claim that this will significantly help the poor. Of India’s hundreds of millions of schoolchildren, only a few thousand poor will enter the elite havens. The others will remain at the mercy of third-rate government schools that provide no worthwhile education. We seem to be a State that loves social engineering and reservations of all kinds. For the last six decades and more we have shown that we are masters at perpetrating divisive polices and thus create a new caste system.

I have also realised over the years mutating from a naive and ignorant person, who believed with credulity that every social programme initiated by the Government was done for the right reasons, to a cynical and disenchanted one, that these programmes are not meant for the stated beneficiaries but to fulfil wily political agendas and fill deep pockets. This is done with great finesse and a perfect play. people are led to believe that all such programmes are debated by activists and the people and thus carry   a stamp of approval. This is a sham as ultimately all the inconvenient parts are deleted and the Bill presented at the appropriate time like just before elections to show one’s self as the Messiah of the downtrodden. And we gullible idiots refuse to see through their game.

One of our most respected activist who has been the at the helm of many important proposals resigned yesterday from the  National Advisory Council that  that sets the social agenda for the government. In her statement she said: It is difficult to understand how a country like India can deny the payment of minimum wages and still makes claims of inclusive growth. The story is the same be it minimum wages, education, health and even food security. I do not understand how startling statistics such as more than 5000 children dying every day of malnutrition does not trouble our law makers and administrators. I guess it is perhaps it is not their children who die. It is only when we find it in ourselves to take ownership of all that is wrong and raise our voices that things may change. Why do I feel that that day is still a long time coming.

I started this post by expressing my reservation on the 25% reserved for poor children in all schools from the swankiest to the humblest. First of all the stark reality is that it is not the poor kids who are availing of this facility but  middle class kids with clever parents who are masters at getting fake documents. However let us presume that some truly deserving kid make it, there is no way the child can keep abreast with the remaining 75%.  Here is a small example.

I am in the process of helping Utpal finished his holiday homework. His school did give us hard copies of the said homework but in the case of Kiran, the homework had to be downloaded from the Internet. I wonder how a kid living in a slum could manage that. Then the homework itself required lots of searching on the Net and most of the questions could not be understood by the child himself and needed adult help. And last but not the least it cost me over 1500 rupees to get all the stationery and other material required to complete the homework. I would love to ask our Education Minister how he expects illiterate and poor parents to get their child’s homework done.

This is only one aspect of the situation. There many more. Just put yourself in the place of a slum kid in a swanky school. You will have all the answers.

We need to stop fooling ourselves. It is our money that runs all the social programmes in the country. It is time we demanded accounts. But to do that we must first accept that there exists a whole world on the other side of an invisible line, and they too are citizens of this country with same rights as us.

This is the picture that is sits on my computer and on my phone screens. It is my feel good shot and normally can bring a smile on my face under any circumstances. But for the past weeks or should I say months the magic has not worked. True the smile does appear but it is a tad jaded and laced with sadness. Recent events have brought to the fore the reality that you may make all the plans you want, and think you have the power to control your destiny, everything can change in a moment as you are a puppet and the strings are in unknown hands. My father tried to explain this to me in a spiritual way by saying that not a single leave moved without the will of God. Yet we mortals easily fall prey to hubris and defy those very Gods. When things go right, we become brazen and start making impossible dreams and with each dream or wish fulfilled we begin to believe that we are masters of our destiny. For the past decade or so my life, both personal and ‘professional’ – I guess that is what pwhy is – has been nothing short of wondrous, barring a few hiccups easily resolved. It was an obstacle race I managed to win with ease. From a tiny project with barely 3 persons and a small biscuit distribution programme, we morphed into one that reaches out to 1000 beneficiaries and at every stage we cleared every milestone almost effortlessly.

I discovered a whole new world and fell in love with it. My greatest gift and blessing was Popples landing in my life. True they were many lessons one had to learn and accept, some quite troubling and even distressing but that was part of the game. My own world kept pace and all those I love prospered and flourished. I became a grandmother when a little Angel landed in my heart. My life partner moved into retired life with a spring in his gait and opportunities galore. His strong shoulder was always there to lean on when things looked a little blue. Everything seemed on course and life could not have been better.

Then one day, almost a year ago, my carefully constructed and nurtured life fell apart. The one, who had always been the strongest fell, ill and this time nothing went as planned. I only could watch helplessly as he who was my strength began wasting away in front of helpless eyes. I knocked at every door from the white coat specialist to the preferred star gazer. Every test was inconclusive and every magic formula in vain. No one seemed to understand what was happening. And as days became weeks, and weeks turned into months a new lexicon stemmed out of the recesses of my mind. I started thinking almost surreptitiously about the expiry date of one’s life. Alas it is not printed on the soles of our feet when we wail our way into this world. Actually the only thing we are sure about when we are born is that we will die and what comes in between is anyone’s guess. So the maxim that urges us to live one day at time, and live it as if it was our last is true and believing that everything  will run the way we want because we are knowledgeable and have done all the right things is pure folly.

Everything could change in a instant. Gone was the hubris. The wise thing would be to start tying loose ends as quickly as possible. Time to stop dreaming. One actually had to live every day as if were the last one and complete tasks with a yesterday deadline.

When I look at my little boys today with a somewhat despondent smile, I realise that for one of them at least my task is far from over. When you extend your hand to someone and s/he holds it tight, it is a lifelong engagement. The child can be the one you gave life to and who clings to your finger instinctively or the one that everyone gave up on except you. I would like to see my grandson grow into a young man but that can only be wishful thinking. But the one I reached out to is another story. Maybe that is the biggest loose end that needs to be tied. I know there are many who love this little fellow, but his future can only be secured if I ensure that he has a Trust Fund that would look after his further studies, and give him what he needs to begin life. At least ensure his needs, if not his wants. So from today on, this picture will be a reminder of what I still have to do and do fast. I just hope and pray many will come forward and extend their hand. It is funny that I who till now was the one reaching out to others find myself on the other side of the fence. I guess this a lesson that has to be learnt. The sad but true reality is that in the world we have created and are so proud of there is scant place for compassion and empathy. The lexicon in use is that of money. I am sure many would be willing to look after this little man provided they do not have to dip into their pockets. I may be sounding cynical but this is something I have learnt over the years. The child protection law that has declared me person deemed ‘fit’ to look after this child and keeps an eye on him as we have to ‘produce’ him in court every time he comes on a school break, washes their hands of him the day he turns 18. He would barely be out of school. And then who cares for him? The law decrees he cares for himself. Who makes these laws I wonder. I only know that I have to make sure that he has money for further studies and also mentors to guide him and love him. Not an easy task but one that has to be done.

It is also time to sift what my mind demands from what my heart yearns for. Secure my pwhy family without chasing impossible dreams; tie up the few essentials of my personal life and ensure that my children can walk into my shoes without any pinches. So need to make a sensible bucket list and fulfil it!

For the very first time in my life, I am truly out of my depth and feel I am caught in a swirling vortex of emotions and events I cannot handle. It is a first for me as till date I had always felt I was in the driver’s seat. As an only child my wonderful parents always made sure that I felt that way and come to think of it, this game continued till the day they left me and even after. They had given me the skills needed to overcome obstacles and challenges without falling apart or if I did, then bouncing back before anyone knew.

After they left, my partner took over and never stood in my way and was always the wind beneath my wings and I a soaring free bird. Today I am grounded. There is no wind to propel me. I feel like Baudelaire’s Albatross: a clumsy winged voyager!

I never realised that in all my existence there was always someone to blow the wind needed to move the wings insisted on wearing. It is a reality check. Maybe God’s way of seeing whether I can be a soaring winged voyager without help or just a clumsy one!

A mother of five watched two of her children die of hunger! I wonder if you can even begin to imagine the pain and total helplessness of this woman. We are of those who run after our kids with plates of food, willing to conjure anything alternatives treats should our brat refuse the fare of the day. We are of those who move heaven and earth should our child get a minor scratch. We are of those who have never experienced hunger pangs or seen our child hungry. So how can we even begin to feel the agony of that mother. The authorities with their art of splitting hair  and their misplaced wisdom declared the children had died of diarrhea as they always do to keep their statistics clean. According to them few really die of starvation. For us it is just a news item, if we are one of those who switched on the TV at the opportune time.

Starvation is something we prefer ignoring as it shows us in a poor light and is not in sync with the image our rulers and many of us want to project. But starvation is real even it we want to look away. It is a terrible failure on our part and is partly if not mainly due to our inability to ensure that social programmes are implemented properly and not hijacked by the corrupt ways of some and the total indifference of others. Grains rot as we can’t put a distribution system in place and most of all the really poor slip out of the net of obtuse paper work. The equation is skewed to favour the administration not the beneficiary and thus the real poor get left out.

Starvation or near starvation exists in XXIst century India. It is not all about food but about systemic failure and the failures of all programmes that could have helped the poor regain ownership of their lives. The proposed Food Security Bill solution to starvation is that all those people who are identified would be guaranteed two free meals per day for six months. My question is: what happens after 6 months, provided of course that persons identified are true beneficiaries.

In Ash in the Belly the author recounts how mothers ferret rat holes for grain to feed their children! I do not think anyone of us can understand the pain and desperation of these mothers and yet they do the best they can even if to many it sounds degrading and unacceptable. These are true stories you can read if you have the heart.

A Food Security Bill, no matter the flaws, was introduced in Parliament in December 2011. One would have thought that the 500 odd representatives of the people would at least come together and pass this bill swiftly. But they did not. For them hunger is just a game to be played at the opportune moment, let us say before elections. No one really cares about those that are dying simply because we have not been able to implement programmes meant to alleviate hunger. For our lawmakers these are just gimmicks to make them look good, and once the law has been passed, then ways to enrich themselves.

The amount of food that is wasted is humongous from the grains that rot for want of space, to food thrown at parties, weddings, religious feeding etc. Our children throw food and we say nothing. Respect for food is not instilled in our young ones. I do not know if you have seen the ad for a food supplement for children, where a brat pushes away a plate of healthy food with distaste. I shudder each time I see this ad. Such representation should be banned! It is time we taught our children respect for food and told them about the starving children. It is not right to hide realities from kids. Compassion and concern should be taught to children at a young age.

But let is come back to the Food Security Bill. I do not know if it will really bring the change it meant to. It is likely to go the way all social legislation have. And that is often because of our indifference. A recent article published in a weekly traces the chronicle of the Integrated Child Development Services  ICDS, a scheme launched with great fanfare way back in 1975 to improve the nutritional and health status of pregnant and lactating mothers and children in the 0-6 years age group, to reduce infant mortality, morbidity, malnutrition and school drop-out rate and to lay the foundation for the proper psychological, physical and social development of the child. Had the scheme been well implemented India would have looked different. As we all know it is 9 months and 1000 days that are the most crucial to a child. The article aptly entitled Privatising the ICDS once again proves the way our rulers like to take each and every time be it education, health, midday meals or any other programme that benefits the poor. The well run pilots proved that the scheme were successful but the Government was extremely lethargic in moving to universalise the scheme, and provided only pathetic amounts to finance it and enable it to function properly and this even after a Supreme Court Judgement noted that the ICDS was very important in the overall development of children in India and ordered the Central government to universalise the scheme to cover all children in the country. The State did but a recent report shows that 61 per cent of the AWCs  (creches) did not have their own building, and that another 25 per cent were functioning out of kuccha/semi-pukka buildings or partially open structures. Between 40 and 65 per cent did not have separate spaces for cooking, storing food items or separate spaces for children’s activities. Fifty two per cent of the AWCs did not have their own toilets, and 32 per cent had no drinking water facility. Functioning weighing machines for children and adults were absent in 26 per cent and 58 per cent of AWCs respectively. The State promised to change things and now proposes to hand over the running of the creches to NGOs and private parties. You can imagine the consequences.

I said earlier that the change we would like to see, as I presume that even if we are cynical, the idea of children dying of malnutrition is preposterous and unacceptable, needs us to take a proactive role. I am sure many of you would be thinking I am mad. Our political duty does not stop at casting a vote but should also extend to asking questions and giving a voice to those who have none. We have a wonderful legislation in the Right to Information, and how many card games or kitty and other parties we would have to miss were we to take a sheet of paper and file an application under the RTI Act asking let us say for example how many Anganwadis there are in a locality, maybe the one where those who work in our homes live, where they are situated, what nutrition is give, does their weighing machine work. Or why could we not ask our maid to take us to an Anganwadi and see for ourselves the reality on the ground and then write to our MP or MLA. If we did, then believe you me things would be different.

This may sound like wishful thinking, but is is time we took ownership of things that shock us and lend our voices to straighten the tort.

Will we? That is the question!

Dear Mama and Tatu,

Today would have been your 64th wedding anniversary. I do not know why after so many years I feel like writing to you. It has been more than 2 decades since you left me and there has not been a day when I have not missed you. It is strange how we miss those we loved more after they leave us. I guess as long as you were there one just lived by the day and never saw things in a larger perspective.

When I was a child Tatu you were the one who always stood in the way of my wanting to fly on my own wings bet it an invitation to spend the night at a friend’s house or go on a school trip, and when I was older to go out dancing or just hanging with friends. I must confess that I learnt to jump the walls and sneak out every night. Today I realise that it was because you loved me so much. You would have got the moon into my room if that were possible, but could not live a minute without knowing I was safe. Your safety rules were very restrictive and incomprehensible at that time and led to many banged doors and tears but then how can I forget the gentle knock on the same door that always followed and the super treat that you then cooked for me to the dismay of the kitchen staff, as they were not used to Ambassador Sahib whipping omelettes for his rebellious child. How could they ever imagine that all it took was a banged door and a fluffy omelette to set things right between an adoring father and his adored child. As I said, those were days when we lived one day at a time, and sorted our problems one at a time. And if your brand of safety did feel almost abusive at that time, today it seems it was the only way you knew to express your love. That is only one side of the story. There is another when you and I seemed more like partners in crime trying to hoodwink mama. How can I forget the innumerable dinners for two you and I shared as you instilled in me a love for gastronomy even before I could walk or talk properly. I remember dining with you at Maxim’s. I could go through a 4 course meal without a problem while having to be propped up on several cushions to reach the table. But that is not all you taught me. I think the biggest lesson you taught me was that of compassion and humility. Yes I was the spoilt Ambassador’s brat, but you sent me to neighbourhood schools where I rubbed shoulders and made friends with regular kids. You taught me respect for the other, no matter who the other was. I remember how on each and every Diwali celebrated in faraway lands, you ensured I touched the feet of everyone older than me, be it the cook or the housemaid. And I never resented it as you had instilled into me that it was the right thing to do. As we both grew we may have drifted apart but I can tell you today that there was only one place I felt safe and that was in your arms. 

If I am profoundly Indian it is because of you Mama. The very first word you spoke to me was in Hindi and you carried on doing so until the day you were sure that Hindi had become my mother tongue. I remember being shocked when I realised that you spoke other languages! It is at your knees that I learnt about my land and its beauty. You shared storied of your life that were imbibed with India’s fight for freedom and though you never believed in ritualism, you celebrated each and every festival in all its minutest details to allow me to make my own choice when time was ripe. Both of you never stopped me from participating in any religious festivities of friends and encouraged me when I wanted to fast with my Muslim friends or attend Mass with my christian ones. I guess this is why I accepted Hinduism as it felt like a religion that was all embracing. It breaks my heart to see what is happening today in the name of religion.

Mama you also gave me another lesson that I am deeply grateful for. I remember when during school holidays you would insist I learn to cook, sew, iron clothes, wash clothes, clean the house and help the staff. There were times when it did irk me, but today I realise that you were teaching me dignity of labour. It is something that is truly lacking in today’s India. 

I grew up in many countries but both of you ensured that I knew who I was and where I came from. My education was westernised but it never came in the way of my Indianess. Actually it enriched me in more ways than one and allowed me to be a better person or so I would like to believe. I could go and on as my memories are filled with exceptional moments I lived with both of you. Let me just say that if I am who I am today, it is because of the two of you.

But today is your wedding anniversary and I find myself writing about me! I guess this is part of the only child syndrome. Today I must talk about your incredible love story that few know. 

Mama you had resigned yourself to being an old maid as you had made a decision of not marrying before India gained its independence. You were quite a gal as you drove your own car, lived alone in Delhi under the watchful eye of one of your father’s client who had been accused of some horrible crime but has been acquitted thanks to your father’s pleading. He owed his life to him and thus protecting you was sacrosanct. He was a true Cerberus. 

Papa you too were living a lonely life in Mauritius though professionally you were at your zenith. You were a judge at a very young age and had even been  one of the youngest recipient of the MBE. I have your medal safely tucked away in a drawer and a yellowing picture commemorating the event. You told me you had once been engaged but the marriage never took place because of your mother’s demise. I guess you were both resigned to your lives. But someone had other plans.

Ma, I remember you telling me that when you had got your father to accept your decision not to marry in an enslaved India, you had also promised him that if you were still of marriageable age at India’s Independence you would marry anyone he chose. You must have been around 30 in 1947. It was an age when women were considered old maids. But your father remembered the promise and was on the look out for a suitable ‘boy’. Destiny took over and a common friend of both families suggested Tatu for you. I guess loneliness had got to you Tatu and your needed a wife on the new career you were embarking upon as you opted for Indian nationality and were to join the Indian Foreign Service. You were an odd couple: the highly educated Gandhian small town lass and the westernised bon vivant. It could not have been love at first sight for you Mama because as you told me once, when you first saw Tatu you thought he was the father for a prospective bride for your brother!

Tatu had been posted to Prague where he was meant to open the Indian mission and had a few days leave. He decided to woo you in the only way he knew: the western one. So there he was taking you on tonga – horse carriage – rides to the Lodhi Garden which was then almost on the outskirts of the city to buy you roses and then to Hamilton, the jewellers of the Brits, to buy you an engagement ring. You followed him wide eyed and totally in love. The only one who was not happy was your Cerberus!

I found a bundle of letters that you wrote to each other during you courting days. I must confess that I only gleaned through one and could gage how much in love your both were. I could not read those letters as I felt I would be prying in a space that was yours. Maybe my children will read them one day!

Your love story is not the kind you find in books and novels. It is borne out of your desire to reach out to the other in ways that were unique. Mama you had to get rid of your nationalist persona as you were  now the wife of a senior diplomat and embrace a world of luxury so alien from the one you knew as the child of a man more often in prison then at home. Papa you had to learn how to please a woman who tastes were so incompatible to yours. In communist Czechoslovakia you had to conjure green vegetables for the woman you loved as she was not one to share your taste for scoops of caviar or an orange duck. But mama you were to the manor born and all through your life you performed like a star.

When I came into this world and was old enough to understand things, both of you always seemed the perfect couple and incredible parents. It is only when I read one of your diaries after your death mama that I realised that there were problems and that you had handled them with such dignity. Tatu your jealousy and possessiveness was almost psychotic. You were unwilling to share the woman you loved with anyone, even her own family and siblings. You resented the time she spent with them in the most childish manner. Mama you were able to look beyond the petty attitude of your husband and realise that it was just his way of loving you and you accepted it without a sigh. I could never have done that. But this was your way of proving your love and I hope you understood it Tatu. You know that this incredible woman whose child I am so proud to be learnt French just for you, as French culture was engrained in your soul and she wanted to share what you loved best. 

But I think Mama that the best proof of how much Tatu loved you was in the last year of your life when you fell ill and lost part of your recent memory. You had cancer, but no one was supposed to utter the C word. You refused treatment and wanted to live life till the last breath. How difficult it was for you Tatu to see Mama wasting away and not accepting any medical help. But you did what she wanted and found ways of easing her pain. You had a hairdresser come almost every day and a beautician take care of her at home. You took her for lunches and to the theatre or concerts, even if you did not like Indian music. You had read somewhere that fish was good for her condition and Mama you ate that fish for him even if I know you threw up after each meal. Wow you guys were something.

In your last days you refused to sleep Mama and would only accept to do so if Tatu sat next to you holding your hand and waking you up every 45 minutes and he did that night after night without a word of murmur of protest. There are so many incidents of those days and I will not recall them all but there was one that particularly moved me. When you had completely lost your recent memory and could not remember what you had done the previous day, Tatu would make you write a daily diary and if someone came to visit you, you would quietly go into your room and read the relevant page and then act naturally. This was his way of protecting your dignity. 

I sit today remembering both of you and wondering whether I have been able live to your expectations and to the quasi impossible ideals you set as an example. I can feel your presence in the home you built with so much love.

Today I too have been thrown a challenge that will test my ability to rise to the heights you did and prove that I too can love in the exquisite way you showed me. 

I miss you Mama and Tatu.

Your child

Anou

For the past months I have been terribly stressed. The reasons are many, some personal and some professional. This cocktail has been a heady one and needs immediate first aid. The normal remedies do not work for me for several reasons. I find it hard to meditate though a friend recently told me a form of meditation called gibberish meditation that seems compatible with my personality. It is called gibberish meditation and goes from singing la la la to the sky to talking nonsense non stop and even jumping and rolling yourself on the floor. The trick is to go on for 20 minutes! I have not begun yet as I am still trying to find the appropriate time and space to ‘meditate’ without having my household think that I have had a meltdown and lost it! But I do intend starting this very soon.

Sometimes the Gods do decide to smile upon you and they did. With stress mounting by the minute, I knew I had to find some outlet I had to find some relief and it came in the most unexpected manner. You know how much I dread Utpal’s holiday homework as it is always a battle royal to get it finished. Most of it is quite inane and makes me wonder what the child learns. It has been, for the past years, a bane that spoils the holiday mood as most of the time one is hounding the child to write his daily page or do the annoying sums. But this time, when Utpal landed and showed me his homework he was all smiles and ready to take on the homework challenge. More so because he wants to finish it by the time Agastya my grandson and his pal land early next month. So we attacked the homework head on.

I took the printed sheets and worked out a plan. There was some research to do and I began in earnest and found myself enjoying every minute of it. So for the past days we have been collecting material, making posters, making charts and colouring them. Harvest festivals, malnutrition, antonyms and synonyms, proverbs, environment is what has kept me busy and stress free, at least for a couple of hours a day. I have been having a whale of a time doing things I did when I was young and loving every minute of it. Handling glue, colour pencils and crayons. Sharpening pencils and drawing straight lines with a ruler are things I had forgotten and like Proust’s madeleine brought back memories of happy yore years.

So till I find my space to scream and shout, holiday home work is my all new stress buster.

When I started Pwhy I did not know that my life would change surreptitiously in more ways than one. Till then I had been a rather private person. Perhaps this was because I had grown up as an only and lonely child with no moorings as mine was a nomadic life courtesy my father’s profession. Like all only children I had my set of imaginary friends, talked to myself and dealt with my good and bad moments alone. My adult years also were somewhat solitary. Friends and colleagues remained at a distance. After the passing of my parents I found myself slowly turning into a recluse. It became my comfort zone.   The children had grown up and found their wings. My imaginary friends mutated into books. But this was all about to change in a way I could never have imagines.

When I first thought of setting up a organisation, it was primarily to perpetuate my father’s memory and to pay back a debt. It was never meant to allow anyone into my private zone. But slowly things changed and I found that the gates and doors I had carefully placed around were soon to be blown away. You cannot set up an organisation teeming with children and people without opening your heart as wide as possible. It was the most rewarding and humbling experience and I felt blessed.

The life of a lone wolf is lacking in events that affect others. They mostly trouble you and it is up to you to sort them out or simply live with them. But once you open yourself to the world round you, particularly to those in need, then you become responsible for each and every action you do. Some can be quite devastating, but you have to take them on no matter what. A friend told me somewhere along the way that the best way to deal with your lapses and wrongdoings was to be candid and share them with one and all. I followed that directive as best I could, and have often found sharing in my blogs personal failures and gaffes. You always need to take responsibility for every action you do or word you utter.

Today is one of those moments.

For the past months now I have been walking a tight rope because of some personal issues and it has taken a huge toll on my nerves. I know I am at the end of my tether and have been very concerned about breaking down. I only did not when it would happen and who would be the target. Sadly it happened yesterday and the victim was none other than my most beloved Utpal. As every afternoon, I went to see him in his room to cajole into doing some homework. I found him in front of the TV munching biscuits. I must admit I was a little cross but still in control. As I sat down to straighten some of the mess around, I saw a huge plastic bag filled with cookies and biscuits. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I just lashed out, venting all I had been keeping inside for too long. The poor child was confused and then broke into tears. He could not understand why a few biscuits could unleash such reprimand.

His tears called me to order and I took him in my arms and told him how sorry I was. How could I explain to him that the words addressed to him were actually a meltdown. And how could I have forgotten that biscuits were his comfort zone as that is what he connected with his mother who always bought him biscuits! I was ashamed and not proud of what I had done.

I know he has forgiven me and moved on. But I cannot forgive myself and did not like what I saw in the mirror today.

Why is it that it is always children who are the target of our own frustrations!

Life has its own uncanny way of calling to to order, particularly when you have sunk in a comfort zone and feel that everything is on course. Those are times that you feel your master of you destiny. You even become hubristic! You believe, however erroneously that nothing can get you down as you can take up every challenge thrown your way. For the past months I have been dealing with the health issues of a dear one and until yesterday thought that I would be able to find the right solution and set things back on course. Did I not have an array of options be they as zany as astrologers and their remedies or as logical as the medics who have healed you till now.

Yesterday my entire coping strategies turned out to be a house of cards. All the carefully laid plans, the painstakingly created network of all possible experts one may need in life and the fastidiously drawn out list of all that could possibly go wrong and probable solutions for every aspect of one’s life came to naught. I was suddenly faced with a situation for which I had no ready solution. The ones available were not up my street. I found myself lost on a road I did not know existed. Suddenly all beliefs that seemed so true faded in the face of a situation that concerned a loved one. Oh it is so easy to pontificate when the circumstances concern others or are hypothetical. But when reality hits you a blow in the guts then you realise how fragile you really are.

I have spent the whole day, aided by an army of well wishers to find two mere units of a certain blood group. It is unbelievable but true that you may have all the resources possible be it money, education, contacts et al and yet fail. We were only able to get one unit. How lost and vulnerable you feel. And there you were once thinking you could conquer the world.

But that is not all. The recent events I have experienced have once again brought the fact that our life is ephemeral and we are in no way masters of its duration. One has to keep this in mind and tie all the loose threads before it is too late. Never have I felt this as poignantly as today. So over and above doing my best and more for the one who needs me, there are two things I need to do before it is too late. One is to register my will, something I have been wanting to do for quite some time, and the other is to start a Trust Fund for   little Utpal who has no one but me in the whole world and who would be lost forever if his Maam’ji does not set things right today.

So help me God.

Note: I hope some of you will come forward and participate in Utpal’s Trust Fund that will help him get  a solid higher education and thus a  profession and help him settle in life without being at the mercy of others.

I start blogging in April 2005. That makes it 8 years and almost 1500 blogs. It all started like this. It must have been circa 2003 when I realised that the proverbial ‘pockets’ I easily dug into whenever    extra funds were needed were emptying at the speed of light or even faster. All the people one knew had been tapped and thus it was time to seek new pastures. At that time I was slowly discovering the magical word of the world wide web and it must have been around then that the first pwhy website went on line. Actually 2003 was quite a fateful year. It was the year when Utpal fell into the boiling cauldron and entered our lives; when two of our creche children died in strange circumstances and we discovered the apathy of the police who never wanted to register a case; when we were successful in raising funds for Raju’s open heart surgery. It was also the year when we were at the top of our page 3 days and the darling of many who organised stunning evenings and balls to help us raise funds. It was also a time when we were at the height of our fairy tale existence. It was also at that time that someone suggested I join a social network called Ryze. I must confess that I had a tough time building my page and it looked very puerile. But I managed to get quite a few contacts and thus began the pwhy network that is so precious to us today. We had a website that was not quite what I would have liked and I realised to my horror what the cost of maintaining would be. I had 2 options: not to have a site at all – not really an option -, or learn how to maintain it myself. I cannot remember how many nights it took to learn a new language – HTML – but I did. The other things I began doing was sending individual emails to all the people I knew. I had not yet discovered mass mailing or just BCC option. That is when a kind person – God bless him – suggested I start a blog. It would change my life forever.

It was a hesitant beginning but I had a forum where I could share the life of pwhy, the stories of our kids, the little things that happened everyday. I thought of it like a sea captain’s logbook that would preserve the chronicles of pwhy. True it started being just that but somehow mutated almost insidiously into a record of happenings in India viewed through a different prism: that of someone passionately in love with her country and often at a loss in comprehending the stark inequalities between rich and poor, the hidden agendas and corrupt games of the powers that be, the dignified and touching survival modes of the poor. The project why stories took on a larger meaning and I found myself writing about issues I felt important. The tone became harsher, the criticism more acerbic and the mood somber.

Simply making a difference in the lives of the hundreds and more children who came to project why was not enough. True it was important as it was tangible and thus valorising but I felt the need to add my voice to those of others fighting for causes I empathised with. And slowly the fairy tale like stories of project why became far and few. There were more important issues to address.

For me this became a platform to share my thoughts, my anger, my distress, my anguish, my horror and my opinions to aberrations that seemed more the rule than the exception. I wanted to be heard.

In 2009 I began writing my second book. This one was about the project why story. Once I again I opted to write it in the form of letters to a child and entitled it Dear Popples II. The bye line was ‘then project why story’. I wrote about 100 pages without any problem in a very short time. And then one day I simply could not continue. The story stopped circa 2004. It was a strange writer’s block that refused to go. I tried many times to pick up the threads but to no avail. I decided to let it be till the time was right.

It is only a few weeks back that I found myself opening the abandoned file and reread what I had written and see if I could move on or if not at least figure out what had happened. It took me some time to realise that my pen had stopped at what I call the fairy tale years and that somehow the approach that seemed right for the first 100 pages did not and would not work for the remainder of the story. The bye line could not be ‘the project why story’ but had to become something like ‘India song 20??-2013. I had two choices either rewrite the whole book or make it in two parts. I opted for the later as only this way will the reader fully appreciate the dynamic and organic nature of project why but also share the changes such an experience has on a human soul. For I cannot shy from the fact that I am in no way the same person I was when it all began. Have I changed for the better? I do not know. I do miss the naive and trusting being I was then and something do not like the bitter and splenetic woman I sometimes seem to have become. Maybe the truth lies in between the two.

Even though I will have to sneak time to write the book, I will continue to blog, as blogging is an immense catharsis for me and I need to rant and rave or else I would blow a fuse, but I what I would really like is people to react to what I write. Sadly my 1500 blogs have only 800 comments!

It is not always easy to pass on the mantle and yet that is what I have been trying to do for some time. The reasons are many: creaking bons and dwindling eyesight reminding one that age is catching on; the one woman show syndrome which may look attractive and inspiring but makes the entire structure rather shaky and fragile, and above all the seemingly forgotten mission that set the ball rolling: empowering people to keep the show on the road. I have been making myself as scarce as possible even though I must admit I more than anyone else miss my earlier persona and role. However and no matter what anyone else says, the experience has been positive as the project had been running like a clock work orange. project why needs another face, and the one I would like to project is that of my A team: namely Rani, Dharmendra and Shamika. Somehow I feel that as a crew they encompass most the qualities I have. I know that there is still the fundraising issue but given time I know that they have the ability to overcome the challenge in their own way.

This morning the children had to perform in front of a large group of expat spouses in a very posh hotel and the performance had to be preceded by the much dreaded speech. I must say that Rani made a wow speech in front of the same group at their Annual meeting some weeks back. So I had decided to let them go without me and repeat the performance. Yesterday I could see that the girls wanted to say something but did quite get to it. I stood my ground and repeated that I was not planning to go as I had other things to do. Imagine my surprise when I switched on my computer this morning and found this message: The office does not feel the same without you in it! You are our support, our strength and our energy! We still are very raw in doing stuff! We get very inspired by you. You are a great mother and a wonderful boss! We are very nervous about the event tomorrow  and don’t want any thing to go wrong. I was touched and a tad  cross at the same time. There I was trying to make them stand on their feet and gain confidence.

I was funny that my daughter chose to send me an email from her room within the same house. I guess this is modern communication that I still have to get used to.

I read the message a few times and realised that I had to act in the right way, and the right way at this point was to accept to go with them and hold their hands. The game of passing the mantle has to go through many twists and turns, and you have to play by the rules or else everything may crumble like a house of cards. I also realised that though my A team was doing great, they still needed to be helped and I saw my role like the prompter on a theatre stage: remain invisible but be there when you are needed.

I will be there till I am needed to make sure that the show goes on but I know that the day will come when my team will have the ability to write their own lines and perform them with aplomb.

Story telling has been part of the lore of probably every civilisation that has existed in this world. Be it fairy tales, mythological narratives, myths or just stories, this tradition played a major role in forming minds and instilling values. I had forgotten how much I owed to this wonderful art. I guess much of who I am today is due to the myriad of stories I heard and read from the time I was a toddler. Why am I talking of storytelling today you may wonder? As you may be knowing Utpal has been going to a therapist for the past 2 years. The child was unable to deal with all that befell him starting with the disappearance of his mother one fine morning, to the sequels of all the violence he has witnessed from the time he was born. Suffering third degree burns when we was just a baby, dealing with the mood swings and dysfunctional life of his alcoholic parents, hearing the jeers of people around him about the identity of his father; sleeping hungry when the mom forgot to cook or was too drunk to do so. You name it, he experienced it.

When things went out of hand he was packed to a boarding school. He was just 4. We had no option, or so we thought. But today when I look at my 4+ grandson I feel a sense of guilt at not having realised that Utpal was still a bay when I packed him off. Hope he will forgive me when time comes. You understand why he needed therapy as no one, even less a child, can process all that happened to him without help.

Sorry for this aparte. It was just to put things in context.

During his last session, the therapist asked to see me. She suggested that I read him moral stories during the summer break as that would help him learn values. I pondered over this for a long time and realised that what she said what actually a far bigger issue than that of little Popples. In today’s day and age there are no more storytellers. When we were young our grandmothers or grandaunts use to take time to tell us stories. Our parents often read us bedtime stories. And when we started reading, we read stories. Schools had moral studies as a compulsory subject and we thus heard moral stories. Each story planted a seed in our minds. That seed many not have germinated on the day it was planted, but somehow sprouted at the right time, when a situation occurred when we needed to take a decision. It helped us take the right decision, even if it was not the preferred one.

Today children live in nuclear families with parents who are not storytellers. Television and Internet have replaced reading time and schools have done away with moral study altogether. This happens across the board, be it with rich or poor children with a slight difference: the rich child may see a programme he likes while the poor child has to see the inane TV serials his family likes. And even if you try and look with the largest loupe you can find, there are scant lessons to be learnt in the violent cartoons or silly serials. It is time we restored the art of storytelling if we want our children to become caring and honest humans. But that is no easy task.

The news is replete with scams, corruption, rape, violence and more. The lessons we are telling our kids is that it is fine to lie, you can get away with murder, money is the only goal you need have. I am horrified at the number of expensive gadgets rich children have. This is the preferred way of parents who are busy making money to get rid of the guilt they might feel for the scant time they spend with their kids. And somehow children equate reading to a boring pastime and hence are just fed what the visual media gives them.

True there are parents who walk the less travelled road but they are far and few and cannot make the difference we want. Everyone is complaining about the rise in crime graph but this is bound to happen with the completely valueless education we are giving to our children both within the homes and in schools. Moral study should be revived in schools as that is the best way to ensure that these lessons reach a large spectrum of children. But as always who will bell the cat!

Dear Mama

Today is Mother’s day! I do not know why there has to be a Mother’s day as for me every day is Mother’s day. You may have left me 23 years ago but there has not been a single day I have not remembered you. You have been with me every moment from the time I last held you on that fateful June day. You gave me the gift of life, the most precious gift anyone can offer, but you also showed me how to live the life you gave me. From the time I was a little girl, you took me by the hand and set out on a journey that has not ended even when you left this world. You live in every breath I take. True some memories have yellowed faded like the this picture has. I sometimes need to ferret in the umpteen boxes of photographs that lie in a corner of the house to recollect the less than four decades we shared in different corners of the world. There are the very professional pictures taken by photographers where you are always dressed to perfection, your hair in place, your sari impeccably draped and your beautiful smile ever present. But there are also the personal photographs, taken with a shaky hand and probably with the wrong settings. These are the true repository of our lives and somehow in most if not all of them, I find myself, be it as a baby, a toddler, a school going child or a rebellious teenager. No matter what you were photographing, your child had to be there. This discovery made me realise the extent of your love for me.

You are the one who wanted a battalion of children but got only one, as your son was taken from you even before you could hold him. No wonder then that you smothered me with your love. You had to make this one child worthy of your love. And that is not all. How can I forget that you are the one who were willing to accept life as an old maid rather than give birth to a child in a enslaved India. Your  incredible love for this land made sure that your child never forget the fact that she was first an Indian. Though we lived in faraway lands across the glove, you made sure my mother tongue would be Hindi. Your way was simple: you never spoke to me in any other language. I must have been 5 or 6 when I realised that you knew other languages. And talking of languages what an incredible woman you were!  You, a girl from a small town suddenly propelled into the international arena by virtue of the profession of the man you married and whose husband was steeped in French culture, learned French on the sly to be able to gift the man you loved a very special birthday present: the ability to speak the language he loved. You were truly to the manor born.

I fell in love with you the instant you first held me. That Mama was instinctive love. But I have a secret to share with you, and what better day than today, Mother’s day! I fell in love all over again with you after your left when I had the sagacity and maturity to understand what an incredible woman you were. I wish I could tell you that in person. I wish I could ask your forgiveness for the times I may have hurt you inadvertently. I realise today that everything I am or have achieved is because you were my mother. 

In the past decade or so, I have tried to walk a path that encompassed all that you held as true: your love for the land, your fight for women’s equality,  your passion for education, your compassion for the downtrodden, your belief that everything was possible if we had the courage to take the first step. I hope you are proud of me. 

I do not know why I feel your presence around me, urging to take a final look at my life, wanting me to dare to jump in the void without a parachute and see whether I have the wings needed to fly.

For you, I will take that final leap!

I love you mama

your daughter

anou

Today’s post is personal. Maybe it is because I am at this very instant faced with a challenge that requires me to take a decision I am weary of taking. I do not know if there is a translation for the french expression ‘ la spirale infernale’. The best would be a ‘vicious circle’ or maybe ‘downward spiral’. I feel like I am at the edge of a precipice and need to make the decision to jump or not. I did start by saying that this post was personal but realise now that nothing in my life is purely personal anymore. From the day I began my pwhy journey, I have been compelled to look beyond the obvious in more ways than one. Nothing is what it seems anymore. I have written many posts on the health and medical situation over the past few years. I have been privy to the state of medical care available to us Indians on both side of the spectrum and did not like what I saw. From quacks to super docs, it is all a matter of extorting as much money as possible from people who are at their most vulnerable. The Hippocratic Oath is well forgotten. Maybe one should revisit it.

Today medicine is the new commercial kid on the block. Just like education! Hospitals look like 7* hotels if you are rich. A well rehearsed sales pitch awaits you when you go to seek help and you get drawn into that downward spiral even if you think you are well prepared. I have seen the game from far many a times. Playing on our desperation, we find ourselves drawn into a vortex from which there is no escape.

I have known many who fell in the trap and got landed with surgeries and other interventions that cost a bomb and were not really needed. The arrival of medical insurances has been a boon for such outrages. My own cousin brother was probably almost DOA, but kept alive and several surgeries performed on him before they finally declared him dead. You would have guessed that the bill amounted to the sum he was injured for!

In 1992 I too fell into this trap though at that time it was not an insurance issue. My father who was in no pain and in good health was taken to a ‘specialist’. This happened on the 30th of October. On the 29 of November he breathed his last. In between these 2 dates complex surgeries that should not have been performed on a 81 year old were done. In medical terms they were successful! I guess this was because he came out of them. For me they stripped him of his dignity. I still wonder if we would have been with us for some more time had we not visited the specialist. My mother refused all conventional treatment. She lived with her dignity intact.

I also know of people who did not fall for the carefully laid trap that includes dramatic scenes worthy of the best playwright. They sought a second opinion from the still honest medical practitioners who unfortunately work in hospitals where it is quasi impossible to get to them unless you have ‘contacts’. In all these cases, people who had been told that they were ‘about to die’ and needed ‘immediate bypass surgeries’ were simply advised a change of lifestyle. They are around and in good health! One of my relatives was kept on a ventilator after a car crash for one month. We all knew in our hearts that he would not make it but fell for the well written scenes that was enacted in front of us every day.

This is not about the poor! Theirs is another story. This is about you and me. And it is not about money.  One would be willing to spend the last dime in one’s pocket if we could get our loved one the right help. But the problem is that one knows that the advise you get is loaded! I am sure there are honest doctors but I do not know where to find them.

I am lucky to have a wonderful GP who is everything a doctor should be. For the past decades he has treated us of all our ailments and donned every specialist cap possible. I prayed that this would continue till we all breathed our last.

That was not to be. Yesterday I was asked to get a second opinion for someone I love the most. It is true that we have been battling with his health issues for some time and not being able to nail the problem. So my doctor asked for the dreaded ‘second’ opinion. Sadly he did not know anyone in the field and gave me some names and numbers. I do not know why, but I did not rush to fix an appointment and did some web search. The results were not great. I do not know why, instinct perhaps, but my mind zoomed back to what happened to papa. My blood ran cold. I found myself at the edge of the precipice that I know would take me down the dreaded spiral from where there is no way up.

What is strange is that though I know the game and thus should not fall for it, I also know that when it comes to a loved one your reason vanishes and your heart takes over. You are sure to make all  the wrong decisions.

I am now at the edge of the cliff, fighting to hold my balance. I will give myself some time to explore possible options and also take hold of myself and not act in haste. Love will have to be harnessed, and reason given all the space it needs. I will not jump in the void without a parachute but develop the wings I need to fly.

So help me God!

You are the best girl in the world said my little grandson when we connected on skype this morning. I guess for him it was simply because Nani gives in to every whim and fancy, buys all the cars and toys, allows extended TV time, bypasses mummy’s diktats and gorges one with chocolates and ice cream! I guess that is what nani’s are made for! But to me these eight words spoken my an innocent child were a much needed sign from the heaven’s above as for the past months now I have been feeling somewhat low and shaky. The reasons are many! First a slew of health issues in my family requiring practically all my time, if not as a poor ersatz of Ms Nightingale busy doling out medication, holding hands or dishing out dollops of TLC, then as wife and mother spending sleepless nights worrying. And to crown it all,  I am joining the bandwagon as it seems that my eyes have developed cataracts. This certainly added to my misery as my eyes are my most prized possessions as they are the ones enabling me to face all obstacles head on! I mean reading and writing are essential to my survival.

I must admit I have been wallowing in unnecessary self pity and once you take that road then it seems to be always a downward ride. I was spiralling out of control and was praying for a sign. And it came this morning through the words of my little Angel. His lovely words were the kick I needed to stop basking in my self pity and look at life with new eyes. The first things that struck me was the fact that though I had, by force majeure, been terribly absent from the pwhy, both physically and mentally, the project was running like a dream. Even funds were sufficient, not needing me to worry constantly, at least for some time. It was as if the Gods were on my side. I am not only referring to the day-to-day running of the project, but my team has successfully handled many visits as well as a successful pilot of a learning programme called SMILE and initiated by Stanford University. And there is more. The ace pwhy team organised 2 cultural programmes for visiting guests and is now preparing yet another for a large expat group. I was happy to learn that workshops on gender issues are also going on as well as preparing for co-educational classes during the summer holidays. Another surprise was the fact that the team on it’s own has organised a partnership with a travel agency to train some of our students in upmarket motorcycle repair, thus fulfilling a cherished dream: that of providing useful vocational skills to students who may not be academically inclined. For all the months when I have been unavailable, my team stood like a silent rock behind me and for that I am eternally grateful. I wonder how I would have survived the past months if I needed to worry about the nitty-gritty of the project.

The best girl also needs to look at the coming time with optimism and realise that physical and other ailments do get resolved if one is walking the right road. I have been doing my best to support those who need me. Here also there is something I had not realised. I could only do so because my ‘health’ was spot on and I had the physical and mental strength to hold on. This is alo a blessing from the heavens above.

I have shared my problems with some close friends, friends that came into my life thanks to pwhy, and they have stood by me through thick and thin, giving me courage and determination to face the future. This is a blessed gift as being an only child and having lived a nomadic life, I never had what is known as childhood friends.

And the fact that my little grandson used the word ‘girl’, I guess means that I have to stop complaining about my age and continue giving my best to one and all, be it my family or my work. So I have no excuse to stop writing or doing what is expected of me to be the ‘best’. Please do not take this as grandstanding, far from that! The use of the word best was a gentle reminder to do what I needed to.

Tomorrow may hold new challenges. Some may be difficult and even trying but what is needed is to give one’s best and accept whatever comes with a grateful smile.

It is said that God speaks through children! I second that with conviction.

Keep your bike in good repair: Motorcycle boots are NOT comfortable for walking. Wonder why I am starting this blog with a biker’s quote? Patience and read on. A few months ago we got a mail from Vintage Rides, an organisation that invites you to discover India on Royal Enfield Bullets. They wanted to partner with us so that they could include a very special part of India in their itinerary: project why! We discussed many options: visits by their clients, wish lists for donations, bike rides for our children and so on. Each was discussed at length but somehow fell short in some way, till we hit the nail on the head: mechanical classes for pwhy students. Vintage Rides has a state of the art facility for bike repairs and we are always on the look out for vocational options for our students, particularly those who are not academically inclined but could and would do wonders if they found their calling. The glove with the hand perfectly. And Jon, who is volunteering with us was our man of the moment!

The introductory class was held this week and this is what Jon had to say: The staff were excellent,treated the kids as equals, they really got into showing the kids how the bikes worked, about the engines and teaching the kids. The students started off having a talk in the boardroom about VR then moved into the workshop, they really enjoyed being able to start some of the fantastic bikes they are customizing for customers all over the world and shown the inside workings of how an engine works, They were then able to get hands on taking an engine apart to be shown how to fix an oil leak, you can see from the photo how keen the students were to learn and did us proud at all times by acting with manners, politeness and enthusiasm  – their eagerness and concentration the whole time they were there was great to see. The session was extended as well because it was going so well and it think bodes well for the future.

I was on cloud nine, and for more reasons that one! Once again, as Jon confirmed, my kids were to the manor born and behaved perfectly throughout the workshop. Then their interest in the workshop, their pertinent questions and concentration proved that this could be an option for them after they complete school with a caveat though as we need to select kids who we feel are not made for higher studies. This bunch was some of our brightest. And then what made my day was the close and equal interaction between what we call the 2 Indias! I must admit that I am always a little apprehensive as I have had some bad experiences. For this I want to extend my deepest gratitude to the Vintage Rides staff and management.

And as  Motorcycle boots are NOT comfortable for walking, a lot of repair work awaits our pwhy kids!

Way to roar!

I was surprised when I heard that young K was going to spend a few days at home. I am always delighted when she is with us as she is a ray of sunshine, but this is school and unit test time so what the hell was she doing! I obviously had to ask what was happening. That is when I first heard of a custom called Chaupadi, practised in Nepal. What I was witnessing was a revised and ‘modernised’ version of this abhorrent custom. The article gives an elaborate description of the horror. In short a woman is considered ‘unclean’ while she is menstruating and is kept in isolation as the gods will be angered and bring ruin upon hapless male members of the family. So she is locked up in a dark hole. Men need to be protected as is always the case.

I do remember some elders in my own family make inane statements like ‘don’t touch the pickle jar‘ as it is believed that it will rot if touched by one who has her period. We were also banished from the prayer room and not taken to Temples. I found this unjust but never raised my voice as my parents, though traditional always sifted the grain from the chaff as far as traditions were concerned, and only taught me what they felt stood to logic and my cartesian mind. I remember telling my father first that I had had my period and we both went out to buy me a gift. I was 10!

This terrible custom does not stand to any logic, however warped. Menstruation is part of the normal growth of girl and needs to be celebrated just like you celebrate the first word, the first step, the first day at school and many more firsts. How illogical it is to consider the very essence of creation as something dirty! Having your first period is traumatic for any child. That is when she needs love, affection, help, care, tenderness and above all the presence of her family. Imagine how she feels when she is sent to the cowshed in the village or to strangers home in the city! Once upon a time this isolation was considered as ‘forced rest’ and could have made some sense if the woman was well looked after, but now she is still meant to work. As one woman says: if I can feed the cow when having my periods, why can’t I drink its milk? If I can collect firewood for the kitchen, why can’t I cook? If I touch a plant, it will die they say, then why am allowed to breast-feed in the chaupadi? This is absurd.

The watered down version that I am seeing today is incomprehensible. The young girl will continue to go to school and carry on with her life but cannot see any male member of her family for the next 7 days! Blissfully in this version this is only for the first cycle.

My curiosity compelled me to find out the origin of this Hindu practice and thanks to the WWW and Google this is what I found: According to religious folklore, Indra, the King of Heaven was accused of killing a Brahmin and because of the illicit acts with women that Indra committed during his quest to redeem his sin, for these acts all women were said to be punished through menstruation. So if I get it right, a God goes philandering and it is all women, including you and me, who are punished and tormented. Hey that is a good one for explaining all the rape and abuse against women. You are being raped because Indra went astray!

This practice has landed in our city because of the large number of migrants from the region where it is the most prevalent. Urban existence has compelled families to revisit the custom and contain it to the first cycle only. But that is probably the worst ‘modernisation’ you could have come up with.The first cycle is when a girl is still a child and when she needs maximum support. You cannot lock her away or send her to strangers. And how can you think that a menstruating child’s touch can  hurt the males of the family! What she needs most is a hug from her father. That is what I got.

To be continued

Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime wrote Herbert Ward. Most of us do not understand this has we have never been abused. But this is the harsh reality, one I have witnessed myself. The medias have shifted gear. There seems to be a surplus of meaty stories. And with elections around the corner, the politicians will hog all the space. The horror of abuse of little girls cannot compete with scams, political quibbling and all kind of breaking news. Yet children continue to be abused as we carry on life as we know it. Yesterday evening at 7.45, as we were maybe sipping our sundowner, watching TV or otherwise engaged,  the little five year old who had been brutally raped 12  days ago and was fighting for her life in  a Nagpur hospital breathed her last and gently passed away without fuss. We will never know what went on in her tiny and innocent mind for those long 12 days and 12 nights. She will be mourned by her loved ones but they too will have to move on as the game of survival the poor in our country are compelled to play does not allow you the luxury to grieve for long. She might make a few headlines, spark off some protest but then she will become a statistic to be added to the horrifying number of children abused in our country: 48 838 is the official number of children raped in India in the last ten years. These are the reported cases. You can easily multiply the figure by four. And if you add the children groped, molested, fondled and assaulted within their homes, then the figure is staggering. Yet we keep criminally mute.

If you have the strength to read what child abuse is all about then I urge you to read this article. I know it is not easy but do to read it, just to honour the little girl who passed away yesterday because of our indifference. You cannot begin to imagine the horror a child goes through because of us , adults. I use ‘us’ responsibly because we are collectively responsible. I know many of you will not read this article in its entirety. I had to brace myself to do so. Allow me to just reproduce one story before we go further.

To begin with, hear the story of one child. On 17 December 2012 — just one day after the gangrape of a young paramedic in New Delhi shook the world — a three-and-a-half-year old baby girl returned from school with her clothes streaked with vomit and blood.

Her father, Gagan Sharma (name changed), had moved from Kolkata to a slum in west Delhi in 2003 in search of a better life. The little girl had been listless and reluctant to go to school for weeks. Now, when her mother asked her what had happened, she told the story haltingly, riven by fear.

She spoke of a bald man — the principal’s husband — who had threatened to hang her from a ceiling fan if she dared to open her mouth. She spoke of how he had taken her to the bathroom, made her lie down, and inserted his penis and fingers into her vagina and her anus, blaring music in his room to drown any noise. She spoke of how he had done this to her many times before, forcing her to keep quiet by saying terrible things would happen to her parents if she talked about it.

The girl’s mouth was full of ulcers from a drug the alleged perpetrator — a man called Pramod Malik — had forced her to take to render her unconscious while he raped her.

The fact of the rape is horrific enough. Here’s what came after. According to the parents, it took them 12 hours at the police station to get an FIR registered. They were taunted by a woman sub-inspector for living in a colony of “disrepute”; their own reputation was questioned; the little girl was asked to recount her story in front of three policemen. The woman sub-inspector prefaced the inquiry by telling the little girl: “Tell the truth or insects will crawl all over you and your mother and father will be beaten.”

Despite these threats, the little girl repeated her story exactly as she had told it to her parents. In the magistrate’s court, she was challenged again. She told her story again. The medical examiner, however, ruled out rape and left the report vague. The headmaster was let out on bail on 28 February. On the other hand, Gagan Sharma’s landlord asked him and his family to leave. They are still struggling with the case.

This is not just a narrative of a rape. Every line screams of horror, injustice and pain. First the age of the child: three and a half year old. Take a moment to stop and things of the children of that age you know and love: your own child, your grandchild, your niece or perhaps your neighbour. She is just a baby, someone to be loved, protected, cared for but not to be viewed as a means to satisfy your sexual need! She is just a child whose life till that horrific moment was filled with thoughts of toys, goodies and chocolates, swings and rids, and joy and laughter. And then suddenly a change in mood, a fear she cannot convey, a scream that remains stuck in her tiny throat for weeks. She does not want to go to school. But school is where she is meant to be safe, it is meant to be a happy place. Is it not the preferred space we all want to send our tiny ones to? And then one day the screams breaks the barrier of imposed silence and mutates into halting words impregnated with fear. She recounts the horror she has been subjected to, the pain, the incomprehension, the threats and names the perpetrator. It is not a stranger but the Principal’s husband! 

In any civilised society one would want to believe that from this moment the child would be safe and not subjected to any more humiliation and indignity. But there is more, much more. The child has to relieve the nightmare again and again and tell her ‘story’ to insensitive police officials, even a women who tell her to Tell the truth or insects will crawl all over you and your mother and father will be beaten. She has to relieve the horror again in front of a magistrate.

The end of the matter was that the medical examiner ruled out rape! How could he do that when the child had described as graphically as a three year old can do the acts perpetrated by the man. The main is out on bail. And her parents have been thrown out of their home by their landlord, their reputation sullied. I do not know what logic works here. I am speechless and seething.

The equation is skewed. It is not a case of 1 victim and 1 perpetrator. It is the a matter of one tiny victim   just three and a half and a slew of perpetrators: the rapist, his wife under whose watch this happened, the police and their taunts, the medical examiner whose report is shocking, the magistrate whose understanding of rape is beyond one’s understanding and last of all the community who as always lands  up blaming the victim. How can a child be heard.

I can only quote Heather Mc Claine’s words when she says The only reason why child abuse is alive today, is because we as adults fail our children when we fail to listen to them. Listen to a child today!

There are several more stories like this one in the mentioned article. 

The reason of this post goes further. The rape of these little girls is abhorrent. One has to have a sick mind to think otherwise. But there is another from of sexual assault that happens every minute within the walls of homes of all strata of society, assaults that are never or rarely reported as the equation is again skewed: one girl versus family honour and the equation is again skewed. What chance does the girl stand and as sometimes it is not rape in the legal definition – penetration- it is often poo poohed away by the elder one goes to for help. What many do not understand is that child sexual abuse is NOT  only intercourse. Even a single instance of groping by someone you trust is sufficient to scar a child for life. The incident takes on the form of a predator that lives for ever in some dark recess of the survivor’s soul and raises its ugly and monstrous head at the least expected moment, often when the survivor feels she has healed and wants to live a normal life, or when she dares to dream. The beast is a hydra headed one and can take many shapes: an unexplained illness, a sombre mood, anything to ensure that the survivor does take that one step that would spell release and freedom.

Many of us do not know that. There was a time when I too did not. But this is the raw and stark reality faced by a child sexual abuse survivor simply because a trusting adult broke the trust in a vile and reprehensible way.

The survivor is scarred for ever. As a survivor who was raped at the age of 16 and could not remember the faces of those who violated her:“All I remember from that night is a smell” . A smell that impregnates every part of her memory forever.

An SMS this morning from my husband read: I believe you are in the papers today. Congrats! The husband is presently outside India and I wondered how this news had reached him? Some friend I guess. My first reaction was to send him an SMS back asking: good or bad? Good was the reply. I heaved a sigh of relief. It has been a long time since the media came a visiting! Wonder where this came from. A bit of sleuthing around and it transpired that a local tabloid run by a known media group had decided to publish an anniversary special entitled making a difference and honouring fifty individuals who had in their opinion made a difference. I am one of them. I must admit that no one came to visit, but I know remember a phone call from a journo who had once visited us asking me what was new. I must have given her some information. The result: a mishmash of what has been written over and over again with some new elements provided on a phone. The only ray of light was that Manu was mentioned and thus his existence acknowledge in true spirit. I can never forget the debt I owe him. I dedicate this to him!

The article does not say much that is not known. I guess I must feel honoured and humbled to have been selected as one of the 50! I am, undoubtedly. But what caught my attention was the title the journalist had chosen: The constant questioner? Of all things written that was the only words that were relevant. Those three almost innocuous words brought me back to earth. No statistics or successes would ever be enough to allow me to sit back and say: job well done! There is still so much to do. If the mission as it his stated in the article is to provide basic human rights to children in slums, then I have far from succeeded. True the handful or even fistful of children that have realised their dreams because of our presence is a step in the right direction as a constant questioner time has perhaps to look beyond   school success and job skills, to the stark and brutal reality that hits us in the face every single day. This weeks magazines bring to fore the question of safety of our little children in slums. A tiny soul was found brutalised and is now fighting for her life. She had simply gone to the toilet. She lies in the same hospital where a another brutalised child is recovering. I wonder who will heal the scars on their soul.  Another magazine reports on the rampant sexual abuse of children in India. The article is one that we should all read and hang our heads in shame. Imagine 48,838 children raped in just 10 years. Imagine what it means when you are told this staggering figure — which is a National Crimes Record Bureau statistic — is possibly only 25 percent of the actual child rapes going on in the country. And that only 3 percent — a mere 3 percent — of these make it to the police. Imagine what it means when you are told child rapes have seen a chilling 336 percent jump from 2001 to 2011.

Looks like the questionner has to kick herself out of her comfort zone where school results and news of good employment, interspersed with some life saving surgery seem to be enough for a pat on the back. That she should stop complaining about her age, creaking bones and dwindling eye sight and taken the deafening whys that can be heard by one and all. Any self respecting human being who professes to work for children in India cannot afford to stop, not till her last breath.

So help me God!

If you want to read the article, here it is:

It is disturbing that much of what I have often expressed over the past years on this blog is being stated by those one calls experts. How I wish I would have been wrong. In a recent article entitled: Has India lost the XXIst century an educationist writes: “It has not been in the interest of any government to ensure universalisation of education,  why would a government deny its people universal education? Because education gives you access to ideas, rights and opens doors of abilities. Education upsets the status quo and if, as a government, you stay in power by virtue of votebanks that you create and nurture, it is not in your interest to ensure everyone gets education.”

When we began pwhy, I was naive enough to think that all was well in our education system. The things that disturbed me then were the fact that children went to school for half a day and the fact that they had to spend the other half either loitering around (boys) or in household chores (girls). What upset me was that these children had no place to play, no one to help them with their school work etc. I wanted project why to be the place where they could have just that and be children! I imagined pwhy to be a large space with books, toys, games, computers and some teachers to help with the homework and teach them spoken English. I also dreamt of an open space where the children could play. I even dared the large community centre with sprawling grounds that lay vacant and desolate. I was told it was the old labour court that had now shifted. There was even a large auditorium. Time and again the community hall was spruced up and used for a wedding. Once the party over the hall remained littered with used plastic cups and plated till the next wedding or party. We too used that hall for our only two annual day. I also learnt that two rooms were used for sewing classed and for a creche though I never saw any proof of that.

That is when I thought that maybe one could suggest to the authorities to use that space ‘intelligently’ and for the benefit of the community: proper creches, a library, computer classes, etc as well as sports for children as the grounds were ample. Of course the powers that be did not want that! Soon after there was a lot of activity. The building was being given a makeover. A few days later there was a big inauguration with delhi’s who’s who! But as always in this land of ours, everything was undercover, behind locked gates. One did peep and saw a huge signboard that had all the possible heads under which one can get funds if one runs a NGO: education, health, HIV AIDS, special needs children and adults, revival of art and craft, you name it and it was there. WOW. It seemed that the organisation was run by one of heirs of an important individual. Well the story was short and bitter. I was told of some horror stories that happened behind those walls where mentally challenged women were kept hidden and abused. And then that do stopped. The building lies unused behind a lock. I guess the said individual has collected all the funds he could and moved on.

This was an aparte that fits in. Let me carry on with my story. The idea of the large space where kids could be kids was soon sacrificed to the alter of a very loud WHY! In tune with my initial dream and because of lack of resources we had begun humbly with spoken English classes for a handful of kids. It was not long before the outrageous and shocking reality of State run schools: little or practically no teaching, overcrowded classes, no drinking water, no toilets, corporal punishment. Still naive, I  attempted  to address the corporal punishment issue with friends in the press and visits to the school. This is circa 2003. I learnt the hard way when I hard that pwhy children where being targeted by the teachers and beaten even more! I beat a quick retreat.

I had however l realised that it was not a happy child centre that we needed, but space to teach as many children as possible. I again tried to seek political help as, many of you may not know this, I had worked for the ruling party and had entrees in many circles, did I wish to use them. The saga of that chapter is told here, should you wish to read it. I do not want to recall the details as they still make my blood boil.

The first incline of the sad yet true reality that the powers that be were not interested in education at all came when local politicos decided to declare ‘war’ on me after they had failed to insidiously try and get a foothold in my organisation. When they knew I would never accept that, they brought the big guns out. Our school that run in an erstwhile pig park that we had cleaned and accepted to share with our porcine friends, far kinder than the human ones, was bulldozed one fine day. We shifted to the roadside and thus began our nomadic existence. But we refused to give up. I had finally understood the game. Mrs B was dangerous because she upset the status quo: she employed teachers from the slums, the very ones who were till then part of the nurtured vote banks, she gave education to slum kids and more than that gave them dreams – the most outrageous one being that of Sanjay, a young gypsy kid born and brought up on the roadside who first became a teacher at pwhy, then acted in a movie and is now an International model recently signed by a well known Agency – something that they felt was dangerous.

They did it all: bad mouthed me in public meetings, accused me of swindling funds, accused me of evangelising because of my short hair, threatened my daughter. But I stood firm and never stopped my work. The only thing I stopped was to seek help from the authorities. They had taught me one thing and I thank them for it: you have to find your own options yourself.

The education system has many aberrations that can only be explained if you are willing to accept the premisse that the state is not interested in giving education to every child in India. The schemes and programmes and rights that are voted at selective times are just an eye wash with a wonderful cherry on the cake: sources of making illegal money. The sound good, fool uneducated people and get them the votes they need. Voila! End of story. Everyone is happy.

What is frightening is that while making all the right noises: right to education, right to whatever, the state is promoting commercialisation of education which is the most dangerous way to go. The recent 25% reservation for poor children is a farce. The really poor parents are unaware of the scheme and totally at a loss to put together the formalities needed, it is the middle class who is taking advantage of it. The difference between the two is: education!

The examples are plenty. Why is 33% still the pass percentage needed to succeed in an examination when it opens no doors. Affordable universities are now seeking 90% and more and in most cases jobs, even in the government want a 50% pass percentage. The recent mushrooming of private universities is proof of the fact that it is a good business proposition and with the phenomenal fees it is only for the rich. Higher studies are not for the poor. Why are state run schools in poor areas run abysmally when the same state runs central schools for its own kids. Every school should be run like a central school. Only then will all children get what has been promised to them in the much heralded Right to Education!

There is a proliferation of second and even third rate institutions that provide degrees in a wide range of subjects. They churn out unemployable graduates. The same article says: some 200 management schools have shut down in the past few years due to poor placement. Of the 1.5 million engineering students in India, over 70 percent are unemployed. The IT sector has also suffered, with 75 percent of graduates going unemployed. Degree holders are being churned out in a factory-like manner by institutions, and there is a genuine skilled manpower crisis for jobs that do exist.

What we need is to relook at the entire education story. We need to impart skills that are needed and not  dreams that will never be fulfilled. We have failed our youth miserably. Will we have the courage to set things right. No. Not as long as political paries need vote banks they can manipulate.

We need many more goons in this country! Don’t get me wrong. I do not mean the goons we normally think of. Let me elucidate. The last few posts on this blog have been grim to say the least and filled with a sense of deep hopelessness. But they only reflected what is going on around us day after day after day. As I wrote these wretched accounts my heart yearned for something positive to brighten things and rekindle hope. My prayers seemed to have been heard when I stumbled upon an article entitled ‘doctoring a revolution‘ and discovered Dr Punyabrata Goon.

Dr Goon provides in this land of exploitative health care, a different brand of care which he aptly calls: humanist care! It is not free or charitable but comes at a price people can afford. Instead of expensive and often unnecessary tests often advised in order to get a commission, Dr Goon has trained assistants that take time and listen to each and every patient. This reminds one of the good old family doctor, a vanishes species in our time and age. Then the patient meets the Doctor who is all smiles, takes his time  to chat with his patient.

Dr Goon is probably one of the rare doctors who fully follows the Hippocratic oath he took. For him medicine is meant to improve society. True he has his committed political preferences. he fights for injustice and takes on the mightiest. His hospital only prescribes generic medicines! I urge you to read this article.

Though Dr Goon candidly says: Surgery is a really romantic thing,You get to go into the operating theatre and come out a hero. But this isn’t what I want to do anymore. There is so much one can do with a rational system of allopathic treatment, to my mind he is a real hero, the kind we need desperately in our country where money seems to be the only mantra.

I salute him!

The debate for the death penalty for rapists rages on. It was disturbing to see on the latest TV debates that anyone who tended to disagree with the death penalty found her/himself shouted down. Nothing revolts me more than sexual child abuse and I would like to see all child abusers hung in public or subjected to the worst kind of torture like scaphism, and even that seems too kind! But when you take a little time and think many questions come to mind. Why do men abuse small children? What makes them do so? And most of all how can we prevent this evil? Screaming for the death penalty cannot act as the deterrent we seek. More so with the way the legal system functions in India and wily lawyers operate. We have a startling example of this in the case of the trial of the men accused in the December gang rape case.

In today’s news we heard about the confession of the man who raped the 5 year old last week. It transpires that the accused was drinking and watching porn on the mobile phone of a friend. They spotted the child, lured her with chocolate and too her to their room and took turns raping her. They then tried to kill her and believing her dead fled! What made this men act as beasts? The alcohol? The porn? And what made them chose a 5 year old as prey? Her vulnerability? Her accessibility? Her innocence? Or to quote from Shobha De’s article Vaginas are for violating, the fact that she had a vagina and that in our country to be born with a vagina is provocation enough.

So how do we protect our little girls. A young girl writing about the incident states: I know people who have since placed curfew hours for their daughters, and some have even appointed bodyguards for their security, even my own father. Yes, in our land the rich will be protected but the poor will remain unsafe and vulnerable unless we do something. The richest man in India will now get Z category protection as he has received threats. This is galling but expected. In our very city there is only one police officer for 450 citizens while 45000 are on VIP security duty! So obviously little girls who get abducted are found after days at end. Imagine if the police had acted efficiently, the little rape survivor would not have had to endure the brutality she was subjected to. So I pose the question again: how do we protect our little girls or should I say poor little girls as we have seen how the rich have found their solution. This is a matter for deep thought but what comes to mind is that first and foremost  little girl, and boys also as they too are prey for predators, have to be taught as early as possible the first sex education lesson: good touch and bad touch! Here the child is not only taught about which part of the bodies no one can touch, but also to scream loud and share the incident with someone she/he trusts. But  here also there are catches: the first is that abuse often happens within the family and should the child be courageous enough to share she/he will encounter the elephant in the room: honour; honour that far too often makes the trusted one your biggest enemy. So maybe parents  and family should be sensitised  and taught their priorities. Easier said than done as this happens even in educated homes. But it is a step we should take.

Rich children attend day care, pre school, Montessori school etc and are rarely or rather never left alone. You know the drill! Poor slum kids whose parents work are often left on their own. Remember, free education begins at age 6. The state run creches are abysmal and few. Mothers often leave their little ones under the watch of some ‘uncle’ or the other, a person the child learns to trust. Then comes school. The least said the better. Let us just remind ourselves of the fact that in Delhi children go to school for half a day. The rest of the day is often spent on the street. So to keep our children safe it is imperative to run the ICDS programme as it should be run and provide every child an enabling environment while her/his parents are at work. This is how we can keep our children safe.

The debate that is raging now only addresses the situation after the abuse has been committed. I entirely agree with the need for police reforms, judicial reforms etc but why should a child be violated.

There is another gigantic elephant in the room that needs to be addressed head on. Just as we want to keep pour children safe, we need address the question that is indeed disturbing: why does a man become a rapist? And I am not interested in the aberrations thrown at us each time a rape occurs. And anyway how can a two year old or a 5 year old entice a man.

I would like to look at the profile of the perpetrator and see what went wrong. We must learn to accept that the perp was once a child and was not born a rapist. It is the environment that made him so. We all know about the state of reform homes. But there is a period in the life of that child which brought him to the reform home: the situation in his family, the school he dropped out from, the company he kept, the temptations that he encountered, the peer pressure and so on. The total lack of love, understanding, role models. The broken dreams and aspirations. And then when does commit that first crime the terror of a reform home. It is time we looked at these problems and started making amends for the way we treat our children.

I will end this post by sharing with you an experience we are all living at project why as I write these words. For the past 3 weeks or so we have 3 very special volunteers at pwhy: a special educator and two young boys aged 15 who are juvenile delinquents from France. These boys have stolen, peddled drugs and come from broken and dysfunctional families. They are now under state custody. As part of their rehab programme they have been brought to India for 3 months. The idea is to make them see worse conditions than the ones they know and put them through the toughest boot camp possible. They spent a month traveling across India in buses, tractors and even bullock carts. When they fell out of line and needed to be punished their educator made them walk 30 km on 4 bananas. They are difficult boys but no one is willing to give up on them. The experiment may or may not work, but at least one would have tried.

We leave our children to their own device and then go up in arms when they turn into criminals. It is time we accepted responsibility the state of affairs.

The death penalty will not solve issues.

Think about it!

I spent a sleepless night early this week. Images of the little girl lying in a hospital after having been violated in the most bestial way possible kept flashing through my mind. She is just six months older than my own grandchild. I woke up feeling sick, ashamed and hopeless. Before turning off the lights I had watched the many ‘talk shows’ where hastily gathered ‘specialists’ were analysing and commenting upon the barbaric act aptly prompted by anchors. In one such programme, only one visibly moved participant, asked the question that begged to be asked, one concerning the innocent victim and her morrows. Everyone seemed more interested in the behaviour of the police, the silence of those in power, the death penalty and more of the same.

Let me tell you one thing loud and clear, even if by the waving of a magical wand, everything could be made the way we wanted, nothing can or will change for the five year old.

The three terrifying days she spent locked up and brutalised have scarred her forever. Child abuse is the most heinous of crimes as it is almost always perpetrated by someone the child trust, and that breach of trust destroys your life for ever. The reason why I am so deeply disturbed is that this child is just like the children who come to us everyday, children who live in overcrowded spaces and where ‘uncles’ of all shades and hues abound. No one ever tells these children about predators and abusers.

Let me tell you a true story of a girl just like the one who lies today on hospital bed. When we began our work over a decade ago, I used to drop in each and every class regularly. The afternoon class was one of young girls between the ages of 8 and 12. Though the class was tiny and crowded, one young girl who must have been 10 or 11 years old, always sat alone, in a corner, outside the group. I let it pass initially but the image disturbed me. I decided to find out what was the cause of this child being marginalised. To my horror I found out that she had been raped by her neighbour when she was 5 year old. She had been raped and brutalised and her genitalia lacerated. The had to undergo many surgeries and is scarred for like. On the other hand,the perp was arrested and served a two year sentence. he now roams free. The child however has been branded as the ‘one who was raped’ and thus needs to be shunned. Parents ask their children not to befriend her or play with her. She too has been ‘condemned’ to a very perverse kind of solitary confinement. On the way she lost her self esteem and sense of worthiness. We tried very hard to work with her and build her self confidence. We urged her to attend our Karate classed and she was top of the class. Sadly, her mother died and her father left the city and went to their village. She must be twenty now. We do not know what happened to her. I hope and pray she is well. But that is just wishful thinking as even the smallest of child abuse scars a soul and a life forever.

Stigmatising a victim of child abuse is par for the course in the sick society we live in, where honour has some very strange meaning. I know of a girl who was molested when she was 12 by a close family member. Far from the standing for the child, the family of the perp went in damage control to protect him at whatever cost, even that of branding the 12 year old has having lose moral character. This happened in a so called educated family. I shudder to think what will happen to the little girl who comes from a poor family.

I shudder to think about the scars seared on this child’s body and soul. She was confined for three 3 days with a sadistic, bestial, perverted, brutal creature who used and abused every part of her tender body, without food and water and then left alone to die. I wonder where she got the strength to scream and be heard. How cannot even begin to imagine her pain, her total incomprehension of what was happening to her. As all paedophiles, this man too must have played the game of seduction turning to a waking nightmare. No punishment is too severe for men like this. I have no words to express what I would like to see done to him. Yes he has been arrested but if we are to go by precedent, I mean the five rapists who abused and killed a young woman in the prime of her life last December, maybe this one also will suddenly get the urge of studying in Jail!

There are crimes and crimes. Sexual assaulting a child is a crime that deserves no sympathy. They may not take a life away in the true sense of the word, but they condemn an innocent soul to a life where she dies a thousand deaths all through her life.

Once again, people are on the street. Some demanding the  resignation of those entrusted in the maintenance of law, some are asking for death for the rapist. These are either knee jerk or extreme reactions. If the death of one rapist could deter rapist forever, I would echo the demand loud and clear. And let us not be naive and believe that I new cop can change the reality on the ground.

The protests we witnessed yesterday gave me a sense of jaded deja vu. There was a new political party screaming the loudest and playing out is own agenda. I guess they fared quite well. There was the token presence of Opposition groups, students groups. They screamed and shouted. The police was restrained, the water canons present. Arrests were made. But somehow to me it seemed all futile.

In December those of us who had taken to the street may have felt that we had the power to maybe bring change. What was asked then was safety for women. Statistics prove the contrary. We asked for new laws and fell for the wily game played by our rulers. We got new laws but the incident of the little 5 year old shows that nothing has changed on the ground. The callous behaviour of the police is the best example we can ask for. I completely agree that laws should be stringent and swiftly dispensed. For that we need reforms in all our institutions and ensure that laws are respected and implemented.

But what a civilised society should aim at, is prevention of such heinous crimes.

The brutal rape of the little year old should make us think deeply. It always takes two to tango, and sadly at least two to rape. In the case of the rape of children, one of the victim, is a child from an underprivileged background ( I am not even delving into child abuse in homes as in those we know happen across social strata ) and the rapist who is also often from the same social background. Young children living in slums are very vulnerable. The systems created to protect and nurture them are a farce. The so called state run creches under the ICDS programmes are non-existent or pathetic. They are often simply a good way for politicians to favour their proteges, be it in giving jobs or contracts for nutrition. Children under six are often left on their own in slums and thus good prey for predators. Mothers need to work to survive. All the promises of creches and daycares have never been kept. I think a first step would be to ensure that children are safe all the time. The sad reality that we have witnessed in the recent past is that children get raped even within the four walls of schools. Moreover in crowded slums people live in close proximity and uncles of all shades abound. Children easily trust neighbours and a chocolate is all it takes to catch the innocent prey. It is time that the state thought of setting up quality habitat for the underprivileged rather than allowing slums to be set up to create grateful vote banks. I was absolutely appalled when I discovered many years ago that Lohars (gypsies) who camped on the main road had voter’s identity cards!

As a child grows up, it is time to go to school. I have time and again written about the state of schools in Delhi. They are the exact opposite of what an enabling environment should be. First and foremost schools run in two shifts. It is a sad reflection on a Government that it is enable to build sufficient schools for its children. Children should go to school in the morning. But for the boys in Delhi school begins at 1 and carried on till 6pm. In the mornings they are left to themselves. Idle mind; Devil’s playground goes the saying.

 How true it is. It is time we took a serious look at the education system. Otherwise we will continue breeding potential criminals. But here again there seems to be a sinister game at play. An educationist recently said: “It has not been in the interest of any government to ensure universalisation of education. Why would a government deny its people universal education? Because education gives you access to ideas, rights and opens doors of abilities. Education upsets the status quo and if, as a government, you stay in power by virtue of votebanks that you create and nurture, it is not in your interest to ensure everyone gets education.”

The real culprit in all matters seems to be the vote bank policy and corruption. It is well entrenched. Be it habitat for the poor, education, health, nutrition… all that can keep the illiterate seduced and prone to manipulation.

When you think you have seen and heard everything, a bolt comes out of the blue and hits you straight in your face. The horrific rape and mutilation of a little five year old girl who is battling for her life is nothing short of a nightmare. Four months ago, the brutalisation of the one now referred to as India’s daughter shook the so called conscience of our city and brought otherwise apathetic people on the streets. We celebrated a new dawn and hoped things would change. How wrong we were.

Three days ago, a little five year old was playing probably near her home. When she did not return home her worried parents went to the police station. The tragedy was that they were poor and illiterate. The cops just treated them in their usual dismissive way and told them to go away, allegedly manhandling them. They of course did not register an FIR. When the girl was found 2 days later locked up in a room belonging to a neighbour, the same cops allegedly attempted to bribe them, asking her not to take the matter further and just to take  pray for her recovery! This tiny innocent soul had been abducted by her 21 year old neighbour and raped and brutalised in the worst way possible. A bottle of hair oil and candles had been inserted in her genitals and she had wounds all over her tiny body. For two days she kept alive without food and water and was finally discovered when her screams were heard. She lies in a hospital bed, battling severe infection and traumatised beyond words. Her poor parents are helpless and praying for the child’s life. I just ask you to take a minute and try and imagine what this baby has gone through.

On the other hand this horrific and barbaric action has set another drama into action. A new political party was quick to reach the hospital and raise slogans against God knows who. But the most unbelievable reaction was that of the Chairman of the National Commission for Women who was apparently taken cognisance of the incident and who, when asked what her course action would be, expressed inability to go and visit the family on Saturday because  “because it is a holiday” today. Ma’am I would like to remind you that today is the day when little girls like the one who is battling for her life after suffering the worst kind of abuse, are worshipped and feted and that she too would have been one of those little girl had she not been abducted. Maybe your going to see her today would have been the right thing to do as she too is the image of the Goddess you pretend to worship. It makes me sick and wonder where do such people come from, and how are they given such responsibilities. I wonder what you would have done dear lady, if this child belonged to your family!

What city do we live in. The ones who are meant to protect us are insensitive brutes. The ones who are meant to espouse our causes prefer celebrating holidays. The ones who could raise their voices remain mute when the victim is not one of their ilk.

And what do you say about the perpetrator. What kind of men is our society nurturing. Men who satisfy their desires by brutalising children. When will we accept that sex education has to be addressed head on. That children as young as 5 have to beed made aware of the dangers that lurk around them. When will we stop hiding behind walls of false morality.

I am ashamed.. deeply ashamed. I, like each one of us today, feel responsible for that little soul has been subjected to.

For the past 9 days, millions across our country have been fasting, praying, visiting temples, holding all night vigils in the name of Goddess Durga. Markets blared devotional songs all day. The Goddess was worshipped in all her manifestations: from the most benevolent, to the most terrifying. The past days has seen religious feeding frenzies at every street corner that end in gargantuan wastage of food and massive littering of non recyclable waste. In a country where 5000 children doe everyday of malnutrition such waste is abhorrent and sickening.

For the past two days in innumerable homes, little girls from all walks of life are being worshipped. Their feet washed are ‘lovingly’ washed, they are fed many delicacies and even given some money or as it is the fashion now gifts. Many band of little girls go from home to home collecting their bounty. I have always been perplexed by this and shared my thoughts about this custom more than once. This tradition goes against the way girls are treated in India is nothing short of galling.

I too worship the Goddess in my own way and everyday as I see her in every girl that comes my way. I wish someone would explain me how in a country where a girl child is abused from the time she is conceived, how can you suspend your beliefs for twice a year and revere the same little girl. It goes beyond my understanding and comprehension.

In December 2012 many of us erroneously believed that things may get better for women in India. But we fell for a brilliant game of seduction played by those we elect to rule us.

Today when little girls are still being feted as I write these words, I want to just bring to your notice what happened to some little girls not so far from where I sit and write these words. A six year old was raped, killed and dumped in a garbage dump. When her family protested, women were mercilessly beaten by the very ones who are made to protect us. A five year is battling for her life in a hospital after being brutally raped and mutilated. The police, as insensitive as ever, told the parents to be grateful that she is alive! Another child was sexually assaulted by his school teacher. He is 5. These are the cases that made the headlines.

What can I say! What have we become? Will the day ever dawn when we find our lost concience and voice and scream ENOUGH!

Who does not like some positive stroking and an occasional pat on the back! I would be lying if I said I didn’t. So imagine my delight when a volunteer who had been with us for a short time send me these words: What struck me at Project Why is how everything is done simply, understandingly and joyfully, and though I haven’t been there long enough to notice it, it seems to work wonders. I wish for you to continue doing things this way, and provide the opportunity for people like me to open their eyes and contribute to this great project.

What truly touched me were the phrases used to evoke what and who we are. We are simple, we try to be understanding and we rive to be as joyful as is possible! And yes it works! Were it not so then how could we have withstood all the challenges we had to face? The other thing that moved me was that we were able in a small way to make a difference in the lives of people who on the face of it seem to have it all. I mean the many volunteers who come and spend their time and money to help us realise the dreams of children of a Lesser God.

I stand guilty of not having showered sufficient praise in all these wonderful human beings who belong to all the four corners of the world but share one precious gift: the ability to see with their heart. Each one of them has had a huge impact of children who cannot and may never be able to cross any frontier. But these wonderful men and women bring the whole world to the rickety and flimsy walls of project why. One more huge debt of gratitude is owed to these amazing volunteers and I wonder how I pay this one back.

I must confess that many of them have carved a place in my heart and though I many not communicate with them as much as I would like to, I remember them far more often than they would ever imagine. Just like the children of pwhy, the pwhy volunteers are my family and for one who lived the larger and formative part of her life as an only child with a nomadic life, this is probably the greatest gift of all: a family that extends beyond all boundaries: age, gender, religion, social background and international borders. And to crown it all the magic of the net takes ensures that we remain connected with only one tiny hiccup: time zones.

To come back to the pat on the back I would simply like to say that we are deeply indebted to all who trust us and pledge to remain simple, understanding and joyful.

Thank you all!

On New Year day I got a call from someone very dear who has been a mentor and guide. It was lovely talking to him as always and after we had shared our angst about the recent events and hopes for a better morrow, I asked him how is new project was doing. He had been deeply and passionately involved in an field project for the past years and was spending all his time there. His answer was baffling. He simply said: I do not go there any more, I run it as if I died yesterday.

To me his words have always been somewhat prophetic and I tend to delve into them far more then required. Of course I did not react immediately as is my habit. I let them take seed. For some time I simply forgot them but I knew that they would pop up at the appropriate moment. And that is just what happened when recently the future of project why was once again evoked by a well wisher. I must confess well wishers have sometimes the uncanny habit of bringing up disquieting topics! But bless them for that!

This post was started in somewhere in January. But then writer’s block. The words would not come. I guess the subject was too close and personal and even somewhat disturbing. Though one can sometimes jest about one’s death, when it comes to thinking about it seriously and constructively if I may say so, it is a different ball game. What my mentor’s words were asking me to do was to ponder about life after my exit and plan it to the best of my ability. Now were my ‘life’ limited to my family it would be no issue, but I have been entrusted in the past decade with the dreams and aspirations of many souls. If I were to die today, my family would be safe and would soon learn to live without me as I did myself two decades ago when I lost my parents. True I miss them each and every day but they made sure that I would have no problem walking into their shoes. However that is not what would happen to my project why family who depends on me realise their dreams.

The way I am made does not allow me to go by the maxim ‘The King is dead long live the King”, though there are many who would suggest just that. I look at this in a different way altogether. The ones who make up the project why family as of this moment – the children studying in various classes, the handful of special souls that spend their day in fun and laughter, the staff many of whom have given  their best years and some who rely totally on the small pay package we give them to support their family, the odd soul who reaches our door when all else has failed and begs for help to save a loved one – never came looking for me. It is I who went searching. It is I who had a wish to fulfil. It is I who wanted to repay a debt I believed I owed. They simply allowed me to fulfil my aspirations. To the world outside I may seem to be the one who has ‘give’ and thus should be ‘lauded’. But that is not the way it goes at all. It is they, each one of them who has enriched me in a way I never knew was possible. It is they who have ‘given’ with alacrity and abundance. It is they who have showed me a part of myself I never knew existed. They taught me the true meaning of love, dignity, generosity, hope and so much more. They lifted clouds and blues once for all. They taught me the one and only prayer worthy of a human being: gratitude, reminding me of If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough wrote  Meister Eckhart’s beautiful maxim: If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough. 

I set out on a journey destined at paying back a debt. Far from paying back the debt I thought I owed, I find myself indebted to those I ineptly thought I could help. I know for sure that I will never be able to pay this debt of gratitude in this life. I will simply have to be content with being able to to continue saying than you till I breathe my last. But that is far from being enough.

I cannot leave this world without having tried to the best of my ability to secure project why so that it continues reaching out children in need of support and empowerment. Sustainability has always been at the forefront of my thoughts but never has it seemed so vital. The oft said – time is short – has now taken  a whole new meaning. A routine visit to the eye doctor confirmed that no matter which I look at it, I am ageing. Time waits for one and hence I cannot procrastinate anymore. My mentor’s words have to be taken literally. If I died yesterday what would happen to my proteges. The answers are frightening.

Utpal’s morrows are still insecure. There is no trust fund for him as yet and no clear emotional road map. My boarding school children need support for another 6 to 8 years. The 800 odd kids who are at various stages of their school life need us to enable them to get a sound education. The 20 children and adults who for the past decade have a place where they are respected, love and cared for, and where they can laugh and learn will have to go back to homes where they are at best tolerated. My team will have no jobs, and many of them are unlikely to find alternative employment. The scores of women who every year learn enough skills to earn a little and help their families will not be able to do so. So what would say many cynics, they all managed before you and will do so after. True that is one way of looking at it, but not my way.

I realise that the best and only way to pay back my debt of gratitude to the thousands that transformed my life and made it worthy is to try and ensure that whatever exists today, continues in the same manner when I am gone. And there is no beating around the bush.

If I died yesterday, at best project why would continue for a couple of months in an irreproachable manner. I have been redundant for quite some time and do not need to visit the project at all. But were I too exit the stage the project would wither away for want of funds. Whereas the team is more than capable of handling all the ground work better than me, I know that they would not be able to raise all the funds needed once the accounts went into the red. So the one skill I need to impart to my team leaders urgently is to secure funds.

To do that it is time to take a candid look at how funds have been coming in till now. And that is where it gets tricky and not very clever. For the past decade and more, funds have been coming our way because of my ability to communicate. My grave shortcoming has been to not explore other avenues and ways that could have been handed over quite easily. As things stand now, I would have to hand the gift of the gab I was born with, my ability to juggle with words and make them moving and that is not possible. So how does one get past this hurdle.

First and foremost I think we need to change the ‘face of pwhy’ which has alas been mine. I should ‘retire’ and leave the place to the team! I would so want our regular donors to place the same faith they had in me in those who I have so lovingly trained and who have proved their mettle over and over again. And come think it is there work that I project in my appeals for help. Were they not there, there would be nothing to be proud of and show the world. That seems to be a good step to take asap!

However if sustainability is something that hounded me for a long time, and is one of my most blatant failures as I was unable to garner the funds needed for setting up planet why, I know that we need to find other ways as no donor is eternal. It is perhaps time to involve all concerned and work out the planet why 2 model. And if we are able to come up with something that looks feasible, then it would comforting to get the ball rolling. Maybe it would help me clear a tiny part of my debt of gratitude.

As if I died yesterday are words to be taken seriously and acted upon.

to be continued….

On Saturday the young woman every one calls the daughter of India was celebrated as Indian of the Year in a problem dedicated to the daughters and women of India. It was a feel good moment though at the back of our minds we could not help remember all the women, girls, little girls and babies who have been abused in every way possible even after the gruesome rape and murder that took place in Delhi in December. For a nano moment our consciences were jolted out of their customary torpor and we found our lost voices albeit for a short time. Even our rulers were compelled into action. For a tiny instant we were lured into feeling that maybe things will change. But that was not to be. A leopard cannot change its spots!

The leopard here is our a mix of our minsets, our feudal ways and are so called traditions and mores under whose cover we run to explain all aberrations. Post december rapes continued with alacrity and impunity, molestations doubled, honour killings did not stop.

Yesterday, a 20 year old woman was kicked, punched in her stomach and stomped upon by her husband and his family when they thought she was carrying a girl child. The foetus died and another girl joined the alarming number of India’s 70 million missing women. It was nothing short of murder. The story does not end here. This young woman had suffered much abuse. Harassed for dowry she was dragged to a so called Godman when she was 8 weeks pregnant and he declared she was carrying a girl. When she refused to drink the abortion potion prepared by the charlatan, she was kicked and thus lost her baby.

Just imagine someone you loved carrying her first child. Thinks of her hopes, aspirations and dreams for the unborn baby. One day she is taken to some religious charlatan who decrees that the foetus is a girl. What ensues is nothing short of the worst kind of murder. How would you feel?

How can a man who is an equal partner to the creation of this human being can mutate into a barbaric being ready to kill what he created. And what is worse is that he and only he is responsible for the gender of the child.

An eminent though somewhat maverick retired judge, who is busy sending mercy petitions for people on the gallows, stated in a recent TV talk that he stands for the death penalty in cases of crime against women that reek of feudalism.

 “The hallmark of a healthy society is the respect it shows to women. Indian society has become a sick society” are his words. And he goes on to say: I had said that death penalty should be given in cases of dowry deaths. In our country, young married women are often killed – because they did not bring enough dowry – by pouring kerosene on them and setting them on fire or hanging/strangulating them. Our courts have many such cases. This is a barbaric practice, and no mercy should be shown to such people….. I said that death penalty should be given for “honour” killing of young couples who are killed by their relatives or caste panchayats because their marriage was inter-caste or inter-religious, or was disapproved of for some other reason….In my opinion, crimes against women are not ordinary crimes, they are social crimes. They disrupt the entire social fabric, and hence call for harsh punishment.

For him all these aberrations are the remnants of feudalism many of us still believe in. Many of those who have been entrusted to bring about change, pay only lip service to change as they are still deeply feudal in their hearts.

The case of this young woman deserves no mercy. It is nothing short of murder and should be treated as such. Be it the charlatan, the husband and his relatives, they all deserve the harshest of punishment. But that will not happen. We all know it.

My thoughts went back to a letter I had written to a little girl who was still born almost 7 years ago. I reproduce it here in memory of the little girl whose life was snuffed away in the most horrific manner.

dear child…

they said you would see the light on September 3rd..

September 3rd passed and so did the 4th, and the 5th.. On September 6th your mother was in pain and everyone thought the day had come for you to land in this world..
your family had waited for you, your mama had carried you with love and great dignity, your papa never showed his feelings but believe me he wanted you so much, your little sister waited for her baby.. and your aunt did everything she could to make your entry into this world the best posible.. and there were many of us who already loved you…

I must confess that many wanted you to be a boy… some said it loud and clear, others in muted ways.. to many, little girls are a burden… in a society where there is less and less respect for women people have forgotten that we women are the life bearers… some of us wanted you to be a girl, your mama for one, maybe she knew you were just that…

You grew up inside your mama’s womb and met all the appointments with the doctor who pronounced you fit and healthy.. then child what made you decide not to keep your tryst with our world, what is it that led you to give up life itself… without even ‘tasting’ it..

Maybe we forget that from the comfort and safety of ones’ mother’s womb, a child sees and hears and understands.. perhaps it is what you saw that made you refuse life itself.. the lack of respect for each other, the fights, the anger, the unfairness, the tears, … and quite frankly child, somewhere I understand you… maybe you heard even those who wanted you to be a girl say that they wished you were a boy finding all kind of reasons to explain that…they forgot that it is nature who decides, nature that has to make up for all the little girls that were done away with… and you too were a little girl, nothing could change that..

Perhaps you also knew that the moment you would enter our world, you would lose your independance and freedom to decide, and that you would have to abide by laws made by a society ruled by men and that your life would never be your own…

Who are you: a statistic in the records of the hospital, a pain in the heart of many that will slowly fade away, a regret, a topic of discussions with its share of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’… I do not know..

To me you are the little girl who refused to be born in a world that she felt was not worthy of her… a child who took her one and only independant decision..

And we abide by it…

Bless you, wherever you are…

On Sunday a family of 4, the parents and 2 young children, aged 5 and 8 months, were hit by a speeding truck. They were on motorcycle. The truck sped away. The mother and baby riding on the pillion were badly hurt. The father and is 5 young son, though hurt, begged and pleaded for help from the passing cars. Needless to say no one stopped. Their voyeuristic instinct did make them slowdown but no one heard the heart wrenching entreaties of the father and his son. It is much later, at a time when minutes and even seconds can make all the difference between life and death, that a motorcyclist stopped and informed the police. It was too late for the mother and the young child. Eighteen cars passed by. And if that is not enough, no ambulance came. The mother and daughter where thrown into a pick up van and taken to the hospital by the police.

This happened after all the hue and cry that followed what is the known as the Delhi gang rape, where the raped girl and her companion begged for help but only encountered voyeurs who watched. This happened after recommendations were made by commissions and translated into laws. Yet nothing has changed and nothing will change. The majority of our ilk will remain mute spectators to aberrations after aberration hiding under the cloak of cynicism and indifference or at best honing our voyeuristic instinct. We will girls being molested, people being abused. We will even grab our cell phones and film the incident, but never will we reach out and help. Compassion is an emotion we have conveniently erased from our lives. Oh we have many explanation for our cowardice: we are scared of repercussions, we do not want to get involved in police cases of lengthy trials etc. We prefer to be murderers.

Now imagine if that person asking for help was someone you cared for, the mother and daughter were someone you loved and nobody had reached out to them. But I am being silly. We are the ones in the cars, the ones who live behind closed gates, the ones who can never been on the other side of the invisible wall. Yesterday, a TV anchor asked whether any one viewing the programme would have stopped. No is the unfortunate answer.

I do not know how many of us managed to sleep after hearing of this news. Most of us I guess. But I did not. My mind once again traveled many years to the day when I first saw Babloo Mandal, a mentally challenged young man who had been cast away by some vehicle driver who had injured him. Click on the link if you want to know the whole story. Babloo Mandal screamed for help but no one heard him. I guess everyone was scared of the repercussions. Yet it took just a few steps to save him and send him home. It was not the end of the world. It is was the only thing any self respecting person could do.

So then why have we become a callous and indifferent nation. I do not know the answers. I only know that I will stop again and again till my dying day!

Read a startling article about hospitals in affluent India. Gone are the days of grim corridors and harried and unpleasant nurses. Today’s hospitals for the rich boast of valets and butlers, housekeeping and flat screen TVs, gourmet food, WIFI connection and even a microwave in the room. The chefs can prepare the best creme brulee and buttered asparagus. The common areas look more like malls than hospital waiting rooms with coffee shops, book shops and even cinema halls for those who need to wait. All you need is a bottomless pocket! A suite in one of the state-of-the-art medical hotel can cost you 75000Rs a night. But this is for the chosen few! Read the article! It is quite an eye opener. Such hospitals have a plethora of doctors that you can avail of!

At the other end of the spectrum are the State run hospitals in smaller cities where getting  a doctor is nothing short of a miracle. Recently a one year child all set to go home had to have his intravenous line removed. A doctor or at best a nurse should have done this, but in the case of this little boy the task was performed by a sweeper who while cutting the bandage chopped off the boy’s little finger. In the ensuing panic he threw the finger in the bin. Strangely the finger was never found.

In April 2008, the Government launched with great fanfare the  Rashtriya Swasthya Beema Yojna (RSBY) scheme an insurance scheme for the poor. The scheme was lauded as path breaking. According to this scheme private hospitals could claim up to 30,000 rupees for treating patients who cannot afford expensive procedures. How wonderful if it worked. But darling this in India where schemes for the poor are created to benefit anyone but the true beneficiaries. Suddenly across India there was a exponential rise in hysterectomies. Any woman complaining of a stomach ache was ‘advised’ to have her uterus removed. The uterus scam ran into million of dollars. You see this intervention is the costliest under the scheme and thus the more hysterectomies the more moolah for nursing homes and everyone else. Never mind the young women who lose their uterus, you see they are poor and that seems to explain each and every aberration.

And talking of aberrations what do you say of the Minister whose reaction to a farmer fasting to seek water to be released was to say in a meeting: what does he expect us to do. Should we urinate in the dam to fill them? I have no words to express my contempt. But it is once again the proof of what the rulers think of the poor, the very poor whose votes they seek every 5 year with false promises.

What kind of a country are we? We cannot provide drinking water, basic food let alone health care and education to the poor. We watch in catatonic torpor as motivated legislation to supposedly alleviate poverty, education, provide health, employment are passed by our legislators knowing very well that they are only yet another way to scams and corruption. We know that it is our money but do not bother to raise our voice perhaps because of our cynicism or because our loved ones are fed, educated and can access the best with a view!

Seems though that some are finally waking up from their slumber as at last the media seems to echo what has been written in many posts of this blog. In the recent issue of Tehelka magazine, there is a disturbing and almost frightening article on the actual state of the young population we sow like to showcase as an asset. It is said that by the end of the decade, just 7 short years down the line the average age of our population will be 29! A young work force could be a huge asset. But that is where the story ends. Of the 430 million that form our work force now only 30 work in the organised sector. The question of where the additional 480 million that will join this work force in 2 decades will go remains unanswered.

But the reality is alarming. The story of this so called youth force is handicapped from they day of conception. One out of every five child in India is of low birth weight and over 40 percent of children in India are underweight and stunted. Scarily, while 70 percent of children below five years are anaemic, only 43 percent of children below the age of two receive all their immunisation, compared to 90 percent in Bangladesh. 5000 of such children will die every day if we do not act. For those who make it pass the 5 year milestone the story does not change. If they do make it to the portals of education we have ensured that they will fail. Recent statistics show that 60 percent of the children in Class V cannot read at a Class II level and 75 percent cannot complete simple division sums. While the government pats itself on the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan for having achieved near universal enrolment in primary education (96 percent), there is in fact an 80 percent dropout by Class XII. So, of the 27 million children who annually enrol in primary schools across the country, only 5.4 million make it to Class XII. (Annual Status of Education Report (ASER) report).

The schools are abysmal and the teachers worse. We need to recruit @ 250 000 teachers per annum. We do not have enough candidates as school teaching is very low on the job preference list. And should you make it pass school then the third rate higher teaching shops that have proliferated ensure that you are not job worthy and where are the jobs anyway!

We need to go back to the drawing board and make our education skill based. Not everyone is academically oriented so where he/she to learn some useful skill whilst still in school, he/she could get employment. And perhaps then drop out rates could be contained.

But this is all a pipe dream as we know that our rulers are not truly interested in changing things. The young of poor India have been let down by those who rest in their bed with a view while little children still run the risk of having their fingers chopped!