I have just experienced one of the most difficult day in my entire existence. It was the day I had to sound the first stroke of the death knell of one of our classes. For the past weeks and even months the sword of Damocles has been hanging on my head. The precarious condition of our funds has been such that the inevitable had to happen. All pleas and entreaties fell on deaf years. Maybe I cried wolf too many times and was not believed.

It is true that all looked well to one and all. Yes project why ran like a clockwork orange and delivered its promises as hoped. The only one who knew the reality behind the scenes was me. For the past year I had been juggling numbers to keep afloat. Yet I knew that it would not be possible to do so forever and that it was time to see the writing on the wall. We had to see reason and make the needed adjustments. I know many will ask why we allowed ourselves to grow beyond our means. It is a very valid query. However the answer is complex. Our growth has always been organic and stemmed out of real needs. And each need was always sustained by our supporters. Hence one of the reason for our crisis is the last moment withdrawal of committed support. A real case of force majeure! Yet this is not the first time we have faced such a dilemma. When such a situation occurred I always managed to find alternatives though it was difficult. Today I have grown older and cannot muster the energy needed to make this option good. Moreover our inability to secure funding for our sustainability plan has made it imperative to garner all efforts to find a plan B. So to cut things short, we need to make some savings for want of a better word.

Reason decreed that the ones to go would be the babies. Sounds terrible and brutal, doesn’t it? But somehow it meets all the criteria of reason. Our early education programme was started because we felt that the toddlers needed to be cared for and have a safe enabling environment to grow and learn, particularly as the 0 to 6 are out of the ambit of free education in India. Actually the creche was one of the first programmes we started way back in 2001. All was on course in the initial years as project why was small and in one neighborhood so the kids could move from one class to another. I can never forget the days when we taught under a huge tent in a reclaimed pig park and all classes were under one big yellow plastic tent. But then the Gods got jealous and courtesy wily politicos and their scheming alter egos – small officials – our tent was bulldozed and project why got scattered. Today the creche has the most adorable children but sadly a large chunk of them come from a far away slum where we have no primary outreach. The rest come from better homes from the area where we are located. This results in our losing most of the children once they have completed their 2 or 3 years with us. The former resume roaming the streets as their parents do not get them admitted in school, and the later go to better schools. They never become project why alumni!

So the moment one has to start contemplating a cut in pwhy, they seem to be the most logical ones to chose. Never mind if they are the most assiduous, the most endearing and the most innocent. Never mind if they have been Agastya’s classmates for many many months. Never mind if they have the most endearing eyes or the infectious smile. They are the ones the sword has fallen on and they will have to go. And all this because a old biddy was unable to walk that extra step and save them.

I cannot begin to describe what is going on my mind. Words are too paltry to convey the emotions and pain I am feeling. The countdown has begun and soon the day will dawn when these lovely souls will take their last autorickshaw ride back to their homes. Will I have the courage to stand and wave them goodbye for the final time knowing in my heart that I am sending them back to the streets. Or will I hide in a hole and weep. Will I ever have the courage to ever look at myself in the mirror and like what I see. Will I be able to live with the guilt of having broken the dreams of these innocent souls. I do not know.

I shared this with a dear friend and all she could say was ‘who will hold your hand’. The answer is ‘no one I guess’. This cross is for me to bear alone so help me God!

Hope you’re doing fine..I didn’t see any blog posts from you wrote a dear friend. Are you OK? You haven’t updated your blog wrote another. No I am not OK! And I am not talking of the few aches and pains, they come and go and have never had the ability to make me lose my spirit. I am not OK because in spite of my best efforts I will soon have to put planet why to rest. I am not OK because I have been unable to raise the missing numbers we need to run and have to decide which part of pwhy will have to be closed down as the new year dawns. I am not OK because I feel I am letting down those I love most and who have given me more than I could ever have dreamt of. I am not OK because I feel the God of Lesser beings has finally stopped smiling at me.

Last week a real estate tycoon threw a birthday bash. It took place in a palace in the middle of a lake where special duck shaped boats floated on the lake providing a novel dancing floor. The tout India was there: a true reunion of the uber rich and famous. And to crown it all the waka waka girl was flown in a special plane to entertain the guests. It was some show!

As the rich feasted danced and caroused, children died without a murmur . It is estimated that 5013 children die each day in India of malnutrition! India has the dubious distinction of having more than a third of the world’s child mortality. Should we not hang our heads in shame! I do. Yet the haves keep on celebrating. Children die while food grain rots. Children die while some gorge and waste. This is nothing short of unacceptable.

What is infuriating is that many sound programmes have been set up to deal with the situation but you guessed right they have been hijacked on the way and money siphoned to greedy pockets. The best example is the famed ICDS (Integrated Child Development Scheme) aimed at children below 5 and that would have ensured, if it had run as planned, that all Indians below the age of 35 were well nourished and inoculated. The reality is that almost 5o% of our children are suffer from malnutrition.

Last week one of our staff members was asked to visit a slum by local dwellers. The reason: they wanted us to open a primary outreach in their slum cluster. She was taken to the local anganwadi (creche) run under the (ill)famed ICDS programme. The so called creche was housed in a dark, airless, damp hole as I refused to call it room. There were a handful of toddlers sitting on the floor and a so called creche worker busy on the phone. There were no weighing machines, no toys or books, no pencils or crayons, no visible food supplements or at least plates and cups that would prove nutrition was given. The children were meant to sit and do nothing. This was how the ICDS programme was translated into reality. This was in the heart of the capital, a stone’s throw away from a swanky 5 star hotel! This was the place meant to monitor a child’s growth and development and take remedial measures. Frankly the child would be better running the in slum lanes. At least s/he would be in the sunlight and get some vitamin D! No wonder children die if programmes meant to protect them run like this.

5000 children die everyday and we remain silent. A statistic like this one should, if we had a conscience, make us take to the streets just as we did when one man gave his stop corruption call. It is true that in a convoluted way corruption encompasses the proper running of schemes but I am ready to bet my last rupee that none of US ever thought that we were taking to the streets or to our preferred social media to espouse the cause of dying children. We were there because we were fed up of the corruption that affected us. Civil society as it is called is made up of educated and aware people. Is it not their duty to raise its voice all all aberrations one encounters: children dying, children begging, children working in your neighbour’s house. But we are selfish and self centered and the dying children are not part of our minute horizon. So children keep on dying as we keep on living our myopic and pathetic existence. We pretend to be aware of things, well read and informed but will at best pontificate from the comfort of our homes or at cocktail parties with words that remain useless. If one of ours dies in suspect conditions we take to the streets, light candles, write articles and ensure that justice is restored. But the child that dies because of our apathy and indifference does not even affect us. We carry on the party while a child passes away every 18 seconds.

These 5013 are also our children. They have the same rights our children have. Their only sin is to have been born on the wrong side of the fence. Someone needs to take the cudgels on their behalf. Someone like us but will we?

Agastya my darling grandson finally left yesterday after 3 glorious months. A deafening silence pervades the house. It is almost eerie. Gone are the pattering of little feet and the giggles. Gone is the delightful prattle that got us all mesmerised. His last words were enchanthing. When asked by his mom to say bye to the staff in the kitchen Agastya set off on a mission to bid farewell. After saying a bye bye kitchen, he ran out and started a litany of byes: bye bye house, garden, bicycle, flowers, grandpas’ office and so on. He was so excited that he forgot bye bye nani! I did not say anything as I was busy fighting my tears.

The past months were a whirlwind. Every things was centered around this two and a half years bundle of joy. Our sleep time, waking time, eating time and above all playing time were orchestrated by the exacting yet adorable ring master. I was reminded of a quote by Sam Leveson: “The simplest toy, one which even the youngest child can operate, is called a grandparent“, a role I gladly played. At times I was on my fours playing with toy cars. But the preferred game was his version of Simple Simon: he led and we followed. Up, down, on your knees, touch the floor, wave your hands, roll them, hop, skip, jump. There was no respite as you followed the little man who got cross if you dared sit down. Forgotten where the creaky knees, or the hurting back. You just became a child and the special God children pray to ensured that the batteries of the toy were always charged and the pain on hold. All you skills often forgotten were tested: running, drawing, painting, singing. Even if you had never done it before you were commanded to draw a car and boy you did and even if it looked like nothing on earth it still brought a huge smile on the loved face.

There were special treats: a visit to the local the park, a day at Utpal’s school, a trip to the rides at the Kalka Temple and above all trips to the toy shop. Each was laced with oodles of fun and merriment that warmed the cockles of my old heart. Then there were the goodies: the hugs and kisses lavishly dealt out when he was in a good mood. They were heavenly and had the mysterious capacity to make you forget all your worries and woes. Life stood standstill and perfect. Time raced at the speed of light, each day melting into another without respite. One was so taken in by the magic that one forgot that this special time was limited and the day would dawn when the little one would fly away and leave you with your aches and pain and a bleeding heart.

Today time hangs heavy. The stairs that one ran up and down behind a little elf now look daunting as one climbs then slowly a step and a moan at a time. All the pains and worries put on hold loom larger than ever. The house is still replete with the toys, cars and clothes of the little one. Slowly they will be put or given away and the house will again regain its adult look. The pedal cars, scooty, and bicycles that the little fellow parked so painstakingly next to his granddad’s one before he left will soon be removed. How I will miss them. I remember how vehemently I had reacted some years back when little Utpal had left for boarding school and someone decided to put his bright yellow pedal car aptly christened ‘yellow submarine’ away. I wanted it left there, for me to see everyday. This time I did not murmur a sound when the neatly parked toy vehicles were put away. They would adorn the drive again when Agy came back.

I will slowly pick up the scattered threads of my life as it was before the bundle of life and energy landed upon us. The aches and pain will reclaim their lost place. Problems and fears will also once again take centre stage. The laughter and giggles will soon give way to frowns and worry lines. The sleepless nights that had vanished will reappear with a vengeance. New games will have to be conjured to fill empty time. I will have to learn to live on two time zones to catch a glimpse of the beloved face on a screen. Bless technology. Yes an old woman to have to live again till her little buddy comes back and makes her feel again.

Bye Bye little one. God bless you!

Got up this morning to some shattering news. A donor we had counted on to carry on our work has rescinded on his promise. This meant we were in deep trouble. In normal circumstances I would have been completely devastated were it not for the fact that I was on a high: you see yesterday was PTM day and I had been injected with my dose of my preferred stimulant:the smiles and hugs of my eight little Angels. That also meant that their dreams and morrows took centre stage and thus the option of dejection and depression was a no no!

Sunday was a perfect day, a lovely blue sky, a warm sun and the feel of winter in the air. We reached the school early and as it was also result day we headed towards the classes of our proteges. But as we reached the first floor we were greeted by a smart class XI student who requested us to first visit their science project.Needless to say we did and spent time looking at the models and listening to the young voices as they talked about their creations. The models were innovative and interesting and it was a special moment. Then it was time to make our way to each class for the anticipated result. I was a little anxious as any parent would be. Took me back many years when I use to do the same for my girl. But all anxiety was in vain as I got glowing reports in each and every class. Our kids had once again excelled. What a proud moment it was. I signed all the report cards with delight.

Our serious task completed it was time to have fun. We sat in the grounds and all the children came and shared their stories. There were many, each one special and blessed. It was really rewarding to see these very special children happy and brimming with self confidence. A far cry from the day they first entered the school. Even little Manisha had her tales to recount. Then an excited voice told me that the tuck shop was open. All eight kids charged to the shop and had their fill of frooties, chocolates and biscuits. Agastya my grandson who never misses a PTM when he is in town as Utpal Bhaiya is his special pal was having a great time running all over the place and playing with the kids and of course eating all the goodies usually not on his menu! We basked in the balmy mood as long as we could but the clock was ticking too fast and it was time to leave. So goodbyes were said and Agatya gave Utpal a special hug. Did they both know they would not be meeting for some time?

The ride back home was quiet as usual as one was lost in thoughts. The question up most on my mind was undoubtedly: Will I be able to fulfill the fragile dreams of these wonderful kids?

I entered the world of disability quite by accident. In hindsight it seems it was preordained. My first encounter with the Giri Nagar slums was for purely personal reasons. I had gone to meet Mataji, a healer, with the hope that she would cure me of the depression I had allowed myself to seek in post the demise of both my parents. She did much more than that. She was a true changemaker. But that is another story waiting to be told.

I often spent long moments sitting on the step of Mataji’s home watching the world go by, a world I felt strangely comfortable in. Perhaps it was because it was so very different to mine. Anyway it is while sitting on the doorstep which was on the street that I first saw Manu and got my first exposure to the plight of one who is disabled. Manu touched a deep chord in me and stirred emotions that I find hard to describe. Let us simply say that even today when I think of that instant I am covered in goosebumps. At first I just watched too frightened to ask any question. But then mustered the courage to hear a story that was heart wrenching. I do not know how it happened but I heard myself making a silent promise to myself, one that no one heard but me: One day you will have a home Manu.

The journey had begun. It took years to build the home pledged. And a very circuitous route with many milestones: a spoken English class, a day care for special kids – you see Manu had to have his set of pals – after school support, early education and so on. Till one day we had enough strength to open our residential facility for special people. Manu had his home. It is there that he spent the last days of his life and passed away gently leaving me completely lost. It is then that I realised how much Manu had given me and what an special soul he was. If not for him project why would not have seen the light of day. He proved beyond doubt that NO life is futile and worthless.

Over the years I have pontificated about the plight of special children and adults, about how tenuous their morrows are, about how insecure their life became once they lose their parents, about how little society has done for them, about how much they need to be accepted and loved. And it was for them that Planet Why was conceived. You can understand my dejection as I slowly begin to grasp the fact that Planet Why may never see the light of day and my special children may have to face indignity and disrespect.

All these sombre thoughts have been running in my head as I slowly watch the quietus of planet why and I wonder whether I truly gave it my best. Had I pushed the project adequately? Had I put my heart and soul into it? Was I paying for my new found reclusion that resulted in my isolation from the rich and famous? Should I have shed my disdain for page 3 soirees and slipped into my my high heels more often? How I regret not knowing those who have money. I know that I could convince them were I able to cross their threshold. But what is the point of lamenting now when it is too late. Or is it?

A few weeks back I lost a close one. Strangely this demise came with a rider. It is was not one that could be dealt with an adequate amount of tears and eulogies. This untimely death came with a deafening question: can you walk the talk! Let me elucidate. The one who left us also left a younger sister. She is challenged though no one ever accepted that reality. She lived all her life in a golden cage, jealously protected by those who loved her. No one was willing, as is often the case, to accept that she was special and thus needed special care. All her life she had been made to believe that she was like all others and kept away from the world, as her close ones built one for her within the confines of four walls and peopled by a handful only. Everything in her life was controlled and managed. She had no say whatsoever and the ones who ran her life had no knowledge whatsoever of the needs of a special person. We too never intervened as one would not have been heard and sometimes it is easier to let things be. But the God of Lesser beings had another plan. He took away her close ones in a short span of time leaving her alone but strangely also free. The question was would anyone help her enjoy her freedom.

One could have left her with what remained of her family and done the bare minimum: a few visits, a small gift thrown in, some hugs and comforting words not really meant. But as I said it was time to walk the talk, to remember the spiel on dignity and respect, on care and love. It was time to act and let the long imprisoned soul free. So barely a few days after the departed had been laid to rest I decided to get her out of her walls and into the big world. She would come to project why and be part of our special class. I must admit a little sheepishly that I was a tad apprehensive at first. How would she react? How would the others react? Would she like it? What can I say: she took to the project like a fish to water. She was all smiles and everyone took to this new aunt, for want of a better word. For the first in her life of almost half a century she had something that was really hers: a place to go to every day, friends to interact with, dance it, share a meal with and above all laugh with. I cannot describe how humbled I feel and how overwhelmed.

Was it time to make a last ditch effort for planet why!

We are again on the look out for a spoken English teacher as Smita our Okhla English teacher is leaving us next month. The search is on and we know it ain’t no easy task. We need someone whose spoken English is good and who is willing to work in a reclaimed garbage dump and who loves children. We remember how tough it was last time.

Last week a young woman came by for an interview. She was armed with certificates, one being an English Hons degree. She seemed a little shy and hesitant but was quick to tell us that this was a her first job interview and she was very nervous. As Smita is still with us we decided to try out this lady as an understudy and take a final decision in a week or so. No week was needed to realise that in spite of her degree, her English was abysmal and non existent. The class was learning opposites and when asked to write the opposite of fat one of our kids confidently wrote THIN on the white board. The new teacher decreed this was wrong as there was a letter missing. Every one was nonplussed: the children, Smita and even the other primary staff. The new teacher then added a G. You can imagine every one’s reaction. At the end of the session students went to the supervisor to tell her that they did not think the new lady could teach them anything. The die was cast. And to crown it all the young woman was constantly mixing yesterday and tomorrow. We knew she had to go. The hunt for an English teacher was still on.

This post is in no way meant to belittle the young person in question. Far from that. My heart actually goes out to her. Imagine the hard work she must have put in, the sacrifices the family must have made so that their daughter could study, the joy she must have felt when she passed her examination not to forget what she must have felt when she was told the job was not hers. This post is meant to once again expose the state of education in our country, particularly education of those who are born on the wrong side of the fence. If you come from a non English speaking home then your only encounter with the language is in school. Now if you go to a Government school it is very likely that your teacher does not speak the language well. I can never forget my first brush with what transpires in an English class in a secondary school. One of our students came to me one day way back in 2001. She was in class VII. She handed me her book and asked me to help her. It was an English course book that was a compilation of essays and extracts from known writers. The page was open on an extract from Oscar Wilde’s Happy Prince. The girl brandished a pencil in my direction and asked me to underline the text. You can imagine how perplexed I was. I sat her down and asked her what she wanted me to do. She repeated: Underline! I then asked what happened in class and she told me after some prompting that the teacher sometimes read the lesson, or sometimes didn’t and then explained the meaning in Hindi then told the students to underline the answers to the questions that appeared at the end of the text. The students then learnt the lines by heart and could answer the questions in examinations. Needless to say none of them really knew what the underlined lines meant. As she had been absent for some days she needed the lines underscored so that she could learn them for the test on the next day.

That is what goes on in an English class and if you mug your lines well, as the young teacher must have done, you got good marks, and if you got good marks you could apply for a university course in English (correspondence or evening classes as their marks are never enough for an admission in a DU college) and get your degree. This is what happens to many students from poorer homes and it is when they apply for a job that they often face a reality check. You may wonder what happens to a rich child who does not have sufficient marks. Well he has s/he has many options: a private university or the option to go abroad and sit for a school leaving again. Needless to say these options come at a hefty price and are out of reach for students from underprivileged homes. Yet all the children of India have a right to education, and I would assume a good one. But that is not what happens. The divide exists perennially.

You may wonder how children from humble homes would fear fare in a rich school. Believe you me they would do exceedingly well as they are survivors who know intuitively what is good for them. And I speak first hand as we have 8 such children in what could be called a good school. All eight are top of their class. So if given the chance they deserve, all kids would shine. It is time we thought about them and did something.

The recent success of the F1 tamasha proved once again the terrible and growing divide between the rich and the poor in our country, a divide growing by the minute. A thought provoking essay in a leading magazine poses the question that we all need to ask ourselves: Is India doing marvellously well, or is it failing terribly?

One does not have to be a rocket scientist to realise that India may look well to some but is in a abysmal situation for a vast majority. The incisive article throws some disturbing statistics. Believe it or not Bangladesh has overtaken India in terms of a wide range of basic social indicators: life expectancy, child survival, fertility rates, immunisation rates, and even some (not all) schooling indicators such as estimated “mean years of schooling”. Not something to be proud of. And that is not all. We in India have the highest proportion of underweight children in the world! Something that should make us hand our head in shame particularly when one thinks of the food fiestas we see on the other side of the fence be it at nuptials or holy festivities. And what about the enormous quantities of nourishment that finds its way into the garbage of many.

One again does not have to be a rocket scientist to see that at one of the spectrum India is going richer by the second: glitzy malls, seven star hotels, opulent homes, luxury hospitals, fancy schools are some of the visible indicators of this fact. Yet at the other end of the same spectrum schools are pathetic and health care practically non Growth growth can be very helpful in achieving development, but this requires active public policies to ensure that the fruits of economic growth are widely shared, and also requires—and this is very important—making good use of the public revenue generated by fast economic growth for social services, especially for public health care and public education. So if all had gone well the growth that is so blatant should have entailed significant development. But here once again our rulers have failed us completely. What we seem to be witnessing is the opposite. As the rich get better schools, schools for the poor get worse and worse. As the rich get swankier hospitals the poor are left with quacks and overcrowded ones. And so on.

Growth that should in an ideal situation have promised marked improvement in social indicators seems to have done nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary. The article cites how biscuit manufacturers attempted to hijack the government’s midday meal programme and though they have not managed to get what they sought, they are still at it and despite much vigilance and resistance from activist quarters (and the Supreme Court), they seem to have made significant inroads into child feeding programmes in several states. The share of the pie is too tempting to let go.

Why has there been such a massive neglect of the interests of the poor is the question that needs to be asked. The authors offer some insight: could it be a reflection of the good old inequalities of class, caste and gender that have been around for a long time though it does seem that these are diminishing. Or could it be the growing influence of corporate interests on public policy and democratic institutions does not particularly facilitate the reorientation of policy priorities towards the needs of the unprivileged. A good example would be the growing medical insurance business and the private hospitals nexus. I guess it is both. But I also think that there is another cause for neglect of the poor and this is first hand knowledge. It seems that greed and money power have leached us of all compassion and sensitivity and turned one slice of Indians into heartless and unconcerned souls. We encounter aberrations every day and turn our face away. It could be a child begging, a child working and we simply turn our face away. But will the fragile castles we have surreptitiously build stand the test of time. I wonder.

The authors conclude by saying; There is probably no other example in the history of world development of an economy growing so fast for so long with such limited results in terms of broad-based social progress…. Food for thought.

I know the clock is ticking and it will soon be time to lay planet why to rest. Yes we have just 2 months left. 31/12/2011 is D day. This was something decided upon some time back. I had written about this at the beginning of the year and left it in the hands of the God of lesser beings. And I know I must walk the talk.

For the past year we have put our best foot forward and tried to ‘sell’ planet why to the best of our ability. For me it has always been first and foremost a home for my special children. A haven where they can live and laugh their way through life. A place where their dignity remains intact no matter how disabled they may be. A place where they would be cared for till the very end. The remaining part of Planet why was always secondary: what was needed to make it all happen. I wonder if I too had forgotten my priorities while pitching for planet why. Two poignant occurrences brought me back on course.

The first was consequent to the demise of my cousin last week. His sudden and untimely death was most felt by his younger sibling who is mentally challenged. With her brother gone she has no one left in the world, no one to love her. True there are some who will take care of her because of duty or fear of social reprisal but not with their hearts. And who can blame them: the sister is middle aged, not pretty and can be extremely demanding. As long as her mother and brother were alive, she reigned supreme, today she is relegated to a corner as what was her home is now her sister in law’s and her kin’s. This is a situation I have often talked about whenever children with disabilities are the subject of conversation. Today the situation is at my doorstep. We have stepped in and the orphaned sister now comes to our special class every day. Needless to say the family was more than eager to send her. But it is not easy for someone who never stepped out of her home let alone meet people with disabilities to leave the only safe environment she knew and step into a world that has always been kept away. Poor soul she is trying her best to adjust. Maybe she knows deep in her heart that this is the only option she has. Planet Why was conceived for people like her.

The second occurrence was a message on FB urging me to read a note written by the mother of a special child. I have never been so moved as I was reading the poignant piece entitled: will you let him drink the wind. I urge you to read this brave and moving piece where a mother shares her angst at the plight of her child. It is an extremely raw, powerful and passionate picture of the reality of one who lives and loves a special child. It reflects the utter helplessness of a parent who cannot begin to imagine what would be the future of her child when she is gone. Something she cannot bear. So the ultimate cry, the ultimate entreaty to God: You take him, God, before us. Well before us. Before we lose the strength in our limbs to care for him properly. Before by his constant never-ending demands, he leaches away our love for him from our souls. You take him. I can only say Chapeau Bas!

Reading those words was by far the most heart wrenching experience. I sat stunned and silent for a long time. She had by her words brought to light all the issues that had been tormenting me since the day I decided to throw open the doors of project why to special children. What would their morrows hold and how did one safeguard them. Or could one really do so. That was the question thrown by this moving appeal. Had I been too naive or daring thinking I could. How small I feel and how humbled.

Maybe it is time I said : you take care of them God.

This picture was taken at the Diwali evening puja . My grandson praying! Watching him was a truly special moment. Such innocence and belief. I wonder what the barely three year old was asking God. I would have given so much to get into his tiny head. I am sure that God heard this very special petition. But it will remain a secret between Agastya and his special God. Was it a visit to the toy shop or his favourite pasta for dinner? Keep guessing grandma you will never know. And come to think about it is better to keep the mystery, it makes it that much more precious.

But do the Gods listen to adults when they petition him. Jim Morrison felt otherwise if you remember the opening lines of the Soft Parade. Are prayers useless and superfluous. I do not know. All I know is that there are times when I send my entreaty to someone I call the God of Lesser beings. And since project why began I believe I have been heard more than once.

Over the past decade we have had some very challenging moments, moments that left me no option but to pray for a miracles. And they occurred one after the other. Children got their heart surgeries, Utpal found a school and a home and above all we kept running day after day, month after month. I asked and He gave. It was as simple as that.

Yet for the past months or even more I have been praying for planet why and this time I have received mixed messages. Sometimes it seems just around the corner. But just as we think we are home, something happens and we are back to square one. Is there a sign I am not comprehending?

Our gang of eight are back to school after their Diwali break. They dropped by on the way to fetch Utpal and say hello! Boy they have grown. It is truly amazing. They looked happy and eager to go back to school with their quilts, their warm clothes and many stories to share. Yash even had a burn on his leg courtesy Diwali crackers and proudly showed it to me as if it was a battle scar. I refrained from any comment to avoid being a wet blanket.

Manisha was all smiles though she waylaid them for the snap. She was happy to go back to school and meet her friends. Meher was her ebullient self and had her own tales to tell. Nikhil has lost some weight and seemed more active. That is good as I was a little worried about him. Babli was serious as usual, much the big sister responsible for the brood. Aditya and Vicky were poker faced a far cry from their habitual naughty selves, guess it was to impress Ma’am.

Utpal of course was a busy body, making sure all packets and bags were loaded in the waiting car, very much the man of the house. And why not, the only home he has now is mine and he is entitled to after all he has been through. He has truly earned his right to reclaim all he has been denied for long.

There they were with their dreams and hopes. I watched them pensively. Maybe I was the only one to realise how fragile and tenuous their dreams were. They all depended on my ability to secure them. The thought frightened me. It was such a huge responsibility. When the journey began with Utpal it was just a case of force majeure. We had no other option. Then came a man with his set of dreams and four more kids joined Utpal. The man walked away without a word and I was left holding the baby. They became five. Three more were added again because there was no other honourable way. What future did Meher have with her scars and Yash who had been abandoned by all. And when a kind man came offering a future to little Manisha could we refuse. Had we done so instead of being top of her class she would have joined her mom picking rags on the street. So we became eight.

True there are kind people who ensure the fee money. But over the years the fees have increased with the cost of living and fees alone do not meet the needs of a growing child. Those who have kids will understand me. There are shoes to be brought as feet grow at the speed of light and clothes winter ones and summer ones, toiletries, uniforms, books, school bags and more. They have to be fetched and dropped at each school break necessitating two vehicles now. All this adds up, yet all this is needed. And to the cynics before they materialise I would like to say that yes they deserve the best even if they happened to be born on the wrong side of the fence. When you assume a responsibility you go all the way. Selective benevolence does not exist.

It is with our eyes wide open that we decided to educate these children and nothing can or should come in the way of our commitment. So help us God!

We have a new teacher in our primary section at Govindpuri. But this one is truly special. Wonder why? Well she has been a student of project why since, hold your breath, she was in Nursery. Anita is a true alumni of Pwhy. This year she cleared her class XII boards and is now enrolled in B com 1st year at an evening college.

Anita lives in a slum. Her father has a small job in a factory and her mom is a housewife. She has two younger siblings. Anita has worked hard to reach where she is today and is determined to carry on and change the course of her life. We are very proud of her as she is an example of what pwhy can and does achieve.

Anita is the perfect example of what a small effort like ours can do. Our presence ensured that she sail through school with all the support needed. She passed every class with good marks and succeeded in her XIIth Boards. Today the job she has with us ensures that she can continue her education without being a strain of her family. Far from that. She even contributes to the household expenses.

Anita is a true project why success story, one we are very proud of.

I think both Formula 1 races and philanthropy can and should coexist in society. In fact, the former should actually facilitate the latter. When there is prosperity in society, charitable donations should go up was the comment left on of my recent blogs. I would like to clarify that I am not against Formula 1 races or any pursuits of the rich and famous. I do not bear grudge to anyone for spending their money. Prosperity is something we all strive towards and wish for. But I am not the only one to question the wisdom of hosting such sport against the backdrop of poor India. Some have bemoaned what they called the misplaced priorities and superficial showcasing that India’s recent economic growth has come to symbolize, in spite of deep poverty and chronic malnutrition.

The jury is out on this one. I quick frankly agree with those who call this a superficial showcasing. And my reason for doing so may seem odd. Were charity to follow the exponential growth of prosperity I would have no problems at all. But the situation is quite different. It seems that as prosperity increases compassion plummets. And thus all the showcasing becomes suspect. Is it a novel way of concealing reality if not from others than at least from one’s self. So swanky malls, exorbitant stores, F1 Racing and more of the same becomes a wily way of blotting out the other realities: children dying, rampant malnutrition, extreme poverty etc. The rich seem hungry for new thrills and the sky is the limit.

The question is how does one get the privileged to understand that prosperity cannot coexist forever with abject poverty. To think it can is nothing short of suicidal.

In the time you will take to read this blog, let us say one minute, four children will die across our country. Yes you got it right: 4 children die every minute in India. The killer: malnutrition! Of course you do not die of malnutrition. But a malnourished child’s immunity is very low and s/he is more likely to fall prey to diseases like diarrhea and malaria which he s/he is unable to fight. So in fact four children die of preventable diseases every minute in India. Can you read this statement and simply move on. I cannot. The death of any child is something that is and should be unacceptable. It should make us look up and then hang our heads in shame.

Yesterday the lead item in news bulletins across the country was the death of 12 babies in a hospital in Calcutta due to negligence. The hops ital of course has been given a clean chit. One commentator expressed outrage not simply at the untimely death of these infants but also at the total lack of indignation be it from civil society or from the authorities.

These two stories have one point in common: they happened to children on the other side of the fence, those who bear the label: poor. Children who simply do not exist to those who have a voice and the ability to express their opinion. 4 children a minute due to malnutrition, 12 children in a hospital due to negligence, 500 children in a remote town due to encephalitis are not numbers sufficient to make us shed our cynicism and apathy. However when a child from the other side of the fence was kidnapped a few years back everyone stood up and screamed. The administration moved heaven and hell to find the child. So my question today is how many poor children must die before we stop pretending that we cannot see. Today rich India is busy preparing for its first formula 1 race. The roar of cars speeding is too loud for it to hear anything else, certainly not the tears of a mother who has lost her child.

It is Diwali again. Time of festivities and cheer. A new year beckons us. Wonder what it holds. For the past few weeks now little Radha and her friends have been painstakingly painting diyas. Each diya is first painted then decorated with utmost care. Many of these have found their way in homes across the city and land. On Diwali night they will shine and augur good tides for many.

Every year I sit down to send Diwali greetings and find myself pondering about days gone and those yet to dawn. I am glad I spent time with the children a few days back as we had visitors and saw them bursting with exuberance and energy. Had I not done so then my message would have been somewhat flawed. We had a great year at project why. The children thrived in more ways than one. Not only were school results good but so much more was learnt. The children perfected their dancing skills, their creative ones and wonder of wonders have even begun to express themselves in English. On Friday they showcased all they had achieved to our spellbound guests. And no one was more enchanted than I. I watched them with immense pride and delight. The dances were executed perfectly, the lines of the English play delivered faultlessly. The children were full of energy and brio. Their smiles said it all. So no need to wallow on the past and look for faults. There were none.

Yet while my family of almost 800 thrived and blossomed, it was not quite the same story at my end. While all seemed to run like a clockwork orange in all our centres, I accumulated sleepless nights wondering about would happen to project why next year and the next and the next. Time was moving too fast and age catching up mercilessly. And with each passing day the fear of the future was looming large. The past year had been a tough one. Funds were short more than once and needed masterful handling from my side. It was also apparent that I was not as feisty and active as when the journey began. My steps were slower and my fingers did not move as speedily on my keyboard. The once indefatigable woman was now unable to produce the endless emails once sent with regularity or keep up with a mind that still conjured thoughts with breakneck speed. The chasm between though and action was frightening.

Planet Why seemed a very remote dream fading away by the minute. Now it was not only a matter of garnering enormous resources but also having the strength to put it all together. It all seemed herculean. How could I forget that I had earmarked 31/12/11 as the day we lay planet why to rest and look for other options. So the year to come is crucial as it determines the future of 800 children. And looking at them last week made me more convinced than ever that I have to fight for their morrows till my last breath. So this Diwali I will say a special prayer for the children of project why. Hope you will spare them a thought too!

Happy Diwali to all!

Remove the Poor screams the headline of an article in a recent magazine. These words seem to have become a mantra of the rulers of our city. We have heard it time and again. We need a stadium, a mall, a new swanky hotel, a cinema complex, a gated community easy peasy just find a slum, bring your bulldozer and raise it to the ground. Voila! You have your piece of land and all you need to do is start building. Oops there is a problem. Who will build them. The poor of course. There is something wrong don’t you think so. But anyway we have been mute and indifferent spectators to this game played with obsessive regularity in our very city.

They are at it again. Slums are being removed while the like of us are busy shopping and preparing for Diwali. The goal is to create a ‘world-class city’ in a ‘slum-free India’, but since the government has not been able to wipe out unsightly poverty, it just removes the poor states the article. It goes on to say that illegal squatters who build our roads, our buildings, our Metro, look after our children, wash our dishes and work in our factories do not have the same right as those who can boast of laminated cards in their wallets. This is the new duality of Delhi.

I have time and again brought this reality to light as I have seen first hand the agony and pain of homes being destroyed in a jiffy. What is even more galling is the fact that the Government has time and again mooted low income housing schemes but these have failed miserably. The failure is almost Freudian. How can we give precious land to house the poor. But we need them so we get them from their far away homes to build our desiderata and then leave them to fend for themselves in the big bad city. Hence the slums.

The article gives some interesting and mind opening stats. The poor comprise 24% of the city’s population but occupy less than 5% of land. You will be surprise to know that there is no land scarcity. 7000 acres only would be needed to house the poor in dignity and the Government owns more than 15000 acres. But that is not all hold your breath slums are a fab mean for collecting illegal gratification. Slum dwellers pay cops, politicians and officials a whopping 6840 crore rupees a year. Profitable isn’t. Now you understand why slums are allowed to exist

There is more. Demolitions are carried out citing public purpose. But there are hidden agendas as recently people were rendered homeless in Delhi to build a 5* Hotel and a cluster of malls. True there have been relocations of slums and one would like to believe that this should solve the problem. Far from that. In 2000 the slums on the banks of the Jamuna were relocated to Bhalaswa a place not fit for humans as it is located next to a garbage landfill. There is no water and all the people can accede to is hand pumps that draw water contaminated by the garbage next door. 7o crores were sanctioned for schools, roads, water treatment, shops etc but needless to say none came up. There is one school located at 90 minutes walk for the 4000 households. New schemes are conjured particularly near election time but nothing happens on the ground. Or if they do see the light of the day the schemes are wrought with much red tape and ensure that a large part of potential beneficiaries are found to be ineligible.

So as you and I look forward to Diwali and celebrations, there are many who wait for the bulldozers to roll and for their lives to crash. Adults will loose their possessions and livelihood, children their chance to education. Does this seem right in a country where citizens are protected by constitutional rights? But who cares for the voiceless children who hanker to go to school.

We at project why has lost bright children to slum destruction. We have seen families loose everything they possess. How can I forget my Lohar camp that stood proud and vibrant for years before being raised to the ground? Once again I feel helpless and can only share my angst in words. Over the years I have been witness to the rich getting richer and the poor poorer, but I have also seen how bright and smart poor children are and how rich their potential if given a chance.

Those who planned our city a long time back envisaged a city where all would live side by side. One of the starkest example of this vision is the presence of Government schools in almost every nook and corner of the city. Yet every day the poor are being pushed to the farthest limits of a city growing in quantum leaps. One has to find a way to give humane dwellings to those who are undoubtedly a dynamic and vibrant part of city life. When will our rulers realise this, O wonder.

Every morning as I drive to school I am greeted by a band of beggar kids at the red light next to a flyover. I normally carry some eatable or sweetmeat to give to them. Every morning as I see these children I am reminded of the forgotten biscuits and the fact that they were the children I wanted to help when I took my first faltering steps into the world of charity (for want of a better word). My little beggar girl is now all grown up. I still remember her innocent face that has now hardened. I just feel hopeless and helpless and all the work I have done till now pales at the sight of these innocent souls whose every right has been usurped.

This morning another article on the plight of these children made my blood run cold. According to a report by the Human Right Commission children are kidnapped for various purposes: working as cheap forced labour in illegal factories, establishments, homes, exploited as sex slaves or forced into the child porn industry, as camel jockeys in the Gulf countries, as child beggars in begging rackets, as victims of illegal adoptions or forced marriages, or perhaps, worse than any of these, as victims of organ trade and even grotesque cannibalism. The words made me gag. When had greed made us so callous and monstrous. Even animals did not fall so low. Children are meant to be celebrated. They should be loved, protected, cared for, pampered and sheltered. They depend on us adults for their every need and above all for their morrows. They are not meant to be used and abused for personal gratification. And yet this is done each and every day openly or surreptitiously. And we sit mute, pass by in our cars at best tossing a coin in the outstretched hand, never meeting the eyes of the child knocking at our car window.

We read news items on the plight of children: malnutrition deaths (one every 8 minute), encephalitis deaths, child labour, child abuse and so on without lifting a finger. Recently an article on the plight of children in Melghat was blood curdling. In 4 months 266 children died. What is worse is that there are fake NGOs run by politicians using the cause to line their pockets! Where are we going. Every child that dies is a national shame. There are many schemes but they remain schemes on paper. It is time we woke up to this reality. Something is terribly wrong and it is time civil society woke up and did something. True a child dying in a remote village does not move us. It should as it reflects the state of our society, our values and our collective conscience.

It is 10 days to Diwali and our very own Dilli has not found its heart. Yes we still have very few orders for the diyas our special children are industriously fabricating. It is a joy to watch them, the older or more able ones helping the younger and less functional ones. But everyone is participating in this activity.

I am really heart devastated at the fact that orders from Delhi have been so few. Where is Dilli’s dil (heart) gone! Have we lost it or are we so beholden by brands and high priced ware that a simple earthen lamp decorated with paint by tiny hands has no appeal left. Why are so blasé? Have we lost the ability to see with our hearts altogether. Delhi has always been a difficult city to conquer and in spite of the fact that we are located in its heart, few reach out to help us. Yet I refuse to give up.

When I look at the two kids in the picture- young Preeti who walks on her hands and little Neha who is yet to learn to communicate- labouring over their diyas my heart bleeds and I wish I could buy all their lovely lamps. I could indeed but that is not what they want. They refuse any pity sale. They want to be recognised in their own right and to have people believe I them. They want to retain their dignity.

Friends from the world over have reached out and we are grateful to them but we still want to be able to sell our diyas in our city. This is my last appeal before it is too late for this Diwali.

Note: with the money they make the special children plan to have a big Diwali bash filled with fun and laughter. Is this asking too much.

For orders contact Shamika at 9811424877.

The death of a mother is the first sorrow wept without her. How true are these words. Twenty one years ago I had a mother. Twenty one years ago I was still a child. You wonder what I mean. Well simply that I had a place to run to when I was hurt, confused, lost, anguished, distressed, angry or just simply lonely. I just had to sit at her feet and put my head on her lap and every problem vanished. She was there to wipe my first tear, break my first fall, assuage my first failure, soothe my first heartbreak. Even when hundreds and thousands miles separated us, I felt her presence. It is true that she shared all my sorrows and it was her lap I gravitated to each and every time life dealt me a blow. I do not truly know if she was there for every moment of joy, but every sorrow was wept with her. The first one I had to face alone was her demise, no wonder I am still not truly healed.

Those who say that your true entry into adulthood happens when you become an orphan are right. That is when you become truly bereft of protection. The child in you vanishes and you are suddenly responsible for every deed and action. There is no one to take they blows for you, you stand terribly alone.

Since she left, I have missed Kamala each and every day but never more than when faced with a problem or a challenge. Today I miss her big time as I see my inadequacy in finding a befitting end to my swansong. Were she here she would have steered me in the right direction and led me out of the dark tunnel I find myself in. Saying that I miss her is stating the obvious. Leaning to live without her has been one of the hardest things I have had to do. Each time I think I am healed an anodyne incident brings me back to earth and to the realisation that I can never stop missing her. It can be a whiff of the redolent fragrance of the jasmine she planted or the flavour of one of her favourite meal and in a perfect example of Proustian involuntary memory I find myself missing her till it hurts.

Today she would have been 94. On this day I share once again the wonderful portrait made by my friend Abhi. Happy birthday Kamala, you were truly unique.

I am livid. It all began with an seemingly innocuous visit to the house of the local RWA President to discuss a simple matter: the opening of a wicket gate. The colony has several gates which are closed to block traffic, but normally wicket gates are left open to facilitate pedestrian movement. The gate in question is the one normally used by Agastya my grandson to go to the park every evening. However for the past weeks it has been closed. The option is a detour and access through a main road with dense dangerous traffic. Needless to say this was unacceptable to dotty grandparents. When we enquired with the local guard we were told that the gate had been closed on express instructions of the President and there was no way he could open it unless instructed by the elusive President.

We were a little peeved as we have been living in this colony for the past 40 years and my father was a founder member but we decided we would go and meet the President and were confident that the matter would be solved amicably. It was only about opening a small wicket gate. We would soon discover how wrong we were.

We landed at the President’s house and rung the bell. The door was opened by a servant who informed us that Sahib was home. We were taken to a swanky drawing room replete with opulent ware that reeked money. We sat at the edge of our chairs and waited for our host. He appeared a few minutes later, also larger than life. He was full of himself and took the offensive by asking us why we were not regulars at the society meetings. We parried the question and the husband went straight to the point: the opening of the gate as it was unsafe for Agastya to take the main road on his tricycle. A gentle banter ensued for some time. I do not know when the mood changed and things went out of hand. But what had begun as a small matter suddenly changed into yet another tale of two Indias.

The conversation that had begun over a gate being opened or closed and the safety of a little 2 year old on his tricycle on a busy road changed complexion. It transpired in the course of conversation that the said gate was now shut to keep the other India at bay. Allow me a small aside to explain the situation. The colony has three main gates. Two of them are located near two main roads and if opened would allow cross traffic. They both have wicket gates that allow pedestrians a short cut to the main road. These are now shut. Wonder why? Well because according to the likes of our President they would be used by simple (read poor) people and become a security risk as these people are potential thieves and kidnappers. The President who assumed a different persona suddenly became the defender of the rights of the rich. One heard inanities like: what if one of the rag pickers kidnapped a resident’s grandson, or stole from a house. It all seemed very far fetched. The risk of a child being run over by a speeding car was real, the one of a child being kidnapped by a rag picker seemed a tad unrealistic.

I was taken a back but not surprised as I had been privy to such reactions for many years now. The mistrust the rich have for the poor can be surreptitious or blatant but it is always there and to me it is always galling. We are a fractured society in more ways than one. I remember how devastated I was when walls were being build around slums a couple of years ago. And the heated debate on the opening or closing of a wicket gate was just that: another wall! Walls always existed. They could be invisible but were always impregnable. I knew it was a lost battle. The husband though was unaware of this and carried on his spiel. I tried to get his attention to make him stop and finally had to intervene and put an end to what was becoming an ugly situation. The battle was uneven: one child against all the poor!

We walked home in uneasy silence. The husband was still fuming and fretting and I was lost in my thoughts. All the similar instances I had experienced over the years flashed in my mind: the irate women trying to tell me that boarding schools were not meant for poor children; the late night call by an inebriated person insisting that large sums of money should not be spent for operating a poor child; the upmarket ladies trying to convince me that broken toys were good enough for poor children; the absolute refusal of the idea of a common school as the thought of my child sitting next to my driver’s kid was abhorring . The list is endless but the message one: the poor are not worthy and cannot be trusted. And as the rich get richer the mistrust gets deeper. There seems to be no end in view. How will the gates of contention ever be removed I wonder.

The next day quite by chance I met a friend who is also an old resident of our colony. Needless to say I was quick to share my story. She was not surprised at all. Apparently over the years the social profile of the colony residents had changed. What was once was a colony of retired civil servants had now become populated by a new breed: the new rich of our city! Old homes had been brought down and transformed into swanky flats and bought by people with newly acquired wealth. They also came with their own black and white view of the world where every poor was to be viewed with extreme suspicion and guarded against. Hence gates and security guards and gadgets and inane logic.

Who are the poor that are so mistrusted. Often people who are an intrinsic part of our lives even if they remain invisible to us. They each are part of the life of the city we live in. Just try and imagine the city without them and guess whose life gets affected? Not theirs but ours. I am referring to the cobbler, the rag picker, the construction worker, the plumber, the electrician and so on. It seems our new breed of rich seem to judge the book by its cover. What really irks me is the fact that we are willing to trust our lives in the hands of such people – our cook, our driver, our nanny, our maid – but they are also the first ones we accuse should a penny be misplaced in our homes. True that there are been some terrible instances of crime by those who work for us, but these are few compared to the many who work in our homes. And talking of crimes are the rich and famous blameless. Far from that if we are to go by the myriad of instances of corruption big and small. How do we protect ourselves from them? There are no gates to keep them at bay.

Maybe the rime has come to try and build bridges instead of gates. But who will be he first one to place the first stone. I wonder.

Last month little Radha had a bad fall. It took the doctors almost a month to set things right and put a proper cast on her fractured leg. For a month Radha had to make several visits to the hospital. For a month Radha stayed in her damp and dark home waiting for the day she could come back to the project. Yesterday she was back to the delight of all her pals and teachers. She at once got down to task and started painting the Diwali diyas with utmost attention. She loves painting and is extremely creative in her designs. We were all so glad to have her back. The class looked whole again.

As I watched her I once again realised how much we need planet why to happen. Children like Radha need a safe and secure place where they can live and laugh. Soon winter will set in. Last year when it did, Radha came to live at our foster care and thus spent winter in warmth and safety. You cannot begin to imagine what winter is like in her home. The place gets damp and cold seeps from the earthen floor and dampens the thin mattress. For rather and her broken bones it is pure hell. Se writhes in pain and discomfort. Last year she escaped winter but this year as our foster care had to be closed for want of resources and staff there is nothing we can do to help her. She will have to suffer in silence as she always does. It is heart wrenching to watch her. One just feels so helpless and small.

When planet why was first conceived in my mind it was for the likes of Radha, children born with challenging ailments in poor homes that cannot give them the basic care they need. Planet why was first and foremost to be a haven for such souls, a place where they could live a full life with dignity and care. But as I write these words I know that planet why may not happen and my silent commitment to these souls may remain unfulfilled. I must admit I am not proud of myself and wonder whether I did give it my best. Somehow I feel inadequate. All I can do is pray for a miracle and hope the God of lesser beings is listening.

There are no orders this year said a crestfallen Shamika after once again checking her email. She was referring to the hand painted diyas (lamps) her special kids make each year for Diwali. Her dejected look was too much to take, I am a Mom after all. I had to do something as I too felt downcast.

The diyas she was talking about were not just simple earthern lamps. They were true labour of a very special kind of love, the kind you are lucky to receive. My eyes fell on the little red lamp with yellow dots that sits on my desk for the past two years. This lamp was painted by Manu the Diwali before he left us. It is the only gift I have from him and thus inestimable. When I look at it I feel incredibly worthy and loved and am reminded of all the wonderful moments Manu gave me. Manu is no more, but there are children like him who each year paint diyas in the hope that someone will buy them and make them feel cared for.

They wait every morning with expectant faces for Shamika to come and tell them that she has secured new orders. Imagine what they feel when the answer is a barely murmured no. The diyas are painted by children few believe in, as we tend to think of special kids as useless. But they are not! They too have dreams they want to pursue and feelings that get hurt even if they do not express them in like we do. The diyas in the picture have been painted by children who cannot speak, walk, hear, comprehend or use their hands the way we do. Yet every one participates in the task. Some simply paint the base whilst others decorate them. Even the tiny ones do their bit. But no matter what, each one puts their heart into it. With the money they earn they have a big party filed with fun and laughter and the feeling of having achieved something.

To you and me it is just a few rupees but for them it is their dignity and self-esteem. I cannot understand why there are no orders this year. Is it just that we have forgotten how to look with our hearts. Please make these wonderful children’s Diwali a happy one!

For orders call Shamika at 9811424877. God bless you all and a happy Diwali to you!

Yes you read right fifty thousand children dead in just one town in India, 376 this year alone. The culprit: encephalitis; the reason: the total collapse of the public health system in one of the poorest regions of our country. Once again we need to hang our heads in shame. Are we not the country that boasts of seven star medical facilities that attract a new breed of tourists from the world over. But how can we gloat over such facilities when we cannot look after our very own. Why was there never a national programme for eradication of encephalitis. Are 50 000 deaths not enough for the Government to take notice or is it that these deaths only affect the very poor. The affected State wrote to the Centre for vaccines. These never reached on time. It is once again the case of two Indias isn’t it? A local doctor who is fighting for the eradication of this disease and who fed up decided to write to the powers that be in his own blood received a wishy washy answer: creation of groups and bodies, setting up of an awareness campaign. The big question is will all this be implemented or will it be yet another way of lining pockets. It is sad but true one has lost faith in Government and administrations.

It took so many deaths for the media to wake up and ‘break’ the story. True the death of a poor child does not make good copy, you need numbers to attract TRPs. Have we become so insensitive and callous. The death of a single child is unacceptable. Yet in India children die everyday of malnutrition, of preventable diseases. In India 1.95 million children die every year, 5000 of them in our capital city. Even this figure does not make good media fodder. The unnatural death of a single child cannot be accepted and yet we close our eyes and look away. According to experts simple life-saving measures such as oral rehydration solutions, basic vaccinations, breastfeeding and using mosquito nets could bring down the dismal number by more than two thirds. These are cheap and eminently doable options and yet we remain cold, mute and unperturbed.

The medical facilities for the poor are abysmal across our country. In the capital the rich have access to the swankiest facilities possible provided they are willing to pay the hefty tag. Some hospitals will not admit you unless you dish out a substantial deposit. The poor have access to poorly run local dispensaries or the government hospital often located miles away. The former are free but of poor quality and the later also require no money but a huge investment in time and patience . The alternative is a visit to the local quack, often an erstwhile doctor’s assistant who doles out medicine of doubtful origin. The fees are affordable but the treatment contentious. It often works in normal cases as the illness is often self limiting. But in serious ones such treatment can be lethal. The other option open to a poor patient are the private doctors and hospitals. These come at a cost and often lead to borrowing at impossible interest rates and getting caught in the clutches of a dubious money lender. In the past decade we too have witnessed many preventable deaths of children. Yet nothing changes.

Will the new statistic be a wake up call or simply remain a statistic to be forgotten when some new sizzling news replaces it. Memory are short and come to think about it a few hundred poor children dying is soon forgotten. Have we simply forgotten how to look with our hearts.

The children of our women centre celebrated Gandhi Jayanti in their own inimitable style. Boys and girls of all classes participated in the celebration. The children made posters and colourful models to show their vision of Gandhi. It was quite unique. Many kids thought that making things out of waste material was a way to actualise Gandhiji’s teachings. Others felt it was respect for a clean and healthy environment. Yet others came up with models of solar cookers and flour mills propelled by wind. Each class had completed their presentation with utmost care. I loved the class VII model of an ideal city where everything was eco-friendly.

But my all time favourite was the little babyfoot (table football game) made out of a shoe box by the tiny kids of class III. It was perfectly made with little nets at the goal post.The little game actually worked! The bright little girls who had come up with the ideas were very proud of their creation and needless to say got a prize. A student of class IX had prepared a speech and delivered it with great aplomb. I was very impressed by the creativity of the children and very proud of them.

It was then time for a discussion about Gandhiji’s teaching and I was really amazed by the maturity displayed by the children. They talked about kindness and compassion. About how the poor should be helped, about how violence should be avoided, about truth and integrity. As we talked the debate got widened and we touched upon subjects like education and the recent poverty figures of the planning commission. Every child however young was fully aware of the cost of things and the family budget, something we would not see in rich kids. They knew the price of everyday needs and how much their parents spent on rent and electricity. I was deeply moved as it showed once again how kids from poorer homes grow up faster than one would wish. These are the kids that have been let down by one and all, kids that deserve nothing but the best.

Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle wrote Steve Jobs.

I first heard this words from Steve Jobs a few years back at a time when I was going through a bad patch. These words were from the famous speech he gave at Stanford University in 2005. His words made me sit back and look at my life with different eyes. Project why was five years old and despite minor hiccups was doing great. That was also the year we got public recognition for our work. I pondered a long time on the thoughts proffered and realised that they in more ways than one chronicled my journey. For many years people had chided me on not settling, as I moved from one pasture to another. I had shunned a career in the government, dabbled with a radio job, taught in a university, worked an an interpretor, run my own conference business and yet never settled. It is only when I decided to do something for the elusive other that I sank roots. I finally settled and each year got better and better in spite of small impediments.

Jobs’s personal story recounted in the same speech was also an eye opener as it proved beyond doubt that nothing was impossible. And somehow the maxim that we followed was the quite similar. It did not matter if you were born poor or if you could not access the best education the sky could be the limit if you wanted it to be. That is what we believe in too.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary added Jobs.

In this one speech Steve Jobs has given us a great Art of Living. He leads by example. We all feel the loss of this endearing human being. May he rest in peace.

Though the Right to Education is in place there is still along way to go according to 15 activists who visited 60 schools. Provisions of the Right to education Act notwithstanding, dirty toilets, shortage of books and staff, broken benches, no playground and absenteeism are still the major issues in many Delhi government schools is the conclusion drawn by those who visited the schools in our capital city. In a school located in the constituency of our present education minister the computer lab lies shut as there are no teachers to teach the subject. Such is the state of education in a country where Education is now a Constitutional Right.

What makes me see red is the fact that it is once again children who are at the receiving end. Children who have enormous potential and scant resources. Children who can excel if give a tiny chance. I more than anyone else can say this with conviction as for the past 11 years I have been helping such kids. In a reclaimed garbage dump or under a hot tun roof we have been able to remedy to the lacunae of the government schools and teach hundreds of children who have done us proud. Our children have mastered computers and learnt dance and sing over and above learning their school lessons. Many of them now have good jobs and have broken the cycle of poverty in which they were born. Why have we succeeded: simply because we wanted to, notwithstanding anything.

Where there is a will there is a way goes the saying. By this adage one could infer that the Government has no real will to implement the Right to Education. How can we forget that children are not vote banks and are voiceless and that giving them education is also perhaps running the risk of giving them a voice. A look at published statistics tells its own story: In absolute numbers there are 1.5 million children who are dropouts or have never gone to school. There are in total 5,442 schools in Delhi.3 The enrolment figures amount to 1.7 million (17.5% of the population). The gross dropout rate is 69.06%. This does not leave much to be said about the levels of retention in schools across the capital city.In absolute numbers there are 1.5 million children who are dropouts or have never gone to school.Eighty percent of the class 5 pass outs from MCD schools do not know how to read and write their names. Only 14% of the students who enter a govt school in class 1 make it to class 10 and just 4% manage to pass class 10 says a report of the Centre for Civil Society

It is time we woke up and did something!

This is, to me, the loveliest and saddest landscape in the world. It is here that the little prince appeared on Earth, and disappeared wrote St Exupery. I am reminded of these words as I look a this picture. This is a picture of land where Planet Why is/was to be. There are moments when the picture comes alive and I can imagine planet why just I want it to be: a beautiful green guest house filled to capacity with happy clients and a wonderful children centre buzzing with activity. I can visualise the place to the last detail, see the smiles and hear the laughter. Then the image changes and the land remains as it is: barren and sad.

If I am true to my words then we have just three months to conjure a miracle, failing which planet why and all it stood for will be laid to rest. To quote St Exupery again: a rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral, I have contemplated my barren land it time and again with the image of my cathedral but till now nothing has happened. My prayers and pleas to gods and men have remained unheard. Now I have under hundred days to offer my ultimate entreaty.

So let me take it from the top one last time. The challenge of every self respecting not for profit is sustainability: how to ensure that it generates its own resources and thus can carry on its work unheeded. Needless to say it is and has always been up most in my mind. Our sustainability story began way back with a series of naive attempts: candle making, chocolate makings, card and bags production. It goes without saying that these not only failed miserably but also burnt a hole in our lean pockets. We quickly realised that this was not the way to go. Then came the one rupee a day a project. This was something we truly believed in! Somehow it seems in sync with who we were: a grassroots project with a grassroots team and this approach seemed eminently doable. The idea was to contact a wide cross section people and ask them to give us one rupee a day! This would be something any one could do, or so we thought. To cut a long story short the whole idea fell flat: people did not warm up to it believing that one rupee could not make a difference and many of my won staff found thought it was infra dig to ask for such a tiny sum. The whole idea had to be shelved though I somehow still believe in it.

The quest for our elusive grail continued. We flirted with the idea of making clothes for children, of running a nursery for oil seeds, of Diwali hampers and so on. Needless to say they all boomeranged! Sustainability had never seemed so elusive. Time passed till the fateful day when someone mentioned the Ninos Hotel in Cusco. It was an ah ha moment; the grail seemed within reach. Our sustainability would be through hospitality. A guest house would be our way of raising funds. The idea looked so perfect. It was almost scary. There were many false starts and hiccups but we managed to purchase the land and begin planning in earnest: architectural plans, costings, 3D model and to crown it all a validation of the business plan by renowned consultants. We just had to raise the funds and we would be in clover! Alas things did not turn out as we would have hoped. The figures and numbers were huge. Our contacts into the world of the rich and endowed non existent. Our network inadequate. Many did try and help and at one time we even thought we had succeeded. But it was not to be. The end result is that we are today exactly where we were a year back.

The problem I think is that project why is where you see with your heart, something very few people still do. When you pitch a proposal like planet why which requires people to dig deep into your pockets you have to come up with cold statistics to convince them. We do not have such figures. What we have is intangible yet precious: dignity, care, compassion. Your return on investment is measured in smiles, success in examinations, better opportunities for those who have none and so on. These don’t cut any ice when you are on the market for big bucks.

31 December 2011 is the day we plan to lay planer why to rest if nothing happens. We have less than 100 days to make it happen. So help me God!