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!

Gali No 3, Govindpuri is where our main centre is located. It is also the street that houses our flat share for volunteers. To the uninitiated it may look like cramped, dirty, messy, chaotic, congested place. And in many ways it is: tiny lanes that once housed single story units now have been remodelled to include multi storied flats for rent; lanes that once only say bicycles or at best scooter are now crammed with cars and motorbikes courtesy the arrival of credit cards; for want of fresh air in their houses which have no natural light people tend to bring out stools and chairs and sit on the street; hawkers ply the lanes peddling their war. You can buy almost every and anything you want: vegetables, fruit, clothes, kitchenware, cleaning implements, snacks and ice lollies: you name it they have it.

The place brims buzzes with activity. On our street ground floors have often been converted to tiny shops and businesses: you have small grocers, repair shops, photocopying facility, a shoe vendor, restaurants, juice vendors and even a flour mill. Old women are employed by the mill owner to clean the grain before milling. These ladies often sit on the street itself and each time we need to pass in our three wheeler they have to gather their grain to make way! The tiny lane sees many traffic jams that get nightmarish when any building activity is going on.

Twice a day we too add to the traffic in our own way: that is when our creche children are dropped by the school transport at the top of the street and need to walk to the centre and vice versa when it is time to go home. It is all part of the daily humdrum of life in our street. What is amazing is that no one complains: one just tries to find the best alternative possible so if a delivery van blocks the street for instance, you simply tun around and take another one. At times you come in the morning and see a tent erected in the middle of the street: it could be a wedding, a religious ceremony or a funeral. You simply park your vehicle on the main road and walk to your destination.

All the lanes give onto a main road which though large always seems congested. It is a main bus route and hence many buses ply on it. Add to it cars, auto rickshaws, cycles, motorbikes, and all other imaginable vehicles and you have a huge mess. But that is not all we still have to add all the hawkers, street vendors to make it a colourful vibrant chaos. The place is teeming with people whatever the time of the day. It is an aggression on all your senses though not an unpleasant one. Not to forget the local vegetable and fruit market and the weekly Wednesday market that commandeers the whole road making traffic a real nightmare.

For the past two years now it is also home to the project why volunteers. I must admit that when we took the decision of housing the volunteers in this street we were a little concerned about what their reaction would be. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that all of them loved the area with its sounds and smells. And above all, all of them felt safe unlike in other parts of the city deemed touristic.

Govindpuri is truly a slice of real India.

To be poor in India you need, according to the Planning Commission to spend less than 32 Rs a day or 965 Rs a month if you live in a city! The Planning Commission (PC) suggests that spending Rs 5.5 on cereals per day is good enough to keep people healthy. Similarly, a daily spend of Rs 1.02 on pulses, Rs 2.33 on milk and Rs 1.55 on edible oil should be enough to provide adequate nutrition and keep people above the poverty line without the need of subsidized rations from the government. It further suggests that just Rs 1.95 on vegetables a day would be adequate. A bit more, and one might end up outside the social security net. For health you need to spend not more than 39.70 a month and only 99 paise a day on education. What is strange in all the numbers proffered by the PC is that they do not consider habitat as a necessary expenditure for the poor. Wonder where they are supposed to live. No this is not April Fool’s day and not a joke. Spend a penny more and you cannot benefit from welfare scheme, or get the famous below poverty line line (BPL) card! What are we trying to do: show the world that we are not poor?

Even the beggar who sleeps under a bridge spend more than the stipulated 32 rs. But let us get serious. If you are a family of 6 and you spend more than rs 5790 then you are not poor. Let me put this sum that may look large to the uninitiated into context. Ram Bachhan the guard at our women centre has four school going children and a wife thus making them a family of six. He used to work for a company but then got severely ill and lost his job. Till quite recently they were considered poor and had a BPL card. But the card was not renewed for reasons known only to the powers that be. They live in a rented room for which they pay 15oo rs, or 50 rs a day. On any given day they buy at least half a liter of milk for their tea at the cost of 16 rs, 2 kilo of rice at 20 rs a kilo, 20 Rs worth of vegetable per meal that is 40 Rs, 20 rs for pulses, 10 rs worth of flour, let us say that their daily cost on tea, spices, oil etc comes to 20 rs, 20 rs for fuel, and 20 rs for toiletries. All this comes to 238 way above the 32×6=192 stipulated to be poor. This is the bare minimum. It does not include illness, education, shoes, clothes etc. And talking of shoes the Planning Commission stipulates 9.9 rs a month for shoes or less than 120 rs a year. We all know the price of shoes and with 4 growing school going children one does need more than a pair per year! As for health, well if you spend more than 39 rs a month you are not poor! A quack in the slums charges 50 to 100 rs a visit and then there is the cost of medicine. We all know how much medicines cost!

You will agree that the figures are ludicrous. In urban India a cup of tea costs 5 rs and a meal at a road side cart 20rs. So if you have 2 cups of tea and one meal then 32 rs does not take you very far. You will agree that the figures are ludicrous and makes us wonder what goes behind the scene. At best it shows that those who make rules and laws are completely divorced from reality. Maybe the members of the commission should try and live on 32rs a day for a month. One should maybe suggest a new TV reality show in this vein. I wonder whether this is our government new way of saying that we are not that poor, or maybe simply on saving on welfare schemes. All I can say with confidence is that this is outrageous.

Ram Bacchan earns 4000 rs and his wife 1500 rs. You can see by just doing some simple maths that the earnings barely cover their expenses. Forget about saving even though they have two girls that will one day need to be married. The BPL scheme enabled people like Ram Bacchan to survive. Today he is struggling to keep life going. Saving is a word that is not in his dictionary. I wonder what will happen to him when prices rise again. Will a child be withdrawn from school to go to work? That would be terrible as all his children are exceptionally bright and doing very well in their studies and could if given a chance aim for a better future.

One never grudges the extra taxes imposed on us for welfare schemes. I suppose no one grudges such schemes as long as they reach the beneficiary but alas that is not the case. For a government that professes to be pro poor such statistics are out of sync. By no means would you call Ram Bacchan and his family ‘rich’. One would not resent it if they received any aid. Actually one would welcome it as it could possibly ensure that his children manage to break the cycle of poverty and maybe become teachers or IT professionals. They have the wherewithal to aspire to this. His daughters often top their classes. But he has lost his BPL card and looking at his expenditure he now does qualify as poor.

There are many like him and I hope that civil society that finds its voice to espouse causes dear to it – we saw it recently during the Hazare campaign – will rise to defend the voiceless poor. We at pwhy intend to take up Ram Bacchan’s case by filing an RTI to find out why he was denied renewal of his BPL card. We plan to do this as a project with the senior children of the women centre so that they can learn to be active and good citizens. Will keep everyone posted.

Ever since I received a mail about the house of the richest Indian, I have been plagued by the facts and figures of this unthinkable mansion: three helipads, parking space for the owners 200 odd cars, a floor for maintenance of the same, two floor health centre, a movie theater, a ballroom, elevated gardens and 4700 m2 per person. It was built at the whopping cost of one billion dollars, making it one if not the most expensive house in the world! In it will live a family of five who will be cared for by a staff of 600. The monthly electricity bill is a whopping 700 000 Rs. It is all mind boggling and for me it is difficult to begin to understand how a family can call this a home. The building looks ugly and the pictures of the interior remind me of a museum and not a home. It looks more as if its owner is trying to make a statement if one is to beleive McDonald who writes : perhaps he (Mukesh Ambani) has been stung by his portrayal in the media as an introvert. Maybe he is making the point that he is a tycoon in his own right.

I am reminded of a quote by Lisa Edmondson who says : he who is humble is confident and wise. He who brags is insecure and lacking. It seems that the richest are the most insecure. Many of the homes of my richer friends (not in Mr A’s league of course) have always seemed empty and soulless to me, even though they are fit for any home and decor magazine. I have found the true meaning of homes at the other end of the spectrum in the dwellings of people one could name the poorest in India: in Utpal’s home when he had one, in Babli’s home, in Munna’s home, in Manisha’s home and not to forget in the homes of all my Lohar (gypsy) friends before they were bulldozed to make the city beautiful for foreign guests. The one common factor of all these homes is that they have an open door quite literally so. You do not even need to knock. A simple koi hai (anyone there ) is ample. (Try entering Mr A’s home, you will probably land up at the cop station.)

In the homes of the so called poor you are immediately greeted with warm smiles and offered the best place to sit. You are a guest in the true Indian tradition. You are offered the best place to sit, often the sole bed, and before you know it a cool drink or warm cuppa is in your hand. There are smiles on every face and you feel at ease and welcome. You soon forget how dilapidated the surroundings are or how hot or cold it is. True that the first time you encounter such homes you are a little puzzled as they resemble nothing you have seen before, but after some time you get the courage of looking around and you realise the love and care that has gone into making a hole a home. The sole room is a bedroom cum sitting room cum kitchen cum kids room in one and yet you soon see personal touches: a picture hanging, a shelf with some decoration pieces, another one with the few good cups, kitchen ware neatly arranged in one corner and so on and surprisingly in spite of the squalor that surrounds it there is an almost pristine feel around. Once the initial shock over, you realise that the place is filled with warmth and life. And wonders of wonders you feel good and welcome.

What astounded me was the fact that I have never got the feeling that any owner of such homes is embarrassed or ashamed. I remember when I use to visit Utpal in his sordid home, he must have been three at that time, he often walked ahead of me and then climbed on a rickety plastic stool and with is pudgy hands caught hold of two hanging wires and plugged them in a dangling socket to get the sole fan going. At first I was horrified but soon realised that this was the way it was done and like all slum children, Utpal was wise beyond his years. Or can I ever forget how little Ritu the tiny lohar girl use to drag me into her home and make place for me on the bed before she marched on to find her mom and ask her to make me a cup of tea. And believe you me, I never wanted to leave these places as they were filled with all that was good. In learning to survive the poor had mastered the art of living. They were humble true, but confident and wise. They did not need more than the tiny space assigned to them to be who they were.

Entering the intimate world of the poor has been the most uplifting experience of my life. I have learnt many lessons in humility and courage, in fortitude and patience. But what has been the most valuable was the fact that these people were the repository of traditions and mores even though sometimes their tenacious belief in them could be infuriating.

The poor live with dignity and wisdom; maybe there are lessons for all to learn.

Every time Radha breaks one of her fragile bones, my heart misses a beat and my blood runs cold. Radha had a fall last week and once again broke her leg. It must have been the evil eye as she was doing so well and on the day the mishap happened had won the prize of best dancer of the class. Today she lies in her dank and dark home and I find myself questioning the heavens.

Osteosis Imperfecta or glass bone disease is hell for anyone but more so for someone born on the wrong side of the fence. In a city like Delhi which has forgotten that the poor also need a roof on their heads, families like Radha’s live in unbelievable conditions. Even if you earn 10 times more than the stipulated 20 Rs a day that qualify you as poor in the books of the State, you can at best afford a jhuggi in one of the umpteen slums that have mushroomed in Delhi. These dwellings are often sunk in, airless and unfit for any living being and come at the whopping price of at least 1000 rs a month. Often the tiny space of barely a couple of square meters is shared by 6 or more people. That is the abject reality of habitat for the poor in our swanky capital city. It is bad enough, but when you suffer from glass bone disease it spells disaster. I am not even mentioning the total lack of facilities in such homes. Our new special educator who comes from a small town was shocked to see Radha’s home. I wonder what he would have said had he seen the one she lived in before!

Yesterday someone forwarded my an email about the home the richest Indian, where each occupant has seven thousand square meters to him or herself. I must admit that seeing the pictures and reading the figures was galling particularly at a time when my mind was teeming with pictures of Radha with her leg in plaster sitting in the flooded hole which she shared with so many. The pictures once again brought to the fore the stark reality of the two Indias that lived side by side but never met. I wondered whether those who had a surplus of space even knew about the plight of the likes of Radha. Imagine one family of five having thirty seven thousand square meters to themselves and the other barely five! Something is wrong and needs to be addressed but when will that day dawn?

Once again the plight of Radha brought to the fore the urgent need for many Planet Whys. Sadly I cannot even get one off the ground.

When we launched our focus on quality programme in 2010 I did not quite know what results it would yield! But to my mind getting the primary kids to learn spoken English was something I intuitively felt would bear fruits. Quite frankly I was thinking far ahead to times when the spoken English of our kids would help them in getting a better deal in let us say work interviews!

To my utter surprise and delight I did not have to wait that long to see results. Firdos, Suraj and Vikash who are students of our women centre are the first beneficiaries of our programme. They have been admitted to the English medium batch of the secondary government school. It may sound a small feat to those who do not know how things work. To get admitted in the English medium batch, children of class V have to sit for an English exam and pass it. It is often very difficult for children from deprived homes to make the cut but these three boys did. It was another ah ha moment for us and we were thrilled beyond words.

It is heartwarming to know that our decision to introduce spoken English classes for the primary children was a good one. Just wanted to share this bit of good news!

Yesterday was a blessed day! It was PTM day at the boarding school but a very special one as little Agastya my grandson was with us. Agastya and Utpal share a very special bond. What makes it unique is that in normal circumstances the twain should not have met as they belong to diametrically opposed worlds. Whilst Agastya was born with the proverbial silver spoon, Utpal was barely wanted. It is a miracle conjured by the God of Lesser beings that changed matters. He commissioned the same old biddy to be part of their worlds.

I must sheepishly confess that when Agastya landed in my life I was a little worried about Utpal’s reaction. I needn’t have as he immediately opened his huge heart and took him in. He just became the big brother. Now the two have a great time when they are together and Sunday was just that.

The boys romped around the school, played ball, ate biscuits, had a great time on the slides and swings and rolled in the grass to their hearts content. It was a joy to watch them. But as I looked at them so carefree and happy the moment turned somewhat bittersweet. While the future of one of them was safe and secure the other’s was at tremendous risk as it hung by a flimsy string. It was heart wrenching to think that Utpal who was laughing his heart out had no one in the world to call his own. His mom has not given sign of life for many months. His fate has been decided by a court that stipulated that he spend his time between the boarding school and my home.

To secure Utpal’s future we need to ensure that his school fees are paid till the end and then need to sponsor his further studies. We also need to guide him at every step through his childhood, teens and further. We need to love him, chide him when needed, support him and stand by him. In a word to be his family. It is a huge responsibility and a tad scary. Yet I know that these need to be done with determination and compassion. There is no option available.

Looking at Utpal brought to the fore once again the huge question that hangs around us like the proverbial elephant in the room: pwhy’s future. As age catches up I find my energy dwindling and cannot put the same zeal I once had into day-to-day fund raising, hence the need to find ways to secure pwhy in the short and long term. Planet why seems more and more like a chimera. A sound idea that did not find takers as the costs are high and the returns intangible or of of the kind that do not make sound commercial sense. A child’s future, a life with dignity and so on are not solid enough grounds.

Cynics would say you can only do that much. I know many Cassandras who feel that one should not worry and let things take its course or if needed trim the project to size. Easier said than done. I have been over the past sleepless nights trying to imagine who would be axed: the little children of the creche, the new primary centre, part of the women centre… and each time my blood has run cold. True I could find many logical reasons to let go of any of these but the heart finds none. Little eyes look at me with hope and trust and all my highfalutin thoughts vanish. What remains is the knowledge that I need to find ways and means to protect them all.

I refuse to believe that in this big world there are not enough people to hear my appeal and reach out. I guess I have to try harder at least till I am around.

In Parliament last week the Minister for Health admitted that 1,74 million children under five die every year in India. I do not know how many of us reacted when the news was aired. I do not know how many of us realised the enormity of the statement. 1,74 million is no small figure! More than half of the deaths were in the first 28 days of life. The causes stated were: pneumonia, diarrhea and of course malnutrition leading to extremely low immunity. Forget the causes; the simple fact that so many children die is unacceptable in a country where according to statistics again some of the richest people live.

I urge you to stop a moment and give some thought to the above numbers. Let me put the statistics into context: the annual number of malnutrition related death in India is more than the total live births in the UK and one-third of newborns in the US. That is huge by any yardstick. 3000 children die every day of malnutrition in a country where food is thrown unabashedly at every wedding or religious feeding frenzy, and in homes; where grains rots with abandon every year for want of storage. All this should shock us out of our lethargy in the same way as corruption did a few days back, but food security is a cause the haves will never espouse. It is something too alien to them. But I ask do such stats not disturb you every time you throw food be it at home, in a party or in a restaurant? It is time it did.

As a state and a society we are guilty of 3000 murders a day! And let me remind you most of these are due to corruption in the so called social programmes heralded each year with great fanfare by the Government in power. A simple and quick look at such programmes show that most address the causes stated above. There are programmes for immunisations, early childhood nutrition, pregnant and lactating mother and of course education that has now become a constitutional right though no one seems to understand the full significance of such a right. If we did then the sight of any child begging on the street or working in a teashop should outrage and revolt us and should make us ask questions of our elected representatives. But it does not, simply because our children are safe and secure.

The Minister made his statement in parliament and so no cynic can state that the figures are cooked up, if anything they err on the low side. What disturbs me is that such scary statistics do not outrage and incense us. Recently we caught a glimpse of an outraged India that stood up against corruption. Will we one day find it in us to stand up against hunger, even if it does not affect us directly. I hope that day will dawn!

I do not want pwhy to be a tuition centre are words I have oft repeated. From the very outset we had been adept followers of Delors 4 pillars of of Education: – learning to know, to do, to live together and to be – and tried to incorporate them in our programmes. We were always conscious of the fact that education is not simple mugging of text books dutifully regurgitated at exam time and promptly forgotten thereafter. And it was our sincere endeavour to try and remain on track. We set aside time to talk to the children about larger things and make them aware of the world around them. But it was no easy task as there were many impediments along the way. The biggest one being the low level of many children who needed a lot of extra work to catch up with their class. Added to that were the periodic exams that meant extra revision time. Needless to say all extra time needed for studies was taken off time assigned to other pursuits.

In hindsight I think there was also the unexpressed reluctance of the staff to taken on new challenges. One must remember that pwhy staff is all drawn out from the local community and the product of the existing state school system. Teaching the curriculum was their comfort zone and as always they were quick to sink back into known territory. We did run several workshops – RTI, brain gym, teaching methods, civic rights, water etc – and each was attended enthusiastically by one and all. I must admit that for a few weeks post each workshop teachers did apply some of what they learnt but then sunk slowly back into their comfort zones teaching what they new best: the school curriculum! Gentle reminders and even blunt prodding did not bring much results. There were always some excuse available: the forthcoming tests or exams, the shortage of time, the need to bring students to level.

It was then that we decided to set Saturdays aside for what we called creative pursuits. Programmes were chalked out. We suggested that each centre adopt a theme for the month and all creative work be done around the said theme. It worked for some time but then again even creative work sunk into a comfort zone and children were back to drawing mountains and rising suns, the preferred or should I say only drawing subject of children in school in India. Looks grim. Not quite as we blissfully had workshops initiated by friends and volunteers where the children could let their spirit fly free. I remember the one that resulted in the lovely song I wish, that became the pwhy song. The words were written after a workshop entitled what I wish for! The children then recorded the song professionally in a studio. Then we had the letter exchange programmes with children in Germany and France and how can I forget the paintings made by the children for pantomime shows in England. But as I said these experiences were few.

A recent photography workshop once again brought its share of surprises. 8 students were selected for the same and in a matter of days turned into mean lens persons. The workshop culminated in a power point presentation applauded by all and needless to say that today they are the ones who take pictures of the project!

When we decide to celebrate Ram’s centenary project why came alive. For a few weeks studies were forgotten and everyone was busy rehearsing plays, songs and dances. We even got a dance master to come and teach the children and what a wondrous surprise this was as hidden talents slowly emerged and took centre stage. I watched the rehearsals totally dumbfounded and feeling a tad guilty and sad. This is what children should be doing not once in 10 years but regularly. The experience brought out the best in everyone: the children of course but the teachers also as they took on the role of organisers. I wonder how many new lessons were learnt.

What has been a constant in each of the above events is the passion and joy the children demonstrate every time they are faced with a new creative challenge. It is thus time we make some serious course corrections and ensure that creative and awareness raising activities become and intrinsic part of the project why syllabus. We have to shed once for all the tuition centre label that we so easily make ours. It is a foregone conclusion that such activities develop the mind and thought processes and will reflect in the children’s ability to master their school work. So as of today song, dance, debates, newspaper reading and more will be reinstated firmly in our work and no excuse will be accepted. We are not and do not want to be just a tuition centre!

For the past two weeks a silent revolution has taken place in front of our eyes culminating with a day long debate in Parliament that resulted in a victory for the people of India, the very people who are embodied in the opening sentence of our Constitution. For the first time in our independent history the will of the people was truly heard. For the first time in our independent history the faceless millions found their voice and used it. Democracy was reinterpreted and revisited as the people of India till date only seen once in five years at election booths took centre stage.

These voices were galvanised and aroused by one diminutive man whose main claim to fame was his honesty that he wears as proudly as his cap and who has come to represent the David that could slay the Goliath called corruption. Till date the silent majority suffered the stranglehold of the demon that strangulated all and robbed mercilessly. Till date these battles were fought in intellectual clubs and drawing rooms and ended in remote essays written to satisfy cerebral and not real needs. The very people who have always decried the passive behaviour of our collective mind are now busy writing more essays about the lurking dangers of the over enthusiasm whipped by Anna Hazare!

Today no one is in the mood to hear them. Today India celebrates!

But what are we celebrating. The answer is complex as many firsts happened in the last fifteen days. The obvious is the ending of a 13 day fast by a Anna and of course the resolution adopted by acclamation by our Parliament agreeing to the three points of contention till date. But that is for me just the tip of the iceberg. There is much more to celebrate.

The first step to freedom is the articulation and identification of the cause of repression in clear terms. And this is what happened last fortnight. Corruption an ailment that plagued us all but was often referred to in hushed tones within the four walls of our homes was out in the open. And what that did was bring India together. Here was a cause we could all openly espouse and agree to fight against together. The anger and outrage that we all felt and had repressed for too long had found a way to be released and addressed. The catalyst was a man who wore his honesty with pride and honour and could thus become a rallying force. For the first time India came out on the streets without fear. What we saw in every corner of the land was crowds that had not been paid or intimidated, but who came out of their own sweet will. Strange but true corruption was the great leveller, it affected one and all: the rag picker, the slum dweller, the harried housewife, the aspiring professional, the small businessman, the retired official. No one was safe from its stranglehold. It almost seemed as if we were all waiting for the right moment and it had finally dawned.

And to add fuel to the raging fire, the unbecoming attitude of the government in dealing with a man who simply wished to assert his constitutional right to protest brought to the fore another cause to embrace. It goes without saying that everyone in this land was fed up with arrogance bordering on hubris of the powers that be. Here too India was one. Be it the slum dweller whose daily brush with an arrogant official or the retired professional who needs to renew a passport, everyone had to bear the supercilious and dismissive attitude of officialdom. This reality was amply vindicated as we watched the comings and goings of the government. The impossible conditions laid out for the protest, the arrest, the empty and inane explanations proffered, the carrot and stick and condescending attitude, the arguments on form and practise, and so on. And above all the refusal to accept that the adversary was at par if not greater. We the people had never been a force to contend with. We the people were only meant to appear every five years when the powers that be shed their arrogance for a few weeks and sought a mandate renewal. We the people were those who could be cajoled by empty promises, pouches of hooch and a few coins. This time however we the people said enough is enough: no more corruption, no more arrogance. We will not fall for semantics and dialectics. So let us celebrate our freedom from fear and cynicism.

Another first that happened was the coming together of India in all its diversity. Even the cynics will have to concede that the crowds that gathered spontaneously be it in front of Tihar Jail or in the Ramlila grounds, in Mumbai, Bangalore, Chennai and umpteen other cities had one thing in common: they were all Indians. All barriers were broken be it caste, religion, gender, age or social background. The rich rubbed shoulders with the poor, the literate with the illiterate, the old with the young all shouting in unison: Vande Mataram! So should we not celebrate the coming together of India as one!

For the past days we have been privy to heated debates on the supremacy of Parliament. The cudgels being of course taken up by state representatives and elitist intellectuals trying to smother the vox populi whose role was conveniently cut down to a single act every quinquennial. This being the definition of democracy acceptable to those in power. True one must concede that the chosen ones do also climb down from their mount Olympus a few days prior and put on a real act. I have seen with my own bewildered eyes how the chameleons shed their arrogance and almost grovel in front of their potential electors. Excuse a small aside but this was one of the things that shocked me most when I lived the first municipal elections in a slum. Posses of white clad men, their candidate in the lead, walked the street with their hands folded stopping to caress the cheek of a young child or touch the feet of an elder woman. That in their eyes sufficed to get people to elect them. The parade, for want of a better word, always heralded by the beating of drums to ensure that people come out of their homes, was finely orchestrated. An advance party always came along distributing garlands to some trusted persons with the express directive to place it on the candidate at the appropriate time. I once tried to get the candidate to stop as I wanted to apprise him of some of the problems that the people faced, but needless to say a bunch of acolytes were quick to steer him away. The experience was galling to say the least as the same people become inaccessible once elected. To the people who advocate the supremacy of Parliament and the minute role of its members vis-a-vis the people, the last days should become an eye opener. The people will not accept such a diminished role. Their vote is precious and entails a responsibility that they are now ready to assert. So let us celebrate the true meaning of democracy.

In the smiles and sloganeering of the people one could sense hope. The hope of being finally delivered from the clutches of corruption. True that people felt somewhat naively that the proposed Bill would be a panacea for all ills. Simple people felt they would be rid of greasing palms on day-today basis and they were ready to lend their voice to the cause loud and clear. Yes they were credulous but can one blame them. This seemed the only ray of hope in their otherwise dark world. The Cassandras and doubting Thomas were back to the attack pointing out the flaws but people were too charged to hear. They just wanted to see hope so can we also celebrate the revival of hope.

There has been a lot to celebrate indeed. But there is more. One of the most amazing things to me personally was the vindication of the Gandhian principles of non-violence. It was breathtaking to see so many people protest in a peaceful manner for such an extended period of time, particularly when one is used to seeing violence erupt at the drop of a hat. Critics will again say that many Gandhian principles were subverted, but would not Gandhi himself have adapted his methods to the need of the hour. So we also celebrate the power of non-violence.

As the dust settles and we slowly emerged from our euphoria, it is time to take stock of all that happened and draw the lessons needed. The most important is undoubtedly to define our roles in the fight against corruption. True one man showed us the way. It is now time we learn to walk on it.

I went to the Ramlila grounds on Tuesday to be part of the protest against corruption let me Anna Hazare. I have already blogged about my what I felt that day but there are some other aspects of the agitation that I feel need to be highlighted.

I was impressed by the general atmosphere prevailing at the protest which was for want of a better expression a celebration of India. There were people from all walks of life, students and the elderly, rich and poor, urban and rural, people of diverse faiths and origin. But that was not all. There was also a genuine outpour of the legendary generosity of our land. Free packets of water were being handed out with a smile and gentle insistence. The place was surprising clean considering that it had housed tens of thousands of people over the past days. One would have expected it to be littered with garbage but it seemed that people themselves were ensuring its maintenance as one so many picking up the litter.

At the back of the grounds was what has been called Anna’s kitchen. Food was being cooked in large vessels and been handed out free to one and all. Hot rice, dal, vegetables, poories in disposable plates. Large bins were available to ensure that no plates were thrown on the ground and surprisingly there were none! A far cry from the morning after a wedding or a religious feeding frenzy in our city. Bags of dry rations and fresh vegetables waited to be turned into the next meal. Everyone was invited. I was told that all the food had been donated by supporters.

We decided to find the donation desk to make a contribution. All the donation posts bore signs saying closed. At first we thought that the people manning them had gone to lunch. But that was not the case. The organisers had decided to stop accepting donations as they felt they had sufficient funds for the present. Chapeau Bas was all one could say. This was really a unique occurrence in our times.

All around us people were singing or shouting slogans with conviction and passion. They had come for a cause they believed in, for a man whose honesty and integrity no one could question and everyone was proving themselves worthy of their ideal. Yes it was a celebration of India, amazing India!

This picture was taken by one of our students during the recent workshop on photography held at our women centre. The picture speaks for itself: the broom a silent but eloquent reminder of the fate of girls in India.

Let us look at some statistics: India has the largest population of children as 40% of its population is under 18; one out of every six girl child does not live to see her 15th birthday; Every sixth girl child’s death is due to gender discrimination; 35 million children do not go the school, 53% of girls in the age group of 5 to 9 years are illiterate; 60% girls drop out out school before class V. The list is endless and distressing.

In spite of our best efforts we have seen girls drop out of school for a host of reasons, but one of the most shocking one is because many schools do not have toilets for girls! This is something that could be easily remedied if the State had the will to do so. The condition of government run schools in our capital is truly abysmal. Wonder where all the funds go. However that is not the only reason: girls are often made to drop out of school to take on the role of caretakers particularly in urban migrant households where both parents work. Sadly this situation will not change as children under the age of 6 are not covered by the right to education act and the state does not run free preschool facilities. So girls become the obvious and only choice to look after younger siblings. In homes the discrimination continues: girls are less likely to receive immunisation, nutrition or medical treatment compared to a male child. Moreover even if they go to school, girls never get proper support be it books or the much needed tuition that is a must as practically no teaching is done in schools. Even the illiterate have realised the worth of such schools and boys are often send to the ever mushrooming private schools. Girls however are sent to the free Government school if at all.

Let us not forget that in most cases the sole concern of parents is to get the girl married asap and it is often believed that too much education limits the choices of possible grooms. A girl needs to know how to cook, clean and maybe sow. More than that is not considered kosher. And the more educated the groom the larger the dowry. Education is thus viewed as an impediment and not an asset.

The question that comes to mind is how does one change things. Voting laws and Acts is not the answer as often these remain unknown to the beneficiaries. Gender related issues need to be addressed with patience, understanding and perseverance.

I went to the Ramlila ground yesterday to be part of the anti corruption agitation led by Anna Hazare. I had of course been watching the agitation on telly and doing my bit by spreading the message but had shied away from actually going there in person. The reasons were many: my hurting knees, my low BP that dips at its own sweet will sending me into unexpected swoons, my agoraphobia and so on. Don’t forget I am a lone wolf. Anyway all this kept me away for a whole week but a little voice kept telling me to get off my high horses and get there.

I guess the little voice had a lot to do with Kamala my mother. As I watched the crowds on the small screen, I found myself going back in time to lessons learnt at mama’s knee, lessons that were often heard and forgotten as they seemed alien to a child growing up in the lap of luxury. Yet they must have struck a chord before being filed in the recesses of my memory as they all came rushing back bringing with them a plethora of emotions. There were stories of want, of patriotism, of sacrifice, of national pride. Was not Kamala the deprived little girl who had to know the extreme humiliation of having to stoop in front of a malicious cousin to get a sweetmeat, or the child whose task was to nurse her father’s and his companions’ lacerated backs when they returned from non violent manifestations having borne the brunt of police beatings, or the young girl who was willing to live life as an old maid rather than give life to a child in a colonised land. You see she was the daughter of a freedom fighter.

I remember fondly the story she once told me of how she and her friends who had decided to emulate their elders and stage their own Satyagraha were bundled up in a truck by the police and deposited miles away from home. The children were frightened and terrified. Thankfully her father had been able to trace them and bring them home in a horse cart. And every story she told me was punctuated with the very slogans that are being heard today: Vande Mataram, Bharat Mata ki Jai! There were also stories of the innumerable hunger fasts my grandfather undertook in jail, stories of force feeding valiantly resisted by consuming red chillies so that their throats were swollen and thus they could resist such attempts. The stories were many and I listened intently more so because of the passion with which they were told. And all the stories had one leit motiv: India’s freedom from British rule. And what is touching is that Kamala carried the same feelings into the initial years of her life as a diplomat’s wife. When she came to know that one of the guests at a dinner party was to be he British Ambassador it took all of my father’s persuasion skill to convincer her to be graceful to her guests!

The Vande Matarams and Bharat Mata ki Jai heard for the past days from every corner of the country resonated deeply in mind as a clarion call urging me to get out of the four walls of my home and lend my voice to the fight against corruption being waged at my doorstep. So yesterday I did set my fears aside and headed for Ramlila grounds. I must admit I was a tad nervous but at the same time filled with a excitement. We got to the group and promptly purchased an Anna Cap reminiscent of the ones worn by my grandfather and by my father at official functions. I donned it proudly and set out for the entry where we joined the queue shouting slogans. Needless to say I joined them enthusiastically and felt my spirits soar. I was transposed to another time.

We finally entered the grounds and though it was not filled to capacity as this was a working day, there were thousands of people around. Some had flags, others banners and yet others just stood watching the stage in the hope of getting a glimpse of their beloved Anna. He finally appeared looking frail bit his spirit soaring to infuse every one of us with renewed commitment as he shouted Vande to which the crowd roared Mataram. The atmosphere was nothing short of magic. The positive energy was palpable and infectious. Everyone exuded cheerfulness and bonhomie. People from all walks of life reached out to you with smiles and greetings. All barriers visible and invisible were forgotten at least for the time being. Everyone was united and it felt incredibly good. I was so glad I had come. I felt the spirit of Kamala right next to me reminding me that I was my mother’s daughter.

Don’t lose faith in India were the last words of a dying man almost 2o years ago. It was at a time when India was burning over the Babri Masjid issue and everything seemed dark and bleak. Yet the man would not let go and repeated his dying mantra. The man was Ram my father and the words a legacy difficult to accept and yet very real. I was being asked by the one I probably loved and respected most not to lose faith in India. Not an easy task when India was burning and no one seemed to care. Remember it was December 1992!

I often wondered which India he was referring to: the one that lived in his dreams or the one we lived in. With every passing year keeping faith in India became difficult if not impossible, more so because in those days I had not yet discovered the real India. What I saw was the India of my peers and that one was not pretty. It was empty, soulless, arrogant, glittery, vain and obsessively pursuing money. Blissfully it was when I decided to set up project why and was compelled to cross the invisible divide and embrace the other India that I had my first glimpse of an India I could believe in. It was in the slums of Delhi that I finally found the India my father carried in his heart.

The ensuing years were not easy. As I anchored myself in the India I sought, images of the other India became more and more ugly. It was the years of scams, of political arrogance, of corruption in all its shades and hues. That is when I started shutting myself from one India even if it meant becoming a recluse and being the target of the cynicism of my peers. But you see I had to keep faith in India! And the only way I knew was to shut out the one I could not stand by. True I had to make some forays into the India I shunned as therein lay the money we so needed. My brief incursions only vindicated my stand. How can I forget the bags of rubbish that so oft landed on our doorstep as donations! Or the contempt with which my appeals for help were set aside with a curt: all NGOs are corrupt! Or still the more subtler opprobrium voiced when we decided to send some slum children to an English medium boarding school.

I also watched with horror and sadness the dismissive way in which the India of the little people was treated be it the walls created to segregate slums from their upmarket neighbours or the callous destruction of homes to beautify Delhi for an international extravaganza. And as I discovered the sad reality of our land so poignantly conveyed by a set of statistics; 40 % of the world’s starvation-affected people live in India, 76% families (840 million) people do not get their daily required calories, 55 % of India’s women are malnourished, 46% of India’s children are malnourished, more than 320 million people in India are unable to manage three square meals a day and the most startling one: more than 5,000 children die every day from malnourishment. How could the other India remain silent and unmoved. At timed I found it impossible to swallow a morsel of food and still do. And the one and only cause for these terrible statistics is undoubtedly corruption.

As I watched helplessly the astronomical figures of the scams being uncovered and corruption becoming the toast of the day I could not help thinking of its poorer cousin namely the apparently tiny sums doled each day by the invisible ones to be able to survive: the weekly tithe paid by the cart owner, the vegetable vendor, the roadside cobbler and so on. They too were stifling under the same oppressor. Yes Corruption with a big C had become a two headed monster devouring everything in its way. It was this monster that gobbled the funds destined to make schools, hospitals, roads, to provide food to those in need, work to those who had none. Excellent social programmes were hijacked by greed and never fully implemented. Imagine if the simple ICDS scheme launched in 1975 had worked no Indian under the age of 36 would underweight, undernourished or not vaccinated. Isn’t that food for thought. The reality is that the poor are becoming poorer while the rich become richer.

The question was when would India awake from its cynical slumber. When would it find its lost voice.

It took a diminutive elderly soul and a piece of legislation to do the trick. It all began in April when the spirited Gandhian decided to sit on fast to defend his take on a legislation that was meant to rid India of corruption. The cause echoed in the minds of many and for the first time a different breed of people took to the streets. The powers that be were caught unawares as they sprung into damage control by playing to the gallery and inviting the Gandhian to the negotiation table. For them it was a simple delay tactic. They had their own agenda to defend and they did by casting aside the views of civil society and tabling their own legislation. The Gandhian reacted and India responded.

When Anna decided to fast again he would not be alone. India who had sad silent for too many years decided to join the agitation as the cause was one they believed in: corruption had gnawed at them mercilessly for too long and the hubris of the state was getting too much to bear. The state on the other side remained impervious to the pulse of the very people that elected them and unfurled a series of absurd reactions that made the people angrier. The first salvo was of course the favourite weapon in their arsenal: slander! Without a thought a spokesperson decided to call the Gandhian dishonest and brand him and his team as armchair fascists, overground Maoists, closet anarchists. India was outraged and the crowds swelled. As if that was not enough the state decided to act.

Anna was arrested, lodged in the same jail that housed the most corrupt, released all in one day. And as these harebrained actions were taken crowds grew angrier. India took to the streets and Anna remained firm in his resolve. People from all walks of life registered their protest. It was no more a fight for a piece of legislation but for every hurt that had been borne silently and helplessly. Housewives, professionals, students, village folk, retired people, the educated and the illiterate everyone was out to extend support. The media was there to chronicle it all. The powers that be stood exposed. Their arsenal looked strangely inadequate. The bungling lot tried to hide behind a host inane of screens but to no avail. Wonder what they would come up with next.

You may or may not agree with the Anna way. You may or may not agree with his version of the proposed bill but he has managed to stir passions never unleashed before. He has according to the New York Times emerged as the unlikely face of an impassioned people’s movement in India, a public outpouring that has coalesced around fighting corruption but has also tapped into deeper anxieties in a society buffeted by change. He has managed to awake a slumbering India!

We all want to see the monster slain! And we also want to be rid of a government that has lost the pulse of the people. In times where media was non existent, erstwhile rulers disguised themselves as commoners and mingled with the people to gage their mood and opinion. This helped them rule better. It is sad that today when every form of media is blaring the anger of the people our rulers remain aloof and unmoved.

Anna gave us back our voice. Now it is for us to use it in the way we deem right and not let it get once again tinged with cynicism. The ball is undoubtedly in our court. There will be many followers of Antisthenes or Diogenes of Sinope will find many ways to try and deter us, but we need to remain Pollyanna like and believe that the changes we seek with such passion happen soon. There will be enough time for remedies later. And to be a reverse cynic perhaps some form of monster is needed to slay another.

This post is primarily meant to renew faith a lost faith. In the past days I have seen a new face of India, I have seen invisible barriers crossed, I have seen hope. I have seen the India one cannot and should not lose faith in.

One of the items of our recent Independence day celebration was a play on Gandhi’s salt march. The play had five British

soldiers cast in it. We needed costumes for them. We thought best to go to one of the costume rental places and asked for British soldier uniforms. The man said he would get them for us in a day or two. We were quite confident that they would be appropriate.

Imagine my surprise when I saw our four lads all dressed up on D day. They looked like the tin soldiers of my childhood. I wonder which British officer ever wore such an accoutrement! I could barely contain my smile, if not my laugh, as I saw my five boys proudly displaying their regalia. I could not for the life of me understand where this came from! Ottoman soldiers? Prussian ones with the wrong coloured hat or a very strange interpretation of the Royal Guards of Buckingham Palace. Any one’s guess!

As I said to me they looked like the little tin men of my childhood, the ones we kept in tin boxes and took out to play with. Whatever they were, on that morning they looked adorable and won many hearts! God bless them!

A few months ago an email dropped in my inbox. It was from a young girl studying in Switzerland. She wrote: I have always been inclined towards arts and humanities. I believe in social development and I try to keep up with the daily news. At the same time, I have been studying photography at school among others and it is a subject that inspires me a lot. I think it is a beautiful medium of communication. So I decided to mix these two elements for my project. I plan to organize a photography workshop in the month of July for a group of children aged 11-13 years, coming from a different socio-economic background and teach it to them as a mode of self-expression. My objective is to pass on my knowledge to these children who may not have the possibility of learning and studying this art as a way of self-expression.

Aranya had come recommended from a very dear friend and I had no hesitation in accepting her request. I must admit that at that time I was a tad skeptic, wondering how children so young would fare. But all doubts vanished when the young spirited girl landed at pwhy. The following days or should I say weeks were a pleasure to watch. Six boys and six girls ran about the project and the surroundings camera in hand clicking away. Every time I came to the centre the band of six would try and capture me one way or the other. It was a pure treat to see them at work camera in hand trying to get the best frame like true professionals. I must again admit a little bashfully that I did not quite believe in the end result thinking that the would at best get some amateur shots.

When Aranya asked whether we could include a presentation of the children’s images in our Iday celebration, I agreed almost reluctantly. So you can imagine my shock when I was treated to a preview of the presentation on a computer sitting in my three wheeler under the rain on the even of Dday. The pictures were not just professional but stunning and moving. The children had captured images of India worthy of the best photographer. They saw with their heart and that was truly heartwarming. Needless to say that the applause was overwhelming on Dday. I hope we can organise an exhibition some day when we find a sponsor!

Till then here is a selection of the photographs. Enjoy!

The definition of the word Hubris in the dictionary is the following: excessive pride, defiance of the Gods leading to nemesis. It is a state in which we can easily fall, particularly when we happen to be in a position of power. It is something I have feared and been careful to avoid specially in the last few years when I found myself heading pwhy. It would have been easy to slip up and bask in undeserved pride as miracles after miracles came our way. When pwhy began I could never have imagined the multitude of extraordinary moments that have occurred over time.

First and foremost when we began with a handful of kids and a single spoken English class I never thought in my wildest dream that we would be reaching out to over 700 children, let alone envision that we would sponsor heart surgeries and save many lives. I could not have pictured that a little boy with third degree burns would land in my life and become an intrinsic part of it. It would, you agree, not be out of place if I did feel a tad proud. But I was so petrified of seeming hubristic, that I never allowed myself that liberty and always felt that I was simply fulfilling what I been destined to do. And it all worked for the best as pwhy lived from year to year meeting all challenges with confidence and success. True we had some tough spells but help always came in the nick of time. Everything seemed so perfect that at times it seemed eerie!

Life could have continued in this tranquil manner. It did for a long time till the fateful moment when I began thinking of pwhy after me and became almost obsessed by its sustainability. In hindsight I wonder whether it was not hubris surreptitiously knocking at my back door. Till that moment I had been quite content accepting things as they happened, looking for alternatives when some obstacle came our way and never knocking at a door more than once. However the sustainability syndrome was another thing altogether. It gnawed at me day and night and I must confess still does. After many false starts what seemed a doable idea took seed in my mind: planet why a guest house with a twist. It never occurred to me that it was way out of our league.

As soon as the idea seeded in my mind, I got busy ensuring it would root and grow strong. I defended it with passion against one and all, always finding arguments to counter any stricture, and as I did planet why became more and more real, at least to me. The dialectic was comforting. I refused to look at obstacles as possible writings on the wall and simply gave up my maxim of never knocking at the door more than once. I found myself banging on doors. Some opened slightly, others wider and yet others remained shut. And yet every time one was close to despair a ray of light shone, albeit for a few instants. And that is how we managed to purchase our land, get our proposal vetted by international consultants, and even found a likely investor who promised the earth but has been ominously silent. And yet I refused to give up hoping that some light would shine on us again. I was driven. Planet Why had to see the light of day.

But then slowly better sense seeped in and I felt it was time to take stock and look at alternatives. It was decided to make 2011 a watershed year. If nothing were to happen by 31-12-11 then we would slowly lay planet why to rest and work on different alternatives and feel grateful for what we have.

So all hubris lies forgotten and as a dear friend so aptly wrote in a recent mail: Many dreams that we have take time – at times a long period – to come to fruition. I guess time is running out, and God seems to have withheld his Miracle till now. But till D-day, let’s continue to bear faith and look for other ways out. Much has been invested into realizing Planet Why but I hope you don’t feel demoralized by the current difficulties, because let’s not forget that the everyday operations of the Project is still uplifting hundreds of children out of poverty. Planet Why could well be the epitome and we pray for the day it stands in front of us, but before that day arrives we know the Project is still true to its core duty and beliefs. And for that, I think we have every reason to continue being grateful and strive on with resilience, faith and tranquility.

If journalism is the first rough draft of history, journalists need to make sure that in the press of events, goodness doesn’t go unchronicled writes a journalist in an article in the Independence issue of a recent leading magazine. The issue is aptly entitled the good news of India. It was a breath of fresh air after all the grim issues that highlighted only the bad news. And it seems that more than one magazine decided it was time to share the good news as another leading one decided to shelve the politicians and big wigs and devote its Iday issue on highlighting the trials and tribulations of invisible Indians. Kudos to both of them. It is time this happened as we have been for far too long stifled by ‘bad’ news aka scams, terror, murders and more of the same.

Good news, it is said, does not get the aspired TRP rates and yet when we find a story of hope tucked away in an inside page, or the end of a news bulletin it is almost like the breath of fresh air we need to survive. It is time someone listened and chronicled it, if not for us then at least for history.

Some years back I got a mail from an unknown person. He was keen on knowing more about our work as he wanted to write about it. He was not a journo but the creator of a website called Good News India and his mission was to scout across India to find what he aptly called News from India : of positive action, steely endeavour and quiet triumphs ~ news that is little known. The site was a plethora of stories about Indians who make a difference. Way back in 2003 he wrote about Ana Hazare the very person India is celebrating today. Perhaps he knew intuitively that Ana would one day lead India against corruption. I am proud to say that project why was also one of the good stories.

We need to celebrate the little people, the ones that remain hidden and unseen. They are the soul of any nation, the ones that keep it alive and vibrant. On Independence day we too celebrated our very own: the special children. On that day they got sparkling gold medals to honour them. It is a sad that our society has never learn to appreciate and celebrate difference. Special children may not be quite like us, or so we would want to believe, but if you learn to see with your heart, they are far better human beings than us. They truly know how to celebrate difference as they accept us unconditionally and allow us to enter their world without reserve. They are always ready to shower us with wholehearted love. And yet they remain invisible, hidden by their families and loved ones, shunned by schools and rebuffed by potential employers. We try to bring a little balm to their hearts and light to their dark existences. But on I Day we decided to bring them all center stage and give them a medal just for being who they are: the very best! Needless to say their eyes were filled with joy and pride and we hope the medals will be displayed in their homes as a gentle reminder of their existence.

The invisible Indians referred to in the magazine are the very ones we pass by and do not see, as we do not look with our hearts. And yet they are a part and parcel of our lives as they more than anyone else make our existence better. I am talking about the one who does not bat an eye lid and gets into your drain to unclog it or the tailor who works hard at finishing your favourite designer’s latest outfit that you will wear at the next do, and what about the innumerable construction workers who enabled your dream home to be completed? have you ever spared a thought for them.

I have my set of little people who I never fail to acknowledge whenever I see them. Come to think about it how much does a smile or a hello cost? There is my roadside tailor who has fixed so many of my clothes, the cobbler who repairs a broken heel in a jiffy, the vegetable vendor who sits late into the night and ensured you get the lemon needed for you sundowner. The list goes on: my sun in law’s favourite roadside barber, the chai wallah who has been there for decades and knows us all, the ironing lady who ensures that all of us wear well pressed clothes, the little flower man who brings the puja (prayer) flowers every morning notwithstanding the weather, the garbage man who lands every morning with his cart to your rid you of your garbage, the kabadiwallah who takes away your old newspapers and empty bottles and even pays you for them. And what about your electrician, your plumber, your garner. Imagine life without them. No pretty! Yet how many of us know their names and have bothered to find out about their lives. And yet they have lives, lives that perhaps are not amazing enough to make headlines, but still lives that deserve to be heard and chronicled as they are also part of history.

I remember reading a collection of books in my youth. It was a French collection named La vie quotidien du temps des… (Daily life in the times of…) and it could be the Romans, the Middle Ages, the Ancient Egypt and so on. It made fascinating reading because unlike history books it documented the lives of ordinary people. I have tried in my blog to record some such stories as I have had the privilege in the past decade to live close to such invisible people and learnt to love and respect them. I need to write more!

Today let me just say Chapeau Bas to all the invisible people and a big thank you for being there for us.