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.

Dear Tatu

Today is your 100th birthday. Happy birthday wherever you are! Somehow I know that you are very close to me as I can fell your spirit right here with me and the smile the the picture that sits on my desk seems strangely alive. It almost seems as if you will walk out of the frame any moment and sit by me. A soft rain is falling and memories of days gone by fill my mind. Memories are strange beings as they can travel through time and space faster than light offering one a wonderful and thrilling journey. As I write these words I find myself being a little girl and a grown and ageing woman at the same time. Quite an experience!

But this letter is not meant to recall our tender and precious moments together. No. The reason I write is to tell you how we have decided to celebrate your centenary. Tatu you gave me the gift of life and that is what I want to celebrate this blessed day. When M asked me whether I was planning to have a puja for you I laughed. Though you were deeply spiritual I somewhat felt that a grim set of rituals was not the way to honour someone who lived life king size, to borrow a line from the advertising world! I had to come up with a befitting way of marking your 100th birthday. And I knew just how. It would not be I, but the children of project why who would mark this day in their own inimitable style.

In a few hours form now a bunch of happy children will sing and dance to their heart’s content just for you. They will celebrate India in song and movement as you share a birthday with this land you so loved and were never willing to give up on. Even in its darkest hour, when mosques were threatened to be destroyed your words were ones of hope and belief as you repeated almost obsessively lying on your death bed: Don’t lose faith in India. I never did because you taught me where to find the real India: in its little people. And it is the children of these very little people who will honour you today.

When you left me on that cold winter morning I was lost and remained so for many years. I tried to drown my sorrow in more ways than one but it was only when I decided to reach out to those in need that I found my way again. I have never looked back and though I miss you each and every day, it does not hurt anymore as I know you walk by me in each step I take, giving me the strength to continue my journey on the road less travelled.

I need a favour today Tatu. The last then years have been smooth sailing. Every road block or challenge was met with courage and eventual success. Sometimes it was scary as one felt favoured beyond expectation. Miracles came our way and I have a strange feeling that you were at the giving end. But in the past few months with age weighing heavy I have been worried about the morrows of pwhy. I have tried to the best of my ability to elaborate plans and ways to see pwhy live beyond me but they have all fallen short. I need you to show me the way. Is pwhy destined to carry on or will it slowly wind itself up without hurting the people that have come to depend on it. I know it is I who should be showering you with gifts today, but allow me to reverse the equation and ask for one today.

During your life your were always there to answer my questions and doubts. Will you do that once more for me?

Your child

anou

Tomorrow, Ram would have been 100 years old. Ram was many things, a respected jurist, a seasoned diplomat, a well versed scholar, a bon vivant, a fine gourmet, a wine aficionado, a caring and humane soul, a loving husband, a tender grandfather, but to me he was simply Tatu, my papa.

I came into his life when he was well passed his debonair youth and hence the time we spend together was somewhat truncated. Yet he made up for the loss of time by showering me with abundant and sometime stifling love and by packing what time we had with abundant and thrilling experiences. Was I not the little girl who was taken to dine at Maxim’s in a tête a tête when I was barely five! Yes Ram taught me many things: from absolute surrender to a greater force, to an unwavering faith in the destiny of India; from the delights of life king size to the undiluted joy of sharing a humble meal, from erudite books of diverse culture to the soothing lilt of a bhojpuri lullaby.

Life with him had been a thrilling coaster ride of intense sensations and experiences laced with lessons in humility and humanity. When he left almost two decades ago it was left to me to put all I had learnt from him to good use and try and craft something he would have been proud of. The challenge was not easy but had to be met. I must admit it took some time and a lot of false starts. The obvious things to do was to write a book and I did try but when the pages were written and reread, they paled into insignificance when compared to the force they were meant to represent. They were simply cast away in the bottom of a drawer waiting to be resurrected some day. This was not the way to go.

Yet deep in my heart I knew that Tatu’s legacy was far greater than what was bequeathed in tangible ways. All he had taught me in overt and covert ways were not meant to remain embedded in my mind and memory. That would be almost insulting. Every word he had uttered had to have a greater meaning. I spent many hours sifting through all he had said over the years and trying to find the quasi Delphic answers. And they did come. How could I have forgotten his dying words murmured to a friend in my presence when India was burning over the temple/mosque issue: Have faith in India he repeated incessantly. I understood that what needed to be done had to have a larger meaning. But how could I ever achieve it? It would take some time for the puzzle to be unravelled. And it did when I remembered the answer he had given me when I had asked as a child: where do I find God. He simply said: in the eyes of the poorest, most deprived child. Project why was born at least in my heart.

Tomorrow it is the project why children who will celebrate Ram’s centenary. For the past month they have been practising with all their hearts. There will be song and dance and even a play based on Kamala’s life that has been written by the staff and children as the yellowed pages were indeed resuscitated and turned into a book where Ram and Kamala’s lives are rightly embedded in a child’s story where they truly belong.

Yesterday we took Radha to Doc P. For the past weeks she had been coming to school sporadically. The reason given each time was that she was unwell. Sometimes we were told it was a fever, at other times a cough, a stomach upset or just that she was in pain. The mother was quick to add that she had got her medication. We knew it was from the local chemist or at best the local quack. When she did make it to school, she seemed tired and a far cry from her normal self. Enough was enough and we finally took her to Dr P, our very own wonder medicine man.

Even the best miracle conjurer cannot find a cure for Radha’s wasting bones. Her autoimmune disease is slowing gnawing her and we watch helplessly. The sores on her leg caused by the bone being sharp and thin and causing the skin to split cannot heal. Dr P recommended some antiseptic lotion. Her cough was not and infection but due to the insalubrious air she breathes in her home which is a hole tucked away between factories spewing poison. The good doctor gave her lots of supplements and vitamins and a mild pain killer to ease the pain that is now here to stay. Radha was all smiles, somehow the dose of TLC did wonders.

I however lost mine (smile I mean). I knew what awaited this darling child. Every time she felt too sick to come to pwhy she would remain in her dark hole breathing fumes. At best she would sit in the scorching sun or biting cold on a cart next to the food cart her mum runs. She would bear her pain stoically as she always does. And we would watch helpless and lost. Never was the need of planet why felt more acutely than at this moment. It is for her and others like her who suffer in dignified silence that planet why was conceived. A place where little Radha could breathe huge gulps of fresh air, sit in the sun surrounded by trees and flowers, laugh and giggle to her hearts delight and reclaim her lost childhood.

As I write these words am filled withe extreme sadness. Never had the planet why dream seemed so remote and distant. It seems as if all our efforts have come to naught. The miracle we hoped and prayed for never happened and little Radha will spend many more nights in her dark hole.

Why do I feel have failed.

Over the past years we have had many volunteers from the world over. Each has been special in his/her own way and left precious memories. Some however have done more! They simply walk into our hearts. One such soul is Jon.
He landed in our lives in late March and it was as if we had known him all our lives. His endearing ways won us over in no time. True he did have a raw first week courtesy some unavoidable circumstances, but those blew away once he moved to my house and for the days to come, nothing was the same as everything was touched by the magic of Jon West or should I say Best!

In his introductory mail Jon had stated he would like to stay for at least 1 month although I am flexible on dates and length of stay. The month turned into almost six. Jon did not take long to chose his place at pwhy. He decided to work with the special children and it was mutual love at first sight. Jon Bhaiya was adopted by one and all in no time. It was as if an old friend had returned home.

For the past 5 months Jon has been intrinsic part of the pwhy special class: be it the morning exercises, the classroom activities, the dancing sessions or simply the giggling ones. On the rare days he has been away, often nursing a bout of Delhi belly, the children never failed to ask why their Bhaiya had not turned up. I dread to even think about what will happen when he leaves next week.

There is also another side of Jon Bhaiya, one I have had the privilege to discover over time and that is his humane and sensitive nature. We have shared many special moments be it on our daily auto rickshaw ride to pwhy in the mornings or over a cup of tea in the evenings. I often found myself sharing my worries and angst or simply life thoughts. He not only gave a patient hearing to the ramblings of an old biddy but often helped me resolve my apprehensions and find my way.

Project why has been and is a very lonely journey. Loneliness is oft the price you have to pay to be on the top. You need put up a brave face, have a ready smile at almost all times, and find the required answer each time a question comes your way. And though you manage a mean show day after day, you too need to sometimes hop off the spinning wheel and recharge your used and overused batteries. That is when people like Jon are God sent!

We will all miss Jon West, I more than others!

I am sure many of you remember the epic film of the late fifties aptly named Mother India and the stunning poster that depicted the leading lady ploughing her land. The film was a symbol of the newly independent India and of the brave and righteous Indian woman. We have all seen the film and been touched by its story but it belonged to a distant past or so we thought. Yet 55 years later in a village in Vidharbha a farmer is tilling his land using his sons instead of bullocks. The news was aired a couple of days ago and I for one found it difficult to watch the images and had to turn my eyes away. I was filled with horror, extreme sadness and profound shame. This could not be happening and yet it was. And this was not all. Even after the story was highlighted by a local newspaper there was no relief as their appeal for a pair of bullocks was turned as they were considered to be above the poverty line and hence not eligible for the said scheme. All they got was free power to operate the well they had dug with their own hands. The family was considered above the poverty line because they owned 8 acres of land. Never mind if they had scant more! And theirs is not the only case.

What does one say! I am speechless just as I was when I read the Planning Commission’s aberrational definition of the poor as one who spent less than 15Rs a day. And that is not the only scary statistic. What about the one that states that a child does of malnutrition every 8.7 minutes or the one recently published in a leading magazine that states makes known that 46% of the malnourished children of the world live in India. This article pertains to the Food Security Bill that is sadly being watered down by the Government. Why am I not surprised. Such bills are made not to help anyone but to line more pockets. Children die while grain rots and bureaucrat and politician quibble over the definition of the word poor. That is the sad reality in 21st century India.

And what is sadder is that we all watch helpless and even unmoved. We still waste food, even throw food and when solicited for help by some humanitarian organisation are quick to retort that all organisations are dubious and suspicious. And the saddest part is that it is not only the uber rich who are profligate . The new poor, those who have arrived and now live in urban slums, emulate us unabashedly. For me it has been a losing battle over a decade to try and explain that food should not be wasted. In villages one can still give it to animals, in cities it is simply thrown in the garbage or even on the street. The most blatant example being the aftermath of religious feeding frenzies and wasteful weddings. And still we the so called educated and informed remain dry eyed. We do read about children dying, food rotting, people being used as bullocks; we see food being wasted, children begging at every street corner, beggars rummaging the garbage heap from a scrap of food but are too jaded to make connections and let alone take action. So why should our politicians. Are they not a reflection of who we are?

I just finished reading Indian Summer by Alex Von Tunzelmann, a book that retraces the last days of the British Raj and the advent of our Independence. What caught my attention was the humane nature of erstwhile leaders who could not bear to see any suffering and who felt compelled to reach out and act. Where have all such leaders gone? Today everyone seems inured to misery, suffering and more.

And that everyone includes me. Is it sufficient to feel horror, sadness, shame and write a blog from the comfort of my home?

I stumbled upon this picture while sorting the thousands of photos on my computer. I do not know how I had missed this snapshot! It was taken a few weeks ago when school results were announced. The three little topped their respective classes and had brought their report cards to show it to their teachers. The picture was shot just outside our Govindpuri primary centre.

The little girls were very proud of the attention they were getting. I think that till then no one had lauded their effort. That is too often the plight of children born on the wrong side of the fence. The stars that adorned their report cards are never praised by their parents who often are too busy to take a moment to give their children the much needed pat on their back.

We did and the girls were thrilled. On August 15th they will all receive a little shield with the words best student inscribed on it.

Looking at the pictures set my mind thinking. What does the future hold for these bright little girls. Going by past experience not much. They all come from extremely deprived homes and are often one of many siblings. Being of the wrong gender the probability of their being pulled out of school looms large: an early marriage, an ailing grandparent that needs to be tended to in the village or simply the whim of a drunken father who decides suddenly that his daughter has had enough education. The future of these little girls, is very fragile, very fragile.

I remember a quote sent to me long ago that said: I do not know beneath what sky; Nor on what seas shall be thy fate; I only know it shall be high, I only know it shall be great. In the case of my three little one would have to quietly replace the last two knows with wish!

Poor Economics is a book I would have never read but for a review in a magazine that piqued my curiosity. The review quoted the following words: What is striking is that even people who are that poor are just like the rest of us in almost every way. We have the same desires and weaknesses; the poor are no less rational than everyone else — quite the contrary. Precisely because they have so little, we often find them putting careful thought into their choices. They must be sophisticated economists just to survive. Yet our lives are as different as liquor and liquorice.

These words were enough for me to want to get a copy and dive into it. It was a strange experience. A sort of deja vu, deja vecu. The book touches upon many of the fields we at pwhy are familiar with: education, health, saving, governance etc. I could almost put a face and a name to every story I read. It was eerie and somewhat comforting. What often seemed to be absurd suddenly became comprehensible. The umpteen frustrations were put into perspective and made some sense. It seemed that what I had often thought as singular instances were present across the spectrum of what you could call the poor worldwide. They all seemed to be talking the same language.

The book is replete of case studies that echo the ones we have experienced over the years. It also raises questions we have asked ourselves over and over again. Be it the state of State run schools, the poor quality of health services available to the poor, the inability of the poor to save, the presence of swanky TV in homes that have scant resources for essentials and so on. I found myself reading the book as you would a whodunit hoping to find not the name of the murderer but answers to all the perplexing whys!

Alas there are no ready made answers but a set of key lessons tucked away in the last chapter that could improve things if applied. The first lesson is that the poor lack critical pieces of information and believe what is not true and when their beliefs turn out to be incorrect they make wrong decisions. This so true and one of the biggest stumbling blocks we have come across in our journey. And often a simple piece of information can make all the difference. However to be effective the information needs to come from a credible source and in a simple way. This lack of information pans a wide spectrum. It could be about education, health and so on. I remember how local goons invaded our workshop on AIDS prevention as for them talking of about AIDS was dirty, a misconception that is sadly very prevalent.

Second the poor bear responsibility for too many aspects of their lives. This statement was an eye opener for me, something I had never thought of. And yet it is so true. The richer we are the less decisions we have to make. Many of our problems are taken care of: job security retirement benefits, access to good quality water, food, health etc. For the poor life is much more demanding as they have none of these. The authors suggest that their lives could be bettered if they were made to do the right thing easily: simple saving accounts, fortified salt, access to chlorine next to drinking water sources. Small remedies that could have lasting effect.

Third some markets are missing for the poor like insurance, easy loans, savings account etc. These according to the authors should be made available to them in innovative ways. This of course is beyond our realm of work but we all know how well micro finance has worked in some places. At the very beginning of our work we did try to launch a small loan programme but unfortunately it did not work as planned and had to be shelved.

Fourth poor countries are not doomed to failure. In many cases the problem is that programmes destined for them land in wrong hands or go the wrong way. This according to the book is due to the three Is: ignorance, ideology, inertia. Often absurd rules once in place keep on going because of inertial. The authors give the interesting example of village education committees which are meant to include parents of the best and worst student. Who decides that as there are no tests until the 8th grade. The good news is that much can be done in improving existing programmes. I have always held that if we could get the present social programmes to run at 50%, India would be a different country.

It is hard to say whether the conclusions of this treatise are optimistic or pessimistic. What the book shows is that the plight of the poor worldwide is worrying and needs to be addressed. There are solutions but they require a lot of effort and goodwill on the part of the very people who have hijacked them to feed their own greed. But what is also apparent is that the efforts of people like us, however small are still needed.

Finally expectations about what people are unable to do end up into turning in self fulfilling prophecies. Children give up on school when teachers signal to them that they are not smart enough to master the curriculum. Changing expectations is not easy, but it is not impossible.

This morning we handed out two drafts to Vivek and Shambhu for their respective courses. As you may recall we had launched an appeal a few days back to help these two bright lad realise their dreams. Many responded and we have managed to reach the half way mark. However as there was a deadline we decided to advance the missing sum and ensure that the boys are enrolled in their courses. The main reason being that they unlike many of their peers listened to our advice and opted for professional options rather than go for an almost useless degree from an evening college or a correspondence course. Once they have completed their course they will have have no problem getting started. Medical laboratory assistants are in great demand and a quick perusal of an employment website shows the starting salary to be 12 000 rs a month for those without experience. And a good electrician is worth his weight in gold and much sought, I just paid 800 rs for a couple of hours work to mine yesterday! So Shambhu and Vivek are definitely on the right track.

A friend suggested that we put a rider on our support. She proposed we tell the two to boys that they need promise that when they are settled and earning they sponsor the education of a child each. It could be by paying their fees, or books or uniforms or simply by helping them with their studies. I kicked myself for not having thought of this as I remember being very touched by the Catherine Ryan Hyde’s book Pay it Forward. The book is about doing a favor for another person ~ without any expectation of being paid back. Indeed one would request that the recipient of that favor do the same for someone else ~ ideally, for three other people. What is special about this book is that a simple work of fiction evolved into a vibrant foundation. I remember wondering whether we too could adopt this precept. Now was the time.

So when we handed the cheques to Shambhu and Vivek we asked them to promise that they too would one day help educate a child. They were a bit perplexed at first but then slowly realised what we were saying and smiled broadly nodding their heads. I hope they remember their silent promise.

It was a great moment for all of us at pwhy as we felt we had reached somewhere. Shambhu was one of our very first students as he joined when he was in class II and we had just opened our doors. What a journey it had been. Maybe we did deserve a small pat on our backs!

Meet Vivek and Shambhu. They need our help. I had written an earlier blog wherein I stated their case and shared their dreams. As was I pointed out by a dear friend and supporter my appeal gave the feeling that we were expecting one person to foot entire amount. Far from that! That is not the pwhy way. Are we not the ones that launched the rupee a day campaign?

So let me try and rewrite the appeal my way. Vivek and Shambhu are two our our brightest students. They have always done well in school and exams. Shambhu has been with us since he was in class III. They have just cleared their XIIth Boards and did exceedingly well by our standards. Vivek even got a whopping 85% in maths! But they were unable to get the needed 90+ that open doors in our day and times. And being from poor families they are unable to pay their way! Now being bright young lads and having well learnt the lessons we impart they did not chose to go for an evening or correspondence course that can be quite useless but opted for a professional one, something we urge our kids to do. One decided to go for a medical lab assistant course and the other for a diploma in electronics engineering. Both have good solid job prospects.

But there is a hitch. Each course costs about 25 000 Rs and their families do not have the means to support them. Vivek’s dad runs a small shop in the village. He sent both his sons to Delhi to study. The boys live in a small rented accommodation and the father can barely support their stay. Shambhu’s dad drives an auto rickshaw. He has four sons and though he ensured a good education to each of them, he cannot come up with the money required for the said course. So both the boys came to me with their admission forms asking for help. How could I have sent them away.

I know the sum asked is a big one but if many of us got together and pitched in I am sure we could make the boys’ dreams come true. Will you lend a hand.

Just contact me at anouradha.bakshi@gmail.com

Vivek and Shambhu are two of our brightest students. They have just passed their class XII and got good marks but sadly not enough to make it to the bigger colleges that have now become the turf of the rich and privileged. But our lads are not one to give up on life and have woven new dreams for themselves. They both applied for professional courses through the Board of technical education and sat for the entrance exams and cleared them!

Vivek wants to be a medical lab assistant and Shambhu wants to do a diploma in electronics and medical engineering, courses that guarantee them jobs in the future. But there is a hitch. Even though the courses are not expensive by our standards they are out of the reach of these two boys. Vivek was sent by his father a small shop keeper in the village to pursue his studies in Delhi and he and his brother live in a small rented accommodation and have barely enough to make ends meet to 26 000 Rs is a lot of money for him. Shambhu’s dad drives an auto rickshaw and cannot spare the 28 000 Rs his son needs. If the fees are not paid in four days then these boys will lose their chance.

They need us to help them build a future and save their dreams. I hope someone will hear their silent appeal and help them. These boys deserve the best.

I had blogged recently about the absurd situation faced by students aspiring to get admission in colleges in Delhi. There is more. A racket has just been exposed. It got you admission to your preferred college @ 500 000 Rs! The modus operandi: providing the candidate with a fake caste certificate. The aspirants were even students with high marks not satisfied with the college they got through merit wanting more! The racket had been going on for some years.

The cover story of a leading weekly aptly entitled 95% and nowhere to go, brushes a grim picture of the marks saga and the state of our education. Do read it if you have time. There are some startling facts. For instance the article says: Marks have been inflated, even as testing standards have been simplified. If you are 17 and can find an error with a sentence such as, “We were late and it is getting dark” or “Now we both was running”, or write a hypothetical dialogue when clues and even an example is given, you will probably do well in a Class XII CBSE English exam. A teacher goes on to reveal; It is possible to score 100 per cent even in English with the current lenient marking scheme: My school has had an exceptional result this year, with more than 29 per cent getting over 90 per cent in English. This, from students who cannot string three sentences of English together. A board paper does not test any real learning. It only tests your capability of answering a paper according to a prescribed answer sheet. Phew! That says a lot does it not? The marking system is absurd. A child’s entire future depends on how you perform on a given day in a given examination. Children cannot cope with the stress and we all are too painfully aware of the suicides that happen each year.

Children are taught how to score, not how to learn, think, analyse, reason etc. The culprit is the shift from the essay type question to the objective one! A student needs only to learn by rote. No one expects him to be creative, enquiring etc. Our education system has gone astray and needs to be set right urgently.

The rot started some years back. I remember how a young girl who wanted to be a doctor all her life and was an excellent student missed her boat by a few marks. She then had to become an engineer and is today a very unhappy though successful one. This is not an isolated case. There must be many like her. But is education not a means to realise your dreams? Not in our land. Here it is marks that defines who you will be and what you will become.

Now let us get back to the caste certificate racket as it compels us to ask some disturbing questions. It is obvious that these are purchased with the blessings of the student’s parents as no one class XII student could have access to such amounts of cash. Our first reaction would be to recoil in horror. How can parents accept to abet cheating? What lesson are they giving their children? and so on. But let us look at the matter in another way. Are they not simply helping their children fulfill their dreams. Not as simple as it seems, too many shades of grey.

In all this imbroglio our thoughts must once again go back to the children from underprivileged homes. If students with 90% are going to fill reserved seats by unfair means then where will the real beneficiaries go? Reservation, whether one approves of it or not, is meant to help the underprivileged get access to better options. It is true that even this had been hijacked by the so called creamy layer. And now it is being hijacked by the privileged ones.

Getting a caste certificate is no easy task. I remember how we tried to get one for a little Valmiki girl in the hope of getting her registered for some girl child programme. In spite of our best efforts we were unable to do so. The paper work required was beyond imagination and logic, and we got lost in the maze and missed the deadline. The said programme was only available to children less than 6 months old. So you see the scenario: the deserving cannot get a certificate whilst the rich can by paying. This is the real India story. Sad is it not.

India is replete of good intentions gone astray. I always hold that if even 50% of our social programmes had worked we would be a different nation altogether. My mind goes to the (ill)famed ICDS launched in 1975 that would have ensured that all Indians below the age of 35 would have been vaccinated and provided early nutrition. That was not the case as even today a child dies of malnutrition every 8 minutes! What ICDS has done is make people rich and provide jobs to political cronies. This is just one programme, there are hundreds that have gone the same way and it is still happening.

It is time we did something. We owe it to the millions of children who have been forgotten by all.

In a few hours Utpal will leave for school. We spent yesterday packing all his things: his unwieldy homework – a chart of roman numerals made with matchsticks, a wall hanging made of bangles and a cartoon character made with lentils to name a few – have to travel safely and reach school unscathed. It was no easy task as there were more charts, scrap books and so on. Wonder why a school gives so much holiday work, when does the child enjoy his vacation. Must confess that some of the said work was done by yours truly with a little help from friends!

Anyway while we were busy packing, our little man was enjoying his last day of freedom. He had planned it himself: morning spent at the women centre making one of his creation for his friend D, the afternoon at Kalka Mandir on his favourite rides and the evening at a nearby mall to try some new ones. In between all this there was a visit to the Doctor and short stop at the toy shop to buy a ball. A busy day I must say.

I of course was part of the doc/toyshop slot.

In a few hours my little man will leave for school. It has been a hectic and troubled month. When Utpal came for his holidays he was unmanageable: angry, stressed, moody, violent, capricious and dejected. No amount of coaxing or cajoling worked. We were all helpless and lost. Sessions at the psychotherapist were a nightmare. We were walking on eggshells. He had locked himself up in a dark world. He spent his days glued to the idiot box or demanding something or the other. It was to say the least unbearable as we knew the child was hurting but did not know how to express his pain. That is when we decided to meet the psychiatrist and seek help. I am glad we did.

For the past two weeks Utpal has been the tender and loving child he once was. The one everyone fell in love with. His huge and enchanting smile is back 24/7! He is once again his happy self. It is such joy to watch him. I must confess I have spent most of my time with him. Every morning when I go to wake him back I am greeted with hugs and kisses and he is willing to do anything you want him to. The idiot box does not hog all the space now, Utpal spends most of his time creating things: wacky laptops, zany desk organisers and more. He has his art and craft bag that with scissors, staplers paint and so on and carries it everywhere he goes. I simply watch in awe. He often gives me is lopsided smile, the one that lit is face when he was tiny, and the one that could melt the coldest heart. A smile he had lost but now reclaimed. And my heart fills with joy and gratitude. My popples is back into the light.

Apologies for digressing. Yes in a few hours I will wake him up and get yet another special smile. Then he will don his uniform that has been cleaned and ironed and hangs in his cupboard. I hope to catch a few moments with him before the car carries Utpal and his homework back to school. And I will wipe the tears in the corner of my eyes and go back into an empty house.

S wanted a Blackberry Playbook for his birthday. Now S is not a young teenager but a well established person with a great job. D his wife decided to grant him his wish and buy the said object. But then S changed his mind and decided to donate that money to educate 4 kids at pwhy! Wow! S and D always manage to take my breath away. So the Playbook mutated into something intangible and yet so precious. I am humbled!

The curious and the cynic often want to know how pwhy is funded. This makes me smile as the answers I have are not the ones expected. Pwhy is not funded by the state of by hefty funding organisations. It is funded by spurned Playbooks, people walking rather than taking a car, garage sales and bake sales, someone crafting jewelery that is then sold, auction of children’s paintings, couples giving up their wedding gifts or children their birthday ones, people running marathons. The list is endless and each penny laced with love and compassion. And thus each penny becomes precious and sacred and translates into ace report cards, successful exams, life saving surgery and above all reclaimed smiles. And thus flows project why….

For the past few days the house has been strangely silent. What I mean is that one does not hear the screeching sound of cartoons on TV, something that was till date a constant when Utpal was home. He spent all his waking hours glued to the idiot box, lost in his own world.

As I had written earlier, I had been very worried about his behaviour and even sought medical help. Two weeks back he was put on medication and I waited with bated breath for the dreaded side effects and the expected results. The side effects were few – a little sleepiness and slight tremors – but the results have been so say the least stupendous. Not only has our little fellow calmed down and gone back to his old endearing ways, but the child that was once riveted to the television now spends most of his time creating things. His best till now is his computer. It is made out of a sweet box, cardboard, paper, paint, and even has a mouse that blinks light: a small remote controlled plane! This computer has changed my life and brought back a smile that had been mislaid. Utpal who had locked himself in a dark world has come into the sunshine and no one is happier than I.

This morning I was handed out the detailed results of our class XII and X students. In the right hand column the teacher had put in remarks. Some students were school toppers, other class toppers, yet others maths topper. Marks ranged in the 90s and 80s. There were some who had just passed but the teacher had written that these were very weak students who had managed to clear their examination: a feat in its own way. Vivek had secured 99% in maths and Shilpa, Jatin, Anita and Rohit were all toppers. The same story was repeated in class X with a good number of As with as many as 5 toppers again. It was a ah ha moment for pwhy. But was it really.

A news item last week had dampened my joy in more ways than one. You now needed an aggregate of 100% to get admission in B (Com) Hons in one of Delhi University’s prime institution. Absurd and inane! Yet the Principal of the same institution defended this decision: We get the best students from across the country and getting 100% in the aggregate of your best performance in four subjects is no longer impossible in Board examinations. Never mind if in some States toppers secure marks in the nineties. In a nutshell this means that if a child has secured a respectable 80 or 85%, (s)he may not get admission in a good college. Let me also add that Delhi University colleges are affordable and thus an option for all students, irrespective of their social background. All doors had been banged in their faces.

Of course, for the past few years there has been a proliferation of private institutions with fees in 6 figures! Not an option for the slum kid, son of vegetable vendor or ironing man who has managed to clear his Boards with what was once called a first division. They will have to either get admitted in an evening course, a correspondence course or apply through the Open University. It almost seems as if higher education has been sectioned into classes: one for the uber smart, another for the uber rich and yet another for the poor. I was told just yesterday by a young upmarket kid that some of the private universities will take a weak student for a higher fee aptly dubbed donation. The other option of course for the affluent is to go abroad, another door that is closed to our children.

When we hear of 100% as a cut off mark for a favoured course, even we the almost incurable optimists are left dumbfounded. Even with our best efforts we know that our children cannot make the cut and that because they run the race with a heavy handicap: poverty. Many of our kids cannot afford books and thus rely on badly drafted guides. Many cannot afford extra tuitions. All do not have savvy parents or resources at home. They often do not even have place to study at home. How can you when you live in a tin box that you share with many, when a younger sibling may tear your book or a drunk father simply destroy it in a fit of rage. And yet children like Vivek or Shilpa beat all odds and come out winners. But their victory is not good enough to open the door of a first class education. They will always be second best.

Now second best is available all the way. You can secure a degree or even an MBA or other professional course. Two of our staff have taken that road. You register with an institute and are given course material. A look at it is enough to make you either roar with laughter or scream in horror. Booklets badly printed on cheap paper boast of titles like globalisation, education, and give pathetic ready made answers to possible questions. These are then mugged and regurgitated at the examination. And you manage to secure enough marks to pass as remember you can pass with a mere 33%! When you have duly sat for all the examinations you are given a degree and become a graduate. Sadly there are many such graduates. I do not need to spell out their worth.

There is something terribly wrong in our system of education and it is time the powers that be addressed the problem and took corrective measures, or else the so called Right to Education will become a poor joke played on innocent children.

His name is Yuvi. He is the latest kid on the block. He joined our special section last month. Yuvi is a 4 year old who looks 8! He is locked in his own world, a world for which we have no key. No one quite knows yet what his condition is as it is difficult if not impossible to begin an assessment.

Yuvi is a big child with an endearing face and easy ways. He ambles around in class, often heading for the exit door but not quite stepping out. He sometime moans and often laughs but no one knows why. He is truly locked in his world and seems like not wanting anyone entering it.

Yuvi is a strong child yet a placid one. Though he does not as yet participate in any activities, you can sit him down and make him do morning exercises. In a manner of speech as he just sits limp and you are the one who is meant to push and tug at his limbs and follow the class. He likes putting everything in his mouth, even your toes if you are not watchful! He responds to his name but will not follow any instruction. He can lie for hours on his stomach and do nothing, or so it seems to us aliens to his world. At break time he may chew on some wafers or biscuits. He then resumes his ambling and wandering till it is time to go home.

Slowly we will have to learn his ways, to gently knock at his locked door and hope he allows us entry. We will have to learn his ways before attempting to teach him ours, to unravel the puzzle gently, one piece at a time. So Yuvi can we enter your world.

Man proposes, God disposes goes the saying. Never have these words been as true as today and I am so say the least totally lost. I can only pray as hard as possible that God disposes kindly!

Many of you know Popples. Some have met him and others have heard about him or read about him. Popples landed in our lives in 2003. He was at death’s door having suffered terrible burns and though many gave up on him, we did not and nursed him back to health. Man proposed and God agreed as he was soon back on his chubby feet and a little bundle of pure joy. He walked into many hearts and people the world over reached out to him. Some time later we discovered that his mom was an alkie and decided to help her by checking her into rehab. Man proposed again and God nodded in agreement. What to do with the child though. A boarding school was the answer and man proposed again and God agreed enthusiastically. All was well. We sat back and watched our performance smugly. Lost in our hubris we started making lofty plans: Popples would go to school and then university. The world was at his feet and mom would be given a job and a place to stay. We were on cloud nine.
Man had proposed.. we simply forgot God.

Popples was doing well in school. His grades were good, his reports better. Everyone loved him at school and we thought that the next 11 years were well on course. Mom on the other hand was not doing well and refused our road map altogether. She was diagnosed as bipolar and treated but to no avail. She soon went back to her old ways. The bottle was too big an adversary and the only child she cared for. We went into damage control, knocked at the doors of justice and got Popple’s legal guardianship. Mom just disappeared. The child started hurting as he was missing mom and soon his grades fell a little and his mood got sombre. We were not unduly worried and tried to assuage his pain as best we could. Man proposed as best he could, God was watching. Things went worse and Popples became aggressive and sometimes difficult. The question no one wanted to mouth had to be asked: could he have inherited his mom’s ailment? Could he be bipolar… Man did not dare propose, God needed to be petitioned.

Visits to the psychologist followed but did not bring much result and then the inevitable: a visit to the child psychiatrist. This was done last week and the news was both good and bad. The good news: it did not look like the child was bipolar. The bad: he seemed to have SMD ( Severe Mood Dysregulation) and that would require long term medication. My world stopped for an instant. All the plans and dreams seemed to fall apart and the new ones were too scary to fathom. Would he be alright was the only question in one’s mind. Man did not want to propose anymore. God had to intervene and set things right. Popples had to come out of this as his whole life depended on his well being. Why did this child have to suffer so much. Third degree burns, a severely dysfunctional family, an AWOL mom and now SMD.

We were geared for the normal mishaps that happen to a child: a scarped knee, an open chin, a dog bite, a broken bone, even falling grades but this was way out of our league. Man did not dare propose any more. Now it was left to God and God alone.

Ina few hours from now Popples will meet the doctor and his treatment will be chalked out. I urge all of you to pray for this child. His life is at stake and mine too.