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.

I stop all to write this blog. We have our own Breaking News! Believe it or not our very own Sanjay is walking the ramp for the Paris Fashion Week. The designer is…. you will have to wait for June 26th to know that! I am so proud of him and moved to tears.

I remember Sanjay as a young boy barely fourteen or so, almost a decade ago. In those days we held classes for the Lohar camp in an open park and Sanjay and his pals you use to hand around, at the periphery, not quite decided to join the class, and yet drawn by the sight of the young volunteers that use to teach. I of course use to try and get the young boys’ attention and urge them to join classes. Many did not but Sanjay did and I must confess today that I was attracted by his incredible looks even at a very young age. I guess I must have been the first to suggest that he become a model in Europe were dark looks are in and as I use to say to him in jest: you can then earn a lot of money for pwhy!

Even I who normally believes in big dreams did not ever think that a decade later Sanjay would walk the ramp in Paris. Yet he is and it is huge day for all of us at pwhy. And even though I am sort of inured to miracles after 10 years of project why, this one is humongous even by my standards. A boy born on the road side, destined to beat the iron, first becomes a teacher and the an international model. Wow! I am speechless.

June 26 2011 will be a very special day for all of us at pwhy, one that proves beyond any doubt that anything is possible if the Gods are on your side.

One always tends to highlight the achievements of the pwhy kids. One talks of their school results, their Board results, the jobs they get, their successes and so on. This has almost become a norm as every year and in all our centres children do us proud in more ways than one. What we tend to forget is the fact that none of this would be possible without our incredible band of teachers! It is they, and they alone who make all the small and big miracles happen.

It is time I paid tribute where it is truly due: the terrific staff that holds the fort and holds it so well.

Let us begin at the top: the two souls who run the two arms of project why with utmost efficiency and like a clock work orange have been with us for almost a decade. One of them was barely sixteen when she joined our wagon as an unpaid volunteer who use to come and run a small medical post that we opened for two half hours a day. She then graduated to distributing nutrition and that is when I discovered her inborn managerial talent. She learned at the speed of light and slowly but surely carved her place in project why. Today she runs her part of the show single handedly. Over the years she carefully selected her team, hired and fired with the needed aplomb. I have never seen her buckle under any circumstance, she always conjures a better solution. When she joined she was what you call a school drop out, not because of lack of aptitude but because she was beaten mercilessly and her mom decided that she should not go back. But she is not one who gives up. While working with us she completed her class X, XII and is now sitting for her BA final exams. What is amazing is that she never took a day off. You may have guessed, I am talking of Rani.

Rani is aptly seconded by a vibrant team of teachers. Some have been with us for many years, others have joined more recently. Each and everyone of them is committed and diligent. Come to think of it most of them were not destined to be teachers. Many were simple housewives whose education had been truncated by an early arranged marriage. Others were young people who had finished their studies in some remote place and come to the city to seek greener pastures. They learned on the job and boy they learned well. I can only say Chapeau bas to all of them.

The other arm of project why, namely the women centre was created from scratch by a young man who joined us a a teacher but soon emerged as social activist at heart, someone who strangely echoed my way of thinking: almost a kindred spirit. He soon graduated from his role as a humanities teacher to being the one I turned to in moment of crises. When we decided to set up the women centre as a case of force majeure, it was he I turned to. The result is there for all to see: a vibrant centre catering to more than 300 souls. And here again there is a superb team that runs the show. Well done Dharmendra.

The true measure of the success of team project why is my redundancy. Quite frankly project why does not need me to run. And though my team will vouch for the contrary, I can recognise the writing on the wall: I am really de trop! My only utility is as a fund raiser. That is the only thing my team has not mastered in spite of my best efforts. In hindsight I should be happy as otherwise I would have been completely superfluous. That is not quite the truth as I am aware of my shortcomings and of the fact that I am not eternal and for project why to run beyond me, my team will have to master the art of fund gathering. Maybe that is what needs to be done.

If planet why does see the light of day, and that would be my fund raising master stroke, my real swansong. I know my team will be able to run the show and carry on the work. If that does not happen then they will have to explore new ways. Deep in my heart, I know that many of them will not let project die wither and die.

My little grandson left last week after spending nine months with us. An eerie silence pervades the house making it uncanny. It is almost as if its soul had suddenly gone missing.

For the last eight months the house had been commandeered by a little bundle of energy and joy. Everything moved around him and was tuned to his needs and demands. Even the old biddy had adjusted her ways to his schedule and my work day for the past months looked a little strange. The house itself had lost its erstwhile pristine look. Toys lay strewn in every nook and corner, the drive and garden were requisitioned by brightly coloured cars and cycles of all sizes. We had to learn to live around all these alien articles. But I am not complaining far from that! We all loved the new arrangements.

For the last eight months a new vocabulary became ours as we followed a little boy’s forays into mastering a new language. The air conditioner was christened as thanda machine or cold machine, and Namaste became Manaste and stayed so. When any task was completed be it a meal or a painting session a loud fini was heard and no force on earth could challenge that. We simply adopted the new lexicon, adding new words as they were mouthed by a little lad. The months flew at an incredible speed and the day of parting dawned. Never were Lamartine the french romantic poet’s words more true: one person missing and all life goes away. Even if the missing one is knee high to a grasshopper.

We are slowly learning to live without little Agastya. It means filling up time that hangs heavy, adjusting our ears to eerie silence, getting used once again to an immaculate house. Somehow when he was around one had learnt to complete all our work in the time slots when he slept or was away at pwhy. I must admit that we all managed pretty well. True some things were never quite done but it did not matter. Today we have to learn once again to fill our time with what once was ample but seems so deficient. Time to revive what was put on hold, easier said than done as one seems to have forgotten what filled the days before Agastya.

I miss my little man!

Holiday homework! A bane for both parents and children. I thought I had graduated to the no holiday homework status but not quite as I am now parent to young Utpal who has reached class IV. Spending summers chiding children to get on with their task and then having to spend hours with paper and glue was never my idea of fun. But that is exactly what I am doing this summer. The two typed sheet that spells out all the work to be completed sits on my desk. Lists of what is needed have been made and several trips to local stationery shops have ensured that we have all that is needed.

The homework is daunting. Daily pages of handwriting from both English and Hindi newspapers, essays and grammar charts, tables and sums, models and art work, the list is endless and I am at a loss as the little chap has another definition of holiday all together: playing, watching TV, going out and eating! An unbelievable time is spent in coaxing and negotiating. Every day a small amount is done after a battle royal. We are getting there at a snail’s pace and immense wear tear on Ma’amji’s nerves. Maybe this is the plight of every parent.

Not quite as was revealed in an article in a leading weekly. Believe it or not you can now get your homework outsourced if you are willing to pay the price. Children do not spend time on creating models and projects: they take a trip to Nai Sadak and buy the home assignment, or go for a package deal: 4500 Rs is a total homework package. Reading the article made me uncomfortable. This approach to me is cheating, or should one say cheating with the blessing of your parents. Taking professional help definitely helped my children get top marks admits a mother quite guilelessly making one shudder. If I was the teacher I would give higher marks to a clumsy project that is undoubtedly the work of a 9 year old then to a perfectly executed one that is undoubtedly again the work of a professional adult! But it seems that in school today that is not the practice.

One could argue about the ethicality of those in the homework business. But it is simply a question of demand and supply. It seems that there are enough clients to make the business lucrative. Yet one is compelled to ask whether one is teaching the children to take the easy way out, a lesson they will continue to follow and one that can have disastrous consequences. A first lesson in corruption, speaks volumes for the kind of society we have become.

I agree that the holiday home work is tedious and irksome. I also agree that if you have planned to travel during the holidays completing the home work is close to impossible. But does it mean you need to cheat. Wouldn’t a simple letter the school be sufficient to explain unfinished homework? To my mind the only people who would need assistance to complete the holiday homework would be the brave underprivileged parents who tighten their belt till it hurts in order to send their progeny to a ‘good’ school. But how can they pay the money required? To complete the homework of our boarding school kids, we have a assigned a teacher whose sole task is to help the children finish their work at no cost of course!

For Utpal it is good old Maa’mji and her rusted knowledge. Thank God for Google! So the next days will be filled with cutting and pasting and making charts and models. Somehow I am beginning to look forward to it and if all is not done then tant pis, one has to remember that holidays are meant to be fun and that is what is important.

As I drove in my proverbial three wheeler to the market next door yesterday morning, I knew something was wrong though at first I did not quite know what. It took me a few seconds to realise that the streets were strangely empty.. something was missing. Then it struck me: all the small business persons were missing. Let me explain. On the short less than 500 meters run to my local market we pass by a street cobbler, a street tailor, a street barber, a street tea stall, a vegetable and fruit vendor. Yesterday they were all gone! As we reached the market I saw a posse of people, some cops and a truck where stuff was being loaded. What hit was the eerie silence that greeted me, as if the sound track of a film had been cut off. As I alighted from the scooter and started to walk towards the market I heard someone say in a whisper: komittee aaiye hai! The committee has come. In a flash I understood the script. This was a descent by the municipal authorities aimed at ridding our city of illegal businesses! I looked again and realised that what was being loaded on the menacing truck was the entire belongings of the little tea-cum-lunch stall that had thrived under a banyan tree for as long as I can remember.

This stall catered to all the workers and passers by in search of a cup of tea or a warm meal at a reasonable price. It had always been a comforting sight with its smiling owner doling out platefuls to waiting customers. The food was fresh, the place clean. No one seemed to mind its existence. But someone did: the local authorities and their illogical sanitising drives. I thought the Commonwealth games were over and life back to its old ways. But that was not so. The predators were back with a vengeance! I had forgotten our city’s preferred mission: get rid of the poor. Thank God someone had warned some of these people, that explained why barber, cobbler and vegetable vendor had gone AWOL.

I would like to ask the powers that be a simple question: how do they expect over half the population to live if they deny them their right to be small entrepreneurs particularly as now you have to earn less than 20Rs a day to be considered poor and have access to social welfare. Do read this article that gives the new Indian Fortune List @< 20 rs a day. It is an eye opener.

But let us get back to our small entrepreneurs who courtesy the authorities lost a day or more of earnings. The city is replete with such people. They assess the need of the hour and provide the service with efficiency. They cater to one and all and are not the prerogative of the poor. They are your water vendors, juice sellers, vegetable sellers, cobblers, tailors etc. They provide a meal to those who serve you and believe you me they are mean business minds as they gage the need of the hour with clock work precision. In winter they sell you peanuts, in summer cooling drinks, during festivals they bring you exactly what you need. Others cater to your small daily requirements: a broken shoe or a garment that needs to be altered. Wonder where one would go with a broken heel if the road side cobbler was not on call?

Now let us look at the other side of the story. The people we are talking about and who seem to disturb the powers that be are human beings tryings to find a way to survive. They have families who depend on them. They have dreams for their loved ones: education for their children, medicines for their elders and so on and though the Planning Commission thinks that you can live on 2o Rs a day, the reality is quite different. Most of the street vendors leave their homes and come to cities to look for a better life. They soon realise that they will not find jobs and have to create their own. Their common sense guides them and they identify possible avenues. Why not make samosas and sell them at the street corner, or walk the lanes peddling what a household would need. Come to gali no 3 where our centre is located at any time of the day and you will see a host of street peddlers selling an amazing array of things: brooms, plastic ware, clothes, bangles, pickles and more. The task is not easy but it keeps the pot boiling. At the top of the street stands a cluster of food vendors doling out hot meals or cups of tea or the famous bread/omelet and at any time of the day they have clients. They are there in the scorching heat, the freezing cold or the pouring rain. They never miss a day. I too have often stopped for a cup of tea or a plate of hot snacks and never regretted it. There is a also a very old fruit vendor who hobbles on his bandaged feet and sets up his cart every morning. Maybe this small endeavour restores his dignity in his son’s home. I often buy fruit from him.

If the powers that be have their way then I wonder where people will go for that reinvigorating break. Experience tells us that they will all be back. Some money will exchange pockets. One must not forget that each of these vendors pays a monthly tithe to local officials: the cops, the municipal agent and so on and no one is quite ready to lose their bounty. Corruption rules. And everyone knows that these small entrepreneurs are the lifeline of the city. I wish ways were found to give these unique small entrepreneurs their rightful place and accept them as a legitimate members of society.

Living on borrowed time without a thought for tomorrow wrote John Lennon. I wish I could sing the same tune! But tomorrow bears heavy on me. And though I too like all mortals am living on borrowed time all my thoughts are riveted on tomorrow.

Perhaps I too could have happily sung the words had I not one day decided to take the long road home, the one that touches other lives and other dreams. I did and today I am in custody of too many morrows that need to be moored before my time is up.

Why did I decide to save a hopelessly scalded child, or give a new lease of life to a broken heart? Why did I chose to repair a pair of hands maimed by fire or give a handful of children born in abject poverty the chance of a lifetime? These questions can keep begging for plausible answers but the reality will not change. These children have fragile tomorrows too dependent on mine that need to be secured. And the questions do not end as every step I took in the last decade had someones hope fastened to it.

Then I was spirited and brave, having even forgotten that I lived on borrowed time. Today as the clock ticks mercilessly I find myself troubled if not distressed. How will I be able to meet my commitments and move on peacefully. Some time back everything was upbeat. It seemed we had a solution in the form of planet why the panacea for all ills! And it almost seemed that all would fall in place. Had we not succeeded in the impossible task of securing a piece of land beating all odds? Now we only had to find the funds to build. But the fates conspired against us and we hit a low when markets tumbled and everyone felt insecure and shaky. Things looked up again for a bit and we held our breath in anticipation of a miracle. The expected miracle has still not happened though we still wait. Our other efforts to secure the needed numbers did not quite take off though we are still looking for options. But as I said we are on borrowed time and time is running short.

When 2011 dawned, we decided that this would be the do or die year fro planet why. If nothing happened by 31/12/11 then we would quietly lay planet why to rest and seek other ways. Almost half the year has slipped by with nothing forthcoming. The wise would accept the writing on the wall but I still want to hold on to the planet why dream. It is only planet why that would secure all the dreams we hold in custody. Any other option would necessitate our truncating them.

Today I can only pray for a miracle and hope that the time left is sufficient to see it happen.

Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted wrote Aldous Huxley. Over the past years I have learnt how true this is! And how it sometimes hurts. I guess in spite of my years of being in the doing good business, I have not been able to shed my human failings. But let me put all this into context.

Two days back the boarding school kids were back from school with their endearing smiles and large doses of holiday homework. Daily writing from the newspaper, charts of roman numerals, English grammar charts, crafts and science projects and what not. A handful for even one like me. Wonder why schools give so much work! Holidays are no more holidays. As I said it is bad enough for educated parents but how do illiterate parents handle this. I am of course talking of our seven little kids. So the holiday homework becomes another mission project why. A teacher has been assigned to handle just this and the children would have to come to pwhy at least for half a day. Everything was planned and ready to go.

The next morning Vicky’s mom came to in to inform us that they were off to the village for 2 months. When we told her about the homework she seemed unconcerned and a tad annoyed. She was unwilling to understand that there was a need to get the homework done and refused to listen. Reluctantly we had to get out the big guns and threaten to withdraw Vicky from the school. Ultimately the father got involved and understood the situation and the village trip was postponed post homework. The problem was solved but not quite for me as it once again brought up the nagging issue of gratitude, one that I am loath addressing but which nevertheless bothers me. I guess I am still human and not selfless enough not to expect a modicum of gratitude. I still have a long was to go, I presume.

I must admit that the lack of gratitude I have experienced over the last ten years has been troubling and even incomprehensible. I always thought, erroneously I guess, that people should be thankful for any help proffered. But that is not the case at all. It almost seems that if you give than more is expected and if the more does not happen then you become the villain of the piece. And this happens all the time. People do have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted to borrow Huxley’s words. So if you want to carry on, you need to change, they will not.

So you embark on the mission of trying to find excuses that will make situations more palatable even if they seem paltry: poor people have had such a raw deal; they have hardly seen good; they have always been in want and hence are always in need, do not know better and so on. But that is not the way to go. What is needed I guess is the ability to think like Rousseau and say:Gratitude is a duty which ought to be paid, but which none have a right to expect.

The one lot that has perfected the art of being grateful is undoubtedly our band of special children. Just walk into their class and they greet you with such warmth that it warms the cockles of your heart and turns the darkest moment into pure light. They do not expect anything in return. Their eyes are filled with love they are yearning to give and should you peer into them, there is no looking back, you will be touched by their magic. It is a unique experience that needs to be experienced.

On the other hand we mere mortals still expect gratitude and hurt if it is not forthcoming. Maybe the special kids have a lot to teach us and maybe it is time I walked the talk.

The auto rickshaws are supposed to go on strike today. This means pwhy will bear a deserted look as many of our children – the tiny and special ones – are fetched from their slum homes in such vehicles. The strike they say is indefinite whatever that means. The reason: the government’s insistence that all autos install a Global Positioning System by tomorrow or face its ire! The cost of the system to be borne by them: a whopping 7000 Rs installation and 600 Rs a month maintenance.

I too was once among those who ranted and raved about the behaviour of auto drivers till I was forced to enter their world. You see many of our kids are children of auto drivers and we at pwhy use them as a sole means of transportation. So I am well qualified to write this apologia.

Most of Delhi’s auto drivers come from other states having left their habitat of origin for economic reasons. Many after devastating floods or quakes. They come to the big city and manage against many odds to get their driving licenses and are ready to join the fleet. Now in Delhi you either own your vehicle or drive one on rent. In the later case you need to pay a hefty daily sum to the owner who are often hard core businessmen. You pay for the fuel, the minor repairs and take home what remains. This means that if you earn 1000 rs on a good day, you take home a mere 400. In case you own your scooter you have bought it on credit from wily creditors who charge a hefty rate of interest and work out some inane monthly installment that you more often than not are unable to pay – an illness in the family, the child’s school fees etc -. The cunning creditor then reworks your dues and your are landed with a higher installment. Sometimes you even borrow at a whopping 10% a month to pay your installment and have not one but two creditors a month. Owning your vehicle can take years if you are lucky and the creditor does not impound your vehicle.

Auto drivers have families to support and these families have urban dreams. School for the children, a TV for the house and so on, so life is never easy. But you carry on. There are no social benefits, no insurances you are on your own. Life is a struggle and the urban dream slowly turns sour. So when you are slapped with an additional 7000 Rs and 600 Rs a month you see red. It is not that you do not want the GPS installed, you do not know how you will meet your month ends. Like all people in the city you are not living but surviving.

One can of course also argue for or against the installation of a GPS system. The first thing that comes to mind is the safety of such a system in an open vehicle often parked on streets at night. Tongues are also wagging and it is being said that the company that provides these systems is owned by the relative of a high placed politician. Could be true as this is often an insidious form of corruption we are all too familiar with.

I do not know what the outcome of the strike will be. Probably not good for the auto drivers who will ultimately be forced into submission as is always the case. I also do not know what the day hold for us at pwhy as we too depend on autos to survive. I am bracing myself for a hard day.

It was mother’s day on Sunday in the anglo saxon world, it will be mother’s day in France on May 28th. I wonder why we need a special day to honour mothers, I remember mine everyday though she left this world 20 years ago. She made me who I am today. Not only did she gift me life but nurtured it carefully and lovingly at every step. She taught me every little thing needed to bloom and grow. She healed each little scratch and hurt and ensured that the scars would vanish too. She assuaged every blow that came my way and soothed the pain till it disappeared.

Though she smothered me with love, she also made sure I learn all the lessons needed. She could be firm and even merciless when need be. I remember one such incident. I must have been about 6 or 7. I had developed the bad habit of piling my plate with food and then leaving half of it. Mama had grown up in want and could not bear food being wasted. She first tried to reason with me but when it did not work she knew she had to pull out the big guns. One day after I had once again left lots of food in my plate she instructed the staff to put the plate in the refrigerator. It was to be given to me at the next meal cold and congealed. Stubborn as I was I refused to eat it. She did not relent. I got nothing and the plate went back into the fridge awaiting the next meal. This game continued for 2 days, by the end of it I was so hungry that I devoured the plate as if it was manna from the Gods. It is a lesson I have never forgotten, and even know after five decades I never leave food in my plate. It is only much later that I came to know that my parents had not eaten during those two days. Made the
lesson even more precious and poignant.

Life carried on and so did the lessons, each as powerful and as valuable. And as I grew older from child to adolescent and then adult she was always there, allowing me to write and play my own script, but ever present like a prompter in the wings of the stage of my life, ready to intervene whenever I faltered. I carried on safe in the knowledge that she was there and nothing could befall me. But the Fates intervened and she left this world two decades ago. I was shattered.

I picked up the pieces of my life as best I could, memories of her helping me to carry on. I did not know that she would still stun me with her incredible and selfless love. Many years after her death I was trying to cope with many things and was deeply hurt and angry. As always at such times I resorted to some serious spring cleaning as this always calms me down. As I was clearing old boxes I discovered a yellowed diary. It was a diary my mother had written a few months before her death and was an account of her day to day life, of her thoughts, of her dilemmas and reminiscences. In hindsight it was also an example of the power of a mother’s intuition as every entry seemed to echo some of my own angst and somehow heal it. Years before the idea of pwhy had even entered my head she had known what life held for me.

I reproduce the entry verbatim

I write this story for Anu to read.

There was a young beautiful girl; she got married and had children and spent all her time looking after her babies and her husband. Children were happy. The house was well run. Everything was almost picture perfect.

Then the children grew up. They did not need their mother. They resented her interference. Husband was busy in his work. The house ran beautifully. Time weighed heavy on her hands. She was miserable and tried joined a ladies’ club and playing cards. But it seemed too artificial. She was unhappy and her health started failing her. Something was amiss. She felt useless and unwanted.

One day an old school friend came to see her and she broke down and shared her despair. Her friend listened and promised to help.

A few days later she came and told her: I have a job for you, poorly paid but you will like it.
It was a job to teach poor kids. She began in earnest. The children were lovely, the called her maam and to her immediately.

Soon all her problems vanished: she was wanted, loved, respected and healed.

How had she known… I wonder but she did, almost to a T!

Shorty after writing these words she had a cerebral accident and was never the same again. This was her last coherent message to me. Every day as I walk into pwhy I am reminded of this. I do not need a mother’s day to honour Kamala. I do it every day.

578 is the maximum you can spend in a month to be considered poor by the Government and benefit from social benefits and subsidies. That is 20 rs a day! and that is if you live in a city. In a village the amount is 15 a day. Thus spoke the Planning Commission. The commission told the Supreme Court on Tuesday that a city dweller cannot be termed poor if his average monthly spends exceed Rs 31 on rent and conveyance, Rs 18 on education, Rs 25 on medicines or Rs 36.5 on vegetables. So if you spend more than 20 Rs day you are not poor! So according to the Government a mere 25.7% of the urban Indians need food, shelter and social benefits. Anyone spending more than this will be denied subsidized food, accommodation, pensions and medical treatment targeted at the Below Poverty Line population.This is shocking and ludicrous.

We work with the urban poor and have been doing so for the past decade. A hovel in a slum cost nothing less then 1000 rs a month. That is a hole with a tin roof and rickety walls. Now according to above stated statistics a family of five to be considered poor can only spend 31×5 or 155 Rs a month on rent. At that price you will not even find a hole in the ground! As for 36.5 rupees a month on vegetable or just over a rupee a day, I wonder what one would eat! Then why such strange and unrealistic figures. For one it helps claim that poverty in India is getting lower it also helps reduce the spending on social programmes.

But how long can we all play the I see no evil game? True we can boast of having some of the richest people in the world, people who can spend zillions on building a house or who flaunt their riches till it becomes galling and vulgar, but can we honestly deny that a child still dies of malnutrition every 8.7 minutes! How can a self respecting Government turn a blind eye to the stark reality that surrounds us all. And how can we, as supposedly self respecting citizens play along.

What is happening? We have an education system where a mere 33% gives you a certificate. This is apparently done to enhance the literacy figures. Now we have a laughable figure to define the poverty line. This is again apparently done to show that we are not so poor. It is all a game of manipulating figures. No one wants to address the problems and solve them. The rich will get richer and the poor poorer and no one seems to care.

When will my country awake!

According to a recent article in a leading newspaper 66% of Delhi’s slum children are malnourished! Startling statistic particularly in a city known for its lavish lifestyle, sparkling malls, opulent parties and luxurious ways! The article goes on to say that the conditions of these kids have worsened due to the poor functioning of Government run schemes like ICDS (Integrated Child Development Scheme). Yes corruption that is rampant in our day and age also trickles down to schemes designed to benefit the poorest of the poor.

Malnourished children if they get nutritious meals later, have shorter average life, low immunity and are not properly developed. The first five years are essential to the growth of a child. These children belong to poor families with low income and no resources. They barely survive in the urban jungle where everything comes at a hefty price. Many of our creche children come from such families. Often their lunch box for the day has just a roti or a few biscuits. We of course give them a warm and nutritious lunch but how can that make up for the early years!

The ICDS was a great programme. It was launched in 1975 and had it met is goals no child would have been malnourished. However statistics reveal that in 2010, 44% of children in India were still malnourished. It seemed the programme was short of funds and running in abysmal conditions. Children have never been a priority, or should I say poor children have never been a priority. You just have to look at the state of schools! On the one hand hefty promises are made in election manifestos, programmes are launched amidst great fanfare, education becomes a constitutional right and yet on the ground nothing changes. A child still dies every 8,7 minutes of malnutrition and only 50 % children have access to school and of those that do make it 50% drop out! And that is not all 3 million children live on the streets, 150 million children work as bonded labourers and one out of every six girl child does not live to see her 15th birthday.

Something is terribly wrong and we should be hanging our heads in shame. And yet we do nothing. We still drive by read lights inured to the plight of children begging in the scorching sun shooing them as you would a pesky flight or at best dropping a coin in their proffered hand. We still read articles on malnutrition of children without batting an eyelid or feeling outraged and will waste food at the next wedding we attend!

Things will not change unless we as civil society wake up and do something. Poor children have no voice, we need to led them ours.

Last week a beaming parent came into my office. She was pregnant. M is the mother of 3 boys the eldest one being 12. She is expecting her fourth child. She proudly announced that it was a girl. I was shocked to say the least, shocked at the need of this impoverished family to have another child, shocked at the fact that she had been able to determine the sex of the child, something that is supposedly illegal. This meant that such tests were administered with impunity by wily and greedy doctors. We all know what this means. Wonder how many little girls are killed before they are born. At least this one would survive. I mumbled feigned congratulations and moved on.

Yesterday I stopped by the creche. Many new faces greeted me. These were all the new admissions in the class as many had graduated to class I. I spent some time talking to the teacher but my eyes kept going back on the children. Something was askew. It took some time to realise what it was: there were more boys than girls. I asked he teacher if I was right and she told me I was. The sex ratio of our new class was 70/30!

Now children in this class come from very deprived homes of slums in Okhla. Every year we go to these slums to seek new admissions. The families are all of migrant labour from other states and most of the parents have poorly paid jobs. The teacher told me that this time she could not find more girls. We are talking of children between the ages of 3 and 4. It seemed that there far fewer girls in this age group than boys. The news was startling and raised many questions. Did arriving in the city open the possibility of getting a sex determination test? Were girls foetuses being aborted regularly? Was there something we could do?

This simple observation made me realise that the problem was not limited to rural areas and other states but was at our very doorstep. The facts were for all to see. Normally the creche class had a 50/50 sex ratio. Delhi boasted of a 1004/1000 sex ratio in 2008. But an article revealed that this had dipped to 915/1000 in 2009. This means that illegal sex determination is very much alive and prevalent in poorer sections of the city. Families prefer to spend money on abortions than give birth to a girl which is considered to be a financial burden.

Gender equality is an issue that needs to be addressed. This is no easy task keeping in mind social biases and prejudices.

A heart wrenching mail landed in my box this morning. It said: yesterday our darling M died in a car crash. Please pray for him. M was the son of dear dear friends and must have been in his late twenties. I had last seen him when he was six or seven and that is the image I still carry of him. I cannot begin to imagine the excruciating pain his parents must be going through. In moments like these words offer scant succor. Perhaps silence says more. I did offer what little solace I could sitting thousands of miles away. I wish I had been there with them in this moment of grief.

To a parent the death of a child is the worst that could happen. No matter how old the child is, how difficult or exasperating, he is first and foremost your child, someone you gifted life to and to have that life cut short in front of your eyes is unbearable. I know how much parents suffer when they lose a child: my mother never forgot her firstborn son who died shortly after birth, a brother I never knew.

Today as I mourn the death of a young man, my thoughts go back to all the pwhy children who left us over the years and whom I have never forgotten: Rohan and Puja the two lovely toddlers murdered by vile predators, Sonu and his broken body that shielded an indomitable spirit, Nanhe and his dazzling smile that lit your darkest day, Saheeda and her zest for a life cut too short, little Anil whose heart did not withstand surgery and young Arun whose heart gave up for want of proper care, Heera the young girl with a broken heart so loved by her family who were unable to save her. And most of all Manu whose death I am still dealing with as he was the spirit of project why and its raison d’être. I rarely remember them all one a given day but today the death of a young man I knew as a child made me realise how deeply the death of these children affected me and how in spite of time gone by I still mourn then as my very own. May they rest in peace.

I was recently asked by someone why I had decided to call my project project why. It is a question I have often been asked and that I usually answer with a light: because I liked the name! But this time was different. It was almost an existential question.

If I go back in time to the genesis of the project it all began with me wanting to honour my father and create something in his memory. The obvious thing to do was to create an organisation in his name and though I would have wanted a simple name, I was landed with a long winded one courtesy the authorities! It was a mouthful and in no way reflective of what we were setting out to do. Everyone felt we needed a working name. There were many brainstorming sessions till one day almost intuitively I came up with the name: Project Why. It just sounded right and though we did try to find a meaning for the acronym it never worked, why had to remain the interrogative adverb it was.

Today after more than a decade of existence I have come to understand the real meaning of my intuitive choice. Project why had come into existence because of all the disturbing questions that needed to be answered. What was essential however was not the ability to find answers but the moral courage to ask them. Sadly many of us have lost that faculty. The world is the same for all to see yet how many of us stop and bother to ask the needed why? We all see children begging at roadsides but how many of us are capable of asking why this happens? At best we roll down our window and hand a few coins or a small treat and drive away, till the next red light. Probably we know intuitively that where we to ask that dreaded question our lives would change forever. And we are not prepared to see that happen. Once you ask a question then you have to seek answers.

And that is what project why stands for. The ability to question every situation no matter how disturbing or unsettling.

About a year back I had written about Sanjay our Lohar teacher who walked the ramp in Bombay! It was a dream come true and a super success story for us at project why. But the story did not end there as Sanjay became the subject of a film shot by our friend Camille and aptly entitled Bollywood Boulevard.

Last month Sanjay went to Paris for the promotion of his film and to meet modeling agents. He is back with stars in his eyes, possible contracts and the proof that miracles do happen, you just have to hold on to your dreams tight! Another miracle of the God of Lesser beings and a great moment for us at project why!

An SMS from the boarding school informed us that Vicky, one of our kids, had won a merit scholarship. Needless to say we all leaped with joy. Vicky is from an extremely deprived home and has two handicapped siblings, one being our very own Munna! Had fate decided otherwise he would have probably never finished school and joined the ranks of child labour. But the God of Lesser beings decided otherwise and have him a break. He has played his part and proved to one and all that he was worthy of it. Bless you Vicky you did us proud!

It was a little over a month ago that I launched my appeal to save the women centre. What we needed to save this centre was 200 people who saw with their hearts and were willing to give us 500 Rs ( ~ 11 US$ or 8 Euros) a month on a regular basis. The response was heart warming and fifteen days later we reached the half way mark. However you will agree that we cannot save half a centre and that if we do not reach the magic figure of 200, the women centre is living on borrowed time and still faces closure.

I must admit that the thought scares me. The women centre is very close to my heart for more reasons than one: first of all it is our last born and thus a cherished one, but that is not all, the women centre was set up in the memory of an incredible woman who defied all odds to get an education. Closing the centre would be letting her down. I cannot see myself doing that.

For the last decade or so, it is my pen that has helped me get funds to keep pwhy going. My virtual begging bowl is made of words I guess. Today I need these to be poignant enough to reach the heart of the missing 100 so that we can save the centre.

Cynics may ask: what is so great about this centre. The question came to my mind too and so I decided to drop by the centre and view it in a dispassionate way. As I entered the yellow iron gate I was greeted by a warm and loud Good morning ma’am. It was the class V children. Then I heard a more subdued Namaste Madam. This came from the handful of ladies of the sewing class. Just looking at all them warmed my heart. I then dropped on the spoken English class where a bunch of kids were busy practicing for a play. I watched them for a bit and was truly impressed by the progress these children had made. Next a quick stop at the tiny computer class bursting at its seams where about a dozen young children were unraveling the mysteries of the computer. On the way I saw Roshni busy cooking the lunch of the day! It was time to go to the roof where classes were being held.

I somehow always get amazed at how well the women centre uses space. The big roof is carefully divided into many classes and everyone is busy studying. It is heartwarming and moving to see these children studying hard notwithstanding the weather. Believe you me it can get very cold in winter and extremely hot in the summer under the tin roof. But the children brave all odds and are always present. And as always all the children have passed their examinations and got promoted to the next class. The determination of these children is something unique and motivation enough for me to carry on fighting them.

So though the centre is at present on borrowed time it has become imperative to save it. The question is how? I only have my pen and my words to try and convey this need. So help me God!