Yesterday I was interviewed for a web journal. After the set of regular questions about work and self, the journo asked me what I felt the State should do to address the habitat for the poor issue. Build decent homes in every part of the city as slum dwellers were the backbone of the city was my impassioned plea. Habitat for the poor I has always been an issue close to my heart as over the past decade I have been privy to the plight of slum dwellers in our heartless city. Are we not the city that needs a Supreme Court order to instruct it not to demolish any homeless shelter in the dead of winter! Are we not also the city that allows people to live for THIRTY years in ramshackle tenements along a road side, issuing them all kinds of civic recognition to fatten vote banks, and then razed their dwellings one fine morning to pander to some harebrained whim? Yes we are and we should hang our heads in shame, but do we? We all know the answer to that uncomfortable question.

Winter has set in it is terribly cold. Heaters and warm clothes have come out of the closets of the rich but do we ever spare a thought of what happens to the poor?

Last week Radha’s mom came to see us. Radha is the little girl with brittle bone disease, the one who has borne the pain of over 50 fractures in her tiny life, the one whose home has been destroyed more than once and who has spent many nights on a footpath, Radha who should be handled with extreme care but who lives in cramped and damp holes that would not be considered fit for an animal in any self respecting society. Radha’s mom had a simple request: could we keep Radha in our foster care for the duration of winter as the cold was unbearable in their tiny hovel where she slept on the damp floor. I can well imagine that. Radha’s present home is a sunken hole and the child who is a just a bag of bones must have suffered excruciating pain lying on the damp and cold floor. Needless to say we agreed. She had already spent some time with us when she last broke a leg and it was a joy to have her. We would have kept her longer but she wanted to return to her home and family and we did not stop her. You see Radha is much the elder sister to her younger siblings and somehow she felt she had to be with them.

Radha moved in yesterday and she will spend the rest of winter warm and cared for. But what about the innumerable children in this soulless city who will have to bear the brunt of the cold because we have forgotten to care for our very own.

This is a morning shift class of the primary boys at our Govindpuri Centre. Yet if you look carefully at the picture you will see a little girl sitting at the back. She is Neha, Amit’s little sister and Amit is her morning caretaker. You see both parents work and there is no one to look after the little girl. So the siblings take over. Amit in the morning and Mira in the afternoon.

It works like a clockwork orange. Amit brings the little girl to pwhy in the morning and then hands her over to Mira at the school gate at lunch time. Mira then takes over and little Neha is back at pwhy in the afternoon for the afternoon shift. She then returns home with her sister. I guess for once the two shift school system prevalent in our city is of some use! Not the best option for the little child but then at least she is safe.

This is the plight of many young children in a city where early education is still not free. Many families are too poor to pay for a creche or a preschool and thus older siblings have to become parents and caretakers. The sight of a small child carrying a younger one is common in slums and shanty towns. It is time the authorities looked at the plight of children and did something. Let us hope they do.

Yesterday was my feelgood shot day. Yes you guessed right, it was PTM day at the boarding school! And yesterday more than ever I need my shot of hope, optimism and faith. So imagine my stress when the car was delayed and we has a late start. But the traffic was merciful and we did make almost in time.

We reached the school and sprung out of the car. We hastily gathered all the goodies and packets we had brought: chocolate cake and patties were the day’s treat. We also had bought extra sweaters and shoes for some of the kids as instructed on the previous day by the hostel warden. So bags and baby in tow – yes my grandson was with us – we scurried to the respective classrooms to gather our brood. As usual huge smiles and cheery hello Mams greeted us. Of course every one wanted to know what we had in the bags. After a fe minutes spent with the respective class teachers that were needless to say all praise, it was time to settle down in the sunny lawns and spend some quality time with our band of eight, after of course having opened the goodies bag. Between mouthfuls of chocolate cake we were made privy to the ongoings of this hallowed ground. There were tiny complaints, and gentle chiding. There were requests for the next visit, Utpal often being the chosen spokesperson: bring us more biscuits and dry fruits, we are hungry in the evening; Vicky’s shoes are broken; and so on. Time just flew as we sat in the winter sun listening to the chatter of these lovely kids and imbibing the happy feeling that was all around.

And as I sat there lost to the world I knew, I realised that all doubts and apprehensions that had been plaguing me for the past days just vanished. Watching these children laugh and smile made me realise more than ever that my work was far from over, that they needed me for years to come, that I had to secure their morrows no matter what it took. These children more than anyone else epitomised the spirit of why, a spirit that screamed loud and clear that no life was hopeless, that every child deserved nothing but the best and above all that the best could be theirs if you just kept on looking with your heart.

I had had my feelgood shot. It was time to get back on the spinning wheel. There was work to be done.

Rarely is love instant and yet once in a blessed while it is. For the last month we have been touched by a very special kind of magic conjured by two lovely souls called Alan and Em! Alan & Em have been volunteering at pwhy for the past one month and for the past one month we have all rediscovered the true meaning of words we adults often forget like fun, joy, exultation, delight, cheerfulness, gaiety and more. But that is not all they also renewed our faith in values like trust, honesty and goodness. Alan and Em are like rays of sunshine and breaths of the freshest air.

They came with their bag of goodies and enthralled the children with magic tricks, bubble shows and mysterious machines and somehow what had always seemed so boring and tedious became luminously simple. Science, physics, maths were just games to be enjoyed. And yet the children learnt more in this one month than they had ever before.

Alan and Em are like two happy children ready to discover all that the world has to offer to them and enjoy it to its fullest. In the past month I have never seen them frown or scowl. Even when they were hit by the Delhi bug, they never lost their smile. And not only the children, but we adults, and me in particular, got some precious lessons in the art of living. Their joie de vivre is infectious to say the very least and shows that it takes very little to live life to its fullest. It is amazing how nothing ever gets these two down. You never hear a complaint or even see a fleeting sign of discontent in their eyes. They are always happy. Ask them how their day went and you hear fabulous, awesome, amazing. Ask them how the food was and you hear delicious, yummy even if you have served them a simple innocuous meal.

A & M have also given a whole new meaning to the word charity. Their generosity brings to mind the old proverb that says; A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog! They simply have an implicit trust in human nature.

Knowing Alan and Emily has been a privilege and honour and we all feel blessed. Love is rarely instant yet once in a while it is: this was just one such instant.

The Right to Education Act should have guaranteed free and equitable education to all the children in India. Alas that is not the case and the sad part is that most of us are unaware of the surreptitious games being played by those in power. An article that appeared this week in a well known magazine brings this fact to light. Want to sit on the same bench as America is worth reading. Those of my vintage will remember the days a few decades ago when state run schools worked well and universities were easy of access. Come to think of it there was no or little choice outside these.

How many of us know that way back in 1991 the Indian government accepted the conditionality of Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP) imposed by the US-led World Bank-IMF regime. This required that public expenditure be reduced on education, health and social welfare. From 2000 onwards, these dilutions and distortions were repackaged and ‘marketed’ under a new label called Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan (education for all). The failure of SSA to provide elementary education (Class I-VIII) to India’s 20 crore children in the 6-14 year age group by the target year of 2010 meant that policymakers rephrased SSA goals downwards and did not undertake a causal analysis to rectify it. This may have again gone undetected by the likes of us as it was all happening on the other side of the fence and did not affect our children. But think about it and your blood runs cold. On the one hand the children of India get the constitutional right to education but on the other the state starts abdicating its duty to provide the same.

The commercialisation of education had begun; PPP (public private partnership), subsidies to profit making institutions, education loans and a cynically orchestrated media campaign buttressed by internationally funded high-profile NGOs to destroy the credibility of the public-funded education system rung the death knell of state run education both at the school and university. The State abdicated its constitutional obligation. Markets needs would now dictate knowledge content and we would become a major global provider of low-cost skilled but subservient ‘foot soldiers’ who reinforce the subjugation, hegemony and greed of global capital

The cruel reality is that millions of children who could have aspired to better morrows were the state education system running, will now be forced to remain where they are not because they lack the skills and ability but because they were born on the other side of the fence and can never afford education which now comes with a hefty price tag.

The little girl in the picture was also born on the wrong side of the fence, yet her brave family scrapped the barrel, tighten the belts till it hurts to ensure that she and her elder sister go to a school on the other side of the invisible fence. It is not easy as there are so many bills to pay but they are not ones to give up and yet I wonder whether this little girl will be able to go the whole nine yards.

In this new emerging scenario what is available for children born on the other side of the fence is an ersatz education that cannot take them far. Sadly their parents are unable to comprehend the reality and react and the children themselves are voiceless and helpless. By the time they do gain a voice it would be too late.

Two little faces greeted me this Diwali morning and I knew I was blessed. Utpal is here for his Diwali break and Agastya my grandchild is thrilled to have his best pal with him. The day was spent with these two little souls that the God of Lesser Beings was magnanimous enough to send my way as a precious gift.

Popples aka Utpal, came into my life almost 8 years ago when I still did not quite know what my morrows would be. At that time pwhy was still very fragile and tenuous and I must admit I was not even certain it would pass the test of time. Utpal’s terrible tryst with fire changed all that. Suddenly everything acquired a new meaning: Utpal had to be saved and this was no short term option, it was a life time engagement. Project why had acquired a life time lease and I became Ma’amji! Utpal had showed me the way I was seeking.

Agastya landed in my arms almost two years ago when the knees had just begun creaking and the gait was slowing down. The day I first held him in my arms I became Nani. It was a miraculous shot in the arm and the desire to live and see him grow made all aches and pain vanish in the air. It was time to live: two little boys ensured that. I must admit that deep in my heart, the desire to see these two bond and care for each other was paramount and yet I did not know if that would be. But the first time they met they took to each other and proved beyond doubt that all schismatic attempts to divide human beings and hence society did not and could not have divine sanction. It did not matter where you came from. Love knew no bounds.

So having them with me this Diwali was a rare treat. It was a magical day that passed too fast. I did not let the boys out of my sight as we shopped, played, prayed, danced and reveled. Even Agastya knew it was a special moment as we forewent his sleep and savoured every moment of the day. As I tucked the boys to sleep late in the night I mouthed a special and silent thank you to the God of lesser beings for having made me Nani and Ma’amji!

You have a soft corner for the under privileged, which is so good. People generally don’t have time to spare a thought for the children of a lesser God said the comment on my post Game Over! A few days later a surprise note on a social network urged people to reach out to project like ours. The note aptly entitled the inconvenience of charity was written by a dear friend.

Seemed like some Jungian synchronicity!

For the past weeks I have been wondering how I would address our everlasting and never ending funding issue for the coming year and find the missing numbers. I was running out of words and did not know where to begin. I too am aware of the strains of the purse strings even when the heart is big. But I am also aware of the hundreds of Children of a Lesser God who depend on my capacity to once again pa(e)nhandle with conviction. For the past 10 years I have tried to perfect the art of panhandling and the fact that I am still at it after a decade goes to show that I must have done so with a good measure of success. But each year there are missing numbers that require to be met. I guess this is again a trick of my friend the God of Lesser Beings who wants to ensure that I never sink into a comfort zone and thus forget what my true mission is.

Panhandling is very humbling particularly for one who had always found money matters to be infradig. That was before pwhy and before my encounter with children of a Lesser God. Once they came into my life, things changed at the speed of light and what was once hateful simple became par to the course. Thus began my years of soliciting help from one and all. To say it was easy would be an untruth. And yet it had to be done because each coin that was dropped my way transformed in a smile as if by magic.

In a way I am glad that things have not come easy. This has enabled me to appreciate the true value of what I hold in custody. As my friend aptly said it is nothing short of trying to climb Kilimanjaro or run a desert marathon. And yet I find myself doing it each and every day with joy. And though the God of Lesser Beings does play his tricks, he also creates the right backdrop each time I find myself in doubt. Just like this time when he gently reminded me of my soft corner for the underprivileged. I must admit that there are times when the bones ache and the pace slackens and I find myself wondering how much longer. But these moments are mercifully short and fleeting. All that is needed to call me back to order is a little hand that finds mine or a cheek quietly proffered for a kiss.

So here I am again seeking help and support or as a young friend once said here I am seeking permission to continue. And this is truly what it is. I am asking you to allow us to carry on what we are doing: ensuring that one more batch of students complete their studies or move into the next class, ensuring that a group of little souls are able to acquire the skills needed to enter the portals of a school, ensuring that a bunch of very special kids spend one more day of their lives in laughter and joy. Simple things that should ordinarily happen without much ado, but that often come at a price for children of a lesser God. Every penny we sought and continue to seek is to do just that. No more, no less.

It is finally over.. I mean the CWG and we can all get back to our lives.. or so I hope. Games over, let the audit begin scream headlines as everyone is on overdrive trying to exonerate themselves and pass the buck. Committees are being formed, agencies roped in to examine all charges. I do hope something does come out of it but why then am I feeling so despondent. I guess, without being a cynic, it is because of a sense of deja vu.

A few days back I urged everyone to spare a thought for the myriad of workers who had toiled to ensure that the show happened. Salute them we must. Today another touching set of pictures brought the same people to mind. A photo essay entitled the Other Games, depicts the plight of the CWG children. The worker’s kids who played their own set of games well before the Games began. It is extremely touching and speaks volumes. Again I gently urge you to spend some time looking at the pictures. I did and as I looked at the innocent faces I could not stop myself from asking the loud question that begged to be asked: where were they today? Most of these children’s families, like thousands of others were brought from other states. Wonder whether they are still in this city or have gone back home. Wonder whether their parents have found jobs. And if they are still here do they have a roof on their heads? Questions crowd the mind. Don’t these children have rights like all the other children of India. Right to education to begin with. Yet while their parents toiled they were left to their own devise in makeshift inhuman shelters or on the pavement, living their childhood as best they could. Who usurped their rights? I guess we all did and must bear the shame.

As the mud slinging continues and the enquiries get on their way my thoughts go to all those who lost their homes because of the Games, to those who lost their livelihood, to those who were compelled to leave the city for the hallowed fortnight as there was no work. To my Lohar friends whose life changed forever simply because they lived on a road guests would zip past. Will the enquiries, audits, probes give them back what they have lost. No way. They will need to rescript their lives and reinvent themselves. Wonder if they will be able to do so. Hope the God of Lesser Beings will once again conjure a miracle.

There was a PTM at the boarding school yesterday and as always it was pure joy to see our exceptional eight! It was also Kiran‘s birthday and she had decided to celebrate it with her special pal Utpal and his friends. So we had chocolate cake and pizza and other goodies. It was a quaint birthday party held in the housemother’s room, with a band of very special children and lot of laughter and cheer.

But that was not the highlight of the day. You may wonder what it was then? Well it was little Manisha who just could not stop smiling. Her happiness was infectious and heartwarming. She just beamed all the time, her smile getting bigger if you asked her if she was happy at school! In two months she had put on weight and was looking for want of a better word: sparkling!

It was indeed a special moment to see this child who just a few months ago had been living in a hell hole and who by a twist of fate or should I say by the grace of my friends the God of lesser beings, saw her life touched by a miracle. The tears and anxiety for the past were gone for ever and in its place was this big huge smile that said it all. I tried to imagine what could have been going in her little head but stopped myself as it may just have taken away the pure magic of that blessed moment.

Once more I say Chapeau Bas to the God of lesser beings!

An article entitled no sir slums are not eyesores (the article is at the end of the list) warmed the cockles of my heart! This article written by an eminent economist is an apologia for slums. The author writes: cities must not be elite in a sea of rural despond. They must provide income and social ladders for the poor and unskilled to climb up…. we must have more slums. These are entry points for the poor into urban havens of opportunity…. some see slums as hubs of sub human existence …but you will find an astonishingly wide range of economic activities….if cities are to fulfill their critical function of social mobility we need more slums... Wow an article after my own heart!

And before you start talking of reverse migration by making rural areas prosperous listen to what the author has to say: India has 160 millions hectare of cultivable land for 1250 million people or 1/8 of a hectare per person and even if the urban share of population doubles from todays 30 % to 60 % it will just be 1/3 of a hectare per person! It is not without reason that rural folks migrate to cities. How wretched rural India must be if people see more hope in urban shanties!

Welcome to the world of what I have always called small entrepreneurs, the ones our satraps are so keen on destroying and obliterating and yet the only ones which can ensure that India prospers. Who are they you ask. Just look around and you will find them: it is you corner samosa seller, your food cart owner, your vegetable vendor, your fruit vendor. It is the young man who walks the streets to repair broken zips, the street corner cobbler or the street tailor always ready to mend your shoes and clothes. It is the enterprising lad who sets up an array of guides and help books in front of an exam centre, or the one who sells all you need for a particular festival. It is the family that makes soft toys in their hovel before selling them at fairs and melas. It is all your pavement vendors who sell the trinkets you need. It is also the plumber, painter, mason, carpenter who sit at road corners hoping to get work for the day. They are the real heart and soul of our land and we need to ensure that they thrive.

Each one feeds a family, educates children and enables them to dream of better morrows. Most of the pwhy children’s parents are just that: small entrepreneurs and it is their blood and sweat that ensures that their children prosper. We have many such kids: the son of our three wheeler driver who today teaches secondary classes at pwhy’s Okhla centre, the vegetable vendor’s daughter who today works in a call centre, the gypsy brothers who after a stint as teachers at pwhy have now got better jobs one at the airport and the other in a bank – the list ins endless and each is an India story. There are so many of them, each endearing and moving.

Life in the city, even in a hovel opens new vistas often thanks to the ever present TV set. I have seen enfold in from of my eyes many times over the last decade. I have seen how a tiny business opportunity brings change into the darkest hovel. This is the social mobility the article highlights, a throbbing and pulsating exercise in hope and belief. There is no other way out, at least for the time being.

It was a strange Sunday. One that I have never experienced before. The city was like a fortress and we felt under siege. A friend who landed from Europe after a few months found the drive from the airport almost eerie. Though the city looked squeaky clean she felt Delhi had lost its soul. The roads were shiny and empty. Gone was the hustle and bustle that are such an intrinsic part of the city. The smell, the colours, the familiar sounds were all absent. Delhi was almost a ghost city. She asked me what was wrong and I could just reply the Commonwealth Games!

Over a much needed cup of tea I tried to fill her in on all that had happened in the last months and about how those in power had decided to rid the city of what they thought was not to be seen: in a nutshell the poor! This was very well articulated by the CEO of the city when she said: We are not trying to hide but you know that you are receiving guests. Yes, Delhi has been decorated – for Commonwealth Games, for celebration…lot of things are there. Don’t you have the right to light up your house on Diwali or whatever festival you may celebrate and are you trying to hide your poverty at that point of time?..But when you get a guest at your house and when the eyes of the world are going to be on this city, would you not like it to look like a nice city? I find it difficult to accept. To me the city today looks alien and soulless. And the decision to close everything just reinforced the feeling. It was one of the most claustrophobic days of my existence.

We cannot and should not forget the reality we live in. We are a poor country as more than 40% of our population lives below the poverty line and there is no way we can conceal that. The honest way would be to accept the reality and take steps to counter it. Wish our leaders did that.

The next cup of tea and there we were discussing the attitude of the rich towards the poor. This is best exemplified in the attitude my peers have had to our boarding school programme. I have yet to find one country mate who has applauded the idea of sending eight of the most deprived children to a ‘good’ school. For them it remains a no no! You see in India you do not mix the rich and the poor, the lines have to remain drawn and cannot be crossed. And if you dare delve further ans ask some disturbing questions pat comes the answer: karma. The poor’s karma is what makes them poor and you do not meddle with that. My answer is a little different: what about our karma, does it not compel us to help those in need. Mine does. And that is simply what I have been doing for the last 10 years and will continue till I breathe my last.

To our CEO who asks candidly : would you not like to look nice, my answer is a loud yes but our ways differ. I would like to look nice by accepting the harsh reality and not looking away; by finding answers and showing to the world that we are aware of our problems and are actively engaged in solving them. I would also like to add that I would like to look nice for ourselves and not just to the eyes of the world. So maybe it is time we addressed the issues of beggars, street children, homeless people. It is time we cleaned up the whole city and got rid of all the pot holes, not just the ones on the roads guests would take. It is time we stop pretending that all is well and addressed real issues. But is anyone really interested?

It was a relief to finally see an article on the human price of the CWG. The article entitled Labour bore the brunt appeared on the NDTV website. Do read it. It talks not only of the plight of the labour that toiledto make the games a reality but also off the callous attitude of the authorities towards the workers and how they have been exploited. The article also refers to a report entitled Games the State plays. This report makes disturbing reading. The exploiting of the voiceless poor seems to be a huge moral scam. Minimum wages were not paid and neither was overtime. Few women were employed and were not paid the same wages as the men. And children too were employed. There was no safety of the workers and the living conditions were abysmal. According to a member of a civil liberties organisation, “the depressing living conditions at the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium labour colony represent hovels where human beings have to literally crawl like animals.” This was the plight of about 40 000 workers who toiled day and night to make the show a success. I urge you to read this report as if nothing else, the people who made the Games possible deserve at least that. That is one part of the human tragedy.

The other is being staged as I write these words. Today’s newspaper carries the following articles: poor banished from public spaces, cops asks hawkers and vendors to pack up and so on. The message to the downtrodden is clear: don’t step out, lest the Games visitors spot you. This is the order of the day.

Many of our parents have come to inform us that they will be leaving the city as with no work they will be unable to survive. We course are not closing pwhy during the Games. This is our own way of protest!

Last week was PTM time and boy I needed it as this is the only time when I get off my spinning planet and catch my breath. The day dawned dark and cloudy. The rains were imminent but that did not lessen our enthusiasm though we were apprehensive of traffic snarls. We set off early. Agastya my grandchild was with us. That made the day even more special. We of course had not forgotten all the goodies that the children has demanded: cookies, biscuits, chocolates and of course the pizzas!

The roads were empty and we made good time. It began pelting though but we were almost there. The school ground was inundated and looked almost like a swimming pool. There went Agastya’s favourite playground! But we knew we would still have lot of fun. The first stop was the children’s classrooms to get the unit test results. I felt a little hand in mine and looked down: It was Utpal who had come from nowhere and joined us. I asked him how he had done and he looked a little forlorn as he told me that his maths and English results were not good. I was a little perplexed but then tried to rationalise my reaction: it was not right to always expect the impossible. I did not know that my little Popples had played a trick on me: it transpired later that he had A+ in both subjects. We did the rounds and collected the results; as always the children had done well: Aditya and Meher topped their class and the rest were second or third. Only Nikhil’s results were disappointing. It seemed the child wanted to convey something we were not able to comprehend. A challenging behaviour of sorts. Would have to delve further.

On the way Agastya made new friends, two being class XII students. Quite a charmer! It was then time to go to the hostel and meet Dolly Ma’am the housemother. We would also be able to unpack the goodies all the children were waiting for. I decided to rest my bones and sit with Dolly whilst the kids ate their pizza. The rest of the goodies was to be handed over for later.It was lovely to see them all looking so happy. Agastya had taken his cars out and soon everyone was on the floor playing with the cars. Dolly briefed me on the children and most got glowing reports: Babli was very well behaved, Meher was the little granny, Manisha was now well settled, Yash was still a holy terror, and the boys were just that boys! Dolly also shared how Manisha ate a lot, I guess she was making up for years of want now that she was in the land of the plenty. I did realise she had put on quite a lot of weight. I sat for along time taking all this in and savouring the moment. This was a dream come true. I wish I could have given this chance to many more. This was what each and every child born in the country deserved.

It was soon time to go. We had all had a terrific time as always and I had more than caught my breath. My batteries were fully recharged at least tell the next PTM!

Delhi is getting a face lift courtesy the games! But there is a rider: only certain parts are being dolled out, the ones where the hallowed feet of the foreign guests will tread. And by the way during the games auto rickshaws will not be allowed to ply on certain routes. There goes our preferred and only mode of transport. Guess what: we will be grounded! That is not all during the games we common citizens will only be allowed to use half a road! There are even rumours that the dreaded section 144 – Joining unlawful assembly armed with deadly weapon – may be imposed on the lane reserved for the Games. Needless to say many are up in arms! For the state the Games are nothing less than a war that needs to be fought and won. Wonder who the enemy is? Let me try and guess: it is we, humble mortals, who still have a heart that beats in the right place and a modicum of honesty left.

I started writing about the Games way back in 2008 when the first slums began getting relocated and kept on writing trying to highlight the issues – the end of street food, the construction of the village on the flood plain of the Yamuna, the end of horse carts, flower markets, the wishing away of beggars, the obliteration of the poor, the multiple aberrations that spelt doom for those who were born on the wrong side of the fence. I wrote about the child labour on sites, the abysmal living conditions of the workers, the plight of beggars and so on. I guess I am who I am and what mattered to me was the terrible human tragedy that was slowly unfolding in front of our helpless eyes. The final blow came with the destruction of the homes of my dear Lohar friends. The sense of loss was indescribable.

Along way came the news of corruption and boy it was a big one. The crores spent on balloons, toilet paper, loos et al. It was comforting to see that many took up the cudgels and added their voice to mine. And then the Gods too lend their hand: it rained like never before and in a city dug to the hilt the dreaded Aedes mosquito proliferated and dengue invited itself to the Games. Wonder whether our masters of corruption will be able to bribe the beast? Maybe for once they will meet their nemesis. I believe special insecticides are being flown from other lands to stop the menace. Needless to say all the spraying is being done in places where the games guest will abide. In the rest of the city people are coping with dengue as best they can. As for the rains I guess soon yagnas and prayers will begin in earnest to appease the rain Gods, But who will appease the Gods of lesser beings?

The games are around the corner. The 60 crores balloon is up in the air, a stark reminder of days to come. We all need to survive the next 30 days as best we can. There is no joy in our hearts, how can their be…

As Neruda wrote… come and see the blood on our streets!

The book sat on my shelf for many weeks. It had been written by a friend I admire. I had been meaning to read it but somehow never found the time or hindsight I think that the right moment had not dawned. It did today a day after all the hullabaloo on the grain wastage that rocked our Parliament yesterday. Finally an outrage on the unbelievable amount of grains rotting whilst children die every day for want of food.

Her account on the plight of the Sahariya tribe where children die of hunger by the hour is heart wrenching. She writes: I have been thinking ever since. About comments from administration officials on the Sahariya ‘culture’ of dying. About pregnant women who chew bits of gum plucked of gum trees trying to kill hunger pangs. About women who have not eaten for three days giving birth alone in dark hovels, knowing their breasts are dry. About the dismissive assistant in the nutritional rehabilitation center who said that Sahariya women hardly deserve the state’s help, because they smoke beedis. About Lakshmi, and how she was lighter than my purse. About a state that promises handouts to a group of people who are clearly on the brink, and then fails to deliver. Is this what you call being squeezed off the map?

Squeezed out of the map. The words struck a painful chord. Is this not what is happening not only to he Sahariyas but to everyone born on the other side of an invisible fence. It seems that our state is squeezing them off the map. True that this very State has fab sounding programmes designed to help the poor, alleviate hunger, send children to school and more but this is all a wily and insidious head fake: you see these programmes are actually meant to line bottomless pockets!

But let us get back to yesterday and the rotting grain saga. Why does it take a supreme court order for our rulers and administrators to realise that grains should not be left to rot and is better given to those who are hungry. Do you have to be a rocket scientist to know that grain left outside will eventually rot? Now those in power are busy quibbling about semantics between the word suggestion and order while more grain is rotting. And why does the Minister have to have the order in hand to begin to act. It was also revealed in a debate on TV that in Punjab granaries are full of perfectly edible rice but that this is not being given to the poor as it is 6 and not 5 % broken and rules cannot be broken. If nothing is done then where will the new crop go. You guessed right in the open and allowed to rot and a child will die of hunger every 8.7804 minute. It is all a matter of squeezing them off the map. No one seems to care.

This squeeze game is being played out surreptitiously in front of our eyes but we seem to have lots the capacity to see. Promises are made and never delivered. The squeeze game is in full swing each time someone loses his livelihood, when a family loses its home and the promised one never materialises: the list is endless. And to be part of this game you just have to be born on the other side of the fence. There is no winner or loser, the aim is simply to squeeze out whoever gets in the way and there are no rules, anything goes.

You want to build a factory, you squeeze out those who live on the land you covet, you want to beautify your city you squeeze out those who live on the place you need, you want to build a parking lot, a mall, you squeeze out part of a school and so on.

So the grain will not reach the poor because they need to be squeezed out. Pulling them on to the other side is not part of the game. I wish it were.

Note: The book I refer too is Known Turf by Annie Zaidi. Do read it.

Our Chief Minister is now praying for the success of the games and urges to pray too. And what should we pray for? I only keep praying that we won’t let the country down says she. But dear lady who is the we, kindly don’t include us common citizens as we have not let the country down.

A befitting answer to her plea was given by author Chetan Bhagat in an article entitled Please don’t cheer for the 2010 loot-fest. Do read the article. It echoes much of what many of us feel. He writes: The CWG is an amazing opportunity because all Indians have been robbed at the same time. Add to that the fact that the government is desperate to save face. Now is when we can get them. And the way to do it is simply what the father of our nation pioneered in his time — non-cooperation. Yes, and i’ve deliberated long before saying this — do not watch these Games.

But let us get back to the prayers we have been solicited to offer by none other than the CEO of our city. What do you want us to pray for I ask again? For the success of what can best be termed as the most obnoxious display of corruption. For the success of the best example of mismanagement. For having frittered away our heard earned money? For the years we will have to toil to pay for your misdeeds? Do I have to pray for what you call national pride when the whole world is laughing at us? Do we have to pray for the rains to stop and the mosquitoes to vanish so that the corrupt Games can have their place in the sun?

You say we all have to pray for the success of the Games. I wonder who is this we! The ones who lost their homes and jobs? The ones who sleep hungry or die for want of a proper meal? The ones who fight each day simply to survive? I am at a loss.

Yes I will pray Ma’am but not for the success of the Games. I will pray in the hope that no child ever sleeps hungry in my country, that every one has a roof on his head, that every child goes to school. I will pray for the Heaven of Freedom that Tagore dreamt of. But I will not just pray I will continue to do my tiny bit to ensure that one day this does happen.

How can we forget that for Rs 28,000 crore we could have established primary schools and health centres in tens of thousands of villages? Can we ignore this splurge the next time a malnourished child looks at us in the eye? writes Azim Premji in today’s morning paper. I have been saying this for quite some time. I hope that when an eminent personality echoes the same it would be heard. Then why do I have the uncanny feeling that it will not.

I fell of my chair when I heard a Member of Parliament and also an industrialist state on National TV that 80 000 Rs a month salary was no big deal! This was in the course of a debate on the raise in salaries for Parliamentarians. The MP felt that 80K a month was not such a big salary and wondered why it was being made into such an issue. I would like to remind our esteemed MP that the present minimum wage is about 5000 Rs a month and many across our country do not earn even that. According to recent statistics over 37.2 % of Indians live below the poverty line and 5000 children still die of malnutrition every day.

The question is not whether one should or should not hold international events. The question is one of priorities. And these seem to be totally skewed. But then we are missing the point: such events are wonderful ways of making money and these Games have given us ample proof of that. What is worrying however is the total lack of concern of those in power for what I call the other India. It almost seems as if for them it does not exist. Though if you care to look, it is at our very doorstep. Be it the malnourished child who taps on your car window, or the poor labourer toiling under the rain to meet some new impossible deadline.

The Games are an eye opener to all that is wrong in India. Anyone can see that but we seem to have lost our ability to do that. We are too inured, or perhaps too ensconced in our self created catatonia and unable to move when we should be screaming. If at nothing else than at least at the helium balloon hired at the cost of 40 crores for the opening ceremony, mind you in case you use it for the closing ceremony then you pay more! And let me remind you lest you have forgotten it is you and I and our children who will toil a lifetime to foot the bill. Yes I said let us at least scream at this wasteful expense as we seem to have lost our ability to do so when hundreds of thousands have lost their homes, their livelihood and more.

I have now words left.. I will simply quote Mr Premji again. He ends his article with the following: At times like these, it will serve our leaders well to recall Gandhiji’s talisman: “Recall the face of the poorest and the weakest man whom you may have seen, and ask yourself if the step you contemplate is going to be of any use to him. Will he gain anything by it? Will it restore him to a control over his own life and destiny? In other words, will it lead to Swaraj for the hungry and spiritually starving millions?”

Is anyone listening?

Today, almost every child in our country has access to primary education. It is our endeavour that every child, irrespective of whether he is rich or poor and which section of the society he belongs to, should be given an education that enables him to realize his potential and makes him a responsible citizen of our country. These words were part of the Prime Minister’s address from the ramparts of the Red Fort on India 63rd Independence day.

How I wish this were true! Sadly it is not so.

Allow me to share a story with you, one that is true. It happened on August 14th 2010, just a day before our Prime Minister delivered his speech. We had gone to the I Day celebrations of the children’s boarding school to be part of the festivities which were to end with the launch of a Literacy programme in a nearby slum cluster. We were very excited as this is the very area where God willing planet why will one day be seated. The rain Gods were bountiful on that cloudy morning and by the time we reached the slum cluster it was pouring the proverbial cats and dogs. The programme was to be launched in the tiny roofless community centre of the cluster where a small tent had been erected.

A few days earlier someone had visited the cluster and made a list of children interested in joining the programme. The names of around 40 children figured on that piece of paper and they were to receive a small token: a notebook and some pencils in a smart plastic folder. The show began. The flimsy tent was not able to hold the rain and soon the piece of paper was soaked and the names washed away. This was almost providential as we soon realised that there were not 40 but hundreds of children in the small tent with the same amount outside. Children of all ages. I was moved to tears when a young girl, about 16 or so, who looked married also held out her hand and said she too wanted to study! The books and pencils were soon outnumbered by the little hands held out in anticipation.

I moved away and started talking to the parents. I was soon told that most of the children did not go to school though the parents were keen they do. The reason :the sole municipal school in the vicinity had more than 100 kids in each class and even an illiterate parent was aware of the fact that no learning could happen in such abysmal conditions. Children passed from class to class without any learning! This was the situation a day before the PM’s speech just a few kilometers away for the Red Fort. Where was the access to primary education the PM announced with such confidence. Was this the way Independant India hoped children would realise their potential and become responsible citizens!

There is a universe of difference between what is on paper and the reality on the ground Mr Prime Minister. The children of your own capital city do not have access to education, let alone quality education and nothing seems to be really happening. It is time we did something. I do not know whether you will, but we at pwhy certainly will.

I was recently asked by a friend to make a selection of my blogs as he wanted to publish them in a a small ebook. I must candidly admit that I was thrilled. He also mentioned that maybe I should chose those where I talk of the God of lesser beings. There are over 1200 blogs and I did not quite know where to begin so the suggestion was more than welcome. My blogs are like children to me, some perhaps smarter, better looking and nicer than the other, but each one as precious. Thanks to the wonderful search tool I was able to zero in on the blogs in a jiffy. As I started sifting through them a smile on my lips, I began to wonder how, when and why the God of Lesser beings had come into my life and who he or she actually was.

I realised that there were moments in my last ten years when everything went suddenly dark for more reasons than one: it could be the total lack of funds that made me wonder how the next day would dawn, or the helplessness of a parent who needed help to save her dying child; or an absolutely incomprehensible and terrible situation that needed a solution that was not forthcoming. In those moments I needed help and had no one to turn and yet felt deep inside that there was somehow out there I could reach out to, someone who would rescue me. There were also times when I felt lost and dejected and ready to give up. At those times I needed someone to steer me back and give me the courage to carry on. And believe me there was someone who again heard and sent a miracle my way. But I never knew who it was.

One day little Utpal romped around the house a God mask on his face stating he was Hamoumam! At that instant I realised that he was the one who helped me, the God of Lesser beings, the one little boys prayed to and the one that heard prayers forbidding Gos did not, the one who did not need to be propitiated with costly offerings and complex rituals. The one who only heard those who saw with their hearts.

He has been the one who has walked by my side each and every day for the past ten years and has strangely become the only God I pray to!

Your email has made my day (and if forecasting is allowed, perhaps my whole life! 🙂 ) Your words have given me the confidence to steer my life in the direction that I have always wanted to take. These were the words that dropped into my inbox late last night. It all began the previous day with another email that began with the words: dear Maam’ji and immediately caught my eye. Maam’ji was hallowed ground. I read on. The mail came from a young woman engineer working in a big corporation. She wrote about herself: her work, her dreams but what again caught my eye were the following words: occasionally, I accompany my grandfather and my mother to an old age home and an orphanage…and perhaps those are the only moments that make my life worthwhile. My eyes misted: here was a young woman who could see with her heart! What she wanted was to come and work with us in our special section. My heart went out to her. I wrote back to tell her it would be an honour to have her with us. Her reply were the words that begin this post.

This was indeed a very special moment for me. Let me explain why. When I set out on the pwhy journey my primary objective was undoubtedly to help make a difference in the lives of those less privileged and I must admit that we have not fared badly. But unknown to many if not all, there were many head fakes consciously strewn along the way and one of them was to be able to touch hearts of those on the other side of the fence. I always hoped that our work would inspire young educated souls and act as a catalyst for change. This is perhaps why I have spent so much time writing these blogs that as you all know are not simply a journal of our activities, but have over time become passionate musings on what I like to call the real India. I know that often what I write is old news, but I somewhat believe, or would like to do so, that I anchor it into a different reality. The hope being that the words would touch some heart. They did touch one and that in itself is nothing short of a miracle. I did begin my journey with the words: If I can change one life it would have been worth it. So I feel vindicated and elated.

But nothing comes easy. Today a young woman is willing to steer her life in a new direction and though I feel almost euphoric I also know that the road she wants to travel is not an easy one.It is wrought with obstacles, humiliation and hurt. Though you do see the best of what life can offer in the eyes of a trusting child you also see the worst: the callousness of people, the lack of concern, the cynicism and more. And yet if you want to carry on you have to battle them all holding on to the memory of the child’s eyes. It is not easy. In spite of my years and grey hair I often did come to the verge of giving up but the little child who christened me Maam’ji ensured I did not. You see I held all his morrows in my hands.

Today a young woman seems to have entrusted her morrows to me. Was I not the one who dreamt of being a mentor. Well the day had dawned. I hope my friend Godji will once again show me the way.

Delhi is soon to lose one more of its wonderful landmarks, one that is as fleeting as its sunrise at dawn: its three flower markets. Wonder at whose alter they are being sacrificed? I do not know how many of you have actually imbibed the wonderful experience of this buzzing riot of colour and fragrance. It is truly unique and pure magic. Roads which are normally choked with fumes, get transformed into a carpet of shades and hues and then when the clock strikes nine, all vanishes just like Cinderella’s attire! And the flowers begin their journey to the four corners of our city: some into flower shops, others to roadside vendors, yet others to your doorstep in the shape of the daily garland that adores your house deity. These flowers touch the lives of each and everyone of us.

True this happens on public land, but so what. These markets add beauty to a city that is turning into a concrete jungle by the second. Could one not just legalise them? Soon these wonderful places will shut down and be shifted to the outskirts of the city next to, hold your breath, the meat wholesale market! And what about the livelihood of all those who work in these markets? How many families will be uprooted? But then who cares. The powers that rule this city have proved time and again that they are heartless. This is just one more instance. Will we for once raise our voices and fight for these markets or as is always the case, will we just sit and watch silently?

I am livid, hurt, upset and totally speechless. Yesterday night a news item was aired on a TV channel stating that an upmarket school in Bangalore labelled poor children as criminals. This aberration was stated in a circular sent to parents in the wake of the new Right to Education Act, which stipulates that all private schools have to admit 25% children from underprivileged backgrounds. The said circular referred to this and proclaimed that admitting poor students into the school will be detrimental to the psyche of those that are already studying there. It even added that such children beat up your child, smoke on the campus, misbehave with a girl or a teacher!

This is scary. First of all let us remember that the Act stipulates that children will be admitted in class I and thus I am at a total loss to even begin to comprehend what the school is trying to say. Do 6 year old children smoke or misbehave with girls? Wonder where. But that is not the real issue. The reality is it that this attitude though politically incorrect, is one that pervades the very fabric of our society. I have often mentioned it whenever I have talked of the elusive common school. My son cannot study in the same class as my driver’s child. Period! This is where the truth lies. We are feudal in our beliefs and will remain so. The 25% reservation was a sort of a back door entry into inclusive education and a semblance of a common school. The circular of the Bethany school just brings out in the open what many think but dare not express. In a way it is good this has come out in the open before the real implementation of the reservation policy. It shows how such back door and half hearted efforts are doomed to fail. Inclusion has to come the other way if it is to succeed. The so called school for the poor has to become a centre of excellence that will attract the so called rich and become a viable alternative to expensive private schools. You cannot make poor children second class citizens in their own country. They are full fledged citizens protected by the same Constitution and having the same right to Education than any child born on the other side of the invisible divide.

Now let us address the aberration of equating poor children to criminals. I urge you to look at the picture above. These 8 kids are form the most deprived homes you can imagine. They have been studying in an upmarket school for 2 years now. They are the pride of their school as they have excellent results, each topping its respective class, and are extremely well behaved. they do not misbehave with teachers, do not smoke or beta other kids. Need I say more.

For some time now, courtesy creaking bones and aching back, I have come to realise that the courting and honeymoon days of pwhy are over and that it is time to set the house in order. Sounds cryptic? Let me elucidate. For the past ten years I have been trying to answers many deafening whys and I must admit with a sense of pride that we had done quite well. Be it arresting the school drop outs, securing the morrows of the most wretched or empowering those no one believed in, we have done it all. Today over 500 school going children study in our various centres, over 100 toddlers and young souls are off the street and spend the day in a dafe environment, about 20 special children and young adults are learning to live with dignity and 3 of them even have a home and 8 children whose future was in jeopardy now study in a boarding school and who knows may one day take over the reins of pwhy!

But this can only happen if pwhy lives on or in other words if I can put my house in order. Can I, is the question I ask myself over and over again, a question that frightens me and keeps me awake many a night. Planet Why was the solution we came up with but one that is not an easy one as it requires a huge shot of funds before it can see the light of day. We have been working on it and still hope for the best. We have to remain optimists till the very end. Or so I thought till yesterday.

A phone call received yesterday almost brought the house crashing. Let me explain. Even at the worst moments, when accounts are empty and promises few, I have never thought of giving up. Yet, I almost did yesterday! The call was one of many that have been coming our way for the past few months from our bankers! Each ask an inane question, one that had been answered ad nauseum earlier and yet does not seem to register. Who is this donor? What is the money for? is this donor Indian? and so on. And each time one asks why these queries, pat comes the answer: a government requirement. When one seeks a written answer one gets an elusive reply. Mails remain unacknowledged. Everything is on done on phone, making us that much more vulnerable. How can I forget the terrible day when the same bank shut our accounts for no fault of ours: that day David took on Goliath.

To set the record straight we are an organisation that fulfils all Government stipulations and requirements. It is not easy to run a charitable organisation in India. But we do it with application and honesty and our work is there for all to see. Till recently all seemed to be on even keel. But the past months and the prying and almost humiliating questioning by small bank officials has been unbearable and this after the same bank did a due diligence on us recently in the name of new Government regulations! Then why the constant harassing with no reason given? Donations are sent back without informing us, and the pound continues mercilessly. For all these days I have been taking it with patience and restraint answering everything as best I could. How could I forget that hundreds of little souls depended on my endurance. But yesterday something snapped inside me and I was a breath away from throwing the gauntlet down and giving up. I had done enough in the past ten years, more than any and had earned my place in the sun. What no one else could so a large corporate bank had done! They had killed my spirit.

I must admit that it takes a lot to bring my new persona (post pwhy) down. I have battled authorities, slumlords and others and never batted an eyelid but somehow this constant pestering by small and petty bank officials hit me below the belt. It was nothing short of humiliating as you knew they did not have a clue about what was at stake. I was left wondering whether this was the due of anyone wanting to take the road less travelled. What made it worse was that I had made a trip to the bank last week and explained all. I was given the sleek and glib welcome you expect from huge multinational banks, with the expected ‘we will get back to you’ for every query asked. Needless to say they never got back!

As I write these words, I am trying to pick the pieces up and try and weave them together again hoping that no cracks will remain.

You can’t live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you wrote John Wooden. Yesterday was one such day. We were taking Manisha to boarding school. Manisha had spent the night at the foster care and was ready early morning, her little bag in tow. She was quiet though a little perplexed. I wondered what was going on in her little mind.

We were a little late and had to set off in a hurry. There were four adults and the tiny tiny girl. She sat in silence throughout the journey. When we reached school she followed in silence and sat in the office waiting for the next step. Soon it was time to write her entrance test and she did to the best of her ability. You must remember that this little girl’s world was till now restricted to a tiny hovel in a slum and to project why. And here she was today in a strange place, one larger than anything she had ever seen, one filled with strangers: enough to rattle anyone, let alone a little girl. But she did us proud and soon it was time to take the little bag and move to the hostel. She still sat in silence but when it was time to bid farewell, a few silent tears rolled on her little cheek. I sat bravely knowing that this day would change the tiny soul’s life and was a blessed one. The tears were just a small price we all had to pay.

Once Manisha was settled in what was to become her home for years to come, we set out looking for our little gang. The bell had just rung for morning refreshment and the children were gathering in the playground. Someone was sent out to gather the brood and soon we saw them all: Utpal, Babli, Nikhil, Aditya, Vicky, Meher and Yash. They all wore huge smiles on their faces . After a short photo session it was time to catch up, we knew we only had a few minutes till the end of recess bell rang. We also were aware of the fact that these were stolen moments as parents were not meant to be in school!

It was a perfect moment with each child trying to tell us something and frankly I must admit sheepishly that I cannot quite remember what was said. I just imbibed the mood, the joy, the smiles and laughter, the kid speak: all small ways in which these wonderful children were telling me that all was well and that they were happy. I felt blessed and rewarded beyond words. In their own inimitable way my incredible seven had repaid me for everything.

Enjoy some pictures of that perfect day

If you call 9811424877 in the mornings, you will be greeted by a very sweet Project Why, Namaste! Yes we have a new receptionist trainee and it is a very own Preeti from the special section. Preeti is one of our special girls!

Preeti walks on her hand as polio struck her when she was very young and by the time she came to us, her led muscles had become too atrophied for calipers. But that does not stop her from living life to its fullest dance and even be a karate kid!

So when we started dreaming planet why, where we had decided that we would walk the talk and show off our special children to one and all, we knew Preeti would be the one to man the reception desk. So now Preeti is making up for lost time, learning English, computers and training for a few hours a day at the project why office!

I must admit that there are times where my old bones and aching back nudge me to give up the daunting task of setting up planet why, but the soft Project Why, Namaste brought be back to order. Preeti deserves her place in the sun and I just have to see she gets it.

Yesterday I got my first monthly report from BiharWhy. I sat a long time reading the two neatly typed pages, my eyes moist and a lump in my throat. Was this really happening? Somehow it all seemed to good to be true but true it was. All the years spent trying to empower people and make them believe in themselves had borne fruit. Even the gentle prods on the wisdom of taking the road back home and reversing the migration seemed to have worked. It almost seemed I had come full circle, even if it was in a tiny way.

I was reminded of the umpteen staff meetings where I had urged my proteges to walk the extra mile and fly on their own wings, and where I had despaired at the sullen or at best blank looks I got and yet I had never given up. I guess that is the one thing I personally learnt at pwhy: never to give up!

Today I stood vindicated and somewhat liberated. BiharWhy was not some pipe dream of seeing the why spirit soar in the land of my ancestors but a vibrant reality. And Chandan who I must confess never seemed to be the one to take the lead and had made this dream come true. And as I read his report I saw that this quiet and sometimes sullen looking young man had learnt his lessons well. In a month he had managed a parents’ meeting (something we still battle with), filled admission forms, made time tables, held a painting competition and taken a monthly test! What warmed my heart was that he had even convinced 18 parents to come for adult education classes. Soon he will be starting computer classes and even stitching ones. Wow!

His report ended with a simple statement: We are taking the classes in Bihar why project without roof. The words were pregnant with meaning: they need a roof on their little heads and I hope you will help us give them one.

Please take some time and look at these pictures: they speak volumes.

Got a call yesterday. It was all the way form the USA. The caller was a passionate young Indian who wanted to make a difference. He had been deeply disturbed by the hunger that still prevailed across our land and wanted to help alleviate it. A young professional, he had quit his lucrative job to follow his heart. A young man after my own heart! He had been given my number from another young man who thinks with his heart and I was all ears.

We chatted for a few minutes and then the young man stated: My ambition is to somehow work to appease issues of hunger in Delhi. Wow! That was a stunner. Millions of images zipped through my mind and though some were undoubtedly of hunger per se, most were of the enormous amount of wasted food I have seen over the years I lived in this city: be it the humongous wastage one saw at up market dos – weddings, parties of all hues, religious functions etc – but more than that on the streets and garbage dumps in slums. I remember an instance a few years ago that made me write a blog entitled morning after! It was the site we saw the morning after a wedding that took place in our street and the wise words of a little girl who simply said: why did they not give the food to the cows.

Rewind to 1986. My first visit to an Indian village. It was a godforsaken village in the Jehanabad District of Bihar where I had gone for some developmental work. What surprised the most when I visited the home of one of the poorest family of this village was the pristine cleanliness of this small mud house: no flies, no garbage, no filth. Everything was spotless; it was the perfect example of recycling you could think of. The leftovers ,if there were any, and the vegetable peels were fed to the animals, the dung turned into cakes and used as fuel, the ashes used to clean the few utensils that sat sparkling on a small shelf, next to the Gods. Voila! No need for garbage bins, plastic bags and all the implements essential to urban life.

Forward to 2010 and after. On the sights that greets us each and every day is wasted food lying helter–skelter on the street, in the slum lanes, in garbage dumps, just about everywhere. You see there is always a wedding, a birthday party, a jagran, a religious do, you name it and it is there and at each and every venue there are heaps of plastic and thermacol plates still filled with good and clean food. It is just strewn on the ground till the cleaners sweep it away and carry it to the dump. But food is not only wasted during festivals or special occasions, it is wasted every day in every home as if throwing food was a way of stating that you had reached, that you had graduated from the rural to the urban status. It seemed the be the new mantra of success in the slums. I see it every day. In every home I go if it is meal time every member of a family will leave something on the plate. But come to think about it, this was not the case a few years back. In the same household no food was wasted and children were chided if they did not finish their plate. So what had changed.

The family in question had bettered its plight. More members had jobs now and thus the household income had taken a quantum leap. The advent of credit had enabled the family to buy two TVs, a refrigerator, coolers and many household items. In other words they had arrived. Their rural antecedents were laid to rest, the young adults of the family were all to the city born. The parents ere the only ones who still remembered the ways of village life with nostalgia and no one to listen.

From a people who worshiped food and deified it, we have turned into a nation that wastes with impunity and alacrity as we feel that we have all arrived! But have we? Look around and there are still people rummaging for food in garbage dumps but that is not all and believe it or not every 8.7 minutes a child dies of hunger while mounds of grains rot in the open. But we seem to have got inured to every and any thing. Have we really? I urge you to click on this link and look at the picture of a little three year old from Madhya Pradesh who weighs the same as a three month old healthy baby. It is not trick photography but stark reality in a land where 3000 children a day die of malnutrition. The picture of little Neeraj should be enough to make us think twice before we throw any food in the future. But will it? I do not know. It seems we have put our conscience on hold while we are busy arriving!

In the light of the above I wonder what to answer my young friend when he writes : My ambition is to somehow work to appease issues of hunger in Delhi. True there is hunger in Delhi but there is more wastage and disrespect for food then ever before. Should we mot address those issues, or at least find a way to address them first. I am at a loss.

After more than ten years of working with the less privileged, I often think I have seen it all and am now inured to things. But that is not quite so. Yesterday we went to Manisha‘s home to talk to her mom about her going to boarding school. Yes you rad right our little Alien is off to boarding school sooner than we thought! We had hoped to catch her mom at lunch time but that was not to be as she was still out picking rags and was not expected till late afternoon. However the little home was not left unattended as Sonu, Manisha’s elder sister, was in charge. She is just eight years old.

Sonu welcomed us with a serious smile and asked us to sit down. We did and looked around.

Manisha’s home is not bigger than a store room and yet what struck us was that it was spotlessly clean and well organised. Everything seemed to have a place be it the little school bags in one corner or the mom’s sarees that hung in another. A tiny plank set on two bricks in the third corner was the kitchen and well organised. To beat the incredible heat a table fan was tied to the wooden beam that held the low tin roof of the house in place. One could see that in spite of all odds Manisha’s mom had tried to give the best she could to her children. I cannot find the words to describe what we felt: awe, respect, bewilderment laced with anger and even helplessness. This was the world of the survivor, one we could only salute.

We sat a while talking to Sonu. She told us she was very happy Manisha would be going to a big school and then little a true little mommy she turned to Manisha and told her quietly in a tone way beyond her years: you must study hard and do well! We asked her whether she too would like to go to school and again she relied with a wise smile: how can I, who will look after the baby, she does not stay without me. Those simple words summed up the plight of so many little girls across India. Here was a little girl, one who should still be playing with dolls, who had become an adult overnight. If she did not look after the home, the mother would not be able to earn and no one would survive. She knew it and what was killing was that there was no resentment or bitterness in the girl, it was simply her life.

As I said I thought I had seen it all but this little girl moved me beyond words and was a stark reminder of how little we had achieved and how much more needed to be done.

A few months back one of our regular and committed donors came to visit. We of course discussed future funding and in the course of conversation he quite candidly admitted that it was easier for him to market individual stories. Finding funds for larger projects like primary classes was more difficult. He wanted me to ‘find’ more possible candidates for boarding school as he felt that was something donors ‘liked’. I must admit I was a little vexed but did not let my feelings show as beggars cannot be choosers! And though I told him that it was not easy to find parents who would hand over their kids and even if they did then it would open flood gates we would be unable to handle, I also promised to look into the matter and find him a suitable candidate.

The one child that came to mind was little Mehajabi. Would it not be wonderful to give this little girl a good education. It would transform her life. So sure were we of this possibility that we wrote to our funder friend and he was all set to send Mehajabi to boarding school. But that was not to be. Her mother who at first accepted came back a few days later telling us that she would not send her child away. And when mothers decree one cannot but follow. We did try to gently tell her that this was a one in a lifetime chance for the little girl but the battle was uneven: the mother won. Nothing we would say could change her decision. We had to let it go.

I must admit we all felt sad and even a little unnerved. More so because we knew that mommy’s was jeopardizing the little girl’s morrows. But we did not have the arguments to bat for her. The mother’s logic was simple: she stated that after the heart surgery she could not bear to be parted from her child. Never mind if food was scant, if the roof leaked, if there was no money to pay the few rupees needed to send her to school. She was adamant and we were helpless. No logic could counter the almost irrational love of this mother. We knew what awaited Mehajabi: a few years in a third rate school and then perhaps she would join her mom in cleaning other people’s home just like her young aunt did, till a suitable match was found. Then her life would simply mirror the one her mother was living. On the other hand Babli who also had an open heart surgery was busy making up for lost time and excelling in school. Her mom’s love had not stood in her way.

We wrote to our funder and told him that in spite of our best efforts we were unable to convince the family and thus Mehajabi would not be joining the other pwhy kids at boarding school. He wrote back telling us to find someone else as he really wanted to. We promised him we would do so. A few days later, Vinita our early education coordinator suggested Manisha’s name.

Manisha is a quaint child. She is spirited, vivacious and her little puckered face and uneven teeth makes her look like a little endearing ET. Her teachers fondly call her ‘alien’. But this child’s story is heart wrenching and her future as it stands today very bleak. Manisha comes from an extremely poor family of migrants from Bihar. She has 2 brothers. Her father is a drunk. He is abusive and violent and does not give a single penny towards the running of the household. All they get is blows. Her mom has learnt to survive. She is a rag picker. Every morning she sets out with a big bag and ferrets through garbage heaps trying to salvage anything that can be sold. What she earns from her effort determines what the family will eat.They live in a sunken, dark, dingy hole with a tin roof which is their home.

Manisha six though she looks four. She has been in our creche for 2 years but soon it will be time for her togo to school. Given her circumstances we know that she will never make it to school as school though free requires some resources. Today it is because we go and fetch her that she comes to pwhy. If that did not happen she would turn into mother’s little helper be it with home chores or rag picking. No one invests time let alone money in a girl child. Her life will simply clone her mother’s. Yet Manisha is bright and intelligent and had a hunger for learning, a hunger we see in many children like her.

We have asked her mom whether she would be willing to send Manisha to boarding school. Unlike Mehjabi’s mom, Manisha’s mom was quick to see that this was a one in a life time chance for her daughter, one that would free her from the invisble bonds she was fettered in and maybe give her better morrows. We hope that this will happen though we know that we will need to be with her each step of the way.

It is absolutely inane that as a society we have reached the sad day when we need to debate the issue of whether, what I can only call a cool blooded murder, can be viewed as socially acceptable and be called honour killing. I have listened with horror to the recent debates where those in favour – and yes believe it or not there are such monsters around – try to justify taking young lives to protect some misplaced value system.

There has been a spate of such murders in our city in the past few days and those who committed and/or favoured these barbaric acts justified themselves by saying they had no choice or it was inevitable! The story goes like this: if a young girl dares fall in love with someone of another caste or from the same clan then it is taboo and needs to be dealt with and deal they do: they simply kill the child. And to crown it all instead of downright and vehement condemnation by all we hear muted voices that say things like: we do not condone murder but… The but is too loud and unacceptable. The but reeks of vote bank politics, of misplaced and medieval and feudal ways, of weak minds and of rigid ones that refuse to bend. No one is willing to address the situation head on be it within the family, the society or the vote seekers.

Winds of change are blowing and will keep doing so. There is nothing you can do about it. And each such murder is simply paving the way for the next one as politician and law makers remain silent or split hair in ways best mastered by them. So instead of addressing the core of the problem they simply hover around the periphery in the hope of protecting their vote banks. The perpetrators get bolder and bolder and all hell breaks loose. Murder gains acceptability and is even glorified once you call it honour killing!

Since time immemorial parents have opposed their children’s choices but it is almost inconceivable to think that a parent would kill or order the killing of its child. Even in the recent cases the dastardly acts have been committed by brothers helped by their friends and the reason given is to salvage misplaced honour. I have seen this at work.

The incident happened when we first began our work at pwhy. In those times I had no real knowledge of social norms and aberrations. There was a birthday party in the street where we worked and we had been invited. As is often the cases part of street had been covered with a tent and there was a music system in attendance. As is also the often the cases though the birthday party was that of a one year old child, the guests were mostly adults: the entire neighbourhood and a plethora of relatives and friends. And again as is always the case there was a lot of booze though it remained invisible. The party was in full swing and spirits were a tad to high. Bollywood dance numbers screeched through the bad quality speakers and people danced. A young girl, she must have been seventeen then and was one of our staff, started dancing too with her friends. She is a mean dancer and she twirled with abandon. One must understand that young girls rarely have the chance to dance, and parties and weddings are the places where they can show their talent. Her parents where there too seated on the chairs that are part of the decor. Every one was having fun. Suddenly her two brothers appeared and dragged her away hurling abuses. She was dragged to their house where the two lads started beating her. I followed and screamed at them but to no avail. All I could here was the word izzat – honour – shouted repeatedly, as well as – jaan se mardege – we will kill you. Soon the parents came and the beating stopped. The poor girl was in tears and deeply humiliated.

What must have happened is that some drunk guy must have passed a leering comment and the brothers instead of defending the girl who was doing no wrong, decided to salvage the honour by punishing her. It was the same kind of reaction as the one we witnessed in last weeks incident where the murderer brother stated in an interview that he was facing regular humiliation because his sister had married outside her caste and was constantly taunted by his friends. So male ego is hurt and the only thing to do is to eliminate the cause once for all. Never mind if the cause is your sister, the one you played with, laughed with or shared moments. In a split instant all that is forgotten and all the remains is misplaced honour that has to be restored ,so off with her head!

As an eminent lady journalist said recently: that in such cases the daughter’s body has become the vessel holding the family’s honour. She is not considered an individual with her own dreams an aspirations and her own rights. And this cannot be particularly when girls even from extremely traditional families have now stepped out of their homes to taste the world outside.

It is now a matter of choice. Many girls may still accept old ways and this has to be their choice. But if one of them does decide to do otherwise those who love and care for her must understand her choice and accept it. The young girl who danced many moons ago is today an empowered young woman who has been able to get her family to accept her choices. She is aware of the so called honour of her family and I know she will respect it but in her own way and manner and her family has accepted it, in their own way. The battle between generations will go on as it always does and solutions will be found. Murder is not one of them.

When I decided to start project why many years ago a host of supposed well wishers came out of the wood work to dissuade me to do so. There were the hard core cynics, the gentle detractors and the over anxious friends and relatives. I guess they were all stunned by my decision to sink a large chunk of my newly acquired legacy to as they said: help the poor!

The arguments used to discourage me were varied: what difference can you make in a country as big as India; you know nothing about running an NGO; you will waste you resources and be disappointed; you must be mad; what would your parents say if they were here; you are hijacking your children’s future; you cannot change things, it is a big bad world and you will not survive and so on.

At that time I must admit I had no defense to proffer. All I had was a deep intuitive feeling that what I was setting out to do was right and a stubborn nature that would ensure that I do it ans succeed. It was imperative that I do so and prove my detractors wrong. I set out on my journey with just one thought in mind: if I could change one life it would be worth it.

In the past ten years we have changed many lives and I will not subject you to a string of examples or try to blow the pwhy bugle. But I can say without hesitation that I have been vindicated on all counts. But what really struck me today as I looked at the two little sisters in the picture above was that when you change a life you set in motion what can best be called a ripple effect. Let me explain what I mean. Kiran and Komal are the nieces of Rani, a young woman who today practically runs our field operations in Govindpuri. She first joined pwhy as a unpaid volunteer way back in 2000 but soon graduated to the princely honorarium of 500 rs a month. A school drop out – not for academic reasons far from that but because she was beaten for not paying her fees and her mom decided that enough was enough – she joined us as part time volunteer but slowly she just became indispensable! Today she practically runs project why. Along the way the managed to pass her class X, XII and is now doing her BA second year. Along the way she also became computer savvy and even crossed the seven seas to go and root for pwhy! You must admit her life did change. But that is not all. Along the way two beautiful little girls were born in her family and that is when the ripple effect set in motion.

Today K and K are both in an upmarket school, the kind you and I would send our kids too. Tre admissions are not easy when you have a slum address but Rani never gave up. She wanted to give her little nieces everything she never had. The very best. But it was not easy. However all hurdles were overcome and the two little girls are now in school and doing exceedingly well. What is amusing is that we are all a part of this exciting journey helping with home work when needed or with the inane holiday projects children are subjected to. I must admit that when I watch them laughing and giggling I feel terribly proud and wonder what would have happened had I meekly listened to my detractors of yore years.

So today let me be a little cheeky and address all the barbs thrown at me a decade ago: you can make a huge difference even in a country like India; even if you know; nothing about running what is called an NGO, you can do so if you do not lose heart, your resources are never wasted if they can bring a smile on the face of a child; I guess one had to be a little mad to walk the road less travelled; my parents are surely proud and have walked with me every inch of the way; my children’s future was never hijacked but got better; things changed as the ripple effect set in and the world is not so bad when you learn to look with your heart. I have not only survived but thrived!