BiharWhy! An incongruous and curious name. And yet this the one C has chosen for a the brand new education centre located in a little village in Bihar’s Supaul District. I must admit quite sheepishly that when C had murmured: to go to the village in Bihar and start a branch of pwhy after my long an exasperated diatribe, I had not believed him though I had lauded his intention and offered all support. Imagine my surprise when I got an email from C last week telling me that BiharWhy had been launched. The mail also had some pictures attached.

I sat for a long time looking at the pictures and slowly imbibing their stupendous meaning. The open air class, the little white mats on the mud floor, the lovely children and their teacher. It was a dream come true. I could not believe that something I had always held close to my heart had seen the light of day.

When one had taken the decision to only employ people from within the community to steer project why, notwithstanding qualifications et al, there was a covert reason: the hope that one day these very people would take ownership of the programme and take it back to their place of origin. That is why we had employed young people who had left their villages and come to the city in search of a better morrow. C was one such person. When he came to us with his half baked degree from Bihar and some vague skills (fine and art and electrical work!) we employed him to teach the primary children. Over the years C honed his knowledge, took extra classes and graduated to teaching secondary children as well as repairing broken fuses and painting the odd signboard! At that time he seemed set to continue as a teacher with pwhy for a long time. But that was not to be.

When we posted him to another centre he refused the move quite vehemently and I must admit that it was a shocker. I could have reacted as violently and dismissed him for dereliction of duty, but I have always been quite fond of this young man and even if that was not the case, the spirit of pwhy did not allow me the luxury of that decision. This was another why to be answered, a loud one that was a portent of things to come. So I gently proffered some options, one being to take back all he had learnt with us to his village. The seed had been sown. Time would tell whether it would take roots. If it did, then my absurd dream of reverse migration would have been fulfilled.

BiharWhy has seen the light of day. It is a reality today with over 50 children getting access to better education. C surveyed the area, met parents, the local authorities and everyone that mattered. Having been ‘in the city’ for almost a decade has paid as he is somewhat looked upon as the prodigal son that has returned. Everyone was willing to listen to him and wanted him to share his experiences and knowledge. So when he suggested he start a centre like the one in Delhi everyone was a taker.

But this is only the first step. The acid test is yet to be passed. BiharWhy has to survive and thrive and stand on its own. The road is along and not without obstacles. Bihar is not an easy place to operate in and had its own set of whys that will need to be tacked with caution. C will have to battle the administration, the local political power and the complex social problems with patience and determination.

I shared all my concerns with him as I know how difficult it is to survive and thrive! I told him of all the things we had done wrong in the hope that we would not make the same mistakes but it would be foolish to think that things will be easy. I juts hope and pray that he succeeds.

Note: C needs help and support. So of you think this brave venture is worth it, do lend a hand.

The house is strangely empty. Just a few days back it had been filled with strangers of all shades and hues. There were people everywhere: plumbers, masons, painters, electricians, carpenters almost an invasion! It had been rather irritating at first as we got pushed out of our space with alacrity and almost banished to a little corner but somehow I had got used to it and I must say in hindsight quite enjoyed the novel experience. My days were ruled by the motley crew of workers and I had learnt to live with it. The first lot arrived by 8.30 and then by 10 am the house was buzzing with noise and activity. I was often called to one floor or the other to sort some problem or the other: where to place a pipe, was the colour right, where did I want a shelf put and so on. Time flew till the house got empty by 6pm, that was on days when the workers did not decide to do ‘a night’, which meant that they would be in till midnight.

I must admit there were moments when one got a little irritated, but these were few and far apart. When not needed I found myself ambulating around the house simply watching the men at work. As I had written earlier, I was amazed by the happy mood around. Not withstanding heat or dust, no one complained, quite the contrary, they found time to laugh and joke or sing. Many had their own songs on their cellphones and they often sang along joyfully even if they were out of tune. Sometimes work stood still and you wondered why till you discovered the workers praying in a corner: it was namaz time! You simply tiptoed away.

At times I found myself shuddering with fright at the sight of a frail worker with a load of bricks trying to get across the wobbly wooden planks that led from one roof to the other, or when one worker hung precariously on the jhoola (sort of swing) painters use to paint high walls. I often walked away, too scared to watch.

There were a few young workers, but as I had written earlier, I had made my peace with the curious case of child labour. I just hoped and prayed that they would one day graduate to becoming masons and then who knows, small time contractors though I wished I could have taught a modicum of the 3 Rs so that they would not make the mistake their contractor Murtaza did. You see Murtaza must have begun his career just like them, at a very young age. Today he takes small contracts. In our case he had to tile the roof and had quoted a price. When the work was completed he was forlorn. He had under quoted and made a loss of a couple of thousands of rupees. He admitted the fact sheepishly and I simply smiled and handed him the missing amount. He was elated. In other places he would have had to take the loss, one he could not afford.

Slowly the house that had at one time looked like having been quaked, started to fall in place. And then came the day when the plumbers and then the carpenters and then the masons declared they had finished and walked away. Only the painters were left and they too would soon move outside. An eerie silence filled the once buzzing space and though everything looked pristine and new, it was almost as if the place had lost its soul, albeit temporarily. I realised that from this day on there would be no music and song, no laughter and chiding, no prayers in the corner. I knew that I would have to learn once again to live in my space, one I had shared with a band of merry men who could teach one the art of surviving with a smile.

Strange but true: I miss my workers!

Heera passed away a few days ago in her village in Bihar. I got the news two days ago. I still do not know what happened and may never know. I guess her young heart could not make up for all the years where it pounded in vain in her frail body in spite of all the holes. The operation had been a success in medical terms in spite of what the men in white called minor complications. She had been sent back to her home with the required medication and was to come back in three months for a check up.

I was numbed by the news, so numbed that it took me two long days to pick up my pen. Somehow this young girl that I met for a few moments touched me beyond words. When I first met her she stood quietly listening to all that was being said about her. She smiled briefly when I told her that she had to resume her studies after her operation. In hindsight I wonder whether she already knew what awaited her. I remember the day she spoke to me on the phone after her surgery and told me she was well and would soon be home. Did I miss something on that day too. I do not know. Even on the day she left, her smile was waned and her eyes evanescent but I quickly assigned that to the heat that was quite unbearable. When we said goodbye, I never knew that that was the last time I would lay my eyes on this brave and dignified child.

Today she has gone. I cannot begin to think how shattered her parents must be. Unlike many parents in India who often consider girls as impediments, Heera’s parents, though illiterate and poor, had left no stone unturned for the well being of their daughter. Not only had they educated her in the best available school, but had sold everything they owned to bring her to the big city and the best hospital. Today they had nothing left. Not even the one they fought for so passionately. I remember how her father use to come to us with hospital papers he did not comprehend and how we use to explain what was written to him and guide him on the steps to take. I remember how her mother, tired beyond her years by the weight of life itself, use to look at us with hope and the belief that maybe we were the answer to her prayers. I also remember how we truly believed that all would be well as it had in the past with all the other children with broken hearts. And then did not the doctors say that she would be healed after the surgery. Yes we all believed she would live. But God had other plans, plans we have to accept and live with. We all did the best we could.

Heera was a special being, one who touched our hearts, albeit for a few fleeting moments. I cannot believe she has gone. I share this poem as to me she will always be the laughter in children’s eyes.

A recent article on the other side of the Commonwealth games ended with these words: However, no amount of figures can mask the despair of those rendered homeless because of a mere 15-day ‘sporting’ event. “As a society, we have grown indifferent to equality around us. The poor are either seen as a nuisance or an encumbrance or embarrassment. Most of us are migrants to the city; if we are not being sent back, then why should labourers or beggars be made to go?” The article said much of what I have been writing for over a year now: displaced people, raised slums and so on: 3 million people will be rendered homeless by the time the show is on the road! Out of them the 1.5 million workers who were brought from other states to put the show on the road. I wonder why it took so long for the media to wake up to this realisation and to expose the sordid underside of things.

Now it is too late. We have become inured to too many aberrations and mastered the art of looking away.

For the past month I have been living with workers as my house is being repaired. It is true that there were instances in the past when I had come close to workers but that was before project why. In those days my eyes were closed as I did not see with my heart. This time is different. Workers are not just your irritating plumber who never comes on time or your loud mouthed mason, they are people whose life I have seen up close and personal.

All these workers are migrants who left their homes for a variety of reasons, the most common one being poverty. Many were brought by wily contractors and then just stayed on. Many have been in the city for decades. Murtaza is our masonry contractor. He came to the city 15 years ago as a young lad. He worked his way up slowly from daily wage labourer to mason, to small time contractor. He is the guy who will confidently quote you a price for a rood repair or bathroom tiling. Yet he is still illiterate. His acumen stems from his experience and common sense. Today his family has joined him and everyone works together: his father, father-in-law, uncles, nephews etc. So when he takes on a small contract the money remains within the family.

Nabi Karim is our paint contractor. He is also Meher’s uncle! He too works with his family. Over the years, as his work became more lucrative, he brought his brothers, nephews and relatives from the village. The women and children were left at home. The city was not for them. And the land had to be tended too. This was the best option for all as the land was too little to feed everyone. Though still humble and unpretentious, he is slowly becoming big time!

The workers are a happy lot. They may not quite work according to your expectations but just stop and look at them with your heart. They turn up every day notwithstanding the weather and work in terrible conditions carrying loads on flimsy ladders or breathing dust and paint fumes. They work long hours without complaining breaking just for a cup of tea that I never fail to send or for lunch.

If you come by do not be surprised to hear music at every floor. Today’s’ worker has a new addition to his tool kit: a cell phone, and one that has an MP3 player. As you stroll along the house you will hear different songs: nostalgic songs from Bihar where some hail from or the more recent Bollywood numbers. These are often played by the younger workers. Most of the workers sheepishly come to you and ask if they can use a plug to charge their phones. Of course is my answer! Music does make the work less tedious.

The work is taking forever, but I am not complaining. I am quite enjoying sharing my space with these incredible and brave people who have learnt to survive in the worst conditions and come out winners. It is these people that some call a nuisance or an encumbrance. I just wonder what our life would be without them.

I recently read an article entitled ‘eating disorder‘! This one was not about a lifestyle condition of page 3 aspirants. Far from that. This one was about the 1.2 million severely malnourished children of Madhya Pradesh, this was about under one year olds who are fed one roti smeared with chillies per day. The chillies ensure that the stomach is numbed and hunger vanishes. Water will fill the tiny tummies till the next day, the next roti with chillies. According to a UNESCO study, over 71% of tribal children are severely malnourished.

It was on the very same day that TV channels aired a story about how state granaries were used to house liquor while food grains worth millions rotted in the open. The next harvest was on its way and one wondered where the new grain would be stored. The weak defense put up by the granary officials did not hold any water. The reality was that umpteen crates of upmarket liquor brands were stuffed into the safe granaries, while sacks of grains were seen rotting in the open.

One wondered why the grains could not by some miracle reach the little hungry mouths instead of moldering away. But that is wishful thinking. The situation is Dantean. Children are hungry, farmers are hungry. Only middle men and traders smile. Something is terribly wrong. Our planning seems to have gone awry.

A solution has to be found. Food cannot be fed to rats when millions starve in the country. Everyone has a right to be free from hunger claim activists. Having even one hungry child negates all achievements and feats. Having millions should make us hang our head in shame. But once again we seem to have become inured. We waste food with impunity. Just look at the morning after any wedding. Food wastage almost seems to have become a status symbol. Bless my mom for having put an end once for all to my food wasting habit. I must have been 6 or 7, and had begun leaving food on my plate. No amount of cajoling or counseling helped. Mom had to bring out the ultimate weapon. She did. My half filled plate of food was simply put in the refrigerator and brought out at each subsequent meal. The deal was that I would not get any fresh food unless I first finished the congealed plate. It was a battle of wits and it lasted 2 days. The hunger pangs were unbearable and I capitulated. The congealed food was eaten and that was the last time till date that I ever left food on my plate. Parenting is not always easy!

It is true that there is a new found freedom sometimes bordering on arrogance that we see around us. It is visible in the gleaming motorcycles that have replaced the erstwhile bicycles, in the TV and DVD players that adorn every shanty, in the umpteen empty pouches that are strewn all over the slums, pouches of upmarket products duly advertised on TV channels and appropriately packaged for the poor @ of 1 or 2 Rs! It is also seen in the quantity of food thrown helter-skelter. Back home in the village it would have been fed to the animals. Urban values have prevailed on one and all. Wasting food is one of them.

How will it all end. I do not know. What I know is that children are not meant to eat rotis laced with chillies. I also know it is time we woke up and did something.

“I would like to emphasize that while opening new schools, we should insist that adequate open grounds be provided for playing fields”decreed the Sports Minister in a recent letter to the Education Minister. Some years back I would have jumped with joy and said: way to go! But that was a few years back, before project why, before the many reality checks that came my way, when I held that private schools, specially the ones for the poor were just teaching shops and nothing short of an aberration, when I believed that only a common neighborhood school was the panacea we needed. I remember how I blogged passionately about these issues: be it the admission nightmare, the blood money sought, the lucrative education business, the arrogance of public schools, the pitiable state of state run schools and so on.

And then slowly things changed, surreptitiously I must admit. Even I did not realise how and when it happened. My diatribe against private schools became less vehement and my crusade for the more and more elusive common school became less strident. And lo and behold there came the day not so long ago, where I found myself writing a blog almost in favour of what I had once contemptuously called teaching shops. How did that happen?

The answer is complex and cannot be summed up in a single phrase. What did change things for me was James Toole’s book: The Beautiful Tree A Personal Journey Into How the World’s Poorest People Are Educating Themselves. The book is an apology for small private schools and, I must admit, sets you thinking. In Tooley’s book the tiny private schools tucked away in sordid slums are the means for the poor to claim ownership of the education of their children, as it is their money that made such schools possible. The result is for all to see. The products of these schools fared a great deal better than their counterparts in state run schools. They are not an aberration but stem out of a very real need. It is in no way an ideal situation I agree, but it is a workable option.

Children cannot wait for laws to be enacted, for convoluted and dubious projects to see the light of day. They need immediate solutions or it may be too late. And therefore little schools mushroom at every nook and corner. Often in small cramped spaces. Many of these manage to get the recognition tag which gives them an edge. You see even the poor and illiterate knows the value of a recognised school! Cynics may say that these tags are got through shady means, and I may have been one of them in times gone by, but today I accept the fact quietly. Every such school is a place where children study and learn. Who am I to criticise or pontificate? Specially today when the new laws decree that no child will be failed till class VIII. I shudder to think what will happen to children who are in state run schools where there is scant teaching. They are better off in the cramped premises of a small private school where some teaching does happen. And yes, they do not have open grounds for playing fields.

So if the Minister’s decree is accepted, no new private schools for the poor will come into being. In a city where every square inch comes at a whopping price, finding space for playing fields is impossible for such schools. I hope better sense will prevail.

In a recent blog I had mentioned the story of the young boy who always came late to school because he supported his family by selling boiled eggs at the local watering hole well past midnight. He was the sole bread earner of his family.

Our house is being repaired and we have a band of workers. Among them a young boy who I think is 13 or so. When asked his age he is quick to mumble sixteen and a half as he has been told to as the child labour laws make employment of anyone under 14 illegal. Of course he has nothing to prove the fact. There was a time, way before pwhy, where I would have raised a hue and cry, summoned the contractor and insisted the boy was sent home. Today I just kept shut and allowed the boy to carry on. I knew that if I did send him home his family may not have eaten at night. You see he may too be the sole bread earner in his home. I have learnt many lessons in the past decade: one is to never act in haste and the other is to never act without having a better alternative to offer. In this case I had none.

Some time back I had visited the Child Welfare Committee’s zonal office to sort Utpal’s vacation guardianship issue, while waiting for our turn to appear before the Committee, we were privy to some of the ways the laws are applied in the case of child labour. The CWC premises have a holding area, a sort of jail, where children are brought after raids. The families are then informed and have to provide proof of the child’s age. This can take several days and till then the young ones are locked up. What is the offense? I wonder. If the parents get the proof the child is released if not a case is registered. I again say what is the offense? Who is guilty: the employer, the parents or the child? Questions that need answers. And then what does happen to the child, often a teenager, when he is released? Does he just find another job? Does he simply hang out in the street as there is no way he can be mainstreamed or educated? Is he sent back to his village and if so what does he do there, wait for the next opportune moment to once again board a train to the big city?

The laws that concern child labour are complex and nebulous. It is surprising that the Child Labour Act of 1986 seeks only to prohibit children from working in some sectors and simply ‘regulates’ child labour in others. That means that even after 4o years of independence, child labour was found to be ‘acceptable’. Think about this.

The National Policy on Child Labour of 1987 is the first step towards addressing the issue and talks of general development programmes to help the family and a project based action plan with special schools and so on. That is not what we saw at the CWC. Far from that. It seemed a case of a child being guilty and harassed parents left with the onus of proving that he was not. There was no development programme or project base action.

I am sure there are a lot of well drafted and great sounding projects and pots of money that has been released for the same. Sadly I am also sure that much of the money has never truly benefited any child. Like all issues concerning children, child labour is Gordian in nature. It has to be addressed with sensitivity and understanding.

Why does a child work? Certainly not because he really wants to. Often it is economic necessity that compels parents to send their young ones to work and there are enough predators around in search of cheap and innocent labour. Sometimes it is a simple fight or argument that makes a child run away from home in a fit of anger and take the train to the big city. More predators lie in wait. These children are unaware of their rights and become easy prey. What is shocking is that often it is people like us, who are aware of laws and rights, who employ children in their homes as a child is again less demanding, easier to handle etc.

Children now have the right to education though many will grow into adults before this right is truly implemented. A few raids will not put an end to child labour. In a recent interview the Chief Minister of Delhi was asked: Why are you allowing child labour at Commonwealth Games-related sites? Her answer was perplexing: I entirely agree that there should be no child labour, but these children were abandoned by the states they come from and also by their parents. They have moved to a bigger city only to get jobs that pay. But come to think about it is it really perplexing or is it the reality and the CM was aware of the magnitude of the problem and that paucity of available options.

A friend who is privy to the inside functioning of the powers that be, told me that she had once been told, quite candidly, by labour officers and social workers that they often turn a blind eye when faced with cases of 14 or 15 years old working. They simply ascertained that the child was well treated. This seemingly incomprehensible and ‘illegal’ action stemmed out of the fact that they knew that they had no better option to offer. To my mind they acted with sensitivity and understanding.

Laws need to be humane and need to address core issues. Child Labour is not an offense like murder. It stems out of need, hunger, desperation and is a means of survival. If we want to put an end to what we call consider an aberration, then we need to come up with valid alternatives that work.

Now there is one outstandingly important fact regarding Spaceship Earth, and that is that no instruction book came with it wrote Buckminster Fuller. Spaceship Earth, I like the term! I like Mother Nature too! Today as I write these words millions around the world are stranded as volcanic ash clouds have claimed full right to the sky, not willing to share it with our tiny Spaceships. There is no alternative but too wait for the clouds to pass.

Nature often calls us to order, but we rarely listen. We always find a way to wriggle out of the situation. This time it did look different though there are now pressures from commercial interests to once again not listen. You see too much money is at stake. As we all know for the past many days flights have been grounded the world over leaving people stranded and lost. All carefully conceived plans went awry, our supposedly reliable flying machines became unsafe, the sky we had thought was ours to conquer was reclaimed by its rightful master. Nature had rapped us on our knuckles and we just had to listen. Man’s hubris was suddenly shaken, albeit for a short time.

As I write these words many are looking for that non-existent instruction book in the hope to find a solution that would restore man’s supremacy on everything: land, water, sky, space. But till then we just have to wait.

There is a lesson to be learnt: patience. Something we have forgotten. The clouds will pass and things will come back to what we call normal till the next warning. Sadly it is a foregone conclusion that we will again not mend our ways and continue our frenzy to master all with the sole objective of earning more wealth. We will continue to build on flood plains, to expand our concrete jungle, to cut trees, to rape Nature. We will insist on writing our own and faulty instruction book, one that suits our petty and pathetic interests and doggedly follow it.

Where will it all end? No one knows. Prophets of doom and cynics have their own interpretation. I am still looking mine.

The heat is on. Boy it is hot. 44 Celsius and climbing and it is only the ides of April! I should be complaining but I am not. Wonder why? Please read on…

I decided to get my old rambling and falling apart house repaired this year after almost 2 decades. The idea was to begin in April and have all finished by May when the heat is really on. Little did I know that this year Nature had another plan. And as usual even with supposedly sound planning and the best of intentions of doing things in an organised way floor by floor, room by room, I suddenly found myself in the middle of a construction site with workers everywhere. You see the plumber had finished his work on floor 1 so needed to move to floor 2 and so on. Within the batting of an eyelid the whole house was under wraps and we were banished to two rooms. The cooler was of course out of commission, hot air blew from open doors and windows and my resolve to never use ACs in the day to limit my carbon foot print resulted in a fans only situation, and that also when the electrician had not cut the power!

Sunday then should have turned out to be a miserable day. Quite the contrary. It was a huge reality check. As it was terribly hot, I was unable to stay put in one place so I ambled all over the house watching the workers. There were many, of all ages, each one of them busy in their work, some on the terrace under the scorching sun, some carrying loads, some hung on the terrifying rope basket painters use in India for painting outside walls. They were busy with their work, chatting, laughing, fighting when needed! Sometimes one of them would run down to the kitchen to get bottles of cold water. But there was no complain about the heat. Heat or no heat they had to work. Most of them were daily wagers, and work meant food in the evening. It was as I said a huge reality check and somehow it did not seem so hot!

I remember another reality check I had last year when I had reacted rather unreasonably to the amount of kids that were packed in the creche in the hot summer. I had not realised that our seemingly hot classroom was far better than a tiny jhuggi with a tin roof!

So this year I for one am not complaining about the heat!

For the past few months I have been receiving annoying calls from my bank each time we receive a donation, even a tiny one. The caller fires questions like: what is the money for? who is it from? (even of the said person has been sending money for years)? what does donation for Meher mean? and so on. And each time such a call comes, you are filled with silent rage as you try at best to find suitable answers knowing that if you do not, your MNC Bank will send your donation back. This was not the case a year ago.

For a long time it is true that each time I am asked by someone new – thank heavens this is not the case often as I have limited if not stopped socialising – what do you do? and I have to mumble, albeit reluctantly, I run an NGO, I am met with raised eyebrows and strange looks. The acronym NGO seems to conjure: impropriety, dishonesty and more of the same. You are suddenly branded and no one is willing to hear what you do or even give you a chance to vindicate yourself. At best you are one of the society biddies who do charity as it seems the done thing, at worst you are into some dirty money game. never mind if you have saved lives, educated children, created jobs, empowered women, no one cares a hoot! Once you have been given that knowing look your only option is to retreat into your corner and hope no one asks you what you do for the rest of the evening and you find yourself swearing that next time you are asked that question you will remember to say: I am a housewife. That is your safest option.

Running an honest charity is no easy task, believe you me. Sometimes I do feel like giving myself a silent pat in the back for having survived and hot landed in a loony bin! So even though I was shocked and riled when I heard on the news that the IPL (Indian Premier League) was a charitable organisation registered under the same Act as us, I cannot say I was really surprised. I am sure that many of the team owners do engage in some fashionable charitable activity – it makes good copy, good PR and good promotional visuals – but for God’s sake is it really necessary to put us all in the same basket and force small fish like us to swim in the same waters? Now you know why I will say: I am just a housewife!

Lorianne is a young photographer from France who came to volunteer for a few weeks. It is amazing how everyone sees project why through different eyes, and Lorianne saw it through her heart. She captured some very unique moments that are a pure delight.

You see she saw the project through her heart and ferreted some very special moments that we are too inured to see: children sleeping in the creche, or simply enjoying a private moment; things on the wall or shoes lined up neatly; children having a ball and teachers joining in. All snapshots of the spirit and vibrancy of project why.

Thank you Lorianne for this treat and I urge all to take a few moments and browse through these lovely cameos of life at project why

I have been perplexed, angry, confused, bewildered and even apoplectic at some of the aberrations of the much awaited, much delayed and still far from being implemented Right to Education Bill. The bill has many aberrations. And to the uninitiated they may seem incomprehensible. Why only from 6 to 14? What about preschool which is so important? And is 14 is the right time to be freed of compulsory schooling? Many can also question the wisdom of no failing till class VIII particularly keeping in mind the state of education in schools today. And there are many more questions…

I cannot answer these as I am neither competent nor privy to the hidden agendas of that steer such legislation. I can only share some of my experiences and observations gathered over the years, from the time I decided to dirty my hands educating the poor. Our dream and objective to start a children centre where children would come and reclaim their usurped childhood and spent time doing what children do after school rather than aimlessly hanging on the streets (read boy) or being overwhelmed by house work (read girls). But when we saw that children studying in class III and IV could barely recognise their alphabets, even though at that time no law stipulated that children were not to be failed, and this was probably because stakeholders wanted to look good and field workers shirk their work, we had to put our dreams and goals on hold and bridge the gap. We thus became what is normally called a tuition centre, something I abhor. Now with the new law I do not see us retrieving our dreams in a hurry.

But before I go one let me share an incident that happened just yesterday. A friend who is also an eminent CA had dropped by to discuss some legal matters. In the course of our conversation I discovered that his wife was a Government school Principal and that she too seemed to share some of my views and musings. He told us a story that had happened recently in her school which is located in slum area. A young boy, all of 13, came one hour late to school every single day. In spite of much reprimanding by his teacher he never changed his ways, and never gave a reason for his lateness but retreated in sullen silence his eyes smoldering with anger. He was, as is always the case, hauled up to the Principal for further action. She asked him the question again and was met with the same taciturnity. She then asked the teacher to leave, sat the child down on a chair and gently repeated the question. The boy revealed that he sold eggs every night near the local watering hole till 1 am. After some more gentle prompting he said that he was the sole bread earner of the family as is dad was a drunk and his mom did not work.

The Principal did not call child labour activists or officers. She just told the boy to try and wind up shop and hour earlier and get some sleep and come to school in time as education was the best way to better help his family even if it was selling eggs! You see unlike insensitive and uncaring law makers she understood the plight of the child and the importance of finding a middle path. Laws for children are often made in haste, to look good, to get international kudos, to meet world standards and in that haste the stark reality of survival is too often forgotten. It seems though that some like this kind Principal apply the laws with sagacity and humanity. Thank God for that!

Sorry for the digression but I had to share this story. I must admit that it also opened my eyes in some way. But let us get back to where we began. The 6 to 14. Now imagine the scenario I child gets into school in class I at age 6 and leaves in class VIII at age 14. During these years there are no Board examinations that are externally assessed and by law (s)he is not allowed to fail. Now in a good school this is not and issue. Honest assessments and internal examinations will ensure that (s)he learns what (s)he is meant to. But in the kind of school where our kids go this will not be the case. Even if there are examinations – as stipulated – the answers will be written on the Board and diligently copied. This happens with impunity. The 14 year old will come out of school as illiterate as ever and nothing will have changed. Had their been had of at least one final Board exam. things would have been wonderful. Wonder why our eminent law makers forgot that? Call me a cynic but my answer is that no one really wants education for the poor, it is part of a hidden agenda. Our 14 year old class VII will just join the teeming millions he was born in.

Is this the right to Education that the children of India deserve? Where is the elusive common school? Why waste money in another futile exercise? And finally how many more generations will the children of India have to wait for a real Right to Education?

They are true soul mates and they have proved it more than once. And they are soul mates in more ways than one! Last Monday they took the road to the boarding school, Utpal a now 5 year pro and Meher the rookie. I was a little concerned about Meher as she tends to get over emotional and melts into tears for nothing. But this was not to be. She took to the school like a fish to water. maybe, as all survivors, she knew this was her road to many beautiful morrows.

Utpal, intuitively knew, his little friend had to be protected and cared for. He knew how unkind kids can be when you look or behave different. He remembered how he had to fight the nasty barbs children threw at him because of his visible scars and he also knew that he would ensure, as best he could, that Mehar would not have to suffer them. The invisible scars they would have to deal with privately, in their own special ways and with a little help from the God of lesser beings.

Seven kids now study in boarding school so from famous five we have now become secret seven. Meher and Yash andhave now joined their seniors aka Utpal, babli, Vicky, Nikhil and Aditya and taken their first step towards freedom as Epicteus decreed: only the educated are free.

My mind zips back to the times when I was desperately trying to convince people that sending these very desperate children to a ‘good’ boarding school was the only way to allow them to break the circle of poverty they were lots in, the only way to ensure that they would not become child labour to help the family survive, the only ensure that they would regain their lost childhood and be freed of the absurd labels that our society sears on your soul the day your are born. True it came at a price but not an astronomical one, not one that was in excess of a meal in a posh eatery or the pair of shoes bought at a branded store.

I never expected the stiff resistance I got from all and sundry, people who could afford not one but multiple meals or shows in a single month! There were the cynics, the skeptics, the Cassandras of all shade and hues and even prophets of the doom. At first I could not understand anything as to me the fact of sending children to a good school was a win win situation, something that should be lauded and applauded. Then it slowly sunk in that in our society, one which is carefully and absurdly divided in hermetic boxes you do not cross over or step out of line and there I was committing the cardinal sin of crossing lines and breaking impregnable walls. All kinds of reasons were given to make me change my mind and not commit what was thought to be a social aberration. I was told that the children would never integrate, would never do well and more of the same.

Well dear detractors today I stand vindicated. The results have juts come and all our children have done extremely well be it in academics, extra curricular activities or simply conduct. And I am terribly proud.

You can see the results here.

Well done kids!

Empowerment to ownership! I wrote the title of this blog some days back and then somehow writer’s block or was it the God of lesser beings at play? I do not know. When I did write the title I was feeling a little saddened as my dream of going from empowerment to ownership seemed to be a tad turning sour. The blog was supposed to be logical extension of my cri de coeur written a few days back.

I had ended that blog with the words I had said my bit. As usual the teacher has not uttered a word. I asked him to think about matters and get back to me. I know he will ultimately accept to move. The other option is still too scary. But a see has been sown and I hope it will bear fruits sooner than later. I had perhaps also sent a silent prayer to the God of lesser beings urging him to show the young teacher the way as all said and done I was quite fond of him. That was also the time when I must have decided to write a blog about ownership, at least to make my views and thoughts clear. I must confess that when I wrote the title E to O, it sounded grand and somehow outlined the initial mission of pwhy. However over the years as the project grew somewhat organically the O got lost en route. Any feeble attempt to bring back the concept of ownership was met with such resistance and furore that one quietly hid it under the carpet. Maybe it is was too early, too scary, too ambitious.

However all this changed and the clouds lifted when the very teacher who had first refused a posting for some flimsy and inane reason and then retreated into a state finally came to see me yesterday. I must admit that as once bitten and twice shy I feared the worst. Was it to be another trip to the dreaded courts? He sat silently as he always does and needed as usual to be prodded to talk. I asked him gently what he has decided. To go to my village in Bihar and start a branch of pwhy he said in a barely audible voice. I thought I was hearing things and asked him to repeat what he said. He did and I wanted to whoop with joy but noblesse oblige! He slowly explained how he wanted to go to his village for a few days and explore the possibilities of starting something there. Yes, yes, yes was my excited answer. This was my dream come true: to empower people and show them that their real future was in their place of origin. Th real success story was to teach people skills they could then take back. This was more than I has asked for. The excitement was palpable but it was also time to quickly regain composure and be Anou ma’am the wise one. And above all it was imperative to guide the young man and show him the way.

I told him that it was a wonderful idea but that he had to take it one step at a time. The pwhy model would not just be replicated in a Bihar village. It had to be modified to local needs. I suggested he went to his village for a few days to assess the situation and then came back with a short term plan that we would support. Then he would have the necessary time to work on the field and slowly craft the long term needs and make a proper plan. I reminded that we too started with spoken English classes for just 30 kids!

This was truly a ah ha moment for pwhy, the vindication of the seemingly absurd dreams one had held on to: to be able to empower people and have them go back to their villages and create better options there. I know the road is long and tortuous but I know we will overcome all and I know understand why the blog took so long to write.

Off with their heads.. says the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland. Hide them away is what the Queen of Delhi has decreed for the beggars of Delhi during the Commonwealth Games. You cannot wish the dross away so you simply conceal them. Do read this article, it shows you the human horror of the CWG and gives some startling figures for all of us to ponder on: 3 million homeless after the games, 100 00 families displaced to beautify Delhi, 2000 children working as labour on CWG sites, 50 000 adult and 60 000 child beggars to be removed from the city for the 15 days of the games and parked in camps on the outskirts.

For good conscience, the state government does mumble that something will be done for the homeless after the games. Knowing the reality of things one can simply translate something and after into never!

Courtesy the games, families who have been living in the city for over a decade find their homes destroyed and are now squatting on pavements from where their children go to school. They fear further eviction as the games approach. Maybe they too will be parked outside the city for the duration of the Games just as the beggars in some insalubrious make shift camp and let loose again once the show is over.

The CWG Damocles sword been looming large on our heads for some time now. For some time we feared about our very own slums, but thank heaven’s we managed to escape as we were not on the routes the visitors would grace. You see Delhi is only getting a selective make over. We were apprehensive about how the CWG would affect us and I did share my concern many times. Now it is a matter of months and one can already get the feel of what awaits us. I wonder whether we will be the ones shown off or the ones hidden under the tattered carpet.

Wonder if you remember Mehajabi and her mom! The ones who lived in a room with a strange view. The one whose open heart surgery we sponsored some time back? Well she was back to visit and what a delightful girl she has become. But that is where the happy story ends. The last two years have taken a huge toll on this little family.

During the recent floods that ravaged Bihar, Mehajabi lost 3 of her siblings. The children had gone to spent their holidays with their grandparents. Only Mehajabi and her kid brother remained in Delhi. The waters came and wiped her entire family and whatever little land they had. The family was now truncated to four: Mehajabi, her brother and her parents. The father had lost his safe job in the small town madarssa ( Islamic school) he worked in and having no qualifications had no option but to work as a daily wage labour in Delhi. The mother took to cleaning homes for a pittance. The little brother was sent to a local private school and Mehajabi left to play and look after the tiny home.

But her mom had other plans for her and that is why she came to visit us. She wanted to put Mehajabi in the same school as her brother, only she did not have the means to do so. She needed our help. When we asked how much it would cost to educate this spunky girl the answer was: 200 rupees. We smiled and told her we would give her the money provided there would be be other child. Should that happen, we would stop all help.

She gave us her disarming smile and promised! Only time will tell whether she will keep her promise. Till then Mehajabi is off to school!

My birthday was to be a quiet day after all the revelry on the previous night. For the past few weeks my life had been dictated by a little bundle of joy, my grandson, and moves like a clockwork orange: 1 pm lunch time, 2 pm siesta time and so on. And believe you me nothing can alter the pattern, I would never allow it to. When Agastya is here, only the granny lives! Anyway birthday or no birthday 2pm on April 4th was siesta time.

The ritual began. Setting the pillows, getting the favourite soft toy, trying to get the bundle of energy to lie down. As I was doing all this I heard footsteps. It was Popples who had come back from the market with my birthday gift: a small car to add to the collection on my desk, as it seems I get one each time he is home, and two key chains with God figures that will soon hang on my handbag. I hugged him and as I did, he whispered: can I sleep with you too? Of course was the answer. And we settled on the bed. At first he lay next to Agastya and murmured endearments to him. This simply melted my heart. This was something I had hoped and prayed for, to see my precious Popples and my priceless Agastya get to know each other and bond! As Utpal caressed and stroked the baby urging him to sleep, little Agy, seeing that this was not the normal afternoon drill, perked up and thought it was bonus play time. It was time to set things right and I shifted in the middle. While I patted the baby to sleep, I felt a little arm move across my body and hug me. It was Popples. Then a few kisses till slowly Morpheus prevailed and the little boys slipped into his arms.

The only one who did break the rule was me as I did not and could not go to sleep. The moment was too precious and I wanted to savour every moment of it. Initially it is was a pure sensory delight of having these two little boys I so love sleeping next to me but then my thoughts drifted and my mind went on overdrive. This was not just two little boys it was so much more. For me personally it was two souls who had changed my life and giving it a whole new meaning. Each in their own inimitable way had given an old biddy a new lease of life and fulfilled many dreams. They had added a spring to my gait and a song to my heart. But that was not all, as they lay next to me in deep slumber, they also proved beyond doubt that all schismatic attempts to divide human beings and hence society did not and could not have divine sanction. The Gods had made us all equal and love knew no barriers. And if man was the creator of such aberrations, then only he was the one who could redress the torts.

It was time we did…. Little Popples and tiny Agy juts showed us the way.

What a blessed moment.

It was a party. One you could never imagine in your wildest dream. Would beat the Mad Hatter’s one hands down.

The guest list was unique and could never have been drawn by even the best event planner. Only the magic of pwhy could conjure that one! Age was no bar. You had one year olds and eighty years olds. Country was no bar. Social origin was no bar as some were born on streets and some were to the manor born.

There was little Agastya my grandson who sat with his big eyes and serious look wondering at what was going on. Then there was Utpal the miracle child who should have not been walking this earth but who beat all odds and today is in class III in boarding school. Young Kiran was there too, the lovely girl born on the very week we began our work and who is the best friend of our special class and little Ishaan whose mom and I actually began project why! These were the little guests.

Then there was the young boy born on a road side who became a teacher and then walked the ramp, the three wheeler driver’s son who always stood first and today is also a teacher with us. His name happens to be Prince and he is one! Next on the list were two young lads, both from simple homes and both teachers at pwhy. They had just come back from a 15 day tour of Rajasthan as special guests of our Enfances Indiennes friends and were still on cloud nine! There was of course my A team Rani and Dharmendra who have made me almost redundant as they steer the project with perfection. Two lovely volunteers Lorianne and Lewis added their charm as Lewis is a singer and Lorianne a wonderful lens woman.

Then there was a lovely group of people from many parts of France who had come all the way to share in the celebrations. People from different walks of life who believed with me that every child had a right to blossom and bloom. They had come to renew their support and commitment to my swan song.

And then there was my family, who has stood by me like a rock, who had shared all the moments of joy and sorrow, even those that were never expressed. The ones who have believed in me even when I faltered. My lovely daughters, my son-in-law and the one I chose to be my partner.

It was a perfect meeting of heart and hope. The culmination of 10 years of a wonderful and thrilling journey and it could have just been a celebration of this very fact. But that was not the case as hope is eternal and cannot and should not be walled in the confines of a human life. Hope lives on. Two wonderful souls were also present and they held the key to the door that would enable us to anchor our work in time. It was a privilege to have Deepika and Manav with us and to know that they too were willing to believe in our dream of planet why, or should I say planet hope.

I stood there humbled and proud. Was I really the one who had orchestrated this night, a true night to remember? And if the answer was indeed yes, then I feel no guilt in giving myself a silent pat on the back, not forgetting however that the journey is far from over and that I do have miles before I sleep.

There have been some interesting reactions to my previous post.

One said: Spoken like a dedicated, bold and truly concerned teacher.Can feel the anguish and frustration beneth these words.Any thing given in the hands of these politicians has no future. This should be more of a reason for more of Project Why. Because we know that ultimately the responsibility lies in the hands of those who have passion and dedication.

Let me share the experience of Vizag. Last June (sometime) the court gave a directive to close all the private schools not having registration with the Education Department. It turned out that these schools were actually catering to the working class children whose parents have a dream to give better education than the Govt. schools can provide. Parents being gardner, domestic help, drivers, peon, watchman small vendors etc., where both mother and father work hard to meet the education expenses, suddenly in the middle of the session found their children siting at home. They had already paid the annual fees for which they had saved the whole year and now arranging the similar amount at such short notice meant going to the loan sharks or letting their children loose a year. The drama went on for almost two months.A counter petition was filed and the relief came in the form of these schools exempted for the present academic year from closing.

There are always two sides of the coin, though these schools may be violating some norms on the other hand they are filling the gap created by the same system.

A few years I would have reacted differently as I was still a neophyte in the world of Education in India, and was still trying to build impossible castles in the air. Those were the days where I propounded with almost illogical passion the case of the common state run neighborhood school where all children would learn together. That was when I felt all private schools were anathema, just teaching shops that were in for quick buck. I remember how vehemently and angrily I fought the poor parents who had opted to send their wards to the small private schools in the vicinity schools that bore names like Mother K school or SK Convent. I urged them to stop wasting their hard earned money and put their kids into the municipal school and send them to pwhy! Many did and their kids did well.

As time passed, I slowly came to realise that what was making their children do well was the time they spent at pwhy and the fact that parents slowly were claiming some form of ownership to the project. And I also understood that when they did send their children to so called private schools, this is juts what they did: claimed ownership to the education of their children. Government schools , because of their sorry state were no longer respectable and acceptable centres of learning. The penny fell when I read a remarkable book by James Tooley called the Beautiful Tree. It is the story of how the poorest people of the world are educating themselves: simply by creating small parent funded private schools. Maybe this is the answer, at least till the state gets their act inti some semblance of order. And this is also what we had wanted pwhy to lead to. We wanted it to be an example for parents to emulate as only then could ‘more’ pwhys be created. The present model that depends entirely on donations could never withstand the test of time or be replicated.

Sadly, this is perhaps where we failed. Maybe it is because of the stigma attached to the word NGO. Maybe it is because we gave to much for free in the initial days in the hope of being accepted and valorised. Maybe we should have charged a fee for day one itself! Too many questions that need answers, but maybe it is too late for some!

The other reaction was very close to my heart though it may not seem so at first It said: One doesn’t need nationalised schools. but one must have one school system for all. and that one system has to be about merit and everyone who do badly in that one common system…hard luck to them…let them all then be devoid of all reservation. 10 years of education is the only place reservation should be applied. all our children must start at the same starting block….after that…let them all proceed as per their calibre.

The reason why I clamour for a common school is two fold: one is because I was the product of one, albeit not in India, and the other is because I cannot quite see how we can have that elusive and desired school system when ALL children can start at the same starting block, because this can only work if all children learn together, irrespective of their social origins.

This our class of 2010! It is a matter of pride for me to write about them on the very day the children of India have finally got the right to education after waiting for sixty three long years. This class beat all odds and made it in spite of all those who took almost four generations to get their act together.

Today everyone is taking the kudos for this land mark legislation or as our Minister calls it “tryst with destiny”. The Government in power, the politicians, the educationists et al. I feel a little uncomfortable at all this as I wonder why it took 22630 days for the powers that be to realise that the future of any country lay in the tiny hands of its children. I also feel uneasy at the tortuous route that we as a nation chose to take to get to this day. Why did we allow our state run schools to run into a state of such despair that even the not so privileged had to go for the private option thus opening the gates for a new and very lucrative business: education! Were not our erstwhile leaders in various fields proud products of the government school system? That we allowed schools to become a lucrative option somewhere spelt the doom of the very free and equitable education for all we have so painstakingly brought about. Wonder why we chose this road and allowed this to happen?

We can celebrate to day, and have cause to but the battle is far from won. There are huge hurdles and they will soon appear. Let me share some. The new law states that no child can be failed till class VIII. How will be ensure that children get from class to class with the right knowledge. This needs sound systems and committed teachers. We all know the real situation! The Act is supposed to ensure education to 22 crore children (6 to 14). Out of these 1.1 crore are not in school. And the moot question remains: who pays the bills? Let us not fool ourselves, nothing will change overnight.. let us hope it does not take another 20 000 days to get where we want. And I am not even venturing into questions like what about those under 6 and above 14.

As I said, we chose a convoluted road to get to this day. Had we walked another path, the one that seemed to have been chalked out by our past leaders, we may have been able to realise the dream of a level playing field kind of education. A quick perusal of the city shows that there are state run schools in every nook and corner, with prime land. It is another matter that the buildings are often dilapidated. Had these schools been made into centres of excellence, the journey would have been easier. Today the road chosen to provide supposedly inclusive education for all is to force private schools to reserve 25 5 of seats for the poorer children. Reservation again, it seems that we as a nation can never get over this word. Now the private schools are up in arms and in court. We are talking business here and not education ideals, who will pay for these 25%. Then if the system mooted is followed it will take 12 years for a school to have 25 of poor kids as we start in 2011 with class 1. That is another 7665 days.

I read an interview with the Minister of Education and my heart skipped a beat when he said in answer to a question on the common school, something many of us think is the answer to education for all: Obviously we can’t nationalise education. As you know that we have neither the will nor the funding. The will Mr Minister, not the funding. One always finds funding if there is a will. Rad the interview and you will agree that the day when all children of India get their constitutional right to Education is still very far away.

And yet it does not take much to change things on the ground. Our valiant class of 2010 and their committed and passionate teacher is proof of the fact that if there is a will there is alwya a way!

Recently a friend wrote a short note in the memory of the loss of two of her dear friends. It was a touching note reminiscing about rites de passage that had always been shared and she reminded us that this one too awaited us all. The wisdom was in accepting it and preparing for it in the best manner possible.

I must admit that of late I have often found myself thinking of my final curtain call. Life is made of a plethora of rites de passage, and each bring a new awakening and take us one step further on the road of life. But the last one is different. It is the final high note of the symphony of your life, the one followed by eternal silence. And yes the wisdom is to accept that it is inevitable and that to prepare for it is the best we can do.

It is true that this realisation comes in our twilight years and is often heralded by some event or the other. It can be the sudden and unexpected loss of a dear one or it can be much gentler, like the slow realisation that time that was once your friend and moved slowly, suddenly becomes frenzied as days seem to pass at lightning speed, barely allowing you to catch your breath. This takes me back to my university days when one tried to comprehend the theories of Bergson on time and its duration. We all remember how time sometimes hangs and sometimes simply flies. When we were young this duality of time was associated to pleasant and unpleasant experiences, today it seems otherwise. As age advances time seems to take wings.

This is perhaps a gentle reminder from the Gods that one must put one’s house in order and do it pronto! I just realised mine is a little larger than the conventional ones. So it is time I pulled up my boots and got to work. There is no time left to think, ponder, deliberate or reflect. These are luxuries that are no longer my due. It is time to act and act fast even if it means making some mistakes or slipping a few times. One can always retrace steps or apply some soothing salve. The house has to be set in order. And that above all means that pwhy has to be protected and given a life long lease. The wisdom lies in making the right choices even if they are not the ideal ones. Let us not forget I am now in the queue!

An invitation card for a upmarket promotional do, landed on my desk yesterday. I do not know why such cards come my way! And as always it made me wince. The card looked like a cigar box and was made of outrageously expensive paper. Open the box and in lieu of cigars, you find a card nestled at the bottom soliciting your presence to yet another extravaganza with not only imported food and wine, but imported entertainment.

L, a volunteer, was sitting there and after looking at the card simply said: wonder how many children could be fed with the price of this one card. Strange that she should have mentioned this, as the previous day a TV channel had aired a report about malnutrition in India. The figures was startling, shocking and made one hand one’s head hang in shame: in Madhya Pradesh alone 83 children die of malnutrition every day, and that is just one state of India. And this while surplus grain worth millions rots in what is known as the granary of India.

The amount of extravagantly priced cards that come my way is staggering. I have figured out why I, the proverbial recluse, am on their mailing lists: courtesy the husband’s upmarket club affiliations! PR agencies get hold of club directories and voila! Cards are printed by the zillions and couriered (no post please) and you find yourself invited to dos galore, opening of bedroom and bathroom furniture showrooms, jewellery exhibitions and more of the same. The cards often land unopened in the trashcan! I was tickled pink by a recent ad of a mobile phone company that urged everyone to save trees and use SMSses to communicate everything! Come to think of it it could be cheaper and one had the luxury of the DND (do not disturb) option. With the courier man you are subjected to the door bell ring at all hours of the day, and they have an uncanny habit of coming when you are taking forty winks or have just stepped into your bath. Blessed were the days of the postman: he only rang the bell twice a day!

But bantering apart, time has come for all of us to stop wearing blinkers and start looking at the harsh reality that surrounds us, and not just look but ask ourselves some disturbing questions. The first one is whether we can carry on the way we do without batting an eyelid as if all was well? If the answer is yes then sorry I disturbed you; if the answer is a no even a hesitant one, then comes the next question: how responsible we are and what can we do? My answer was pwhy. A tiny drop in the ocean but nevertheless a beginning.

There are many things around us that should upset if not abhor us. The little child who knocks at your car window every day without fail and who should actually be in school as says the Constitution. The obscene amount of food thrown on the street after religious feeding sprees or outrageous marriages, the mounds of plastic choking every part of the city, the unnecessary breaking and remaking of perfectly sound pavement and roads that remind us of children playing construction games but they do not waste tax payer’s money. And this is just what we see. Open the newspaper or turn on the box and the nightmare continues. Kangaroo courts that decide whether you should live or die, children sold and abused. Many of us express our shock or concern from the comfort of an armchair and then simply procrastinate. Many of us rant and rave a bit while getting ready for the next do one is invited to and then simply forget till the next aberration. Some simply feel it is not our problem as there if a government that is meant to solve all that is not right smug in the comfort that we did our civic duty by casting our vote.

It is time we took a step further and made our voices heard, not just for the page 3 cases needing justice, when we are quick to light candles and stand vigil, but for every single child dying of hunger every 8.7804 minute, one who has no voice and above all no vote.

OK Delhizens loosen your purse strings, your state needs you. You will have to pay your tithe for the honour of hosting the commonwealth games! So from now on everything will cost more: cooking gas, CNG, ghee, tea, coffee, utensils, mobile phones. VAT is being increased from 12 to 20 %. The justification is simple: expenditure on Games projects had exceeded estimates while the “recession” had meant that revenues didn’t keep pace. Whatever that means! The bottom line is that each one of us, rich and poor are going to pay for this useless extravaganza!

The fear of what the CWG would mean to the common Delhizen has been looming large on our heads for some time now. We were fist told of relocation of slums and we feared for our own, mercifully till now we have been spared. Perhaps it is because we are not on the routes the players will take to go around the city. And as we all know, the clean up drive is just cosmetic. Then came the ban on street vendors and that affected us as many of our parents lost their sole mean of livelihood and many their sole source of sustenance. We winced a little but carried on. Last week Delhi’s school children were informed that they would have to go to school till the end of May. That was a shocker. With temperatures already soaring, wonder what the mercury will read come May! Yes the CWG were truly becoming an event to remember.

Finally came the last straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back. As if the recent price rises were not enough, and just when one had finally mastered the art of balancing a budget by stretching a potato or watering a dal, came the final blow: everything would cost more and the reason was to fulfill some delusional fantasy. We wince at every price rise, it is but human, but then we process the matter and assuage our feelings by telling ourselves that the money is meant fr education, development, health of the poor and so on even if we know that the benefits never really reach their destination. But where are the mitigating factors. Will someone enlighten me?

The case of Jennifer H is heart rendering. Imagine being adopted at the age of 8, abused by your adoptive father, moved to 50 foster homes and often abused in each of them and then when you finally have found a way out, had two kids and reclaimed your right to be happy and cared for, being simply deported because the adoption agency goofed up and never processed your papers. A TV channel is currently highlighting the plight adoption cases gone terribly wrong: children abandoned by adoptive parents who separate, children adopted to be used and abused, children stolen to be given in adoption to make a quick buck. The list is endless and each case more tragic than the other.

Adoption is a tricky option. True there are innumerable happy stories, where adopted children are surrounded with love and care. And thank God for that. The reason for this post is not a debate on the pros and cons of adoption per say. I write these words to one again highlight the fact that children are the weakest and most fragile of all beings and cannot be treated like a commodity and cast aside when you have had enough of them or used to fulfill some dark need as is often the case. Just google for ‘adoption gone wrong’ and you will find umpteen shocking tales. What is sad is that where natural parents cope with any situation, adoptive parents are quick to blame the child for any behaviour problem and in some cases even hurt it. In many instances adopted children move from foster homes to foster homes, each scarring the child forever. No one seems to accept the fact that adoption is a life long commitment no matter what!

When little Y was born, he seemed a ‘fit’ case for adoption as his was the most dysfunctional family I had ever come across, and though we do not delve in adoption, in his case we were tempted to do so. A family came forward, the legal procedure was undertaken and as per the law the adoptive family was given guardianship and the stage was set for the child to leave. Thank heavens that did not happen, as the adoptive family found another child and decided to simply walk away from this one. We were horrified at that moment and very angry but in hindsight this was perhaps the best thing that could have happened as had the child left, he might have landed in yet another foster home. In a few weeks little Y will pack his bags for another journey as he sets out to join his pals in boarding school. He will get what he needs most and what will set him truly free: a sound education. Believe me, we have struck the word adoption from our lives and replaced it forever with education!

Children are not commodities to be sold and abused to make a few bucks. They are not spare parts or temporary articles used to fulfill some need or the other and then locked or cast away, or easy prey to satisfy pervert desires. Children are the gift of God and need to treated as such with love, care and profound respect.

I remember the day when I first met Sanjay. It must have been 8 years or so ago and he must have been 14. We had just begun teaching a primary class at the Lohar Bati, gypsy camp, located next to our first centre. Sanjay and some of his pals, who had all dropped out of school, use to hang around our open air class, mesmerised by the foreign volunteers who sometimes taught classes. After some time we suggested they too come and join and some did, Sanjay was one of them. Little did I know that one day the somewhat rebellious good looking kid would break all ceilings and walk the ramp.

But let us not jump the gun! Let me tell you Sanjay’s story as I know it. Actually it begins well before I met Sanjay. Like many of you who live in Delhi, I too must have passed by the umpteen Lohar camps strewn across the city and never really looked at them, certainly not with my heart! It is only when we opened an outreach programme in what is called the Janata Jeevan camp, that I had to walk by the Lohar camp situated next to the Kalakaji bus depot. The sight and plight of the small bright eyed children running about and breathing if not choking on the fumes of cars revving up at the red light caught my attention and I decided to do something. The first thing that came to mind was to start a small creche and a primary section. Now Lohars, like all gypsies, are proud people, and not one to accept charity of any kind. We met Tau, the head of the camp and explained what we wanted to do. He immediately saw the wisdom of our request and accepted it. There was an open space behind the camp and that is where it all began.

As months passed, I found myself often heading towards the camp and spending time there, imbibing the rare wisdom and sagacity of these proud people. Somehow being with them was a way of stepping off the spinning world and recharging my batteries! They always had a cup of tea ready for me if not a hot hand slapped roti. I also discovered to my horror that they had been living on the pavement for 30 years though they had been promised rehabilitation by the government. I decided to do something and urged them to file a PIL in the High Court. Sadly nothing came of it and they continue to live with the Damocles sword of destruction hanging over their heads. Sadly again we had to discontinue our classes because of the authorities. We hope to be able top resume them again soon.

In the early days of our work there, I use to spend time with the children and often asked them about their dreams. They use to share them with me and they were often small and simple ones. I urged them to dream big, very big and to hold on the dream, because dreams had sometimes an uncanny way of coming true! I remember the older boys standing in the background and listening to what I had to say. I guess Sanjay was there too, but he never then shared his dream with me, though he joined classes and went on to complete his schooling. Geeta our creche teacher was Sanjay’s elder sister. When she got married she requested us to give her job to her brother as they needed the money. We did though I recall telling him that with his looks he should become a super model. I never knew my words would be prophetic.

Sanjay has been teaching primary children for the past 5 years. His gentle ways and his boundless patience have made him a great favourite with the children. And for me the simple fact that this almost drop out gypsy boy became a teacher was something to be terribly proud of. And that is why when Camille Ponsin, a reputed French documentary maker wanted a ‘story’, I thought the one of the pavement born gypsy boy turned teacher was one he should go for. I was far from knowing that it would become a fairy tale, where seemingly impossible dreams come true.

The filming began and all seemed on track. One day Camille called me and told me that Sanjay had shared his real dream on camera: that of making it to Bollywood. At first I just smiled. Was this not the dream of every kid in the land, the one that sustained you through your darkest hours? I must admit I let it pass. Then another call informing me that Camille had a possible entree into the hallowed land, someone that could perhaps make this crazy dream happen. He wanted to take Sanjay to Mumbai and simply take it from there. The rest is now history. Last Sunday Sanjay walked the ramp for a top designer and did it with flair and aplomb.

It is with immense pride that I read the next days papers. I was tickled pink by Sanjay’s answer to a journo who asked him if he was nervous: “Chalna hi toh hai. Do saal ki ummar se kar raha hoon (All I have to do is walk. I’ve been doing that since I was two). His words reflected the spirit he was born with, the one that is the heritage of one who belongs to a proud people who have roamed for centuries without fear. Reading those words I knew that no matter what lay ahead, Sanjay would take it in his stride, whether it was walking ramps or simply walking the road of life.

My thoughts went back to the day when I had jokingly told him he should become a super model. I wonder if the God of Lesser Beings was listening.

Meet Agastya and Utpal the two little men of my life. Just like the Little Prince they landed into my existence when I least expected them and yet most needed them. One came when I was going dealing with personal demons and needed to rediscover myself and test my own limits and the other when I needed to be reassured that time was still on my side.

When I first set eyes on Utpal he must have been a little under a year. At first he was just another little toddler, one that I hoped would become one of the pwhy kids. Little did I know what was in store for both for us. A few days later Utpal had his tryst with fire and somehow our destinies changed forever. I next saw him, swathed in ugly bandages and moaning in pain. He looked at me with his huge eyes and I knew that life would never be the same. That is the moment he walked into my heart and tucked himself there forever. He taught me to smile in adversity. He taught me that nothing was hopeless, you just had to find the right door and walk through it. He became my source of strength and my little ray of sunshine, that shone the brightest on dark and cloudy days. Today we have both grown. The little child has become a young boy and his Maamji a little older and a tad wiser, or so she would like to believe!

Then entered Agastya, my little grandchild and it was love at first sight! Simply holding him was enough to want to live many morrows. Life seemed enticing again. One wanted to see his fist step, hear his first laugh and just see and help him grow. Somehow the bones creaked less, and the gait became lighter as time seemed to still be on my side. I was blessed with two wonderful little men having special places in my heart.

Last week they met and bonded. I guess they both knew they shared one common thing: the love of a dotty old woman! I watched in silence, my throat hurting and my eyes moist, and mouthed a silent thank you, to the God of small children.

A few months ago I got a mail form a young friend.He wrote: I have recently started an ambitious project to create story books for children and more importantly to devise means to make them available to every child of the world. We are working on the first book right now. I will be dedicating this first book to the children of Project Why. I was really touched. It all started with a twitter campaign where the aim was to reach 100 000 followers following which we would receive a huge library courtesy Grolier! A very ambitious project, but we were all excited and a little candid!

Months went by and I must admit I got engrossed in other things so imagine my astonishment when I got a call from my young friend informing me that the campaign had been successful and that we were soon to receive the promised books worth a whopping 200 000 Rs. I was floored! What a wonderful surprise. I was also informed that we had to go to Grolier’s office to receive the gift. Before I carry on the story, I wish to thank Rohit who is an exceptional young man who sees with his heart and makes dreams come true without much ado, just the way it should be. God bless him.

So last Monday an appointment was fixed and we were to meet the country head for Grolier and receive our gift. I had thought it would be a short formal affair but it turned to be one an unforgettable experience. We were welcomed by Mr James Yeoh, the GM himself and offered a cup of tea. We started talking about one thing an another and soon were sharing thoughts and dreams. I told him how much I appreciated the generous donation of educational material as it would help me ensure that my children have access to better possibilities and morrows. That is when James told us how he had over the years given young people of a lesser God the chance to step out of their limited world and reach the sky. His company trained and employed young people from underprivileged backgrounds. He told us how he had given a young fishmonger he has been impressed by, the chance to come and work with him. Today the young man was a marketing executive. I sat mesmerised, hearing for the very first time words that I had dreamt, words that I wanted many to mouth, but never heard. How wonderful it would be if many more thought like James Yeoh! And that was not all, he even promised to give our kids a chance!

Then it was time to receive our gift. I still did not know what it was. I must confess that I had seen the large display of books at the entrance of the office and had been fascinated by them as they were all wonderful titles and just the kind we needed but I still did not know that ALL those books were for us. When I did find out, I was again stumped. It was a dream come true as just a day before I was thinking how to go about getting some learning material for our new focus on quality project. And here we had it all.

Our sincere and heartfelt thanks to James and Rohit who have given the children of project why the most precious and beautiful gift: knowledge!

Imagine a cow standing on one leg. Quite impossible isn’t it. And yet that is what the cow that symbolises Dharma or, for want of a better word, righteousness, is meant to be doing in the Kaliyug, that is in our day and age.

What it means is that Kaliyug is an age where all that can go wrong does! And one does not need to be a rocket scientist to see that. I have often thought of writing about this, but then somehow the moment was never quite right. Till yesterday when I fell off my bed as I heard the aberration to beat all aberrations: A senior police officer had been asked to probe a recent ‘bee’ attack on a political leader during a rally! Yes you read right: a Deputy Inspector General of Police will now spend tax payer’s money to find out why a swarm of bees decided to hover over the head of a politician. Wonder how the poor man will manage to do that! But that is not all: the same politician was felicitated with a garland made of one thousand rupee currency notes amounting to millions and that in a state where children sleep hungry, schools are non existent, drinking water scarce etc. That the same rally cost 2 billion rupees is too much to fathom. Imagine how much development could have been achieved with this amount! The poor cow must be shaking on its now frail and tired led.

The ludicrous bee probe and vulgar note garland are just manifestations of the abysmal state our society has sunk in. I guess it is the inanity of the bee issue that shook me out of my torpor and compelled me to write this post. To see that we had reached the stage where a poor human soul was being commandeered to find out why a swarm of bees had had the audacity to disturb a political rally was the pits! And we also know that the poor man will have to prove the bee conspiracy theory to be true. And yes, for all those who are not initiated to the reality of India, this is no joke. Poor tax payer’s money is going to be spent on this.

Kaliyug is when human civilisation degenerates spiritually and people are as far removed as possible from God, or should I say good. It is obvious that we are in the midst of it. Every day we hear of some aberration or the other be it a woman burnt for money, a girl child smothered to death simply because of her gender, children sold to slavery, people dying of hunger, children beaten to death by their teachers, Godmen caught for sexual perversion, caste courts passing ruling that defy the laws of the land. The list is endless and each time you think you have seen it all, something else springs us to call you to order and remind you that this is indeed the dark Age.

There is an erosion or rather quasi depletion of values like honesty, generosity, compassion, words that seem almost alien to today’s vocabulary which seems to revolve around a single word and its derivatives: money! Money is what makes you good, successful, praiseworthy etc. No wonder then that being garlanded by a ring of currency notes is the best way of showing to all that you have arrived. Believe it or not after the first garland that brought enough flack, the said politician and was again given a garland of notes and will henceforth only be felicitated this way. That she represents the poorest of the poor makes all this even more galling.

Oh darling this is India. A land where elected politicians flaunt their ill gained wealth, where perfectly good roads are broken to be built again so that local politicians can line their pockets again – this is happening in the street where we are located for the third time this year – where schools have no desks and children study on the floor, where the rich become richer and the poor poorer by the second. Sadly there seems to be no end to all this. I wonder how long it will take for the poor cow to finally collapse.

I have a friend who is also my star gazer. When things are not quite as they should be and I need to be reassured, I write to him and seek his advise. He always writes back giving me something to hold on, even if the planetary situation is not quite as it should be. This time his words were ominous, or so they seemed at first: in May comes Shani’s (Saturn) time for a year. You will realise that time is no longer on your side. It was a blow as one so easily sinks into comfort zones and forgets that time never stops for anyone. My friend softened the blow by adding: but a new attitude, wiser friends, a better management of your resources will give you a more balanced life.

It almost seemed as if I had consulted the Delphic oracle and needed to unravel the real meaning of the answer. I knew that the words time is not longer on your side had a deeper meaning than what they seemed. What was the meaning of this message from beyond? I pondered for a long while and slowly realised that this was a gentle nudge reminding me that time had come to tie loose ends, to finish yet unaccomplished tasks and to secure what had been gained. Time had come to take stock of what needed to be done and had till date been set aside for the elusive morrow.

It could be simple things like clearing debts both financial and emotional, or more important ones like fulfilling dreams that had been set aside for the opportune moment. And yes one would start thinking along those lines. But I knew instinctively that there was much more. It was not just a matter of my dreams or my debts, but what was at stake here was the dreams I held in custody. They had to be secured and I had to do it now!

Yesterday, in the course of a conversation, a friend shared his concern about an eminent social activist having changed tracks and moved from education to rights activism. The person he was referring to had started and successfully steered a very dynamic education support network till he decided to move away. My friend seemed a little disturbed at this. At the time I let it pass and we moved on to other matters.

It is only much later that I pondered about the whole matter and wondered why someone would make such a change. I guess the answer is simply because activism has greater impact and is more visible. Or is because working on the field makes you more aware of wrongs that need to be righted? Be it the skewed education system or the non-existent child protection laws. Or one is tempted to go even further: the possibility to change social systems. It is true that when you are engaged in imparting education to a handful of children, as no matter how many you reach it out, it only remains a handful in a land as large as ours, your vision is limited and your scope restricted. And its is also true that when you have done this for years, your desire to redress torts becomes more acute. So for many the time comes to move on to a place where you feel you can make a real difference. And the sphere of activism beckons you.

I wondered whether after 10 years of battling grass root issues I too could one day be so tempted. The answer was a loud and clear NO! I have my reasons and the one that stands foremost in my mind is that children cannot wait and need to be helped now as they sadly do not have time on their side. For them tomorrow is already too late. So no matter how small the handful, for them you are the only chance they have and for me each and every child has a right to that chance.

Over the past years I have come to realise that it is our special kids who have truly amstered the art of having a ball! It is in this class that I have, more than once, experienced pured unadulterated joy and it takes practically nothing to get them going: a few tins and bottled to beat on, or paint to splash with.

Yesterday they were gifted a bounce ball and though they had never seen one before, it did not take them time to figure it out and get going, and everyone had her or his turn. It did not matter if you could walk or hear, you indeed could bounce. And bounce they did! And for a few minutes time again stood still, everything was forgotten as they bounced to their hearts content.

These precious and unique moments were caught on camera by our photographer volunteer Lorraine. So come bounce with them and have a .. ball!

When Peter sat down to draft a leaflet to highlight project why’s work, young Naomi, age 11, asked whether she too could make one. Naomi has never been to project why as she lives in Cranfield in the UK. Her vision of our work comes from what she has heard and interpreted with the wisdom only children have. For them dreams and reality coalesce and the yet impossible becomes very real. Or is it that they have the gift of seeing in the future? I do not know. To me Naomi’s words are blessed; perhaps a message from my friends the God of small beings at a time when I needed to be reassured.

Below is a transcription of Naomi’s leaflet..

Hello, we are project why the charity that helps children In India.

Did you know that over 11 million children are homeless in India. Did you also know that families of 6-7 live in slums which are not much bigger than the back of a small van.

How we help

When a poor child can walk they are sent to beg on the streets until they reach the age of six when they are sent to school where most pupils would have learnt to write because they had gone to private kindergarten school. For those who are poor and cannot afford kindergarten do not understand school as they have not learnt the basics. So we at project why started running free kindergartens and have also been helping children with their homework.

Once they finish school they come and work at the new hotel we have built and when they are ready we move them to work in other hotels. So children can have a good start in life. The children of India need project why and we need money to help them...

Once again I take my virtual pen to vent my fury over the sad state of education in India, the land that has finally deigned give its children the right to free and equitable education. It took the so called rulers over 60 years to loosen their purse strings and do that. These are the same rulers who take but a day to vote an increase in their own salaries! And let me set the record straight: the right to education bill has been passed, but its implementation is still a long way coming.

But let us talk of the ground reality and here I am not talking about the underprivileged child. Nursery admissions in up market schools have just closed and once again an innumerable number of children are left in the lurch as they have not made it! In a land where education is a right, children are rejected at the tender age of three. You see they do not live on the right street, or have parents who have not been to the right school, or are the wrong gender, or have no siblings. Maybe they need to petition to God to give them the right credentials before they are sent to be born in a land called India!

Oops I forgot to add one thing: their parents do not have the right bank balance as this year again slammed doors could be opened if a fat cheque was handed out. I know of one case where a parent was asked 10 lacs (on million) by a well known school! In many cases a real mission impossible.

The writing is on the wall: there are too many children and not enough schools, an ideal situation for commercial enterprise and a quick buck. But hold on. If you look around the city, in every nook and corner you will find what is know as a sarkari school (government run school). Prime space that far too often houses a ramshackle single storied building. Imagine if each of these could be transformed into a state of the art multi storied building that was run to perfection. Utopia? Not quite. Actually the real answer to education woes. However there is one small hitch. The likes of us would have to accept to have one’s child rub shoulders and share benches with the children of a lesser God.

It may not happen willingly but maybe as force majeure. When there are no more up market schools to take our kids or when the money needed becomes far beyond our shrinking pockets. Is the common neighborhood school slowly becoming an inevitable reality?

They tell me that “Project Why” is different because they are not trying to shock us, they are simply asking for permission to continue their work were the words that dropped in my mailbox this morning. They were from a friend and supporter who conveyed the feelings of someone who had just discovered us.

I sat a long while pondering over them. How true they were. In my now almost ten years of soliciting and panhandling I have never wanted to shock anyone. I remember how upset I always felt when anyone dared suggest that we use sad pictures to showcase our work. I was anathema to me. Pwhy could and would never be a sad place. It is true that people tend to loosen their purse strings more easily when faced with pathos but that was never the way we wanted to go. We were in the business of crafting smiles and creating joy and that is what we always sought to share with one and all and what we asked was help to continue to do so!

I would, I must admit, never have thought of using the words permission to continue our work but come to think about it that is exactly what it amounted to. Every time we requested help in any form it was simply to allow us to carry on what we were 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.

Heaven grant that the burden you carry may have as easy an exit as it had an entrance wrote Erasmus. A graceful exit and the appropriate time is undoubtedly something we all aspire and hope for. And yet when we charge into an open door we seldom think of how we will exit it when the need arises. New doors beckon us with promises of news and uncharted journeys and far too often follow our heart and sink deeper into unknown land. This is what happened to me exactly 10 years ago. The door in question was the one that had project why written on it.

I must admit that it was a lot like Alice in her Wonderland. One road led to another. And as I stepped into each one of them wonders greeted me and engulfed me. Soon I found myself surrounded by little souls egging me to act and fulfill their hopes. I did to the best of my ability. And as time passed, I found myself in the middle of a complex labyrinth from where the entrance door was no more visible. In the initial years that was not important as optimism and passion clouded all rational vision. But then slowly I found myself looking for that elusive exit door. It could of course not be the one I entered through as that would mean going back and I knew that that was no more an option. I had to find one that allowed a graceful exit, one that would ensure that all that I had been lovingly and patiently crafter remained intact and even thrived after I had quietly tiptoed away.

For the past few months I have been looking for that exit door. There have been many I knocked on but then had to abandon as they lead to nowhere. But then one day a tiny door beckoned me: it had the words planet why written on it. I opened it hesitantly and was awestruck. What met my eye seemed far too colossal for me to fathom. How could I make what I was seeing ever happen? And yet as I looked deeper I saw a tiny door marked Exit at the other side. To reach it I knew I had to make planet why happen.

Note: Planet Why is our sustainability vision. It is a guest house the proceeds of which would enable us to continue the work we have been engaged in for the past ten years

Only the educated are free wrote Epictetus in 100 AD.

Today young Yash and little Meher took their first step towards real freedom. They are to sit for their admission test for boarding school and if all goes well join five other children of a lesser God: Utpal, Babli, Nikhil, Vicky and Aditya. For Yash and Meher this is a red letter day!

Yash and Meher both have incredible stories. Yash came to us when he was barely six weeks old. He came into this world for all the wrong reasons. No one had a road map for him. We decided to craft him one. Easier said than done and I must confess there were many setbacks. We had first thought of finding him a new home but that was not to be. Legal tangles and uncaring hearts ensured it did not happen. The little boy weathered every storm with patience and grit. He spent the first few years in our creche and then moved to a little neighborhood school. We knew that something needed to be done. Only education could save him and give him a future. He needed boundaries and proper care. That is when we decided to send him to boarding school.

Meher came into our lives one fine day, quite perchance. But as soon as we lay eyes on her beautiful scarred face we knew she had come to stay and that the God of lesser beings had a road map for her. Her morrows would be safe. Thanks to a wonderful network of caring souls her life changed: plastic surgery repaired her scalded scalsp and maimed hands and soon this spirited child was ready to taken on the world. We knew that she too needed an education and the only place she would get that was in boarding school.

If all goes well, and why should it not as we are on hallowed ground, both Meher and Yash will begin school in April. A small miracle indeed!