The children of the special section spent a day remembering their dear friend Saheeda. They decided to make her a beautiful painting where each one of them tried in her of his own special way to express their pain and love. Huge whites sheets of paper were bought and paint set out in little cups. Little fingers then set to work to create the perfect homage to a dear departed friend. After the painting was finished, all the children stood and observed a minute of silence.

See the children at work here:

This morning Saheeda’s classmates learnt about her death. It was not easy to make them understand what had happened but somehow they all knew it was something terrible. A stunned silence before the first wail: that of Rinky her best friend. Then as the news sunk in, sound of weeping could be heard across the room. My little special class was grieving.

Anjali could not stop sobbing as she asked God why did he take away good souls she loved, first her mommy and then her friend. Little Radha who had recently lost her father wondered why death was again knocking a her door. Champa who is unable to comprehend the simplest of things wept unabashedly knowing she had lost a dear one. Shalini, Geetu, Ruchi, Preeti cried their hearts out. And even Priti, the unloved one, stood silently tears streaming down her face.

The boys too were stunned. And even if they did not cry – boys don’t – their faces were pictures of misery and sorrow. Umesh who never stands still, sat quietly in a corner. Ankur tried to reach out to his friends making incomprehensible sounds. And Anurag looked totally lost.

I watched them silently. These were all children no one wanted. Some could not speak or hear, some could not walk and others were locked in a world of their own that many of us could not comprehend and yet they together and in their own special way mourned the loss of a dear friend

There’s no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were wrote Dwight Eisenhower.

How true he was.

Things will never get back to the way they were at pwhy! I will never be greeted again by Saheeda’s beaming smile as I alight from my scooter in the morning and enter the pwhy building. I will never be asked to scold her when she acts stubborn and refuses to go to her sewing class. I will never watch her dance with gay abandon with her hearing impaired friend Rinky. I will never watch her try and painfully learn new sounds with her speech therapist.

I will never do any of these things because Saheeda is no more. She left our world yesterday. We are all stunned and shocked. I remember the last time I saw her just under a month ago. She was all set to go to her village for a wedding and was all excited. It seems she got very sick at the village and was hospitalised there. As she was not getting better her family brought her back and admitted to Safdarjung hospital last Saturday. She breathed her last the next morning.

Saheeda was one of our first students. She came to us when she was still a child and we have watched her grow and bloom in spite of her impairment. We had hopes and dreams for her and were trying to fulfill them. For the past year or so, she had been attending a beauty course at a parlour and would have graduated in a few months and then got a job just like her best friend Rinky.

I do not know how, in a few hours from now, I am going to face my little special class and tell them the terrible news. They will be devastated. Saheeda was their special didi, one loved by all. I do not how I will explain to the little motley crew of God’s special children that God himself decided to take one of their own away. I myself cannot even begin to understand why such a tragedy happened.

I just know that things will never get back to the way they were.

May Saheeda’s beautiful silent soul rest in peace.

Share some glimpses of her short life

Yesterday Kiran came to me with three pages of written text: it was her holiday home work. I was taken aback. The homework covered every subject and seemed humongous: read two books and find 3o new words, write five sentences about your daily activities and if you want to get an A in handwriting write a page of cursive writing a day. That was English. There was more of the same for each and every subject: maths, moral science, science and Hindi. And that is not all she also had to make a terrarium, draw a globe on a ball, make an abacus and a bird feeder, take a ride in a mtero and write about it and paste pictures of the places ahe visited during her holidays. Wow! And the holidays are for 6 short weeks. And by the way Kiran is just in class III.

Now the purpose of this post is not to debate about the wisdom of holiday home work. What one is trying to highlight is something quite different. As some of you know Kiran belongs to what we would call a slum and her family took a very conscious and deliberated decision: that of putting Kiran in an English medium school and give her the best possible. Her admission was not an easy affair and her school years have seen many hurdles. Now Kiran has a support system – aka project why- which helps her overcome such hurdles. But what about other children whose family have after great sacrifice get them admission in English medium schools and bravely try to cross to the other side of the invisible fence? How would such families be able to help their children with holiday homework. Even I do not quite know how to make a terrarium!

Lats week we had a visitor who told us about an organisation that was engaged in getting slum children admitted to good public schools. He thought we would appreciate the effort and maybe want to learn to replicate it. He must have been very surprised at our lukewarm reaction. My decision to send Utpal and my foster care kids to boarding school has also raised many eyebrows. Why not just send them to a local public school. The answer is simple: a boarding school gives an inbuilt support system that no slum family can give and without which no child can succeed. I remember an acquaintance telling me how her driver’s son was ostracized in the public school she had got him admitted to. Even if he had good marks he never got invited to a birthday party. A tale of two Indias!

But in a lighter vein how do you expect a mom who has been to a government school and probably dropped out to help her child with her holiday homework. And yet no class III kid could on her own figure out the homework as stated in those three pages. Even though children from the other side have been accepted in upmarket schools, be it because parents pay the fees or because of some illogical government rule, schools are not slum child friendly… maybe it was time we addressed this issue.

I watched Radha solve her first puzzle and Conrad Veidt’s quote came to mind: So now it is time to disassemble the parts of the jigsaw puzzle or to piece another one together, for I find that, having come to the end of my story, my life is just beginning. But there is a catch: Radha’s life is slowly and irrevocably ending.

Her life has been a series of unsolved or poorly solved puzzles. When she came to us she had a family, or rather we should say a father. Then one dark evening he passed away. We were certain that we could save the family and have them all come and live at the women centre – was that not what the centre was for – but that to was not to be. Predators and supposed well wishers emerged from the woodwork and put an end to that. The mother was convinced no to come to us, or maybe she herself wanted to remain free of the constraints of a residential programme. One will never know. The end result was that Radha, whose dream is to be able to walk one day, continues to live in what I call a kennel, but what to her is home. And in that home she continues to break her little brittle bones with regularity.

In the best of cases the life expectancy of children with OI is short. There is no known cure to the disease just some therapies that can help reduce pain and complications. Most of these are out of the reach of a slum child.

Radha’s desire to learn is mind blowing. She just wants to catch life with both hands and get whatever she can out of it. She had never been to school before she came to us. Since she has been at pwhy she has learnt many things. She now has a little table which ensures that her legs are safe from hurt. When other children dance or indulge in some physical activity, Radha devours books. Though she cannot read well yet, she flicks through the pages, an intent look on her face and a burning desire in her eyes. She wants to learn with quantum leaps and we try and follow…

When I watch Radha I am filled with sadness and a sense of helplessness. There is so much I would want to do and cannot. Were planet why up and running we would have kept her with us and taken care of her. But planet why is still a dream and little Radha’s life an enigma. One can just hope and pray for miracles. And while we wait and pray, little Radha is busy solving new puzzles.

There is a vegetable vendor in our colony. You can find him at the street corner from the wee hours of the morning to late at night be it the hottest day of the year or the coldest night. Several times during the day he walks the streets of the colony and you can hear his cry as he passes in front of your home hoping against hope that someone will call for him. After each round he goes back to his assigned place at the street corner.

No matter how hot or cold it is, no matter if it is raining or scorching our vegetable vendor does not miss his rounds. His cry is like the comfortable chime of an old clock. When you hear him you somehow know that all is well. Yet each time I hear his cry I feel oddly disturbed. Many of us do not know that to be present on time at his street corner, the vendor has to leave his home in some slum or the other in the dead of night and reach the whole sale market to purchase his ware. He then has to carefully display all the vegetables on his cart and make his way to the place where we find him everyday.

Many of the parents of pwhy children are such vegetable vendors. Most of them left their home because of a flood or a drought that made it impossible for them to feed their families in the village they belong to. Many of them have large families to care for and often have to send money back home to ageing parents that they had to leave behind. Many have huge debts to pay, debts they contracted long ago to marry a kin or fulfill some family commitment. Many have to save for the forthcoming marriage of a daughter. And one must not forget that the family often waits for his return to buy the evening meal.

We often haggle with the vegetable vendor as often his prices are outrageous. It is true that in the recent past we have taken to shop in the air conditioned comfort of the newly built local supermarket or even taken to visit the very wholesale market our vendor buys his vegetables from. But just take a moment and think of all the baggage the vendor carries: a big family to care for and many responsibilities to fulfill then perhaps the price he asks for does not seem that shocking.

There was a time not so long ago that our vegetable vendor did not need to make umpteen rounds of the colony. He was the only option we had. Today he has many unfair competitors and he needs to survive. I guess that is what disturbs me each time I hear him cry: it is a cry for survival.

Last week at a staff meeting many teachers asked us for mayur jugs (large flasks) so that the children could have clean and cool drinking water this summer. In many cases the teachers requested us to send the flasks filled with clean water as there was no clean water in the slum where they taught. In some cases the sewer and drinking water lines had fused due to endless digging; in other cases there simply was no water and people has to make do with a tanker that came erratically.

Elections are around the corner and many candidates are promising water to their voters. In a slum in Delhi voters stated quite candidly that they would give their vote to the one that would solve their water woes. There is a shortage of water, we all know that. The water table is diminishing, wells and ponds are drying and water is getting scarce by the day. Yet we continue building on flood plains and digging tube wells. No one is willing to listen to environmentalists or green warriors. We may nod our head in agreement at every speech given but how many of us walk the talk. Do we shut the tap while brushing our teeth? Have me given up our jacuzzi, tub bath, shower and reverted back to the bucket and mug bath? Do we make sure that our cars are not hosed when washed? Do we harvest rain water? The list is endless.

The fact that there was no proper drinking water in most of the slums were we teach was a true wake up call. It is time each one of us started doing something to conserve water and treat it like a precious resource and not something we can take for granted.

I sometimes purchase magazines. A sort of virtual retail therapy! I often do so quite absentmindedly. It could be a weekly political magazine or a monthly women’s one. Now if you have bought such magazines you would have realised that since some years they come protected in pristine plastic covers that need to be ripped apart to get to them. Now are we not a city that has banned plastic bags!

I recently read a very touching piece entitled : the orphaned plastic bag. It ends with these words: You humans talk about “Ban of Plastic Bags “If I could speak, I would scream out loud – Please do not create another Plastic bag. It will end up like me on the street, orphaned forever … and ever…

The question that arises is quite valid: why create more plastic bags when the same are banned. I sat pondering on this for a long time and realised how many useless plastic bags are created every day. For instance does one need a plastic covering for a magazine. For years we had been purchasing our magazines without such protection. What is more disturbing is that these bags are made by the very people who talk about and print articles on the ban of such bags.

Perhaps, if we truly want to ban plastic bags, the first step would be to stop creating new ones. Then maybe we could see what to do with those that already exist.

A young girl died on Monday. She died in her school. She suffered an asthma attack and the school was unable to give her the required care. What is shocking is that this was one of the most reputed school of the capital. This is the second death of a child in school in a week. Little Shanno lost her life after being brutalised by her school teacher.

In both cases it is the friends and family of the two girls who have taken up the cudgels for them. In both cases pathetic and deplorable cover up operations are being carried out by those in power. But that is where the similarities stop as Shanno and Aakriti belong to two different Indias.

In little Shanno’s case the witnesses are little slum kids whose voice cannot carry far. In Aakriti’s case the witnesses are young articulate English speaking kids of rich India whose voice is loud and purposeful. Whereas Shanno’s family and friends did protest they were not invited to talk shows and TV programmes, their voices soon died out and no much happened. Instead of seeing the arrest of the teacher, one saw her boldly and brazenly denying facts and clamouring her innocence. Aakriti’s friends were heard and the principal of the school has to resign. Ministers promised prompt action as they made the right noises.

Both cases highlight different issues. In one case it is abysmal and inhumane practice of corporal punishment that prevails in schools in India and in the other it seems to be gross and unacceptable negligence. I would like to share with view what a volunteer who had come to pwhy some time back wrote after hearing of Shanno’s death:

It is sad to read about Shanno’s departure first thing in the morning. This thing about corporal punishment is something that bothered me a lot when I was with Pwhy in 2007, and till today I am still intrigued. I am no sociologist or anthropologist, but my belief has always been that common social practices are often present at more than one site.

The way I see it, corporal punishment in school is highly relevant to parenting beliefs, which in turn affects how children view themselves in situations of physical abuse. My own observations of pwhy children are that they do use physical force on one another – they seldom fight, but they give each other a strong hit on the back to express satisfaction.. and even when just playing they push each other around. The same goes even for some Pwhy teachers – “pats” on the back is common, and in my opinion, both children and teacher alike think nothing of their behaviour or perhaps they are not even aware of what they are doing.

Extend this to the community and I believe this is how children interact with one another (they even showed this in “Slumdog millionaire”), and I think it is also how parents educate their own children. Schools are viewed as an extension of home education, so it isn’t surprising to see teachers behaving in the same way or to walk around with a long thick cane yelling at the latecomers. Singapore was once like this as well in the early years of Independence. My parents grew up being punished physically, so they used the same tactics on me when I was young. Mishaps are viewed as “accidents”, the only difference is that parents will feel remorse at their own actions while teachers may not. Thus, my own opinion is that such practices, what is termed as a disciplinarian “hidden curriculum”, cannot be mandated because the jurisdiction of school leaders and teachers have a lot more weight than regulations on paper.

To change how things are, I would think start with convincing the parents (maybe at parents’ meeting). I believe there will be a lot of skepticism and doubt as to whether such change in ways of children education will raise effective kids. If this resistance can be overcome, then kids need to be educated too. They need to stop believing that adults have the right to punish them physically, and that no matter what happens they need to tolerate. Shanno may have survived if she had known that it isn’t right for her to stand under the sun for 2 hrs and learnt to protect herself. I’m not participating in the blaming game, but I think the solution should be bottom-up instead of top-down. We need to try starting with the community, because if parents make principals and teachers accountable for all actions of corporal punishment, that is when such behaviour will begin to diminish. As for students I think it is important to alert them to the need for “defense” – not to fight back in defiance, but to know how to protect themselves if they were treated unreasonably.

I will leave you to react on the above but I feel that it makes a lot of sense. Corporal punishment cannot be abolished by laws and orders alone. It is endemic to our society and a bottom up solution needs to be found. At pwhy we do try to raise awareness about the dangers of corporal punishment but the road is a log one as lifting your hand of a child seems to be ingrained in almost indelible ways.

Aakriti’s case is different. It is a case of gross negligence that even reeks of arrogance. The school in question is one of the best up market schools, where getting admission is almost viewed as a privilege only given to the few. That the child was not given proper attention is unforgivable. We are a very tiny organisation with meagre resources but even we have a drill that is t be followed in case of any child being sick or hurt. We have a contract with a local nursing home which attends to any problem that may occur. Teachers are told to rush the child there in case of any mishap. No one needs to await any instruction. It is an absurdly simple model that works.

I do not know whether enquiries and probes will solve corporal punishment or negligence. The issues are far greater and very complex. They require well though of solutions and answers. In my humble opinion it is the entire school system that is at fault and the two deaths we have witnessed are very representative of this: little Shanno’s death reflects the sad state of the state run schools which are going from bad to worse, and young Aakriti’s death reveals the almost hubristic attitude adopted by so called good schools that seem to have become impervious to any form of censure. What is worse is that there seems to be no end to this situation. Once again I will make my plea for a common school but know that too many vested interest will ensure that I am never heard.

It was treat time for our prep class! The whole class had been invited to Mc Donald’s for burgers, fries, and lots of fun. Little notes had been sent to all parents to ensure that the kids came to pwhy in their Sunday best. And they did, each in a set of sparkling clothes.

Most of our prep class kids come from very deprived homes and for them it would be first time in a car, first time in an air conditioned environment and probably a very first acquaintance with a burger and pack of fries. The host for the day, a group of volunteers from iVolunteer, landed at the exact time. There was a palpable excitement in the air as the children, twenty of them, wore their badges and slipped on their shoes. A short ride in two three wheelers took them to the waiting cars were everyone piled in.

I did not go with them. I just saw the pictures and got a debrief from the two teachers who had accompanied the children. The smiles on the faces said it all. Never mind if the burger was too large and the ice cream cone somewhat messy. Everyone had a ball. If some enjoyed licking the sauce from the packet, others preferred dissecting the burger before eating it. But what the heck. It was a very satisfied lot that returned to pwhy. I would have given anything to know what went on in their little minds filled with new sensations and images.

You can share some moments of this every special outing here

A big thank you to iVolunteer!

I am livid. The whole of yesterday was spent watching a news item that was splashed on all channels: a sting operation that revealed that the little girl who acted in Slumdog Millionaire was up for sale by her father! The sting operation had been undertaken by a British tabloid.

The article makes sordid reading. Is this not the worse kind of child abuse! Starry kids enjoying the delights of a five star hotel – be it the mattress you can jump on or the ice cream and cold drinks you can gorge on – while adults are discussing the price they would be sold at.

I had always been weary of the plight that awaited these star kids. I has watched in silent horror as the children were paraded by a fashion designer and used by a political party for electioneering. I have watched with sadness the innumerable articles about these children each highlighting the innumerable goodies offered to them: be it money, homes or trust funds. I have watched with dismay these children slowly losing the anonymity and safety of childhood and feared for them. Everyone was in the race for its pound of flesh and no one was bothered about the children and their future.

I will reiterate what I have said earlier. If anyone had the interest of these children at heart, they should have been quietly sent to a good boarding school without any ado. There was no need to herald and trumpet what was being done for them. The reality is that whatever has been done for them till now has been done to fulfill selfish agendas. No one is concerned about the children themselves. They are just be used like circus animals.

The truth is that no one is truly interested in the plight of slum children. I can talk with authority as I have spend a fifth of my life trying to muster help to do just that. The little children in the picture are all in a boarding school and are doing well. I wish I could do more but I have no glamour to barter. I simply have the hopes, dreams and morrows of children to give in exchange.

A little girl died yesterday. She was 11 year old. She died because she was not able to recite her alphabet. She died because her teacher hit her head against the table and then made her stand in the sun for two hours. She died because her frail body could not withstand the brutal punishment.

My heart goes out to little Shanno yet another innocent victim of the beast called corporal punishment. The question I ask is how many more such deaths will it take for us to wake up and do something? This is not the first case and sadly this will not be the last. Corporal punishment is too deeply ingrained in our system. Once again the same drama will enfold: outrage and anger, some cosmetic dismissals and suspensions, some platitudes mouthed by people in power and then as always little Shanno will be laid to rest in more ways than one.

We too at project why had tried long ago to take on the hydra headed monster called corporal punishment. I remember the case of a child who had been mercilessly beaten by his school teacher and how we had taken up the cudgels on his behalf. I recall the innumerable visits to the education department, the endless petitions to one and all. The end result had simply been a cosmetic transfer of the teacher to another school. But that was not all. From that day onwards pwhy children were singled out in the school and beaten for no apparent reason.

Wonder what punishment will be meted out to the teacher whose cruel action resulted in little Shanno’s death. The whitewashing act has already begun. The blame game has started. As always in all cases of child abuse the victim is made the offender. The teacher has given her defense and the system will undoubtedly protect her.

But there are deeper questions that arise from the present situation. This is not an isolated incident. Children are beaten every day in schools in India. One wonders why? What is it that turns an apparent sane human being into a monster? What gives the right to a teacher to physically abuse a child? And why does it happen over and over in spite of laws and court directives. Questions that need answers.

Little Shanno may have been a child with a learning disability. Maybe she just was not able to cope with her studies. But the existing system has no place for children like her. And in all probability teachers are not sensitized towards such children. The disturbing yet inevitable reality is that even if the teacher is brought to book there will be many other Shannos unless the whole education system is reviewed and altered. But who will bell the cat?

Recession, recovery, turnaround are notions I have always found hard to understand. Perhaps it is because I decided a long time ago to invest in smiles, hopes and tomorrows! But one cannot remain impervious to the happenings around us. One realises that one is in the midst of a deep crisis and that every one’s morrows are uncertain.

Yesterday I was sent a link to a note on the popular social site Facebook. The note was simply entitled The Last Turnaround and talked about a Golden Era that would come after some terrible apocalyptic times. The author urged us to prepare for such times just as you would for an impeding calamity. A true doomsday scenario that one would like not to believe, and yet…

I am no economist or specialist of any kind, but in my humble and limited opinion what we are facing is a moral crisis more than an economic one. If we do not mend our ways we are heading straight to the times our friend predicts. In a former post I had tried to unravel the mess we are in and had submitted my views. I still feel that we are living in a void that we are trying desperately to fill with the wrong things. We live self centred lives with scant regard for the other. We break laws and rules with impunity and revel in doing so. The way we treat our planet is a perfect example of what I am trying to say. In our city in spite of laws banning plastic bags or disallowing tube wells, everyone is carrying such bags and tube wells are being dug everywhere drying up the much depleted water table. And the list is endless and depressing. More cars, more ACs, more lights, more of everything as long as it meets my needs.

We are not interested in the other, whether it is one who lives on the other side of the fence or the one yet to be born. I was deeply moved by my elder daughter when she walked into the kitchen holding her child and urged us to stop wasting water for his sake. It was a true wake up call.

But let us get back to the morrows that await us. If we are going to be taken by the lure of the ephemeral turnaround that is around the corner and continue doing what we do so well: borrow senselessly and spend carelessly then we are paving the way to the kind of crash predicted by our friend. Sadly it seems we may just go that way unless we realise that we need to look within and accept to change.

Once again I will quote the little prince and his friend the fox: if we want a tomorrow then we need to look at everything around us with our hearts.

I do not write about TV programmes and reality shows. And yet today I write about one such show that is the buzz on the Internet and the talk of many a town. The reason is a rather cryptic message that accompanied the link and simply said: this video reminded me of pwhy!

The clip in question for those who do not wish to waste precious time for the download, is about a middle aged, frumpy, unemployed woman taking part in a singing contest. Everyone laughs and jeers at her when she says that her dream is to be a singer. When she starts singing everyone is stunned. When she finishes every one is blown over. Even her choice of song seems perfect as she ends her song with the words: Now life has killed the dream I dreamed. (I dreamed a dream from Les Miserables).

Like millions who have watched the clip I too felt moved. Yet I wondered for a long time why my friend had been reminded of us as she watched Susan Boyle sing. Then it struck me. She was an underdog just like all the children of project why, a little guy with huge dreams. One that people will always jeer or scoff at. The one no one believes in. The little child in his tattered clothes who dreams of being a star, the boy who sits in front of his hovel and dreams of being a pilot, the little girl who watches her sick mommy and dreams of becoming a doctor. The message was clear: if the little lady from a remote Scottish village can make it big, so can each our children. You just have to dream big and hold on to your dream. That is what we do at project why!

A recent mail from an activist friend brought to light the plight of senior secondary government school girls who were told not to come to school if they did not purchase all the school books needed for their class. Most of these students were from extremely poor families and could not afford to buy the said books. Many of the girls had actually stopped going to school for fear of the reprimand they would be subjected to. It seemed that the latest reason for dropping out off school could just be the inability to purchase school books.

That girls from poor and deprived homes reach senior classes is nothing short of a miracle. Very often parents who are more than willing to provide tuition classes for their sons, find doing the same for their daughters a waste of money. Girls are often left to their own devices. Moreover their study time is often truncated as they are given innumerable house tasks: from looking after their siblings to cooking and cleaning. Parents would rather see them drop out of school than purchase books for them. And if the schools sing the same tune, the girls are doomed.

Every election manifesto has heralded the need to look at the girl child and better her plight. Yet while such lofty ideas are being trumpeted, girls in India’s capital city are at the risk of dropping out of school because they cannot afford to buy school books. There has to be a way out. Schools could keep a pool of books and lend them to needy students. This would be eminently doable if curriculum did not change every year, as the books could be passed on to the next batch. A fine could be charged if the books were spoiled.

It is unacceptable to have children drop out of school in senior classes because they cannot buy books. Something needs to be done… now!

A grandchild fills a space in your heart that you never knew was empty. Had anyone said those words to me a few weeks back I would have pooh poohed them away with a dismissive laugh. How could that be. And yet today as I roam my empty house I feel a huge hole in my heart, in that very place I never knew was empty.

Agastya Noor left for his home after spending five whole weeks with us, five weeks: almost half of his tiny life! While he was with us time flew and one did not have the time to sit and ponder about matters. Yet was I not the one who had stated that becoming a grand parent promotes you to another stage in life, one that entails contemplation and reflection. While he was here there was no time to think let alone reflect. Time just slipped past in a flurry of nappies and bottles. True that we were treated to his first smiles and gurgles but one hardly had time to stop and savour them. Then one day it was time to pack nappies and bottles and fly away leaving behind that huge gaping hole one never knew existed. It was time to reflect and puts things in perspective.

Why was it that from the time he left all that once seemed not only enough but plentiful seemed suddenly inadequate and wanting? Difficult to say. Logically one should be elated and content then why this feeling of despondency. Maybe it is because you realise that time is short and that you may not be able to do all that you would want to. The famous space in your heart that you never knew existed is the one that now needs to be filled and you do not quite know how!

Utpal and Meher had a terrible tryst with fire when they were juts babe in arms. That terrible moment changed their lives forever. Perhaps this is the way the God of small persons operates.

Were it not for their scars these two spirited kids would have had very different lives. Utpal the child of a dysfunctional alcoholic family would have still been moving from home to home (as his parents were often shooed away by their landlords) and Meher would have had to bear the jibes and barbs of her peers who laughed at her maimed hands and scalded face. Neither Meher nor Utpal would have been in school.

But the God of small persons had decided otherwise. Both these children had been singled out and destiny had other plans for them but to accede to these plans the little souls had to undergo a baptism by fire. Today Utpal is in his third year in boarding school and had just been promoted to Class II and Meher has had her first surgery to repair her hands and face. Next year she too will join Utpal in school.

Strange are His ways… all we can say is Chapeau Bas!

We were rummaging through old home photographs and memorabilia when my eyes fell on a small leather bound book. It was a copy of the new testament and belonged to Ram, my father. A couple of pages had been earmarked. I opened the first such page:

At that time the disciples approached Jesus and said, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? He called a child over, placed it in their midst, and said, Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me. Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea. (Matthew 18)

I had never heard Ram quote from the Bible or any other religious text and thus this came as a surprise. What was even more astounding was the content of the page marked. It was almost uncanny and surreal. Had I not been sitting and ruminating about how I would make both ends meet as we were/are again in the midst of a sever financial crunch. And had I not even considered, albeit for a tiny instant, packing everything up and moving on. True this was just a fleeting moment of weakness only I was witness to. But nevertheless it did happen.

Was this a message from Ram showing me the way and giving me the strength needed to carry on? I guess so. My thoughts went back to the day when I had stumbled upon a diary written by my mom and found in it many answers I sought. Once again in spite of being in another realm, my incredible parents had reached out to their hurting child. I knew what I had to do and above all knew that I would succeed.

The little boys are lost in their game. At this very moment it is all that matters. The only aim is to try and win. They are not bothered about tomorrow or times to come.

On Monday these three boys and their pal Utpal and didi Babli will pile up in a big car with their bags and baggage and drive to their new school the place which if all goes well, will be their home for many years to come and will change their lives forever. As they cast their dice and move their pawn across the board, they are totally unaware of all the drama that preceded this moment and how close we were to see it all blow away. Yet the miracle happened like so many that came quietly, unobtrusively each time one prayed for them.

Yes we have had our share of miracles that even the most cynic or hardened soul has to acknowledge: a little girl whose scars will soon vanish, a host of little and big children who have passed into their new class, a child of God who once again has proved to us that spirit is stronger than any bodily ailment. True that each miracle came with its share of angst and worry, but all was soon forgotten.

Does one get a little nonchalant and even blasé in such circumstances and start believing that all is well and nothing can halt the winning spree? Not quite as past experience has proved beyond doubt. There is always something that calls us back to order and makes us realise that nothing comes easy. As I was basking in the glory of all that had been achieved came the startling yet expected news: there were no funds to see us through the month! I must admit that it was quite a shock. It is so easy for us humans to think that all is well and that nothing can come and cloud our sunshine. But everything comes at a price and perhaps the price of all the wonderful miracles that have come our way is our ability to remain humble and remember that one has to toil to achieve what we seek.

It has been a long time since I have held out my virtual begging bowl. Apologies to those who have expressed their disapproval at my use of the word begging. I will try and explain why I still insist on using it. Perhaps it is simply because it reflects in the best manner possible the attitude of humility that needs to be respected at all times. The price that needs to be paid lest we sink into hubristic realms. The past years have been replete with lessons some truly uplifting, others quite deflating. Yet what has transpired is that you ultimately win if you are willing to play the game by the rules.

So after a long time I am once again going to write innumerable mails to solicit help with the hope that once again people will look with their hearts and help us.

Where will it all end are the words that came to my mind as I watched the two little slumdog kids walk the ramp for a famous designer duo. I had just recovered from the news that the same children would now be used by the ruling party to campaign for them!

Let us stop a moment and gather our thoughts. We are just about recovering from the dastardly news about a father raping his two daughters to better his business prospect and the sad but of indubitable reality that child abuse is a stark reality and as supposedly concerned citizens and sensitive human beings we are outraged. Now as the same supposedly concerned citizens and sensitive human beings what should our reaction be in the face of kids walking ramps and raising slogans? Many have reacted to the news and rightly so. One such comment is: my fear is that these kids would be taken advantage of, & then thrown away when they won’t be needed any longer! This world can be really brutal! This probably sums it all up.

Are we not witnessing an insidious forms of child abuse, one that is so well packaged that it becomes acceptable and even laudable. The designer in question said making the young kids walk the ramp was an endeavour to bridge the gap between the glamorous and the unglamorous, the rich and the poor. The politicians too have their answers ready to be lobbed at the right time. Stop! I am ready to throw up! Enough is enough.

I guess I have acquired the right to voice my opinion. For the past 10 years now I have been trying to bridge the gap between the rich and the poor. For the past ten years I have toiled to get the glamorous to reach out to the unglamorous. And for the past ten years I have banged my head against impregnable walls. True I did not have any glamour to barter: no Oscar winning movie or acclaimed achievement. I simply had innumerable slumpups with incredible potential. I simply had many simple scripts that would help them realise their dreams. The most ambitious one was to give a handful of these kids a real future: a sound and upmarket education. What I got when I asked for help was a harsh rap on my knuckles: one was not supposed to dare disturb the existing social pattern. We did and today four little kids have begun their journey to glory and we are really proud of it.

But coming back to ramps and election campaigns, what we seem to be witnessing is another kind of child abuse, and my heart goes out to these two little slum kids who are being used and abused to perpetrate selfish agendas. If anyone, be it the glam designers or the famed politicians, truly held their interest at heart, the children should have been quietly sent to a good school and not flaunted like circus animals. If mileage had to be sought, then it could have been done in a discreet manner, after the children where happily settled and on their way to fulfilling their destiny.

I saw my grandchild for the first time yesterday. I was such a huge moment that it took me more than twenty four hours to process it and be able to write about it. As I held the little bundle of joy and delved into his luminous grey eyes I felt a sense of indescribable joy and wonder. It was a breathtaking moment.

In the last 24 hours my life seems to have changed for ever. Does holding the child of your own child catapult you into another realm of life, freeing you in some way of bonds hitherto in existence? Do yo somehow acquire a new status and thus need to redefine the meaning of your own life? Does it compel you to stop and review your own life and above all evaluate it? So many questions needing answers that I know I will have to seek some time later.

But as I looked deep into his eyes I knew that the little bundle of joy had brought with him a bag of miracles for his granny. This may sound dotty and over the top but I held on to my belief. And the miracles came….


An email dropped by the very next day informing us that a kind lady from Germany had agreed to sponsor the education of our three little foster care boys giving me the miracle I had prayed for. It was such a huge moment and I was left speechless. I simply went to look at little Agastya Noor and saw him smiling in his sleep. They say in India that when children smile in their sleep, they are in deep conversation with God. I silently mouthed a word of gratitude and tiptoed away. This simple email had put to an end to many a sleepless night. The news was welcomed by joyful exclamations: amazing said one, while the other quipped holy moly! These were friends who had for the past months now toiled to make things happen. It was indeed time to celebrate and to be grateful!

A short while later another mail dropped by this one from an extraordinary young lady who had spent a short week with us and left promising to help project why. Harriet is not your usual young teenager she is one a kind. Not only did she organise a bake sale for pwhy and write about us in the local newspaper, but managed to get her school to raise funds for us and they did at their commemoration and mufti day! Harriet wrote to inform us that they had collected more than they had anticipated. This was a true miracle for me as it validated and proved what I always held as true: if you learn to see with your heart miracles come your way. This is a tried and tested formula, believe me!

The miracle for me is not the money collected or promised. It is far more than that. It is the comforting proof that compassion still exists, that there are people young and old who can still look with their hearts and reach out to others, it is the conviction that dreams do come true if you hold on to them tight and miracles come your way if you simply believe in them. I guess this is what little Agastya wanted to tell his grandmom.

My mind wandered back to a beautiful quote by Deepak Chopra: Miracles happen every day. Not just in remote country villages or at holy sites halfway across the globe, but here, in our own lives.

Never say never is a maxim I should have by now learnt to accept and follow. Once again I find myself in a situation where I have to get off my high horses and humbly accept what I haughtily rejected till date. But necessity is the mother of all inventions and faced with rapidly dwindling bank balances and a shrinking donor base one has to meekly accept to eat the humble pie. I must admit that what makes this possible is the magnitude of what is at risk.

To understand what I am trying to say one needs to go back several years, to the times when pwhy was still in its infancy and one was looking for possible ways to secure it and see it grow. One of the avenues suggested was to seek sponsorships for individual children as that was tested ground and one that had proved very successful. Never said I, as to me it had always seemed a rather condescending approach and one that led to marginalise children: the sponsored one versus the one without a sponsor. I stood my ground and must admit met with reasonable success as we managed to go and grow my way for almost a decade.

I have always been aware of the fragility of our funding model and have never stopped looking and thinking of better ways. Our one rupee a day programme failed to take off for reasons that I still cannot fathom. To me it seamed absurdly simple and eminently doable. And yet it did not work. I guess the amount sought was too small and did not give the donor the fillip it sought. Planet why us definitely the panacea of all ills, but comes a huge price and will take a long time to come by. In the mean time a family of almost a 1000 now has to be sustained in the times of recession.

I have been vociferously claiming that the crises we face is not an economic one but a moral one. I have been clamouring that was was needed was to find ways of reinstating values like compassion and empathy as I feel that it would go a long way in redefining our lives. Time to walk the talk even it it means giving up long held views. To survive today we too need to reinvent ourselves and what takes precedence is the lives and dreams of the children of pwhy and not some highfalutin idea one had once held. So I find myself extolling the sponsorship avenue: yes you heard right I am seeking sponsors for our children to enable us to carry on. True that we have had to modify the approach to our reality: we are not asking for a sponsor per child but for people accept to sponsor either one child with disability or two creche children or again 4 primary or secondary kids. We would provide information about the group selected to all sponsors.

Wow.. I have come a log way. What still irks me a little is the fact that whereas this approach seems to find takers, the one rupee programme which to me was easier on the pocket never really took off. I guess that the reason for this is that the later was too impersonal and did not give the donor the high that accompanies any act of charity!

Beggars cannot be choosers; one had to respect market forces; all is fair in love and war… There are many things I can say to myself to assuage ruffled feathers and yet the moral of the story is that one has to learn never to say never again.

A pair of glasses, a pocket watch, a bowl and wooden slippers went under the hammer, amidst high drama ,for a whopping 1.8 million US dollars. I have been watching with sadness interspersed with bouts of anger the dramatics enfolding in front of my eyes since the day news about the imminent auction of Mahatma Gandhi’s personal belongings broke. A land, that has not only forgotten the true meaning of his message but seems to revel in perpetrating the exact opposite, suddenly wants to lay claim to the legacy. Outrage is expressed at every corner, more so as the country is soon to face an election. Every political party wants to be politically correct! Even if it means resorting to untruths!

How hollow and pitiful we all look. I wish we could for once at least, be honest and truthful – qualities extolled by Bapu – and look at ourselves with candor. Here we are voicing horror at seeing Bapu’s personal belongings been sold in public but have ever respected any of his teachings. Have we kept his real legacy alive? Just yesterday two dalits were hacked to death for offering prayers in a temple and a city woke up to hate posters against minority religions. One may ask if we are worthy of Gandhi’s legacy. Nothing around us seems in sync with what he taught, defended and died for. We are still the land where little girls get killed before they are born, where a child may lose her fingers for a handful of spinach, a land where religion, education, spirituality and even Gandhi are being commercialised to the hilt. So one may ask if we are worthy of Gandhi’s at all.

One can go on merrily listing all that makes us the antithesis of what Gandhi stood for: we are the land where children have had to wait for half a century for education to become a constitutional right while a bill to raise salaries of parliamentarians is cleared in a trice. Need I say more. We build walls to keep our own away and do not feel revolted when a little beggar girl knocks at the window of our car or feel outraged at any attempt to disturb social equations.

I wish the hullabaloo about Gandhi’s memorabilia will make us look deeper at the values this remarkable man stood for. That we remember promises made but then forgotten, that we try and revive compassion and empathy, the very reasons for which a man decided almost a century ago to shed his wants and only live by his needs. Will the wooden slippers bought at an astronomical price remind us of the millions of little feet that still walk without shoes? Sadly I do not think that will happen, soon the news of Gandhi’s legacy will be overtaken by some other and our minute memory will fail us one again!

I myself discovered Gandhi rather late in life. For the better part of my life he remained a romantic notion painted by a passionate mom. It was only lately that I understood his true message: to look for alternatives to any situation till you overcome and win. That is what I have tried to do since and I must admit that the formula works. It is a simple one and can be resumed in Bapu’s own words: First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.

Shashikant topped his school in the class X pre-boards. He was awarded a prize by the Delhi Government and received it yesterday. Shashikant has been a student of project why for some time and we always knew that he would do us proud one day.

A shy and reserved boy, Shashikant has always been very serious about his studies. He is your proverbial slumdog as he lives in a tiny hovel in the Govindpiri slums. His father is a bus driver and his mom a simple housewife. But unlike other families, his parents did not have many children. They perhaps knew that the future of their progeny lay in giving them a sound education. Shashikant has only one sibling.

Shashikant and many other students of the pwhy secondary programme have been performing extremely well in the past years. Recently one of our class XI boys got 99% in maths and many often top their respective schools each time there is a test of an examination. Wonder why? Well the recipe for success is simple and yet foolproof. Take a bunch of children from deprived homes and add a committed, passionate and dedicated teacher from a similar background whose only obsession in life is to ensure that his students shine, keep the two together in a classroom for a few hours a day and a few years and voila the topper is ready. We have tested this recipe for many years now and have never been disappointed. The secondary Sir – aka Naresh – is one of his kind!

And to say that it all began on a road side almost ten years ago. What a journey it has been! Why then is my joy filed with a tinge of sadness. Perhaps because we at project why can at best taken a 100 or so kids at a given time. What about the millions who will never get a chance at proving who they are or what they are capable of, those who will never enter the portal of a school or will simply quietly and unobtrusively drop our along the way because someone has hijacked the promises made to them.

pwhy @ 1K is no arcane formula or cryptic code. It is simply the result of the latest headcount of the project why family. Amazing is it not?

It is the time of the year when one has to begin thinking of annual reports and balance sheets, and thus the time of the year when one asks for recent demographics and statistics. And to my utter astonishment they added up to a little under 1K. Yes the project family now has almost a thousand members. Wow! It has taken less than a decade to reach te magic figure.

What takes my breath away is that it all happened quietly and without much ado. One child after the other, one centre after the other, one dream after the other. True there were obstacles and challenges, some even mind boggling but they pale in front of the achievements and successes.

Allow me to give you a glimpse of the pwhy family at this very moment. As I write these words, there are children sitting for their dreaded board examinations, others preparing for their end year tests. There are little ones about to leave the prep class and live their first day in a big school and there are women about to complete their courses and begin their journey as earning members of their family. A bunch of special children are putting the last touches on the wall painting they have created in their classroom with the help of their volunteer pal Flore and tiny tots are on the verge of performing their first French song courtesy Caroline. And keeping them all safe and secure in a motley crew of teachers whose common denominator is their commitment and passion for the work they do. And all this adds up to the 1k souls under the pwhy umbrella!

If I can change one life, it would have been worth it is something I often say when asked about pwhy! I must admit that over the last 9 years we have managed to change many. Be it turning a failure into a topper, or fixing holes in broken hearts. I must confess that in most cases the realisation that we had achieved something was in hindsight, when one sat writing reports or reviewing times gone by.

I must again thank a little boy for having allowed me to experience one of the greatest moments of my life. Let me tell you how it happened.

Yesterday was the day when we had decided to take Babli to her new school. Everything was fixed and one of our staff was to accompany the little girl. On the eve of D day, I decided to call little Utpal in school and ask him if he wanted something. I was not breaking any rules as Mondays are when when one can call him. After the normal hellos and how are yous I asked my question. After a few seconds he said biscuits and chips and then in his tiny voice he added: tum bhi ajao (you also come). It was enough to get the old biddy to change all plans. Calls were made and plans altered. Ma’am had decided to accompany Babli to school.

On the scheduled morning we sat in my home waiting for the car to come. Babli sat quietly on a small chair and as I looked at her little determined face I suddenly realised that I was witnessing a stupendous moment: the transformation of a life. Nothing short of a miracle. Babli should not have been sitting here at all. Just a couple of years ago she was barely able to breathe, her little heart in need of serious repairs. And even after the much needed operation, she should have been at best in a government school and coming to pwhy like all little girls, in the afternoon. But that was not to be. We found her one day manning her father’s cart, and the sight of this bright child sitting on top of a cart selling tobacco was blood curdling. We set out on a damage control mission but it fell short of what we truly wanted for this child. And yet at that moment we were helpless as we had no options. Is that when I sent a prayer to the God of lesser beings? Maybe I did. I do not really know.

Babli went back to her municipal school, one where in her own words, teachers do not come and if they do turn up they do not teach. We continued looking for better options but nothing was forthcoming. I must confess that we felt desolate and a tad helpless at seeing this bright child waste away in front of our eyes but there was nothing we could do. We did not know that the God of lesser beings was at work, setting the stage for the miracle to come. Time went by, we were busy in our little lives and forgot about Babli. Fabulous things were happening: a potential donor had entered our lives and we were busy dreaming grand dreams. Actually we were counting our chickens before the eggs were hatched. Our dreams came tumbling down but not before another prop was set for Babli’s tomorrow. The foster care programme that was thrust upon was an indubitable reality and as we set out looking for kids, the first name that came to our minds was that of Babli. The rest is history. Babli took to her new life at our tiny centre like a fish to water and one year down the line she is ready to take a giant leap into the future. The script that had looked awry many a times was now revealed and the miracle that took 3 years in the making was now there for all to see. This was no celluloid tale or Kodak moment. This tiny slumGirl was ready to take on the world and become a millionaire in her own way. As I said earlier it was truly a phenomenal moment and I was privileged enough to witness it thanks to the pleading of a little boy.

Every step of that incredible journey from my kitchen to the little bed in a dorm was picture perfect and moving. Babli sat in dignified silence throughout the journey, only answering when talked to. She was lost in her thoughts and I would have given up my life to be privy to them but I simply kept silent. We reached school and again Babli waited patiently while we completed the formalities. By then it was 12pm and refreshment time. As we walked towards the hostel, a little hand caught hold of mine: it was Utpal. Babli was his old pal and soon they set off to stand in line to get their two bananas. Babli’s journey had begun and Utpal was there to guide her. We were already de trop!

After handing over Babli to the hostel staff, it was time to say bye bye. I mouthed the required: take care of yourself and listen to your teachers etc but it was really not needed. A simple look at Babli”s face was enough to know that this little woman of substance knew more than anything one else that she held the reins of her destiny in her own hands and she was not one to let go till she reached the end of the race.

Jai Ho sang India as Oscars dropped Slumdog Millionaire‘s way. It was a day of celebration indeed and India was on cue, a fact dutifully reported all day long by all media channels. Larger than life images were aired again and again for all to see. India walked the legendary red carpet in more ways than one. Bollywood heroes and little slum kids in smart tuxedos and designer dresses walked side by side. For a few hours at least all differences seemed to have been forgotten.

I do not know how long the Slumdog euphoria will last. How long will it take for India to slink back into its usual indifference. And quite frankly I do not know what the real excitement is really all about. Slumdog was undoubtedly an excellent film and deserved all the kudos. it got but what I ask myself is whether anyone really looked and saw what lay behind the stunning pictures and lilting music. What actually set my thoughts this way was the reaction of a friend after he saw the film. He was simply horrified at the blinding scene in the film and was aghast to learn that this was the rule rather than the exception. And I guess this must have been the reaction of many, as in India we rarely look beyond what we want to see.

I watched the film again, this time trying to look beyond the glitz and glare, and realised that Slumdog Millionaire touched upon many issues that I have tried to highlight for many years now be it the abhorring plight of the beggar racket, or the desperate predicament of women caught in the spiral of the flesh trade, or the hijacked childhood of little children born at the wrong time in the wrong place. The film touched upon these issues in a poignant way but then follows its course and transcends into a story of love and hope, culminating in its Kodak moment both in the film and in reality: the boy getting his girl on a railway platform or the final walk on a red carpet!

My story does not end there. I have tried over the years and to the best of my ability to take the story further and highlight the uncomfortable reality that permeates our social fabric. What I mean is vindicated in the success of Slumdog Millionaire. It has taken a film made by an outsider to see what lay under our noses. I only hope that we are able to keep on looking and seeing.

Anjali’s mom died last night. She died as unobtrusively as she lived. She died in a hospital bed, her daughter by her side.

Dorothy came into our lives nine years ago, when we began our work in the Giri Nagar slums. A diminutive and withdrawn woman, her story was one that would move anyone willing to hear it and yet one shared by so many women. She came to Delhi from her tribal village in search of much needed work. She was lucky to get employment in a good home where she worked for some years. Her employer, a kind hearted old lady, passed away and left her some money. That was enough to set predators prowling. She was lured by an already married man who offered her what every woman seeks and fell in the trap. The man ‘married’ her and impregnated her with a child. The child, young Anjali was born with a mental and physical handicap. Needless to say, after after having used and abused her and spent all her money, he left her high and dry.

Dorothy began to clean homes, her little girl sitting by her side and slowly picked up the threads of her shattered life. It was not easy, but the brave woman did not give up. However with Anjali growing up, it was not easy to get work. When she came to work for us we were just beginning and had no special section, so we got Anjali admitted to a residential centre where she spent a year. When we opened our day care for special kids, Anjali was back with her mom.
The mom worked in the day in a private house and mother and daughter lived together in the tiny hovel that was there home. Life was not perfect but it was held together by the love of two desperate souls.

Dorothy was in poor health and we were concerned about Anjali’s future. We knew that if anything was to happen to her, Anjali would be left alone and prey to all kind of predators in search of fresh blood. When we began our foster care last year we tried to convince Dorothy to send her daughter but is was not easy come. Perhaps they each needed each other too much and were not ready to be separated. We were worried about Anjali now a young woman as she spent many hours alone in her slum. We did not give up and a few months back Anjali came to live at our foster care. Mother and daughter still spent their week ends together.

Dorothy’s health started worsening and she was unable to work. We gave her a small job at our women centre and tried to convince her to come and live with us. She refused as she wanted to hold on to her small jhuggi in the slum, one she had bought with great difficulty and which was her only possession in the whole world. Some time back she became very sick, her frail and worn out body swelling beyond recognition. Anjali left the foster care to look after her mom and it was heart wrenching to see her tend to the one who gave her life, albeit an imperfect one, with love and tenderness. Last week Dorothy was admitted to hospital and again it was Anjali who was at her side 24/7. She breathed her last on Sunday morning. A tragic life had come to an end. I only hope that in her last moments she remembered our pledge to look after her daughter and tied in peace.

Dorothy’s life brings many questions to mind and highlights the plight of many women in India today. Force to flee the safety of their homes in search of work they land in the cruel world of urban slums. Danger lurks at every corner. If they escape being sold into the flesh trade, sometimes simply because they are unattractive, they may land into the clutches of an abusive employer. If like Dorothy they are lucky enough to find a good job, they are in no way saved; they have just bought themselves some time. In Dorothy’s case her ruin lay in the money that came her way. Predators are patient and crafty. Had her child been a boy or at least normal, she may still have had a chance but with a disabled girl child her death knell was sounded. It was just a matter of time. I could go on listing the pitfalls of Dorothy’s tragic life. They are simply endless.

Anjali’s mom was lucky in as much as she came into our lives and secured a safe morrow for her child. But I cannot even begin to imagine what could have happened to Anjali had we not be there. You see just as her mom had some money left to her by her employer, Anjali has the tiny hovel that her mother bought and that now belongs to her. A prize possession in a city where housing is a huge problem. The little jhuggi she possesses may be illegal but they have the papers and token that ensure that were it to be raised, they would get 12,5 square meters of land somewhere in the city. By tomorrow morning a new set of predators in the garb of grieving relatives will surely be at the child’s door step, crocodile tears in place. I just hope that we will be able to get Anjali away in time.

I am often asked why I stubbornly hold on to my planet why dream in spite of the fact that huge amounts need to be raised, no mean task in our day and age. True that one of the main factors I often cite is that of long term sustainability but the real reasons for planet why are much deeper. The very instant we agreed to have a day care for special children, we had taken an irreversible step: we became responsible for the lives of these children forever, particularly for those like Anjali who we knew had no one after the demise of their parents. For me personally it was impossible to think of the day where we closed this section and left the children in a lurch. Everything one believed in and held as true would come to naught. The unexpected demise of Anjali’s mom has just made my resolve to see planet why happen stronger.

Yesterday an acquaintance dropped by. A is known for his apocalyptic view of live and his almost legendary pessimism. Even when things are looking up, A has mastered the art of whipping up his palette of dark colours and painting everything black. So needless to say, the present world situation is the right canvass for his sombre creations.

A talked about days to come, about impeding wars to be waged for all the wrong reasons and dark times lurking around the corner. He of course gave seemingly logical reasons and had us all nodding with him as he spoke on. I listened on for a while but soon found myself lost in my own thoughts. There was no denying the fact that things were bad and getting worse but could one allows one self to wallow in the mire and get lulled by doomsday vision. To give up without a fight and sink into despair was not my cup of tea.

The next morning brought more of the same: a mail from a staunch supporter that stated: the economy is tanking and there’s a general sense of unease .. I am feeling a bit jittery about the fund raising situation. I can imagine what you must be going through. Strangely I was surprised at her words as frankly, things had remained quite the same for me and my fund raising saga. I wondered whether I needed to look at both these occurrences as an ominous warning of things to come. It is true that we have had some funders citing the economic situation to explain their decision to stop helping us but other than that the struggle seems to be the same as always.

At pwhy we have no corpus funds invested on some market or the other. Our bank balance just about covers us for a month or at best two. I must admit that our hand to mouth existence that seemed a drawback to many, has in its own warped way protected us. My mind goes back to an earlier post where one had talked about reinstating values like compassion and understanding in a world that seemed to be in free fall. To my cynical friend who insists that only wars can redress the plummeting economy, I would like to answer that perhaps the time had come to look at ourselves, and at others with new eyes; to redefine our needs and wants and to create a new palette of bright colours with hues called love, compassion, warmth, empathy, understanding and so on and paint startling and heartwarming pictures of hope.

That is just what I am busy doing!

In a few days the destinies of two little women will be transformed forever. Spirited Babli is busy packing her bag for boarding school and spunky Meher will soon be undergoing the first of a series of reconstructive surgeries to repair her maimed hands and scalded face.

It was almost four years ago that Babli came into our lives. I remember her frail body and thumping heartbeats as if it was yesterday. I also remember her determined voice as she asserted time and again that she wanted to be a policewomen. Babli was born with a congenital heart defect and needed surgery. What endeared her was her will to live life at its fullest in spite of her debilitating disease. Babli was operated upon and the holes in her heart mended. We heaved a sigh of relief and thought that things were now back on tracks for little Babli. How wrong we were as this was just one of the many false starts in this lovely child’s existence. Six months after her surgery Babli was seen one day manning her father’s ware on a cart while he played cards near by. Needless to say we were livid. We ensured that Babli return to school and set about finding a long term solution for this lovely child and her dreams. We found an organisation that we thought would accept her but once again fell victims to administrative imbroglios. One more false start. Babli’s dreams seemed to be in jeopardy.

But as I have always held, there is a God of lesser beings who watches on his children and intervenes in unexpected ways, usually when all seems lost. A set of complex and unexpected circumstances led to our setting up our foster care programme and needless to say Babli was our first choice. And in spite of many hurdles Babli is now ready to join her boarding school.

I am no crystal ball reader or star gazer but I know that Babli is about to take her first steps into a whole new world where everything is possible. True the road is along one but knowing our little woman of substance I know she will come out a winner.

There is another little woman whose life is about to change. Meher hopped into our lives a few months ago and from day one she heralded loudly that she was there for all to see and acknowledge. Her maimed hands, her scarred face and bald pate were no deterrent as she made it all up by her larger than life presence. Severely burnt whens she was but a baby, Meher had no real morrow. Her completely destroyed hands ensured that she would not even be able to make it through school. We were all worried and somewhat helpless. But our God of lesser beings was at work as once again a set of unforeseen circumstances made the impossible possible.

In a few days Meher will have the first of a series of reconstructive surgeries that will not only give her back the use of her hands but also take care of her face and scalp. It will be a long journey again but one that has to be taken. But it does not stop there, Meher needs a real future, one where education is the real cornerstone. So if the God of lesser beings is truly at work, the day will come when this little woman will also take the road to boarding school and begin her tryst with destiny.

Meher and Babli are true survivors. Nothing can break their indomitable spirits be it a heart full of holes or a maimed body. They hold on to their dreams with alacrity and make sure you dream with them too!

Yesterday was St Valentine’s Day. Sadly it has been in the news for all the wrong reasons with moral brigades out to chastise lovebirds in the name of religion, culture and misplaced morality. Once again the media has had a field day defending the right to love and so on and as usual politicians and other have jumped in the fray and given their two penny bit.

It is true that St V’s day is often equated to romantic love, but are there not other forms of love that need to be celebrated and extolled: the nurturing love of a parent, the affectionate love of a friend and above all unconditional love, the one that you give without expecting anything in return, the one that is often expressed in covert ways and furtive gestures. St V’s is not simply about candy boxes and heart shaped cards, but about the most wonderful gift given to mankind: love.

A simple message from some dears friends dropped in my mail box. It simply said:

I have often talked about the lure of comfort zones, and the ease with which we sink into them. For the past too long now I have kept away from the day-to-day activities of pwhy. What began as a very conscious and intended decision turned unwittingly into a habit .

I remember early days when I use to check myself from jumping into my three wheeler and setting off to one of the pwhy centres or from picking up the phone to call and find out what was happening. The reason for my voluntary absence was to enable the staff to taken on responsibilities, make decisions and become truly empowered and I must admit that they did a great job making me slowly redundant. True I was informed and briefed about everything and all important decisions were never taken without my consent, but as time passed I realised that everything was going the way I wanted. I had trained my team better than expected.

Was it not what I strived and hoped for. And yet I must confess that there were times when I missed the good old days when one was forever on the field and in the thick of things. My new avatar as the one stuck in front of a computer screen playing with numbers and keeping them in check was not what I had envisaged for myself! So recently when a spate of visitors and new volunteers came to pwhy, I decided to be part of the grand tour!

We went from one place to the other, spending a few minutes at each location. Everywhere we went we were greeted by cheery faces, huge smiles and loud good mornings or afternoons. Classes were filled to the brim and surprisingly tidy and everyone was busy. My mind could not stop itself going back to the day when it all started and to the tiny jhuggi where a handful of kids sat quietly learning their first English words. I could not have imagined then that nine years later over 700 children would be part of the pwhy family. I felt an immense sense of pride laced with immense gratitude. What a journey it has been!

I always enjoy Utpal’s PTMs. For those few hours I get off the spinning wheel, cast my woes aside, forget about funds and balance sheets and set out for the day with a song in my heart and a spring in my ageing and aching feet!

It is always exciting to set out early morning for the long drive and the journey is filled with happy thoughts. Yesterday was one such happy day. We reached school in time and the first task after a few hurried hellos to the guard and staff was to reach his hostel and find him. As always we were greeted by the posse of small kids crowding at the door, each on the look out for his or her parents. Utpal was among them in his read hooded shirt, a tad shy as his warden looked on. After a few minutes spent with his warden it was time to set off for the day. First stop his classroom where we needed to collect his report card. Once again he had done us proud. After a further few minutes spent with his Kamala Ma’am who showed us his craft work and drawings, it was time to fly the coop for a few hours. As always I asked him what he wanted to do and promptly came the answer: pizza khana hai (i want to eat a pizza).

In the car, Amit who had come with us handed him over a box with some cake that he had got from home. Utpal opened the box, a big smile on his face, and then looked around expecting someone to hand him over a spoon. Needless to say we had forgotten to get one. Utpal looked at us with a mischievous smile as he said: should I eat it as my horse does! We laughed our guts out and took the box away telling him we would get him a spoon later.

At the pizza parlour, Utpal regaled us with his usual antics. He sipped his drink his eyes closed and his hands behind his back, danced to the blaring rock music, ate his pizza and ice cream and fed us some too. Time flew, as it always does when one is happy. It was time to leave. Next stop the local grocery to buy his monthly tuck. Biscuits, peanuts and dates where the choice of the day. Then the dreaded moment arrived, the drive back to school. We were going to leave him earlier than usual as I had some work in the afternoon. In the car I gave him the little packet of toys I had bought earlier and that lay hidden in my bag: a small car, a yoyo and some other trinkets. Utpal was all excited as he explored the bag and opened each item. He started telling us what he would do with each of them.

We reached school and he got out of the car his precious packets in his hand. As we set off to walk him back to his hostel, three little boys who were sitting in the school ground whispered: they did not even feed him anything, they just took him out and bough him some things. To which Utpal quipped back: I ate pizza.

We reached the hostel and needless to say the lump in my throat was on there on cue, and the burning in my eyes heralded the dreaded tears, but Utpal the survivor par excellence was already busy with his pals making plans for the remaining part of the day. He had moved on and I realised that it was his way of showing me that all was well and that I could move on too!