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!

What is your one single special wish was the question asked by a visiting friend to a bunch of teenage girls at our women centre. The question was met with stony silence and a few quizzical glares. Children from slums are rarely asked what their wishes are. But all children have dreams and aspirations. It was time to try and ferret them out.

D, our committed coordinator decided to rephrase the question: if you had 1000 Rs what would you get. And out came the answers: a watch, a tape recorder, clothes, school books, gifts for my siblings, a new school bag, clips for my hair and more. Simple dreams, simple desires that reflected the small things that we take for granted but that hold such meaning for these kids. None costing anything close to the 1000 imaginary rupees, and yet things that were so dear to these young girls. The answers were moving in their simplicity.

We decided to delve deeper and asked what they would like to change around them if they could and pat came the answers: get rid of the dirt and garbage around us, get clean water, plant more trees and so on. One young girl simply said she wanted people to learn to respect others. The reason for this was touching: she has no father and her mother works but is often the butt of nasty and misplaced comments. She just wanted others to respect her mom.

Children have wisdom beyond their age but sadly cannot always express their views or share their opinions. No one is willing to listen to them.

A day earlier the same friend had asked the same question to our special kids, the ones many think have no dreams. This is what they said: Radha who can never walk wants to be a dancer. Ankur a policeman, Anurag simply wants to become a big man and Preeti a teacher. Dreams that may seem impossible but are nevertheless important to these children of a lesser God. No dream is ever too small, no dream is ever too big…

Little D has been rejected by 18 schools. He is just three and was one of the 400 000 aspirants to the 200 000 seats in nurseries run by coveted schools. So even with my poor math 200 000 kids are left in the lurch having failed to meet the requirements of the complicated and ambiguous point system.

Let me elucidate. Little D applied to a neighborhood school thus getting the proximity to school points. But that is where it stops he cannot get the 5 points he would have got were his parents alumni of the school – they belong to another city – or the 2o if he had a sibling in school – he is the first child- , or the 5 if he was a girl child – he is a boy – or the whopping 20 were his parents post graduates – his family is one of first generation learners who want to give the best to their child.

The point system is needless to say elitist, even though it pretends to be fair and transparent. Fees charged by private schools are indeed a deterrent but even if a first generation learner parent managed to surmount this obstacle, the point system ensures that he will be weeded out sooner than later. The caste system pervades insidiously and surreptitiously and we will keep the status quo. Good schools for kids with sparkling pedigrees, the others relegated to the squalor of municipal schools by force majeure. Yes how can little D produce a masters degree for his parents and even if he did how could they manage to fill the long questionnaire akin to an exam paper or answer the questions fired to them in a language they do not master. The Ganguly 100 pint system is a clever ploy to preserve the prerogative of the upper classes. Schools in India have a long way to go before they become level playing grounds for all the children of India, you know the ones who have a constitutional right to free education of equitable quality!

So where does D go from here, or where do the 200 000 rejected children go. To private nursery schools I guess till next year when they will need to get admissions in class I. But these classes will already be filled with the school’s nursery kids. True there are lesser schools, those that have not yet become famous and then there are the state run schools both by the municipal corporation and the state administration the later a little better than the former. But as things stand this is not yet an option for the parents of the 200 000 kids. I say not yet because the day is not far when they may just have to become the only viable alternative or so one would want: a common school that offers free and equitable education for all. True that the road will be long and the detractors many, and true again that the state run schools will need to be revamped and restyled. Let us go back a few years, oh not so very long ago, to the days when public schools were few and many children from the middle class went to government schools. Peruse the bio data of present and past senior government officers, bankers and other well placed people and you will see that they are often product of government schools. So why can this not happen again.

Today the obsession of sending your child to a English Medium Public School has percolated to the lowest classes of society. Yet it was music to my years to hear some parents mention on the various debate on admission aired on every channel the word government school. True that everyone felt they were not an option as the were poorly run, but somehow one felt that if they were made better parents would consider it an option. So why can’t we? Maybe because there are many forces who do not want this to happen, but that is another debate. The reality is that as I write these words is that 200 000 kids have been rejected and have nowhere to go!

Cinema Paradiso is a touching film. It is about youth, friendship, hope and the magic of movies. Cinema Paradiso is also the name of our new cine club that was inaugurated yesterday with a special show for our very special children.

The idea of a cine club for slum kids was first mooted by our dear friend Xavier many years ago. I must confess that the idea seemed rather incongruous to me as I struggled to survive perfecting the art of a hand to mouth existence. But Xavier held on to his dream and he is one who makes dreams come true.

The dream did come true as a sparkling home theatre was bought and set up in our new library. After many discussions it was decided that the cinema club would be inaugurated with a screening for our very special kids. This was because most if not all of these children have never been to a movie hall and are never likely to. This was also because these children are never taken out of their homes or given any treat. So yesterday as the clock struck ten, the 20 odd kids were bundled up in our three wheelers and taken to the library located a short distance away. There was palpable excitement as they put on their shoes and set off for the short journey. There was even more excitement as they entered the the small room and saw the screen on the wall. They quickly sat down, eyes wide open staring at the images on the screen. After s small introduction where each word I said was greeted by warm applause and vehement nods of the head, it was show time: one the menu a 1915 Charlie Chaplin film.

The kids sat mesmerised, laughing at each slapstick moment. Everyone was having a ball, even those who could not hear. The giggles were infectious and we laughed with them, more moved by their enthusiasm and joy than by the on goings in screen. Everyone has a great time. It did not matter if you could not hear, speak, walk, talk: the show transcended all barriers. It was a runaway success.

Some may wonder why have a library filled with books in an alien language an a state of the art home theatre for a bunch of poor slum kids. I must admit that there are many who think this way, the kind of people for whom charity is a good way of getting rid of your rubbish and easing your conscience. In their parlance beautiful, enriching and elevating pursuits are the prerogative of the rich and not fit for consumption for the poor. But we at pwhy differ and believe that every child has a right to get the best of everything. So our little library and small cine club aims at just that: bringing to deprived children a little bit of the magic of books and the wonder of the silver screen.

Welcome to Cinema Paradiso!

In a country where the constitution guarantees that the State shall ensure provision of free education of equitable quality for all children (Artice 21A), the Government of Delhi has approved a fee hike in what is known as private schools.

Do not think that private schools are only for the privileged and well endowed. In today’s Delhi such schools cater to a wide cross section of society. The reason being that the so called free education to be guaranteed by the state is in a state of total despair and not fit for consumption. Parents today, even the humbler ones look for other options, and these come with a price tag. But parents are willing to walk that extra mile and give their children a better start in life. And as the demand grew, in keeping with markets forces, private schools grew at an exponential rate. It was the boom of teaching shops that mushroomed at each street corner and event though they flaunted all rules in the book they nevertheless catered to the needs of the day.

Private schools big or small became laws in themselves and helpless parents had no option but abide by all the rules they imposed. Regular fee increases, development and building funds and even donations had to be paid. And as the power of such schools grew, the option of the free school dwindled by the day as state run schools went from bad to worse. We at pwhy have first hand experience of the state of such schools as most of our kids frequent such schools. We watched with dismay the booming school business thrive.

What was truly infuriating was the fact that with a little help kids from government schools were able to perform well. The question that needed to be asked was why nothing was being done to improve the state of government run schools and make them a sound and viable option. The answer was written on the wall: the private school lobby was too strong. The common school system that India so needs and that would finally ensure free and equitable education to all of India’s children has had a very troubled history and is nowhere near becoming a reality. Quite the contrary is happening as the government seems to be turning into the best advocate for private schools. Even the 25% reservations of seats in private schools for economically weaker students was quietly dropped by the government. One would have thought that governments were meant to protect rights but the rapidity with which the latst increase in fees was accepted shows what the reality is.

In a recent debate on this very issue, a rather pompous private school manager brushed aside a question asked by a parent by declaring that if parents were not happy with the increase they could take their children out and send them to a state run school. Well Sir, I wish this was a viable option as many would just do that.

Parents will cut corners, tighten their belts and meet this increase and maybe the next one too, but there will be a day when this will not be possible. I wonder what will happen to the children then as nothing is being done to improve the institutions that are supposed to be providing the free education of equitable quality that is the Constitutional right of every single child born in this land.

The despicable, abhorrent and loathsome attack on young girls in a pub has outraged the entire nation. The incident defeats all reasoning and has left everyone in a state of shock. What is even more appalling is the fact that the reprehensible assault on young women was done in the name of religion by so called and self professed guardians of morality who had the audacity to state that they are acting to preserve Indian culture.

As expected there is widespread indignation among civil society. Sadly the whole issue has also become fodder for dubious agendas and political bashing. What is even more regrettable is that the perpetrators may be go scot-free or at best with minimum punishment.

That women were treated with such contempt by a bunch of hooligans while many watched is shameful and speaks volumes about the prevalent state of affairs. How far will we stoop in the name of religion.

I remember a December day sixteen years ago when I felt ashamed of my religion just as I am today. It was the day a house of God was destroyed in the name of another God, in the occurrence mine. On that fateful day I questioned my own faith just as I do today.

I am a Hindu by birth and by choice. I was born to profoundly Hindu parents but grew up in lands of diverse faiths. My parents never imposed their views or beliefs. At home Hindu festivals were celebrated with fervour and some ritualism and the many questions I asked at different moments of my life were answered candidly and without fuss. It is much later in life that I discovered that my mother was not really bent on ritualism but it was her way of introducing me to my faith. I grew up with my set of questions and doubts and each one got cleared with simple honesty.

When I asked one day whether I could go to church and partake of communion as all my school friends did ( I was in a convent school) my parents simply answered that I could if no one had any objection. I guess I had expected a vehement refusal and was a little perplexed by their reaction. I did go to church often and even found a humane priest who allowed me to taste the holy wafer. Some years later while in an Islamic country I wanted to fast in the holy month of Ramadan and once again I got the warm approval of my parents. I celebrated the Sabbath with my Jewish pals too and with every such occurrence my belief got strengthened as I was proud of belonging to a religion that did not close any door in my face but on the other hand allowed me to embrace all faiths. I was proud to be a Hindu.

The tales my parents told me only went to reinforce my faith. I was delighted by the pranks of Lord Krishna and by the touching tales of Ram when he ate the fruits proffered by Sabri or rode in Kevat’s boat. I never felt the need to question the sagacity and humanness of the religion I was born in. Till the fateful day in 2002.

Once again my faith is wavering. Which form of Hinduism is supposedly being defended by attacking women in public? What culture is being preserved? Are we not one of the only religions that worships Goddesses with misplaced fervour? So how can anyone stoop down to such acts. Where are our so called religious heads, and why are they silent. I have often asked myself why our so called god men, the ones you see on TV and that have huge following never speak out when such incidents take place. They simply chose to remain silent. Be it the killing of a girl child, the burning of a bride for dowry, or the raping of a Dalit girl, one has never heard a public condemnation by the innumerable religious men. They seem to be stubbornly silent on burning social issues. And yet they have the power to bring about the change we so badly need.

At a time when my faith is vacillating my thoughts go back to a day when i had a terrible head ache and a little boy folded is hands and shut his eyes tight after informing that he was going to ask his Bhagwan (God) to make my ache go away. The headache disappeared as the little boy’s prayer was heard a faceless and nameless God. That is the one I want to believe in today.

The slumdog euphoria is in full swing. Awards and kudos galore and the ensuing media blitz: slums have suddenly become the flavour of the day. Suits me as normally people are reluctant to hear the slum tales I often tell. I guess the hype will continue till Oscar night at least.

There have been a few detractors people who feel offended at the depiction of slum life, or others who want the word dog removed from the title, and yet others who feel that some scenes may whip up communal passion. But all in all slumdgog has been a a runaway success, even in the eyes of those who till now had never deigned to look at slums and its dwellers. Today slums are no longer invisible, they loom larger than life thanks to a story told.

In all interviews and talk shows the slumdog team has been pitching the film as a tale of hope and love. I am sure it is because slums are replete with tales of hope. And of the umpteen questions asked the ones that struck a chord with me was the ones pertaining to what one could simplify in one word: payback! Yes what did all those who won acclaims for the movie intend to do for the slums and their dwellers. And if I may be allowed to stretch the question further what do each one of us who are oohing and aahing about the film intend to do to reach out to them. I would like to believe that miracles would come by but experience compels me to think otherwise. It is true that the slumdog team has pledged substantial help to the Dharavi dwellers, the director even mentioned that children who acted in the film are now in school. Laudable indeed but a drop in the ocean. It needs much more than one film and its team to change things.

I would like to ask why it takes a film and images on a silver screen to shake us out of our deep slumber. Children like the ones you see running across the screen or on posters are everywhere if you are willing to look. But we have become inured to them and have stopped asking questions. I often wonder why the powers that be, the local authorities and civil society itself does not wonder why so many children hang around every red light when they should by law be in school? You do not even have to walk through a slum to see them. I wonder why we are not disturbed by the sight of people living in abysmal conditions like the lohars (gypsy iron smith) who live along roads we travel each day, or little Radha whose house is so tiny that you have to crawl into it. We simply pass by unfazed an unconcerned.

It is OK for us to sit in the audience of a talk show and ask what others are intending to do, but what about some soul searching. It is wonderful to applaud a story where a young slumdog becomes a millionaire but do we realise that it is within us to make this happen for someone in reality. What if I told you that it is within our reach to weave tales of hope and make dreams come true. At this very moment four little children are waiting patiently for someone to make it happen for them. Is anyone listening?

In my newly acquired persona of a grandma, I find myself in a strangely contemplative and pensive mood, as if life itself is urging m to stop and take stock of times gone by and muse over those to come. I begin this journey by mooring myself on a real issue we are living now. The story of little Meher who has just come back from her first visit to the kind hearted plastic surgeon who has agreed to change her morrows. The verdict was promising though the road ahead is a long one: a series of surgeries that will repair her maimed hands and scarred face. No matter how long it takes, hopes looms large as it always does.

It all began when Nina a volunteer at pwhy decided to step in and do something for little Meher. The magic words at work were compassion and hope, words that can truly move mountains. Another journey of hope had just begun and I needed once again to start being grateful.

As I sat lost in my thoughts, I realised that the past decade has been a wonderful odyssey of hope, compassion and gratitude. It is true that there have been some choppy seas and harsh moments, but they pale in front of all that has been achieved. And what is truly magical is that each time one is at risk of delving too much on the darker side of things, a new journey begins and infuses one with the optimism and drive that had seemed in peril.

The year began with a sombre note. Many regular donors informed us of their inability to continue their support – recession woes – and we found ourselves wondering how we would survive. Hope, compassion and gratitude seemed rather useless values in the wake of the crisis looming large. But just as we were about to sink into despair, little Meher’s plight lit up the sky and all was forgotten. Hope has once again dispelled all doubts.

It is touching how over the years it is the little individual stories that have kept us going and given us the strength to carry on, be it our little braveheart Utpal, spirited Radha who refuses to give up or our super foster care kids who have broken all conventions and barriers. They show us each day that hope and compassion remain no matter how dark the days or difficult the journey. And as one looks back one cannot help feel grateful.

The road ahead is undoubtedly an arduous and difficult one, but as long as hope, compassion, gratitude and other such trivia are kept alive, you know you will overcome.

I beg your indulgence for this post that may look very different from the ones I normally write. I seek your understanding and request you to allow me to share one of the most beautiful moments of my life: the birth of Agastya Noor, my grandson.

He landed in our lives yesterday and though I have not seen or held him, I immediately felt lifted. Somehow the arrival of this little child made me look at life in a brand new way. Is it because in a split second one had been promoted to the next stage of life, one that always entails contemplation and reflection.

His parents chose to call him Agastya after the legendary vedic sage known for his wisdom and sagacity and Noor the Arabic word for light thus breaking barriers and walls and setting the right note for his entry into a world in need of healing and peace.

I sat watching his tiny face and wondering what life had in store for him. I thought for a long time what I would wish for him. Needless to say as any dotty granny I wanted everything for him and more! But as my thoughts settled a little I realised that what I wished most for him was that he grow up with the ability to understand the little fox’s secret : It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Yes what I wanted the most for my grandchild was the ability to feel compassion, the wisdom to know when to stop and feel the gentle breeze and hear the rustling of leaves, the strength to feel the hurt and pain of another, to look into the eyes of the beggar child and not walk away, to walk the long road alone if need be, for I knew that with this strength in him, he would be able to scale the highest mountains but not lose sight of the earth below.

Everyone is talking about Slumdog Millionaire. I have not seen the movie as it is yet to be released in India. I had read Q & A almost two years ago when the book had been recommended to me by a rather cynical acquaintance who felt I should read a book that talked about the world I had naively and bravely set out to change. I must admit that I was impressed by the clever and eminently readable way in which the author had managed to portray a world that no one is really interested in. And though it did seem a little far-fetched to think that all that was written could happen to one person, each story was a perfect cameo of the stark reality that I brushed everyday.

I had forgotten about Q & A till last week when it reappeared in its new avatar: a stunning movie that seemed set to bag every award possible. Slumdog Millionaire was the darling of each and every one and a world normally ignored and shunned suddenly became real. I myself received an email that said: I always knew about the poverty in India, but after watching the movie Slumdog Millionaire, I saw the severeness of what many young innocent children are going through.

I will not be cynical. I will not even begin to think how long will the euphoria last and how soon the world that so many are feeling disturbed about will once again be relegated to its usual status of anonymity and invisibility. I may have gone that way a few years back, but have since become inured to many things, and learnt to accept the world as it is. In the email I mentioned above I was asked many disturbing questions that all boil down to one loud and deafening WHY. Sadly I do not have the answers. I can simply say that I too asked myself those very questions many years back and not finding answers set down to finding my own. Today as the world toasts Slumdog Millionaire I simply hope that before the excitement dies down and gets overtaken by some other stunning tale, some whys are indeed answered.

However I would like to share some thoughts that have been troubling me for a long time and that once again beg to be aired. The plight of slum children that today looms larger than life on a silver screen is actually there for every one to see. Sadly there is not a red light in our big cities where a little beggar girl does not approach your vehicle or where a maimed child does not make you wonder how he or she got mutilated. It does not take much to ask one’s self why gangs that use children are allowed to exist. And yet one passes them by, wishing they were not there, quickly rolling down a window and handing a coin just to be rid of what one views at best as a nuisance. We have lost our ability to feel compassion or empathy.

It is not simply the plight of the beggar child that leaves us unmoved. It seems also to be the plight of anyone in need. And I allow myself to speak with authority as I have been walking this road for almost a decade now! In my years of soliciting and panhandling I have come across resistance of all kinds particularly when one dares step across the invisible yet impregnable line. No Sir, there are somethings that are not for the poor!

I would like to share a story here in some way our very own Slumdog Millionaire tale. Almost a year ago a set of circumstances made it possible for us to envisage giving 4 terribly deprived children the unimaginable opportunity of breaking the circle of poverty they lived in and getting the best education possible. The stage was set, the protagonists in place and everything seemed to be working to perfection. Our euphoria was short lived and the dream turned sour as the individual who had initiated the idea and promised to fund it simply walked away leaving us high and dry holding the lives and dreams of 4 little kids in our hand. There was no reality show with a pot of gold waiting to be won. We had to make our own.

What followed was a battle against all odds, one we are still waging as there was no way we could have sent these children back to the lives we had saved them from. What we were not prepared for was the attitude and reaction of those we sought help from: how could we envisage giving a slum child what is actually the hallowed ground reserved for the privileged! But we did not give up and for the last year these children were in our foster care programme where they learnt and thrived and did us all proud. Last week they sat for their entrance examinations for their new school and are now all set to join it in their respective classes. As I write these words we barely have enough funds to see them through their first year and we are looking a miracle. We know deep in our hearts that the miracle will come by. It simply has to.

Take this said the desperate mother as she held out a 5oo Rs note but please admit my child. This incident occurred last week at the women centre. The women in question was a newly arrived migrant from Bihar. The child, a little five year old, watched in silence.

D, the coordinator, tried to explain to the lady that the classes were full, that there were long waiting lists and that there was no way he could do anything. She kept on insisting ad she waived her 5oo rs note. Someone must have told her that in Delhi, almost everything could be obtained with the right amount of money and five hundred rupees were definitely a handsome amount. D gently tried to explain to her that we did not function this way but she was adamant. I guess in her simple mind she could not fathom why this door was not opening, dis he not possess the magic key.

She did finally leave. D had promised that he would look into the matter and see what could be done. Perhaps in a month or two when new admissions would be considered. She put her note away still not quite comprehending why it had not done the trick.

Corruption is high on her minds these days with the Satyam Scandal. This is just another side of the same coin: the nameless and faceless corruption that permeates every aspect of our lives. It is ingrained in the very fabric of our society. It has become part and parcel of our lives. Even the simple migrant from Bihar was well honed in the ways of our world.

So how does one address the situation..

If we introspect a little, can anyone of us say with utmost honesty that we have never bent the rules? I guess not. It does not have to be money it can also be the phone call to the well placed friend, the office car used for personal work and so on. Have we not all at some time or the other paid a small bribe to avoid a fine, or to break a queue or to accelerate some paper work. Someone once told me that this was not corruption by facilitation money. I wonder what the difference really is.

The problem is that if you decide to take the long road home, the experience is nothing short of harrowing as we experienced some time back. Many of us quip that the few bills paid are well worth the wear and tear on nerves and the times wasted. They may have a point but it is my belief that corruption can only be addressed if we decide to walk the laond road, however arduous.

Can you blame the woman for brandishing her precious five hundred rupees in the hope of getting her child into what she was told was a good school. She was simply playing by the rules. It is time we took the first step towards defining new rules.

Last Sunday was a very important day for our little foster kids Babli, Vicky, Nikhil and Aditya. They were to sit for their entrance exam for admission to their boarding school. It was an exciting moment for them,as somehow they knew that they were about to take their first step in a brand new world. I watched them get ready with a sense of joy and pride laced with a tinge of sadness. In the next few weeks they would leave their pals and the comfort and safety of the tiny world we had created for them with love and care.

I knew I would miss seeing them every morning as I alighted from my three wheeler and they jumped into it to set off to school. Their bright and cheerful – morning ma’am – was something I really looked forward to. But life has to move on and was this not the day we toiled towards despite all odds. I should have been elated and I was. We had taken the bold step of breaking all barriers and ensuring that these little kids got the very best.

They left for their entrance exam with their teacher Prabin. It was to be a full day affair. The children did well I was told and we await the results with bated breath but what was truly touching was the welcome that little Utpal gave them. One must not forget that he is now an old hand having spent three years in school!

From the very instant he laid eyes on them as they entered the school premises, he never left their side. He gave them the guided tour showing them his school with pride. He waited for them outside the classroom while they wrote their exam. As they were also to be interviewed and that the interview would be later in the day, he ensured that they were not bored or lost. The five kids played to their heart’s content. They also shared lunch in the big dining hall and had their fill of swings and slides.

Interview over it was time to take the road back home. Utpal saw them off as any impeccable host would and waved bye till he lost sight of the car. The children rode back in silence, their head filled with images of a new world, one that would soon be theirs, one they never knew existed as they have rarely ventured out of their dreary homes.

My eyes welled with tears as I listened to the account of the day the next morning. When asked whether they would be happy to go to the big school all four of them had said yes with aplomb and conviction, their eyes twinkling with joy an expectation. It had all been worth it: the struggle, the snide remarks, the race against so may odds to ensure the required money in time, the daunting challenge of make sure that it would continue to be so for the twelve years ahead.

My incredible 4 had respected all the rules and never wavered. For the past 8 months they had played the game like champs. They had kept their side of the bargain. It was time we kept ours.

The journey has just begun. What lies ahead is yet unknown, but somehow I know that all be well, that somehow we will overcome every obstacle and win the race. The trusting eyes filled with hope are enough to move mountains and we will. Utpal is there to hold our hand!

It was Sunday afternoon. The air was a chilly though a watery sun was trying to break through the fog. The roads were empty. I normally do not venture out on Sunday. This Sunday however I took the road I take every morning to work. At the red light near the flyover close to my home lives a posse of beggars. Normally when we pass them by every morning at eight, they are still waking up. Some of them are still huddled under their blankets, others are brushing their teeth on the road side, some women are busy making tea on their makeshift stove. At that time of day you are rarely solicited for alms. Their working day has not begun.

This day was different. The space under the flyover normally teeming with beggars was empty. The only reminder of their existence was a heap of grubby bundles and bags carefully piled up in a corner. Everyone had left to take their positions at different spots.

We reached the red light and stopped. Out of nowhere sprung a little girl. She must have been two. Her feet were bare and she wore a tattered skirt and blouse that could not have kept her warm. She approached the three wheeler her tiny hand held out. I looked up at her and saw the most beautiful child I could imagine. Her eyes sparkled and were full of mischief as she enticed you into a game. She had almost perfect features and plump cheeks and looked a far cry from any beggar child I had ever seen. She looked more like the children you see on picture postcards or glitzy ads.

You could make out that she had been taught the right gestures and actions for her trade: the hand held out, the little chubby legs running from one vehicle to the other, the rehearsed speech. But that was were it ended. Was it her innocence that turned the sordid drama into a game she played with aplomb and glee. Her handler sat on the curb watching the child. She was much older and it looked as if she was assigned the task of training her. The child did run back to her often , as if she were seeking approval and encouragement. The light turned green and we moved on. As we left the little girl gave us the most endearing smile and waved merrily.

I had thought that I was totally inured to the menace of the beggar child after years of facing them at every red light you cross. I often carry biscuits and hand them over to the child that proffers his of her little hand. But the sight of this little girl changed it all. Something snapped inside me. Perhaps it was the walls I had carefully built to enable me to withstand the sight of the innumerable beggar children one comes across each day. Or perhaps was if the fact that usually, the children one comes across are either half drugged babes in arms or pesky kids well honed in the art of begging. But this little girl still had all the innocence of a child and looked at you as if you were an equal, one willing to be part of the new game she had been taught. The world I had shut away willingly had once again become real. No child, no matter how pesky should be used and abused in this way. And yet it happens each day and we just pass by.

Had I too become hardened or had I simply drawn false comfort from the fact that I was doing a great job. Was I not helping so many poor children! The sight of that tiny little girl made me feel very small and inconsequential. The work that seemed till that very instant fairly laudable looked pitiful. It would be weeks or at best months before the tiny girl lost her innocence and became one the pesky children and another still in the arms would be seen learning the tricks of the trade. But the question that needed to be asked was whether anything could be done.

Some years ago we had tried to do something for the children under this very flyover. Our idea was to run a one hour outreach programme where we wanted to try and give these kids some basic education, but we found out that this was not to be as the children formed an essential part of the begging trade as they were the ones most likely to bring in the moolah. We were rudely sent way by the rather forbidding leaders of the pack. This was a serious albeit disdainful well organised commercial activity and the children had to sing for their supper. Needless to say we left sheepishly with our great ideas and plans.

We have all heard about the sordid tales that underlie the world of beggars be it the child maimed or the ones hired for the day. Even I wrote my posts dutifully expressing my rage and then moved on. Somehow one had shut this world away as it seemed hopeless. The sight of the little beggar girl who was so different from her brood raised many uncomfortable questions.

Each one of us are in some way or the other responsible for the fact that this little girl is today learning this despicable trade. We are all guilty of dropping that fateful coin in the proffered hand and thus giving this trade some credibility and support. I know it is the easiest way of getting rid of the annoying child that knocks at your window or trails you mercilessly. But then as long as we continue doing this we give our tacit approval to the trade. These children are also citizens of this land and hence protected by its constitution and yet every single right of theirs is hijacked. They are simply a menace we have learnt to live with. We cannot remain silent and see more children’s lives destroyed. We need to act now!