It is that day of the year when I remember Kamala, my mother. Last year on this very day I dedicated our women centre to her. Kamala was an extraordinary woman in more ways than one, a true free spirit in times were women were often relegated to the shadows. She was passionate about many things but what she cherished the most was education, something she achieved with great difficulty and strife. When I decided to open a women centre it had to be dedicated to her memory. Today one year down the line, it is time to ask whether the women centre is worthy of the one whose name it bears.

The Kamala centre is a placed filled with joy, laughter and a palpable energy. In the span of a short year it has over 200 children and long waiting lists. Over 50 women come each day to learn stitching of beauty skills to enable them to slowly take the road to financial independence. One a week there is a women’s meeting where many topical and sometimes. disturbing issues are debated while sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits. Till now the women have talked about gender bias, child abuse, women’s rights, girl child, HIV and much more. Simpler issues have also been discussed: hygiene, balancing household budgets, saving, immunisation and insurance. On a lighter vein and on popular demand there was also a pasta cooking session where the women were taught how to make pasta in tomato sauce!

The Kamala centre also has a library, that is even open on Sundays. The children are thrilled and consider the library as one of their most precious possession. Not a single book has been torn or misplaced. The Kamala centre is a vibrant place. It is not simply a study centre but a true children centre, one that they consider their very own. They celebrate festivals and come to play in it after working hours. It is a place where children know they can reclaim their right to be children and they do!

The centre may be just a year old but it is imbued by Kamala’s spirit and a reflection of all she believed in. It holds in custody the dreams of aspirations of a many: children on their way to a new tomorrow; women slowly getting empowered. It is a place where people of all caste, creed, social background come together as one in a true celebration of life itself.

Utpal was home for his Dusserah break. Home to Utpal is the women centre. Normally his mom is there for him but this time she was not. She has again been admitted to a rehab centre and will be there for a few months. Utpal came home to his favourite TV programmes, his toys , his old battered scooter and his favourite goodies that one had filled the fridge with.

Utpal came home to his extended family: the staff of the women centre who were all them for him and tried to make up for the missing mom. Though nothing was unsaid and everyone played the game to perfection – Utpal regaling one and all with his new antics and the staff walking the extra needed mile – one could feel that somehow something was amiss. Mom was not there. Many would wonder how a barely present mom, one lost in the hubris of her bipolar disorder, one that often shouts and sometimes hit could be so dearly missed, particularly when one had tried to ensure that all cracks and holes possible but then a mother is a mother.

Utpal, the true survivor did put up a brave front and did not let anyone feel that there was something missing. The only one who knew was me. He did not say anything, but during the time we were together he let his guard down. The big boy that he now wants to be perceived as became a small child veering between moments of extreme affection and tantrums. He snuggled against me and hugged me tight and then insisted I take him out ad spoil him silly. It was not toys or cakes he sought, but some way to fill the huge void left by a missing mom.

I got a mail this morning from Gooj, an organisation I have a lot of respect for and who are doing an incredible work for flood victims in Bihar. The mail was meant to update everyone on their activities on the field and remind one of the horror of the situation. They are doing remarkable work and need to be lauded and supported.

But this is not why I write this blog. Actually a para at end of the long mail caught my eye and made me shudder in disgust: But I would certainly like to send out a word to a few CSR people who call up our office and ask questions like- “how far is Kosi river from Saharsa” and if they don’t get the exact no of kilometers they threaten to report my colleagues to me. Or the wife of a CMD of a public sector company who gave us some ration and clothes at a function with a lot of fanfare; three cameras, a speech delivered thrice to get the right flavor; resulting in wastage of precious time of a GOONJ team member. Or arguments on why a truck can’t be unloaded at 2.00 am in the night? Please do understand that our team is working round the clock under tremendous pressure and with very limited resources. They are also human beings and without any logical reasoning it’s not right to make uncalled demands on them. (The truckwould anyway be allowed to move out in the morning only). A person from a reputed organization told us that they would give us their contribution at a special function organized for the purpose, for which someone from GOONJ would need to be present. When we said that we didn’t have an office in that city the person wanted someone to travel out or else threatened to give the money to some other NGO. My humble submission to such demands; kindly go ahead and my humble appeal is not to use this as the only opportunity to show how concerned we are. Good work always shows and one doesn’t need banners all around for that. The need of the hour is to spend our time and resources in the most effective manner.”

Phew. I can understand how hurt and angry Anshu, the spirit and heart behind Goonj, must have felt when he finally decided to write those words. I also understand how he felt as it is a feeling I share having also been at the receiving end many times. How can I forget the lady from a prestigious club who brought a few sweaters on a hot September morning and her personal photographer in tow. She insisted that the special kids wear the sweaters in spite of the sweltering heat, so that she could have a photograph for the newsletter of her club! Or can I forget the man who in response to our appeal for help for Raju’s open heart surgery wanted to know why we were spending so much money for just a poor child. Can I ever forget the big star who wanted Arun another open heart surgery candidate to be carted to a web world center to be part of a media blitz. Charity has lost its meaning and become a bizMess. What was meant to be a subliminal act has lost its spirit and makes a little girl to simply ask a heart wrenching question: is it wrong to help those in need?

The list is endless and points to one simple fact: people have forgotten the art of giving. What transpires from the few examples listed above is that it no more the recipient who matters, the star of the show has to be the donor. What do I get if I give? And if you do not give me what I want I will go elsewhere. I wish we could all say please do so. Sadly we are a still dependent on the few coins cast our way as the price to pay is too big. Too many voiceless and helpless souls depend on our ability keep our faces straight and even mouth the needed words of gratitude.

Today when the world is falling like Humpty Dumpty from his wall, no kingsmen will be able to put him back unless there is a change of perception and attitude. One needs to give up arrogance and embrace compassion and learn to share even the little one still has. Hubris has always been self destructive. I am an absolute dodo in such matters but my instinct tells me that the patch up solutions that seem to be the order of the moment are simply delaying the inevitable as they aim at protecting and salvaging a system gone awry.

The time has come wrote my dear friend A in reply to one of my sombre mails; if ever, this is not the time to despair he added. Strange words at a time when the world economy is collapsing. But A goes on undaunted:We have reached the end of An Age. The next one is here. The world is about to move into a system where Human value will be he currency. What if you could buy education for compassion or two meals a day for making someone happy! Have fun this festival – the world has woken up after a slumber of 40 odd years – light up the world with your Unique Value – and Welcome to The Age of Imagination.

Don’t smile or smirk. These words are imbued with meaning and wisdom. They are almost prophetic. It is time we saw the reality of things instead of beating a dead horse and finding solace in ways that have proved time and again to be worthless. Human values have been too long sacrificed at the alter of material ones fuelled by greed, want and cupidity. Our world is not a pretty one even though we would want to believe otherwise. It may be big and fat but it is not beautiful. I do not know if one can truly at this moment begin to imagine a world where values would be extolled above all else; our age has simply done away with them.

As I wrote earlier perhaps it is not the right time to write about compassion and other lofty ideals as we sit perusing the stock market and counting our losses. Or perhaps it is. What betteer time than this to garner the courage to look deeper within ourselves in order to find solace and strength. The tiny seeds of compassion and forgiveness and love lie patiently waiting to be watered. Maybe it is time to practice mindfulness as taught by Thich Nhat Hanh and learn to live in the present and be grateful for all that we have. It is also time to seek values that would hold true and be lasting and learn to draw solace and joy from he simple things we have forgotten.

Two meals a day for making someone happy is not as Utopian as it may seem. How long as it been since you have truly made someone happy, and by someone I do not mean a near and dear one but an outsider, one you did not know, one you did not expect anything from. How long has it bee since you have stopped and looked around you, listened to the sound of birds chirping or felt the caress of the passing wind. How long has it been since you have held the hand of a unknown child and walked a few steps with him. How long as it been since you have felt compassion for others and also for your self. There was a time not so long ago where I too felt the need to run helter skelter after material things that I felt I needed. But strangely one I had them I felt the aching need to look for newer ones till the fateful day I met Manu and my life changed.

Today no matter how grim the newspapers headlines are or how hard things I set out to work with a spring in my walk. I do not know what awaits me but I know that there always be something that will bring a smile to my face and warm the cockles of my heart. Oh they are intangible things, the kind you normally pass by. It can simply that the newcomer in the creche who had been wailing every single day has finally stopped crying, or simply a sound made by one that had till then never spoke. It could be a messy and even ugly painting made by one that could barely hold a brush or a bright pink report card accompanied by a grubby sweat that a young one insists on stuffing into your mouth. These are not things money can buy; these have been achieved by slow and patient work and unwavering belief!

And these are things within the reach of all of us if we take time to stop and look with our hearts.

Kala is four year old. She lives in a small rented accommodation. Her father is a daily wage worker and her mom does household work for. Three months back another baby was born to this little family. It was a baby girl. The father was livid; he had hoped, prayed and wished for a boy. His daily drinking went for bad to worse and he began holding the mother responsible for the baby being a girl. Every night he beats his wife mercilessly. Kala watches in silence hurling abuses at her.

When the little baby was but a few weeks old,the father decided that it was time to send the mom back to work as money was needed to pay the ever increasing hooch bills. A simple solution was found: little Kala would tend to the baby while her mom worked. So every morning a little four year old was left to care for her baby sister.

Luckily for kala, the landlord was a kind a wise man.He saw the plight of the little child and decided to act. He brought the little girls to the pwhy creche to get her admitted and simply told the father that if he would not send the child then he would have to vacate the room. In a city like Delhi it is difficult to find accommodation so the father grudgingly agreed. His feeble attempt to thwart the issue by saying he did not have money to send the child was pooh poohed by the landlord who simply said he would pay all that was needed for little Kala’s school. So for the past week or so little Kala comes to the pwhy creche and reclaims her lost childhood. It is pure joy to see her play with toys, laugh and dance and be with children age. She is happy as a lark and perhaps dreams of these moments when she returns home and faces the reality she lives in.

Many thoughts comes to mind as one watches little Kala play. The first is undoubtedly the simple fact that it only takes one kind human being to save the life of a child and makes us wonder why more people do not reach out in this way. If we as concerned citizens did keep our eyes open and accepted to walk a tiny extra inch, perhaps many more girls would be able to reclaim their hijacked childhood. But there is another disturbing thought that emerges each time I come across a woman being blamed for the sex of her child. Why has there never been a wide reaching campaign explaining that the sex of a child is determined by the father. The mother cannot be held responsible for a child not being a boy. She simply accepts a seed and gives it space to grow.

Such a campaign could free many a woman from life long abuse and hurt in a country like ours where even the educated are not spared. So much money is spent on family planning and save the girl child blitzes. Simply explaining that a woman is not able to determine the sex of a child would go along way in clearing misconceptions and perhaps help the girl child in more ways than one.

It is time we shed our so called puritan ways and misplaced sense of outrage and addressed such issues in a direct and honest way and allow all little Kalas their rightful place.

When asked about a fantasy to be a superhero, one of the children said: “to be able to walk“. This was one of the conclusions of the recently held workshop where children had been asked to express their opinions, dreams and aspirations. The respondent in this case was little Radha who suffers from brittle bone disease and whose condition has been deteriorating day after day.

An eerie silence pervaded the room as we all knew that little Radha would never walk. For what seemed an interminable moment we sat quietly, as we gathered our thoughts and tried to come to terms with what we had heard. We were in a place where neither miracles nor dreams were permissible. There was no reprieve, not even a glimmer of hope. Every day Radha’s fragile bones looked more and more distorted.

Yet Radha has an infective joie de vivre. She also has an insatiable desire to learn and wants to do everything her pals in class do. Just like any child she wants to live life to its fullest and yes if she could be a superhero she simply wants to walk.

For the children in this picture dreams and aspirations taken on a new meaning altogether. They are not of the realm of the impossible, they simply aspire to reclaim that little part of their life that fate has usurped. Some simply want to walk, others to hear or just understand the world around them. They do not ask for much and yet we are helpless and powerless.

However we can give them is love, understanding, moments of happiness and above all acceptance. But how many of us do that. We simply cringe at the sight of one like Radha who sits awkwardly on her brittle and jutting bones and instead of gently gathering her in our arms simply walk away.

During the same workshop Preeti who walks on her hands after a bout of severe polio was asked to photograph a few of the things she disliked most. On top of her list was garbage. Sitting in our comfortable homes we may wonder why she thought so. The answer is simple. For Preeti and Radha who walk on their hands or drag themselves around, garbage is a every day reality that is uncomfortably close to them. They cannot hop over it and do not have the luxury of bypassing it. In slums you often live amidst it.

If you were to come and spend some time with the kids you see in this picture you would be overwhelmed by the love and joy they are ready to give in their own special way. They open their arms and hearts to anyone who accepts to enter their world. They never ask for anything and keep their desires and hopes locked away safely. It is only in rare moments that they share them just like Radha and Preeti did hoping that someone will hear.

A little two year old girl was found abandoned in bushes some days back in an upmarket suburb of Delhi. Severely dehydrated and malnourished the child was barely alive. It was later discovered that she suffered from cerebral palsy and that seemed to be the reason why she had been abandoned by her family.

The local police chief’s words “Once she is better and if we can find her parents, she will go home. If not, we’ll put her up for adoption and follow all the processes. If nobody wants to adopt her, she’ll be sent to an orphanage,” were ominous. Her family was not traced, no one came forward to adopt her and thus she was sent to an orphanage. The head of India’s adoption agency did not mince when his words when he stated on national TV that no Indian parent would ever adopt a handicapped child! And sadly this is the reality.

The children dancing in the picture above are all what we call handicapped. Some have cerebral palsy, others have brittle bone disease, polio, autism or simple MR. They too could have been abandoned in bushes or simply thrown on the streets to fend for themselves as Manu was. In our country there is scant place for anyone who does not fit the mould. Special children as we like to call them are a embarrassment, an eyesore, a burden, a millstone no one wants. Society rejects them and even the administration does not seem to care. Parents would probably like to wish them away but lack the courage to do so. They are barely tended to, let alone cared for or loved.

And yet in spite of all adversities they not only survive but display a rare zest for life. All you need to do is drop by our special section. You will be greeted by squeals of joy. It may not be your conventional greeting, the one you are used to. It could be a grunt or squeak from one that cannot talk, am energetic hand wave from one that cannot walk, a hug or squeeze from one that has never been loved. You will be invited to join the on going activity or share a simple meal if you happen to come by lunch time. These children have never been taught manners or social skills, they are only proficient in God’s Alphabet or what we call intuition and simply do what their hearts tell them do. They do not judge or gauge you in anyway. They do not care about the language you speak, the way you look or the size of your bank balance. They accept you as you are and simply open their hearts to you.

The have learnt not only to survive but to live life to its fullest if given a chance. Sadly we are not even capable of giving them that tiny chance. I wonder who is the one who is truly handicapped: we or them.

Everyday our special kids dance, it is probably the highlight of their day and each time I see them dance I am reminded of an anonymous quote I stumbled upon one day:

“We dance for laughter, we dance for tears, we dance for madness, we dance for fears, we dance for hopes, we dance for screams, we are the dancers, we create the dreams.”

One of the biggest reasons I want to get married in style was so that I could turn it into a fundraiser said an email I received this morning. At first I was a little perplexed but then soon broke into a huge smile that turned into giggles. What a delightful idea and though perhaps a bit avant garde it seemed to have all the ingredients to make it trend setting in a land always avid and pinning for novel ways. Are we not the city that gets bowled over by anything and everything that is large than life. Remember the flowers costing 40 million a night!

It is an indubitable fact that we like lavish and larger than life weddings. The bigger the better, the costlier the better, the larger the better, even if it becomes ludicrous to say the least. People need to spend money at weddings, it has almost become essential to their well being. It is almost a benchmark for success and this is sadly also the cause in humbler families.

The practice of donating to charity at occasions like weddings or funerals has been in existence for a long time in the west where celebration and charity often go hand in hand. Websites have even been set up to facilitate this. Some time back a young Italian couple donated us the money they would have used for bonbonieres!

If you cannot beat them, join them goes the maxim. If we cannot make people see sense and downscale the size of their celebration, perhaps one should just turn these ostentatious weddings into fund raisers. One simply needs to work out a way that would appeal to all concerned. I must admit that as I write these words I do not have any concrete ideas, but I know that there are millions of possibilities. It is really time that our big fat Indian wedding came of age.

Any ideas…

Things are not bright at pwhy in spite of the glowing report card we got from the recent workshop about our work and the impact we have on the life of children. The flip side of the famous SWOT was of course the fragility of our funding model, something I for one, have been painfully aware of for innumerable long nights. It was touching, infuriating and yet heartwarming to learn that everyone was aware the fact that pwhy’s life was at the present moment linked to mine and that as things stood now it did not have much chance of survival unless some drastic measures were not taken.

The King is dead, long live the King goes the saying. But maybe we need not wait for the king to die to prove the maxim right. Pwhy is facing a crisis and one could just use this to test waters. Let me elucidate.

A few months we faced a terrible crisis: a series of unforeseen events led to us having to raise a mind boggling amount of money to save the dreams of some very special children. The task was daunting, something we had never attempted: we had 70 tiny days to raise what was actually needed to run pwhy for couple of years. We managed. Wonder how? Simply by holding on to the dreams and never losing sight of them. Today the situation is the same. If we do not come up with the money needed for the next 3 months we are doomed. A pot of gold awaits us at the end of the said 3 months but we need to reach it.

I could do what I have done each time I have been faced with crises: write innumerable emails; beg unabashedly and knock at every door virtual or real. But my intuition tells me not to. And intuition is God’s Alphabet as Paulo Coehlo writes in his Manual of the Warrior of Light. Intuition tells me to use this god sent opportunity to test my team and see whether they are capable of walking the talk. Are they not the ones who just a few days back said that they were willing to taken on new responsibilities and even fund raise, that they were willing to do whatever was needed to save pwhy. The stage is theirs. Easier said than done.

It is true that there lies in each one of us a huge untapped potential, one that emerges in times of crises but therein lies the problem: what defines crises in each one of us: losing ones’ job, losing a dignified and motivating job. Or is it something deeper? Would I have fought as hard as I did, overcome situations I found galling if it was simply a matter of saving a job. I do not think so. What fuelled me with unknown passion and fervor were all the things that were at stake if pwhy was to close: the smiles of children, Manu’s home, Utpal’s school, the report cards handed with pride, Preeti jumping on a trampoline, Rinky hearing her first sound. What filled me with horror was the idea that all this could come to naught if I did not walk that extra mile. It is important for each one of pwhy’s team to find what they are fighting for, only then will they be able to make miracles. They need to realise all that would stop if they decided to do anything: the faces that would stop smiling, the children that would stop school and take the road to work, the heats that would remain broken, and more.

And if they do nothing can stop them. My intuition also tells me that time is ripe to resuscitate the one-rupee-a-day programme. Was it not the funding model created for people like the pwhy team, one that did not need special skills but simply a heart at the right place. It is time to listen to one’s intuition and sit back. Intuition is indeed God’s Alphabet and it is time to listen to the wind and the stars.

Yesterday was Utpal’s PTM always a special day for more reasons than one. It is a day that always begins with excitement laced with dolefulness as one knows that time will fly and the day come to a close when we will have to bid him farewell.

It is almost three years that Utpal left for boarding school. I have been there for every single PTM ans each is etched in my mind with indelible lines. I still remember the heart breaking cries that rented the air when it was time to say good bye. Then as time went by the tried turned to murmured pleas and entreaties that wrenched my soul. But then as time went by the good byes were easier though seeing him walk away clutching his little bag of carefully selected goodies was never easy.

As we drove along my heart was once again heavy as I did not quite know how to tell little Utpal that this Diwali when he comes home his mom will not be there. Sadly she relapsed and has been checked in to rehab again where she will spend a few months. And to say that we were all so happy and truly convinced that things had finally settled, that in spite of a few bouts of depression J was well into recovery. How wrong we were. The alcohol was too big an adversary, J too fragile, society too eager to draw her back into a world where she could be manipulated, her own family too weak or too greedy. The writing was on the wall: we just did not see it. Women who drink are sadly never given the second chance they deserve.

Lost in my thoughts I had not realised that we had reached the school. After the checking in formalities we went off looking for little Utpal. He was in his classroom waiting with his Kamala ma’am and his bright pink report card. The marks were good and his teacher gave glowing reports though we were told that he was very naughty. Somehow I felt comforted by those words as that meant he was happy and content. Th teacher asked me to fill up a form and as I sat to do it, Utpal stood next tome dictating the answers. When we came to the mother’s name column he promptly said ‘Jhunnu‘. My heart missed a beat and I was filled with a sense of overwhelming sadness. I wrote the six letters quietly and perhaps that is when I decided not to tell Utpal about his mom yet.

A quick trip to the hostel to meet his warden Dolly and seek her permission to give him the few toys we carried as we would be dropping back earlier than usual, then a few words with Anil Sir the PT instructor. We came to know that Utpal loved football, badminton and the Frisbee and had started skating. The music teacher revealed that he could now play happy birthday on the keyboard! All in all a successful PTM!

It was then time to take Utpal for his outing and the destination was the closest Pizza parlour. He was in a happy mood and regaled us with his antics: sipping his fizzy drink with his hands locked at he back, dancing to the rock music that blared as he ate his pizza, telling us funny stories. Time just flew and then the dreaded hour approached: it was time to take the road back. But before that we had to make a quick stop at the local store as he needed some toiletries. At the store he asked us to buy him some biscuits and carefully selected them. We were told that these were for his friends. We came to know later in the car that it was for his big friends. I guess this is what happens in all boarding schools: the gently bullying that signifies that you have been accepted.

When the time to say goodbye came there were no tears or murmured words. A very confident little boy clutched ll his packages and gave us a hug and then walked down the long corridor with a confident stride. I watched him walk away quietly wiping a tear that was threatening to spill over.

The real tragedy however is that when my mom told me about the blasts on the phone I was not shocked….I was sad ….but somewhere inside me I am learning to live with this terrorism as part of life…not feeling shocked when it happens….and something is just wrong with this picture! To think that my children, whenever they come into this world, will never have a childhood free of this aspect like I did even though for a short while.…

These poignant words written by a young friend who lives miles away dropped in my inbox this morning. They ring painfully true in more ways than one. It is a sad fact indeed that we seem to have got inured to news of bombs blasts and terror. Even when it hits close to our own reality. It is as if we have accepted it as a part of our lives we do not have much control on. As the news enfolded on the TV screen one just kept on doing what one was. There was no shock or panic.

I heard about the first bomb as I was watching an evening metro channel. Ghaffar market seemed so remote and distant. It is a place one rarely went to. Then a few minutes later came the news of blasts at Connaught Place. This was closer to one’s life. It was the very place where one hung out almost everyday many years ago, the very place where one headed to escape the boredom of home or the stranglehold of college, a place where one felt carefree and insouciant. Remote memories almost forgotten that were brought alive by the blasts. Then the news of blasts at M block market GK I, a place one frequented every day. Actually I was there just a short hour earlier and still no panic. Is this not proof enough of the fact that we have learned to live with terror and simply accept it with sadness and a sense of longing for days gone by where such horror did not exist.

But at least we have know better days, days where such things did not exist, when streets were safe, when all you feared at most was a freak accident, something you would accept with a sense of fatalism. And people my age would even remember times when terror was almost alien vocabulary. Many would not believe it but I can still recall days when one could see a person off at the step ladder of an airplane!

We still have memories but our children, those who are still very young or those still waiting to be born will never have a childhood free of terror. It has engulfed every nook and corner of our lives, even the sanctity of our homes as TV images of gore and violence invade our privacy. Children of today grow up hearing about terrorism and bomb blasts and sadly have by force majeure become inured. It is a matter of survival.

Gone are the carefree days of childhood. Life has changed irreversibly. Something is really wrong with this picture.

During the recent workshop held in pwhy, a series of qualitative methods were applied to assess the impact of pwhy on children. The methods were applied on a wide section of children: under 12, above 12, kids with special needs, kids not in pwhy. Fun games were organised where questions on specific issues were asked. There was a card game where children were asked to chose pictures and identify those that hey associated to pwhy. But the most revealing game and by far the most exciting for the children was the one called photo mapping. Here a cross section of children were given cameras and asked to shoot pictures of positive and negative aspects of their everyday reality.

The results were stunning and pwhy kids came out winners. Unlike the control group of outside children, our kids had opinions and views, string likes and dislikes and were not shy of expressing what they felt.

One of the most extraordinary and revealing results was the choice many children of the women centre made when asked to shoot their most favourite thing. It was the library and its books. Each kid shot a picture of it. What makes this even more striking is the fact that the library is a very recent addition to their lives as it was set up just a few months back thanks to our dear friends of the om prakash foundation. And yet in such a short time it has assumed a huge part in the lies of these children. It was on the insistence of the children that Sunday at the women centre is library day where kids come and spend long hours browsing through the shelves. When a couple of books disappeared and the coordinator threatened to shut the library down children made sure that the books were found. Since a lending system has been instituted!

Many conclusions can be drawn from this single result. I will leave the more technical ones to the academics and wait for them, but for me it is undoubtedly a very rewarding outcome. I fell under the spell of books when I was very young and nothing could replace the magic of books till date. It was with extreme sadness that I saw children turning away from them with the advent of TV. As the power of visual media grew, books seemed to loose their charm ans slowly took a back seat. I guess the sheer cost of books and the vanishing of the local library had their role to play. In slum India books became akin to school and hence boring, tedious and unexciting. Slum kids never saw real books. And yet when one was able to set up a colourful and large library in the span of a few days, children not only took to them but placed them on the list of their most favourite possession, one they were willing to protect and care for.

We have thousands of books still packed in boxes waiting to be displayed. We plan to rebuild the small mud room we have in Giri Nagar, the one where pwhy began almost a decade ago. The room will be a library open not only to pwhy children but to all children of the area. Unseasonal and unending rains, and paucity funds have delayed the venture but today the pictures the children took tell us that we cannot wait much longer!

Little Pooja and Radha are not playing a mindless game! No sir. They are proud participants of an international workshop held under the aegis of the Human Development and Capability Association Thematic group on Participatory Methods a group pf the Human Development Capability Association (HDCA) being held in New Delhi this week.

The workshop was held from 5 to 8 September and had two main objectives: 1 – Strengthen the organizational capacity of Project Why 2 – Explore the impacts of Project Why on beneficiaries of their work with children. The results are awaited and we all, and I in particular, wait with bated breath for the outcome.

But this post is not about whether or not we passed the litmus test, or what measures need to be taken to strengthen our capacities, this blog is about the other side of the workshop, the tiny moments that may have escaped many, the backstage angst, the fleeting moments of pride, the surreptitious phone calls to assert that all is going well, the furtive gestures to ensure that nothing is missed and more.

For 4 whole days project why was on its toes though we did try to put up an equable face. A plethora of different activities were scheduled at different times and places. It was impossible to keep an eye on all as we would have liked to as most of us (teachers and the management team) were part of a SWOT exercise that took a large chunk of time. I must confess that when we were told about having to spend nine hours (3×3) in a room the reactions of everyone were to say the least noteworthy: raised eyebrows, perplexed faces, vigorous shakes of the head and total bewilderment. The motley crew that makes up the extraordinary project team was in a quandary. They all knew that we were to play hosts to a dozen eminent academics from the world over and every one felt diffident. Would we come up to the expectations?

Moreover the past few weeks had been marked by furious preparations with the help of Sara who had come a month earlier to help prepare the workshop. The activities had to be meticulously planned: children identified, parents informed, teachers assigned, transport organised. Props needed to be made, translations done keeping in mind the ground and social reality. Then it was time to explain it all to the team and I guess our own nervousness must have added to theirs in quantum leaps.

D Day dawned after a sleepless might. We all felt like debs on the even of their coming out ball. For the first time we were to be showcased to those that mattered and that would in many ways define our future. We were aware of the fact that in spite of all our careful planning there would be many slips and glitches but decided to put our best foot forward.

The workshop began and we were carried in the whirlwind of activities barely having time to think. We simply moved from one activity to the other and one day to the next. In between we fed our curiosity on the bribes of phrases we heard along the way. As the participants visited some part of the project or finished one particular activity we devoured the “the children are great” ; “what nice answers”; “stunning pictures” ; “interesting debate” that we overheard. It seemed we had come out winners or at least been accepted warts and all!

The frightening SWOT went off like a breeze thanks to the wonderful professor who steered it. We sheepishly recalled how scared we had been and how apprehensive we had felt about the whole matter. Renato was extremely warm and managed to make even the quietest teacher not only speak but share his or her inner most feelings. We discovered things about ourselves and others and above all saw how much we shared in common. It was a priceless experience for all.

We now await the official results but I was made privy to some. The subtle and even anodyne games were powerful tools that helped delve into the children’s mind and bring out their aspirations and hope. It also brought out what project why had taught them and that was a matter of great pride: some children selected the library as their most precious option while others took pictures of places of worship other than theirs to show that they had understood the importance of respecting each other. Many children wanted their friends to also join pwhy and that alone made our hearts swell with pride.

I could have waited for the official results before writing about the workshop, but the excitement was too much and somehow I felt this candid account would better showcase what I felt. It is the moment to express my indebtedness: to all those who made this workshop a reality – Mario, Renato, Nicolo, Sara, Alex, Jean Francois, Jim, Francesco, Sara, Ina – by coming and spending their invaluable time with us, to the pwhy team without which none of this could have been possible but above all to the children of project why who are a living proof of the indubitable reality that every child, no matter how deprived, has a right to dream and we are blessed to be those who are entrusted with the challenging task of making these dreams come true.

Head fake or indirect learning is a expression I have learnt recently from Randy Pausch’s Last Lecture. In hindsight it is something I have been using, albeit surreptitiously and perhaps sometimes even unconsciously!

Yesterday I was quietly handed over a CD with pictures of the women centre. They were snapshots of their everyday activities as well as those of the Independence day celebration they had organised. As I browsed through them I was taken aback by the vibrancy and vitality that permeated each of them. And above all I was taken aback by the number of children that smiled at me. I could not believe that a year back this centre was not even in existence.

It is true that the women centre was initially set up as a refuge for women in distress, an answer to the deafening why posed by the plight of Utpal’s mom. But we could have found a tiny place and given her shelter. But that was not to be. Instead we set up the women centre which is not only a refuge for women in distress but a vibrant children centre and community outreach programme.

Herein lies the head fake.

Planet why was on the anvil as the panacea to all problems of pwhy. It looked good on paper, it looked good in words but there lay a unexpressed and unformulated doubt: would it run and survive in spite of the fact that it was miles away? The women centre is its present avatar was the much needed surreptitious testing. Would it be possible to set up and run a complex centre without constant monitoring and hand holding.

Barely 10 months from the day we found the quaint premises that houses the women centre we have a happy place where over 200 children and 50 women are busy changing their morrows. No mean task!

What is truly remarkable is that this centre grew from a few kids to this staggering number without fuss or drama. All decisions were taken in house: staff was identified and selected, time tables made, course corrections made. All crises, and they were many, solved without fuss. Today the women centre has a creche, primary and secondary support classes, tailoring and beauty courses and a weekly women’s meet where a plethora of diverse issues are debated amidst laughter and cups of tea!

I have my answer and my head fake worked. Planet why will not only run and survive, but thrive. This is undoubtedly a huge moment for me personally. When pwhy began I had many dreams, and one of them was to see the local community take on responsibilities and take charge. My dream was to see my teachers and staff spearhead new activities. It has happened and somehow I know pwhy is safe.

Here are some pictures of the women centre, a centre that was set up and is run by those many of us do not trust or even bother to acknowledge, a bunch of remarkable people I am very proud of.

It was almost 10 days or more ago that Radhey my auto rickshaw driver informed me in a matter fact way that a barrage had breached in Nepal and that floods in his village were imminent. It was just a matter of days. I could not at that time fathom the magnitude of the disaster in waiting. Every morning in a matter of fact way I would enquire about the flood and he would answer that the waters were coming. I must admit I did not see the urgency. How could I. Even the press did not report much. By the time India woke up it was very late: over 3 million people had been rendered homeless, a major river had changes its course, villages had been swept away, lovingly built homes obliterated from the face of the earth.

In a popular TV debate aired a few days back the anchor asked the disturbing and startling question: Does India care about Bihar? And the uncomfortable answer that made us squirm in our chairs was: No! Bihar simply seems to have fallen off the map. We just want to wish it away. The news from the ground gets grimmer by the day and no respite is in the offing. The figures are alarming millions of people have lost their homes and livelihood.

Almost every year Bihar suffers the fury of floods. Some years are worse than the other and lead to large scale migration. It was in 1985 that Radhey fled his village and came to Delhi to build a new life. Like many others he sent money regularly to his village to repair the house, build a new one, buy the much needed farm implement. Today everything is gone. The members of his family have fled the raging waters and taken shelter with relatives. Some have even come all the way to Delhi and will swell the ranks of the staggering migratory population of this choking city. Many pwhy children’s families have similar stories. What is saddening and infuriating is the calm with which they share their plight, as if they too have given up.

It took a long while for India to waken up, or has it really as in spite of the magnitude of the calamity there is no palpable urgency: no dramatic headlines, no continuous coverage… It is as if floods in Bihar are regular occurrences. Bihar once a vibrant state of India, the seat of the Maghadh Empire, of Licchavi the first known republic, of Buddhism the religion of tolerance is today neglected and derided. It is today equated to corruption, hooliganism, gang and caste wars and considered an aberration. Yet it is home to millions of people who bravely fight all odds.

The picture you see dropped in my inbox with an appeal for help.It took me some time to figure out that what looked like a mosaic pattern where actually people left stranded on a washed away road. Imagine the number of children who today instead of setting out for school are living in the open, hungry and wondering where all their dreams have fled. Imagine the number of people deprived of all the facilities we take for granted: water, food. medicine, shelter. Imagine the pain of seeing your life come to naught. Where does one pluck the courage to begin all over again.

Have we given up on Bihar. I do not know. All I know is the contempt with which the word Bihari is used. All I know is the baffled look on people’s faces when I tell them I too am a Bihari. All I know is that today I feel the need to reach out to those in need, casting aside the cliches and commonplace utterances one will be subjected to. Yes we know of the corruption that is rampant during all relief operations but does that absolve us of the duty to do something. Certainly not. As with the tsunami we will wait a little and when the initial wave of help dies down we will try and see how we can help some children reclaim their lost dreams.

It is fifteen years since the golden summer of 1991 when we lost our innocence wrote Gurcharan Das in a recent article. He was of course referring to our new affair with the the free economy and our expansion as a growing economy. I am no economist and do not understand market forces and the likes of it. I simply see what is around me and draw comparisons with was was an what is.

Last week we celebrated or let us say commemorated 61 years of Independence. All leading magazines had special issues and one must admit no one had anything glorious to share. Even Vinod Mehta who always proffers some light relief on his last page candidly states: I’m looking to offer you some humour. Alas, there’s none to offer. A quick read of the Independence day issue of this or any other magazine does not make happy reading. A leit motiv seems to appear almost with obsessive regularity is the fact that our brave walk on the free economy path has further alienated the poor of the rich. The rich have their schools, their hospitals, their habitat, their markets, their just about everything whereas the infrastructure of the poor is growing from bad to worse.

One of the articles that caught my attention was the one on gated Communities aptly titled Free from India.
The proliferation of gated communities is undoubtedly a world wide phenomena and its Indian avatar larger than life. An article in the New York Times reflects the sad reality of gated communities in our capital region. If one India lives a life of luxury inside the walls, the other survives at its very gates. The raison d’etre of these communities is best defined by a resident himself who states: Everyone understands that there are things outside that you don’t want to expose your children to. The idea is to have the area sealed and sanitised. The apartment costs are huge, but it’s worth it to protect yourself from the violence and crime outside… When I leave these gates I am bang slap in modern India. I can’t say that I don’t like India; it’s my country. But if I can avoid exposing myself to it, why not?‘

The above statement is to say the least perplexing and saddening. Are we simply giving up on India? is creating comfortable and yet visible cocoons the real way out. Did we really lose our innocence when we decided to walk the free trade path and open India’s doors? I cannot say. But if an Indian says that he or she does not want to expose his or her child to things outside, outside being the real India then something is terribly wrong. As citizens of India are we not responsible for that very outside.

It was exactly one year ago almost to the day that a mail dropped into my inbox. My name is Willy and I am very interested in becoming involved in Project Why. I run a small NGO in America called the Omprakash Foundation. Those words were the beginning of a beautiful journey of mutual discovery, a journey were the key words were love, compassion, respect and trust.

Yesterday another mail dropped in my inbox. It simply said: check out”featured partner” on the omprakash homepage.…. A click on the page and there we were: Project Why as this Season’s featured partner with a special page on us that described our activities and our needs in beautiful and simple words. It was indeed some journey from email to webpage!

Over the past almost ten years I have come across wonderful people who have reached out to help us and each one of them have made pwhy possible. When Willy and his friends landed in Delhi a few months back it was truly a special moment as such kids are one of a kind. They brought with them all that makes today’s world still bearable.

But let us go back a little. Before we met Willy and I use to exchange long emails and I found myself sharing my deepest thoughts with him quite unabashedly. It never came to my mind that more than 4 decades of life on this planet separated on us. He simply became the friend I needed in moments of doubts, pain and joy. He always had the right words and often gave my sagging moral the fillip it needed. Somewhere along the way he shared his dream of bringing books to the lives of children all over India and though it was in no way up our sleeve, there was not an iota in doubt in my mind when I decided to jump on the wagon and make it a success. Today over 200 000 books have found their way into the remotest part of our land and are brightening up the lives of many children. Project Why children too are busy discovering the magic of the written word. And what better proof of success of this venture than the fact that some books did surreptitiously find their way into children’s homes!

As the omprakash story enfolded it was as if a remote dream of mine was coming to life albeit in a land thousands of miles from mine. I have always prayed to see the day when young Indians would be touched by compassion and would reach out to less fortunate people and share some of what they have:time, resources, love… as this is what omprakash is all about. A bunch of kids backpack through India and other lands. On the way they stop by to volunteer in a few organisations and somewhere along the way they decided to do something. And the something is for all to see!

What makes Willy, Gordon, Ashely, Lilly, Steve, Nick, Elliot tick? I do not know. Or to use a Hindi expressions: of what mater are they made. I guess the very same one we are made of. But the difference lies in their ability to see with their heart. And what does it take to make young successful people see with their heart is for me a zillion dollar question? I must confess that when I started project why one of the head fake or indirect learning (to use Randy Pausch’s expression) objective was to try and sensitize young Indians and show them how to see with their hearts. Sadly it was not to be.

The journey from email to webpage has been a exhilarating and rewarding one. To the uninitiated it can be quantified by the generous resources we have received and that we are truly grateful for. But for this old lady it has been much more: a renewal of faith and trust, a validation of ideals that many found preposterous and absurd, a ray of sunshine in a sometimes grey world and much more that remains tacit.

I truly hope and pray that all the omprakash foundation reaches unknown heights and realises all the hopes and aspirations of the wonderful hearts that steer it. And I know that this will happen as more than anyone else a wonderful old man, who touched the lives of these kids many summers ago and whose name is the one they chose for their organisation, blesses them as he simply litstens to his radio in a remore part of India’s capital city.

As I was leaving the women centre yesterday I was as usual greeted by loud good morning maam’s (notwithstanding the time of day) from the gang of kids that live in thee vicinity and often play in front of the centre. I stopped as I normally do. Amongst them was a new face. Huge melting eyes in the middle of a tiny badly scalded face. A closer look reveals burn scars on the body, arms and a badly maimed hand. I stop in my tracks, my heart pounding and am suddenly taken back to the fateful day in March 2003 when I first laid eyes on the little scalded Utpal.

The little girl standing in front of me is about 2. Her scars look almost as old. I look around for answers to my silent questions. After a few long seconds an older girl offers some insight: the little girl was burnt when she was just a baby. She was sleeping in a mosquito net, the kind you find in all markets and that look like a huge bell. There was an oil lamp burning in the vicinity and the net made of cheap nylon caught fire. The baby too!

She survived. But unlike Utpal whose face had got spared, hers got badly scalded. Two huge almost identical scars mar her little cheeks. But somehow her impish smile and lovely eyes are endearing and make you forget the ugliness of her scars. To me she was just a child, with the same dreams, aspirations and hopes in spite of her scars and maimed hand. My mind is choking with questions and emotions. What will the future hold for her? What can we do? How can we ease her morrows? How do her peers treat her? Why is God sometimes so unkind?

Just like Utpal’s, her family too shifted only recently to a house almost adjacent to our women centre. Is there some hidden Jungian synchronicity? Some hidden message? Is it once again the God of Lesser Beings at his best?

I do not what the future holds. As I write these words I dot even know her name let alone anything about her. All I know is that I cannot and will not be a silent spectator. A maimed girl has no morrow in a land like ours where the future of any girl child lies in her ability to find a good match. Her family is poor and will not be able to make up for the scars and the maimed hand by providing her a handsome dowry. I do not know whether medical wizardry can be of help and even it it is at what cost it will come. I know that a good education and sound income generating skills are the only hope she has.

I will go back to the centre today and set the ball rolling by seeing that she is enrolled in our creche. I will call up all the men in white I know, browse the net and connect with anyone one i think can be of help. I will do everything I can to ensure that the huge eyes in the scarred face remain filled with trust and hope and never have to suffer the indignity and stigma that is often the fate of those like her.

After a long time I decided to check the site traffic on both the website and the blog. To say that I was in for a surprise would be the understatement of the year! I would have liked to believe that something was wrong, that the code was not correct, that the programme was not running properly. But that was not the case. All seemed in order except the flat line that greeted me instead of the pikes and curves. No one had dropped by in a long long time. I was staggered. I had been posting regular entries and nothing seemed to have changed.

Many questions crowded my mind: what had happened? what was I doing differently? what needed to be done? was there a hidden message? and each begged for an answer. True there was a time when over and above posting on the blog, one wrote mails to all friends and supporters with regularity, sharing news or begging for help. The last such onslaught had been at the beginning of the year when we were looking for help to buy our land. The land was bought and somehow unknowingly we had entered a new phase of our existence. Gone were the days when we simply needed enough support to survive month after month. We were now in another league. And perhaps this unconscious shift changed things surreptitiously.

The flat line that greeted me this morning was a harsh reality check. Something was wrong. Was it a case of out of sight, out of mind. A simple lack of visibility. I cannot tell. True we have not been in the media for long and true that direct communication has been far and few but things on the ground have not changed. We are very much alive and need all the help we can muster. We are still dependent on individual help and conscious of the fact that till date most of it has come via the net and blogging. So a flat line is akin to a death knell.

Had I sunk into a strange comfort zone where I thought that simply posting blogs would be enough to garner support. I must confess that there was a time when I did network much more actively. Was I content with the occasional comment posted on some bogs and felt secure? Maybe. But the flat line was a rude wake up call and I guess a much needed one.

We are alive and much of what we were earlier. We still reached out of over 600 kids and reach out to anyone in need of help. Our kids still bring us a 100% result and we had some excellent results in the Boards. Our women’s programme has grown remarkably and our new residential inclusive outreach is doing exceptionally well and is a great learning experience and a sound testing ground for planet why. We still need all the help we can get and have in no way grown a big head!

I confess to have been a little slack in my ways and promise to make huge amends as the life hopes and aspirations of many depend on it.

The UNICEF report of the state of Asia Pacific’s children 2008 was published just a few days ago. According to this report 20% children under five who die every year are from India. The figures is staggering: 2 million. the report goes on to state: Unless India achieves major improvements in health, nutrition, water and sanitation, education, gender equality and child protection, global efforts to reach the MDGs will fail…as more services within countries are privatized and the government share of health budgets diminishes, public facilities become more run down and health workers leave for better paid jobs in the private sector or outside the country. The divide between rich and poor is rising at a troubling rate within sub regions of Asia-Pacific, leaving vast numbers of mothers and children at risk of increasing relative poverty and continued exclusion from quality primary health-care services.

It is a sad reflection of a country that celebrates three generations of freedom.

Our real achievement seems to have been a staggering increase of the gap between the rich and the poor. India is far from shining. The children of India are still waiting for an elusive Bill that will give them their constitutional right to Education. And while a city is gearing up to meet world standards to host an international sporting event, children are withering away in dark holes in a city that has forsaken its poor.

Can any society worthy of its name claim to be shining if its most vulnerable group remains neglected? I wonder. Children have no voice, and are not vote banks. Yet they need the maximum care and protection. It is not so in India today. Child labour is rampant, child abuse of all shade and hue unbridled and though politically correct statements are made by one and all, they are rarely translated into action.

Two million children below the age of 5 die quietly every year in India. Is anyone hearing.

If change is to truly come about, it has to be routed through women. This is something I have firmly believed and yet something that has remained elusive. When project why began almost a decade ago, one of the first things we tried to set up was a self help group for women only. The idea was to get women together around an economic activity and then try and raise awareness about burning social issues in the hope of making the group an agent of change.

My mother who was in many ways an avant-garde feminist of sorts had always held women responsible for their own plight. She reveled in pointing out that most of the crime against women was perpetrated by women themselves. The most glaring example being that of the mother-in-law daughter-in-law relationship. And she went to add that it was women alone that could free themselves and bring about change.

A two day old bay girl was found in a plastic bag near a garbage dump in Delhi last week. We seem to be the capital of abandoned baby girls. Needless to say that it is far to often women who commit this abomination: a desperate girl not wanting to hear any more taunting, or one wanting to spare another a life of ignominy or perhaps a kind soul hoping the child would find a better life. What is shocking is that this is happening in India’s capital city! The reality is indubitable: little girls are not welcome. And it is also true that women alone can make them feel wanted.

Our erstwhile women’s group failed to bring about the results we wanted. Our efforts to get women to start a small unit making healthy snacks for school children – in lieu of the few rupees given to children to buy dubious eatables – failed miserably. In hindsight there were many reasons for the failure. Women were not willing to go out and market their ware. They wanted to make the snacks for a salary. This was probably due to the fact that their husbands prompted them to do so as everyone felt that NGOs have loads of money to spare. Or maybe it was because everyone who comes to the city feels he or she has a right to a job. Hard work is a prerogative of the village. Or perhaps it was due to our lack of experience in the field. Whatever the cause the attempt failed miserably and the idea was shelved.

When we seeded our women centre it was primarily to give refuge to women shunned by society and help them rebuild their lives. But right from the very first day we felt the need to reach out to local women in the hope that some day we would be able to revive old dreams and get our women’s group going. The challenge was to be able to have them review their lives and make appropriate changes. The ploy was to first gather home around an innocuous activity like stitching. Then as time went by and bonds were created we moved on to weekly meetings around a variety of subjects and cups of hot tea! Then a series of unforeseen circumstances slowed down the momentum but some time back Rani and Shamika took on the challenge and revived the process.

Now every Thursday over a dozen women come to discuss and debate several issues and share their views and dreams. And perhaps in days to come we will be able to revive our women’s group around a new activity that all would have decided upon. It is a first step in the right direction. I hope it does live up to our expectations: that of helping women set themselves free!

The teach India campaign is in full swing, or so we would all like to believe. Our tryst with them was short lived: we did not fit the model they proposed as we could not take in the minimum of 100 volunteers that they offered – we had asked for six. The organisers could not understand why in spite of our 9 centres we were unable to accept the 100 volunteers offered. To them the maths was simple: 9 centres into 2 shifts into 6 days = 108!

We tried to explain to them that it would be terribly unfair and even disruptive to the children and their teachers to have a new volunteer each day of the week. And though they did try to pressurise us, we stood firm: the children and their well being was far more important to us than being associated with any campaign no mater how glitzy or big.

I decided to spend some time on the website of the teach India campaign and landed on their message board. I was saddened to see that there were many young volunteers waiting for a phone call that would tell them they had been selected and would assign them a teaching opportunity. The message board was replete with words like: not received a call, no reply, no call, I am disappointed, how long?????

My heart went out to these young Indians who had taken a first step towards making a difference and were waiting for the call that would allow them to do so. Some even said they had registered 2 months ago and the campaign being for 3 months I wonder if their phone will ring. There were a few lucky ones and they shared their experiences which were heartwarming. The idea is a winner and it would be a tragedy if it failed.

In the midst of all the message threads was one that brought whoops of joy: tt simply said: Can we Form a Group if teach India doesn’t call us and go ahead. For me those simple words showed that no matter how the blitz ended it had succeeded as it had ignited a sparkle in young India. Here was a group of youngsters who were not waiting for calls but simply going ahead. They had understood the real message, the one that would save and change India. One did not wait for someone else but took on the challenge and make it happen.

I sincerely hope that the thousands of would be volunteers who may not get a call will not give up but will find it in themselves to carry the torch and teach India

When little Prakash was born we were delighted as he was a bonny baby. His mom was part of our programme for pregnant and lactating women and all seemed to pint to the fact that our three month intervention programme worked. But we were in for a rude shock.

Months went by and instead of thriving, Prakash began to wither. His head was the only part of him that seemed to grow, the rest his body could not keep up. His milestones were delayed and it was as if the child was vanishing. He sat in a corer of the creche, his legs folded not able to stand in spite of being 14 months old. Hi social skills remained poor and all you got from his after a lot of prompting was a toothless smile. Local doctors felt he had hydrocephalus. A series of tests were done but with no clear results. His pitiable state was heart wrenching. Not able to stand helpless we sent him to the paediatric ward of leading hospital and we has diagnosed with rickets! We were aghast as rickets is a form of severe malnutrition.

I began reading about rickets and discovered that one of its main causes is vitamin D deficiency or in other words lack of sunshine. The penny dropped. In a city where housing is a huge problem, greedy landlords have brought down their old structures, one with courtyards and sunshine, and built airless and windowless rooms where night reigns all day. When we were looking for a room for 7 month pregnant Madhu, Prakash’s mom, we found one across the street. It was dark and that is where the mother spent her last months of pregnancy and delivered Prakash. It was also there that he spent the first few months of his young life. NO matter how well we tried to feed the mother and then the child, we were unable to make up for the sun rays.

Many children are born and live in dark holes where the sun never shines. This is the price to pay for urban dreams a far cry from village life where the sun is abundant and where children spend time in the open, even as babies who are oiled and massaged and left out in the courtyard under the watchful eyes of the clan. I remember being shocked when many years back our cook brought his mother to the city for a medical check up. The woman looked very old, as all village women do, and was thin as a reed. But when her blood tests were done her haemoglobin was over 13, something rare in India. I knew the family was poor and wondered how that could be possible. he answer was simple: the family ate black millet instead of wheat flour, as the millet was what they grew in their fields, and black millet is know to be rich in iron. The family also ate lots of seasonal vegetables that grew in their yard something impossible in a city.

We will tend to little Prakash and hope he improves and makes up for lost sun. But I wonder how many little Prakashs live undiagnosed in the city.

To abort or not to abort that is the question? The last week has been replete with debates and discussions on the issue. The fate of a little unborn child lay in the hands of an archaic legal system and complex medical opinions. Two days back the courts decreed that the child was to live. This is not the latest plot of some avant garde movie but a real story.

An unborn foetus was diagnosed with a congenital heart problem. The parents sought legal sanction to abort the baby though the foetus was 26 weeks old on the grounds that they would not be able to bring it up. The hospital gave vague and contradictory opinions and to crown it all there was also a typographical error that sealed the fate of this unwanted child. The case has led to an onslaught of divergent opinions and debates- a mother’s right, the right to life, the plight of disabled children in India, the lack of support systems – and the battle is still on. Help has also be forthcoming for this baby: offers of adoption and free medical care. The one question that has not been raised is why this family went public with this issue in a land where clandestine abortions are an easy option? And one also wonders whether the parents now in the media and public glare will come to terms with the situation and give this child all the love and care it needs. Only time will tell.

All the children in the picture above have congenital heart conditions and thank heavens their parents did not think of aborting them. They belong to very poor families who and yet each one of them did everything they could to ensure their kids would live. Was it their prayers or the hidden hand of the God of lesser souls, but they all found their way to our heartfix hotel where broken hearts get repaired. Today they are all living healthy lives like any other kid and though there may be problems in the future I know they will all be overcome.

In another city lies a little 9 day old. Born to a surrogate mother to a Japanese family this child is also unwanted. Her surrogate parents separated while she was still in the womb of another woman and both women do not want her. The laws do not allow a single parent to adopt so she today is nobody’s child. One just hopes that the laws will bend a little to allow this child to have a real morrow.

On my drive back from the project I was accosted by a beggar woman at a red light. As I travel in a three wheeler, I cannot roll up the window and look away. And anyway I never do, as I cannot forget the words of a beggar woman of yore years that were perhaps one of the greatest lesson of my life.

The woman held a small baby girl in her arms and almost thrust it in the vehicle. The child seemed to be asleep but one look at it made you realise that the sleep was induced and the child drugged. His head flopped backwards and is body was flaccid. As I was not carrying any eatable, I gently asked the woman to move on. The light turned green and we went our way.

For the past few weeks I have also been disturbed by a little 2 year old who lives close to our computer centre. She has recently come from the village and is the daughter of a rather elderly man know for his anti social activities in his home state and who often comes to Delhi to escape authorities. His wife is illiterate and live sin constant fear of her husband who is to say the least quite a terror. This little girl is their second child, he first being handicapped and let in the village. We did try to convince them to send the child to the project, but in vain. The little girl spends her days on the street in front of her house or in the homes of neighbours who often shoo her away.

I wonder what the future holds for these two children of India. Actually one need not wonder, one easily guess their future. The beggar child will soon be tugging along her ‘mother of the day‘ (as the woman may have simply hired it), and as soon as she is a little older will be the one knocking at car windows. As she grows older she may be even given a pair of crutches. One day she will be married off and may be the one holding her baby and begging.

The little girl from the slum does not have a brighter future. She will follow the her uncaring parents from village to city to village. She will never attend a school or get an education. She will never have friends, or toys and one day when she is barely pubertal will be married off to some older man just as her mother was and will produce other children who will have the same fate as her.

The tragic part is that there is nothing much one can do as these children belong to strong mafia like social groups that are totally impervious to change. And yet they become a challenge that one needs to address. The question is how!

“The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child” wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson. How true he was.

A few days back a little ray of sunshine entered our world. Pooja is 7 year old and has Down syndrome. Since she joined our special section nothing is quite the same. Pooja is an endearing soul and like all kids with trisomy is extremely affectionate and warm. She took no time in making a place for herself in the hearts of each and everyone. She is filled with mischief and a bundle of activity but someone no one seems to mind. Even the most taciturn of the lot cannot help but smile at her antics.

A few days back she commandeered poor Geetu’s lunch box hours before lunch time and decided to eat it. The normally prim and proper Geetu who is a tad possessive about her lunch simply smiled and even fed her. Pooja has still not accepted to follow the time table and the staff too indulges her so she makes her won day and decides who to sit with to what to do. Sometime she is seen practicing writing skills with the more advanced lot, or she decided to butt in puzzle making time of the other group and with a flick of her hand and a mischievous smile destroys the carefully constructed puzzle. What is amazing is that even Anurag who normally would throw a fit, simply smiles at her and sets out to rebuilding his puzzle.

We know that Pooja will soon settle. But what is amazing is the way in which her classmates have accepted her and made her one of them. The motley crew that makes up our special section is normally quite a handful each with their complex behaviour and mood swings. But somehow with this little bundle of joy, they seem to have set all aside. Is it because they intuitively know she needs their support and love. My little special kids never cease to amaze me. Evey day in their own unique way they teach me invaluable lessons to cherish.

The parliamentary debate on the confidence motion trust was a gloomy moment for all self respecting Indians. I will not delve into the matter as enough has and is being said. I followed bits and pieces of the day long saga with dismay, horror and immense sadness. Less said is better. I simply chose to mention a brave speech, that of Rahul Gandhi and who was heck;ed all the way.

Again I am not one who condones nepotism and dynasties nor am I a sycophant. What got my attention in this speech was the fact that perhaps it was the only one that referred to the other India in a humane and real way. When RG spoke of Kalawati, he gave a voice to the hundred of millions of faceless and voiceless Indians.

There are Kalawatis everywhere. People who live a hand-to-mouth existence in a land that is becoming more and more indifferent to their needs.They pass by us so quietly that we never see let alone acknowledge them. Yet many are the warp of our very existence. And even if they do not impact us directly they are the lifeline of those who make our lives more comfortable. I am talking about the man who sells hot food to the construction worker, the man who sells handkerchiefs, socks, and cheap ware on road sides, the one who sells plastic toys a father will take back to his child at the end of a long day.

Imagine the plight of such people as they set off every morning, weather notwithstanding, with their bundle, or cart not knowing whether they will be able to bring back sufficient money to feed the family for the next 24 hours. No one buys kerchiefs or head scarves every day! And every day the same amount of rupees buy much less food. Every week we make the appropriate sounds of dismay as we are hear the new inflation figures on our slick TVs in the comfort of our air conditioned room. Yet the size of our weekly basket barely suffers. For the Kalawatis across India the story is different and it is time that we took notice. I guess that is what RG wanted to do. But did we? Or should I say did those that matter notice. We all know the answer. they were too busy playing to the world gallery and bringing shame to each one of us.

I do not know whether the nuclear deal is good or not. I do not know whether RG’s speech was a clever political gimmick or one from the heart. I only know that it brought to the fore the reality of millions of our own country mates. I wonder how many of us can even begin to imagine what such a life means. I must admit that I too was one of those living in absolute denial. Pwhy changed all that.

I see the how inflation and price rise affects the common Indian in the lunch boxes of children everyday. I see it in the eyes of a child burning with fever who was not taken to the doctor for want of money. I see it in the backs that seem more bent and the gaits that have lost their spring. Can you imagine what goes on in the mind of a woman as she waits outside her home late in the evening, her kitchen fire cold, her vessels empty and her children hungry, waiting for her husband to come back with the the handful of rupees that will buy a meal and praying furiously that he does not stop by the watering hole. There are many such women and they live but a few stones throw away from us.

Have we all lost our conscience, or have we simply lost our ability to feel. Are we so lost in hubris that we are unable to see what is happening around us. I do not know. I just feel here is something terribly wrong. In all the hullabaloo of the parliament tamasha I just heard the silent deafeaning voice of Kalawati

I normally do not watch TV in the early evening. I was busy with the usual evening chores and had to go to my daughter’s room. The TV was on. A local metro channel diffusing its evening news. I was about to mouth the question I had come to ask but was stopped short as I heard the voice of the newscaster recounting an incident where a young girl had been humiliated in a nearby suburban school. All chores forgotten I just watched.

A young girl had been punished by her teacher for not being up to the market in class. The teacher who seemed to belong to some ante deluvial time had chosen to write in black soot across the face of the child the following words: I am not good in my studies, and then paraded the child across the school. The teacher of course had threatened the girl of dire circumstances were she to tell her parents about the incident. The young girl had not murmured a word. However the next day she had refused to go to school. Seeing the angst on her face the parents coaxed the child to reveal what was wrong. She ultimately did.

The parents went to the school authorities and the police playing the scene according to script. The teacher was suspended and further action may follow but will and can it wipe of the hurt the child suffered, the invisible scars seared on the girl’s soul that no one can see let alone heal. No matter what punishment will be meted out to the erring school teacher, no matter the profuse apologies tended, no matter the words proffered to sooth the hurt child, the harm is done. This young girl will bear the hurt of this humiliation for a life time. It may be forgotten in good times, if good times there are but will come back to haunt her each time life poses a problem. Public humiliation is by far one of the worst form of retribution, one that cannot be meted out to a child by anyone, let alone a teacher.

This incident makes one go back to Dickensian days of Dunce tables and Dunce caps. Lot of water has flowed since those days or so we thought. But an occurrence like this one makes us wonder whether times have truly changed.

But if that was not enough another horror that befell a tiny 9 year old came to light. A little class IV girl had been raped in the toilet of her school in broad daylight. As I write these words the follow up drama is in full swing. Enquiries, suspension, political condemnations, financial assistance and the much sought headlines. But my heart goes out to the little girl who has been scarred for life. Such incidents leave deep lifelong invisible scars not only on the body but on the soul of the victim. And if that was not enough, one must not forget that we live in an insensitive and biased society where far too often the victim is made to feel guilty.

I can only once again recount the plight of C, now 17, a past student of ours who was raped at the age of 4 by a neighbour. The rape was so violent that the child had to have a hysterectomy. The rapist did his time in jail. C grew up but . As a teenager she found herself ostracised by her peers and their families and labeled as the girl who had been raped.

Child rape is something abhorrent. I have no words to condemn it as everyone falls terribly short of what I want to express. I cannot begin to understand why an adult feels the need to violate a child. I look helpless at the impotent laws that far from protecting the victim seem to benefit the perpetrators with impunity.

In all the hullabaloo that normally follows incidents like the ones above, two little girls are suffering in silence. And no one seems to be concerned. They belong to homes where child psychology and post trauma stress are unknown. They belong to families who are simply busy surviving. They will have to find their healing alone, if healing there is.

At this times one can but remember the words of Herbert Ward: “Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.”

A room without books is like a body without a soul said Cicero over two thousand years ago. Belonging to a generation where books were possibly our only real entertainment I readily second that. Then over the years, books played second fiddle to the new entertainment star the TV and then slowly third fiddle till they were relegated to the back row of the orchestra as an instrument barely played let alone heard.

I must admit that I never stopped reading though I must also confess that I was not able to instill this passion in others in my family. I lost the battle to the ever growing presence of the idiot box and its various courtesans – namely the remote control, the VCR, VCD and all else. Book reading for many just seemed a chore and a bore.

When project why began and before I was initiated to the reality of the school scenario in India, I had wanted pwhy to be a place where children could come after school and spend quality time. One of the things I wanted in pwhy was a library with an abundance of books so that children could be made aware of the magic of the written words. Like Skinner I too believed that we shouldn’t teach great books; we should teach a love of reading, as therein lay true education. But soon enough the dream of pwhy being a children centre replete with books, toys and games took a back seat as we were faced with alarming drop out rates, failing in school and the uncompromising abhorrence of parents to creative pursuits.

Reality moulded us into a school support centre where creativity had scant place. Books were only those taught in school and the few that found their way sat quietly in some dark corner, too few to make their presence felt. Even when we felt the need to have books – for the smaller kids at least – the cost itself ensured that there was never a book per child. The dream I once had seemed farther then ever.

Then one day a few months back I received an email from Willy of the Omprakash Foundation. It was I must confess mind boggling as it talked of sending tens of thousands of books to several projects in India and sought my help. And though the task was daunting and way off our beat, the fact that it concerned books made me accept readily. I guess that if it had been clothes or something else, I would have beaten a hasty retreat!

What followed was a journey into uncharted territory, one that was sometimes quite harrowing as we battled administrative and other blocks. But one did not give up and last week the consignment reached Delhi. Thanks heaven our friends from Omprakash Foundation were there too and afer some minor and sometimes amusing hurdles we at project why got not one, or ten or even hundred but twenty thousand books!

Though many still lie in boxes waiting for space, each of our centres now has books, either on a shelf when space permits or in a trunk and the children are for the first time in their lives discovering the magic of holding a book. It has been pure magic as they dive onto the trunks and retrieve books then go about flipping pages. The excitement is palpable whatever the age as they share what they see or even fight for a particular one. The teachers too are excited and planning new activities around they newly acquired treasure.

I watched all this with a sense of satisfaction and some glee. Somehow a long forgotten and almost lost dream seemed once again possible. The presence of so many books had suddenly made my dream of a children centre possible. It was time to fine tune the idea.

Ther soon will be a weekly library period in the time table. I remembered Willy telling me that in his school there was a moment called DEAR (Drop Everything And Read). Perhaps we too will have that at pwhy some day.

Some time back a friend sent me link about a new library fad whereby you borrowed a person not a book. Somehow it did not seem exciting to me. I also remember how moved I had been by Fahrenheit 451 the brilliant Truffaut film about a world without books. For me books remain a very important part of my life and high up on the list of my favourite things.

I hope that now they can also become part of the lives of the project why children.

A news item on a leading TV channel caught my eye yesterday. In spite of girls performing better in schools at every level, the number of girls joining the English medium stream in local government schools is still small. The reluctance according to a secondary school principal comes from the parents. In spite of the fact that their daughters have good marks, parents are often disinclined to see them join this stream. On the other hand they are insistent upon their son doing so, even if his performance is poor.

Another sad tale of gender bias that seems to pervade every inch of our social fabric. Though reasons for such a behaviour were not spelt out, one can easily guess them. Girls are simply meant to be married and the less they know the easier things become. Too much education may just make them too difficult to handle.

Gender bias in present in each and every moment of a girl’s life, even before she is born. The sex ratio figures are ample proof of the number of girls that are denied the right to be born. It is believed that over 24 000 girls go missing every year in India’s capital city. And even after they are born girls do not get the same deal as their male siblings. I have often written about the plight of the girl child as about possible ways out. I have often felt at a total loss when in spite of all our efforts we have been unable to help a girl child. I have often sunk into despair at the deafening whys that have no answers.

We have over the past years tried to convey to parents that there is no difference between a boy and a girl but it seems that things have not changed. As I write these words I ask myself whether really have the right to proffer words of advice knowing that the reality on the ground has not changed. Girls are still considered a millstone as they need to be married and marriage costs more than one has. I refuse to believe that girls are not loved per se. It is the social burden that the presence of a girl in the family entails that causes people to shun the. Or to look at the coin from the flip side it is the lure of what a boy can bring in that makes people want them.

The bottom line still lies in changing customs and mores. Easier said than done. Customs and mores are deeply ingrained in our atavistic past. To change them requires not laws and sanctions but perhaps intervention from religious heads and social leaders. It also requires every one to walk the talk. Till then little girls will not get the same education, the same clothes, the same food or the same care as the one given unabashedly and without restraint to their male siblings.

Saving the planet is a fashionable conversation piece. It has been so for quite some time. Yet how many of us walk the talk? To once again use Don Rittner words: “Trying to save ecosystems has more to do with changing egosystems.”

And there are many egosystems at play.

We are all aware of what awaits us. Nature is making herself heard: untimely rains, no ice in the polar region and more of the same. But are we listening? We seem to be simply busy increasing our carbon footprint by the second. New credit options now available to all have increased the number of bikes, TVs and other energy consuming ware. A short walk though any slum in Delhi is proof of the fact that the one thing that is present in each and every home is a switched on TV, even is not one is watching. perhaps it is the indelible proof of a new success story.

What once was the prerogative of a chosen few, now permeates the lives of the poorest of the poor via the plastic pouch that makes even the most expensive item available to all. At the rate of over 10 pouches per family the load on the environment is difficult to fathom. The recently installed taps ring the newly acquired freedom from long trudges with heavy buckets by spewing water even when not needed.

The new credo of achievement and success in urban slums spells disaster for the environment. At the other end of the spectrum, things are no better. The rich and educated only pay lip service to environmental issues as they continue increasing their carbon foot print with impunity. Everyone is firm in their belief that they have earned the right to do so. A hubristic mood seems to have pervaded one and all. Nemesis looms large but no one seems to care.

In the strange interplay of egosystems lies the challenge of trying to raise awareness on environmental issues. Easier said than done. How does one go about asking people to give up what they have recently acquired after years and generations of want and deprivation. How does one tell the proud and slightly arrogant owner of a gleaming bike to walk rather than ride? How does one tell a family to switch off the TV that they dreamt of for years and whose droning helps alleviate many a harsh moment? The list endless and the arguments few.

And yet we all know that the writing is on wall.

At pwhy we have over the years tried to address these issues without much success. Most of our environmental programmes have not yielded the results we hoped. Though they may have given some short lived effect, we never managed to bring about sustained change. Yet we are aware of the fact that issues like water, plastic, and limiting carbon emissions are as important as the proverbial 3Rs but where does one begin, or should I say start again. Egosystems are hard to change. Perhaps we should just set about walking the talk.

India’s illiterate population equals all the people in USA screamed the headline of a State of the Indian Education report in a leading newspaper. It did not end there. The other headliners were: 9 out of 10 in class I won’t get to college, Most students pass, few actually learn and the supporting statistics were nothing short of chilling.

India does a good job of getting children to start school but fails miserably to keep them studying as they grow older. That is the sad but indubitable reality. And if the pass percentages are increasing thanks to dubious programmes, the learning curve is declining day-by-day.

The report was alarming. Education for all seems to have failed miserably. True that the numbers ring true: number of children going to school, number of schools, number of teachers and even number of children passing, but the ground reality is abysmal. In our rush to meet quantity, quality was forgotten along the way. True we have schools buildings but a large number of them are not fit for consumption!

Politicians are busy securing their future and brandishing issues like reservations in higher education for the most backward classes and castes, but one wonders who will benefit from these lofty programmes. I guess their own kith and kin armed with a sound education obtained from a good public school.

Education for the poor in India is dying a slow insidious death. The onus of a good education for all has to be on the government who alone can provide the needed resources and regulatory systems but the government seems to have failed, and in some cases even given up as is amply proved by the rush to hand over education to NGOs or private hands. Privatisation of education will ring the death knell of education for the poor.

A couple of years back I was contacted by a high ranking officer in the Municipal Corporation of Delhi. A proposal for handing over municipal schools was being mooted. The officer wanted to know if i would be willing to take over the school located near our centre. This school is mostly attended by extremely poor and deprived kids. Wanting to now more I decided to play the game before hitting out and asked him what the deal was. We will pay the teachers salaries and you need to take over the rest was the answer. I wondered where the rest was supposed to come from: from donations or from fees. Needless to say the poor man got a mouthful from me! I had almost forgotten this incident.

Education in India today is a very sick child. And I am not only referring to state run schools. The other end of the spectrum is as dangerous. Instead of regular places of learning have sprung designer schools that bear no resemblance to what a school should look like hence alienating children from the reality that surrounds them and that they will one day have to live in. A ride from an air conditioned home in an air conditioned bus to an air conditioned school is what school is for some. Has one forgotten the gurukool of yore times where even the king’s sons had to undergo rigorous and austere training?

Where is the solution? I wonder….

A few more musings in continuation to my last post about the new no-fail policy announced yesterday by the Delhi Government. At the outset I would like to say that in an ideal situation I, more than anyone else would have welcomed this move more than anyone else, and may I add that even a few years back, when I was still blissfully unaware of the ground reality about the education scenario in Delhi, I would done so too. Sadly today that is not the case.

My thoughts were seconded by most of my teaching staff who were stunned at this new reality that would alter many things for us at pwhy! A very well packaged news item was aired yesterday on a leading metro channel to herald and applaud this new move. It even had a dazzling title and tag line: arresting girls drop out rates!

Based on my experience of almost a decade let me play Devil’s Advocate. The policy of not retaining any child in primary classes has already shown its true colours. Children, and there is an abundance of them, sit in class IV or V barely knowing their alphabet or numbers. Till date class VI loomed large as a place where they would have to perform and motivated parents as well as children to try better. I say parents because for them it was examinations and their marks that altered behaviour. Let me explain.

Examinations and the ensuing risk of failure was a deterrent that would make the child work harder and the parent more lenient. Many little girls are spared house chores during exam time and many unruly boys are bullied to sit and study. Parents in spite of their somewhat modest means find ways to send their children for tuition because of the exams and failure risk. This is a boon in disguise as we all know how much teaching there actually is in state run schools. Marks are something the poor and illiterate relate to, grading and alphabets belongs to an alien world.

A quick perusal of the proposed scheme shows that though it is lofty in its ideal, it is bound to fail on the ground. The actual education system barely manages to muddle through a conventional system; wonder what will happen now as the teachers and their ways cannot see a dramatic transformation simply because a new law has been brought into existence. What will happen is that the back up system that existed – parents attitude, extra coaching etc – will merely disappear as no exam and possibility of failure exists.

Even the kids will not feel the need to study and learn as they will know that no one can fail them till class VIII. Hence they will reach class VIII or IX with an enormous amount to catch up with as ultimately they will have to sit for an end of school examinations where marks hold the keys to the future.

Not a happy situation.

Pwhy’s secondary teachers were almost up in arms when they heard the news as they more than anyone else have the daunting task of making up for years of poor performance. And as one quiet voice said: maybe parents will stop sending their kids to pwhy as one of the main reasons they had was to ensure that their children do well in examinations.

Day two of the book launch and what a day it turned out to be. Two events were planned in two locations as different from each other as chalk and cheese: a very upmarket hospital and a middle suburban mall; the common denominator: the presence of a chain book outlet. I must admit that the choice of the hospital was rather bemusing as the launch was to include a theatrical performance. But ours is not to…

As we were getting ready, a telephone call informed us that our dear publisher had taken ill at night and was feeling hellish. Ominous…

We reached the hospital and weaved our way to the tiny bookstore located in one of the numerous waiting halls filled with anxiety ridden families where the hum was often broken by incomprehensible announcements over a PA system. The appointed hour of the event struck and went by. Confusion prevailed and tempers threatened to rise. Chairs were moved around and bewildered people were made to readjust themselves. Soon a trio took seat next to the bay window and started beating a drum. I do not know why but what came to my mind was a page from Alice in Wonderland. Were we to be guests at the Mad Hatter’s tea party?

Drums beating in a space replete with Silence Please signs looked incongruous. We barely had time to take the situation in when a posse of angry looking men arrived and put a stop to the whole show. A senior doctor had objected, quite rightly, to the noise and ordered it be stopped. By that time some guests had arrived to, each one wondering what was happening. What ensued was a expected: parleys and discussion, a bit of blame game and then the inevitable: there would be no launch, no book reading, no show.. It was time to pack up, the party was over.

Anyway there was still another launch, later in the day, miles away..

Come 4 pm and we all gathered in a middle class mall near the food court and blissfully the kids play area. This little messy mall was more to my liking than the hoity–toity one of the first launch. The stage had been set, the actors were ready and the show would begin once a mike was found. In the meantime the play area beckoned big and small and Utpal, Kiran and Shamika decided to have a blast, and boy they did!

In the meantime a mike had been found and the show began. A rendering of parts of Dear Popples and the Prayer and then some book reading. A handful of people watched the on-goings, and then it was time to go bit not before some goodies were bought to be savoured during the long return drive.

All in one the two day experience was one to remember. Nothing was as expected and yet when one looks back a lot did happen: wonderful connections were made, a family of five was saved and a bunch of kids big and small had a whopping time!

here are some pictures of day 2

Dear Popples was launched this week end. A series of events – three actually – had been carefully planned: two in malls and one in a hospital! I must confess that the past few days had been filled with excitement and apprehension. Dear Popples is the first book I have written and hence this was to be my first launch. I had been told that there was to be a book reading and signing and a quiz where people would play for a miracle. At the end of the day Basant and Rekha’s family would be saved. Over 100 people I was told, had entered the contest! This was great news. The event promised to be a whopping success. Innumerable calls were made, and mails were sent to ensure that may would attend.

Saturday morning dawned. I must admit the night had been short. A palpable sense of excitement permeated the house as we all got ready. There were many of us, almost the same gang that takes the monthly ride to Utpal’s PTM except that this time Utpal, was with us. Rekha and Basant had come early. Abhigyan, my wonderful publisher who I had finally met the previous day arrived and it was time to leave. The event was in a brand new mall in Gurgaon a long drive away. We reached the mall. It was the very one where we had come to a year back for a PTM. Ominous!

We reached the right gate and could see the sparkling book store an escalator ride away on the first floor. But Rekha being blind and having never in her life seen or heard about moving staircases, we set off in search of a lift or staircase. We found a lift but though we reached the said foor, we found to our utter dismay that there was no access to the store. There was no staircase either. How did one get Rekha to the store. Finally with much effort we managed to convince the operator to stop the escalator. Rekha was made to climb on it and then the machine was restarted. It was an ordeal and I cannot even begin to think what must have gone in the poor woman’s mind. At last every one reached the store.

The place had been beautifully laid out with chairs, and armchairs, tables ans flowers, large display of the books to be launched, larger than life sized posters, a screen, mikes et al. What was missing was people though the said time had past. Once again I was reminded of Kafka. Barring us there was no one. One could almost sense moods changing. Anger in some, bewilderment in others. A sense of amused deja vu filled me. Oh darling hey hai dilli was what I felt like screaming. People do not come out of their comfort zones at 11 am on a Saturday morning, people fill forms for quizzes ans events and hen simply do not turn up, people promise to be there and then forget to come or forget to inform that will not. Anyway the chairs lay empty for a long time. Slowly friends who had been solicited, entreated and bullied started trickling in and some chairs got filled. Even Mrinal and Anil, whose flight from Mumbai had been terribly delayed made it on time.

But the show must go on and it did. The show had to go on and it did. Rekha and Basant’s miracle had to happen and it did. There was a book reading, a book signing and a quiz even though many chairs were empty and contestants few. What was important was that all present had the ability to see with their heart and hence as the fox told the little Prince only the essential was visible.

You can share some pictures of the event here:

The last post was angry though I had promised to myself not to succumb to anger. But there are moments when resolves break. I am but human. But the anger passes and often a mellow mood follows, one when you try to reconnect with the simpler things and heal yourself.

Last week was so hectic – a book launch, an important visit and a bout of fever – that I almost forgot a very precious incident. Utpal spent some days at home. One evening he went to the market with Radhey his long time pal and came back with a small glass bowl filled with what looked like glass beads but turned out to be made of some gooey unidentifiable and quite yucky matter. He was all excited as he entered my tiny office clutching his precious ware. He stomped to my table and placed the bowl carefully: he then turned to me and said: this is a present for you, it shines at night so you will not be scared when it is dark!

Needless to say, I was terribly moved – throat tight and tears welling up – as I hugged the little fellow. Needless to say that the cheap glass bowl suddenly became very precious. For those of you who do not live in Delhi and hence do not spend time at red lights getting pestered to buy strange ware, this is the latest offering from China. A small packet filled with what looks like glitter till it is placed in water where t swells to 600 time its size and becomes gooey beads. A glass bowl comes with it, or you may just buy a bowl filled with already bloated beads. Wonder how many people do buy them, and why.

My bowl is unique, just like the Little Prince’s rose. For Utpal it was something that could adorn my sancto sanctorum, a place replete with memorabilia of all kind, each having a story to tell. It is not simply a glass bowl filed with cheap gooey beads. It is what little Utpal found good enough to have a place in my office. It is laced with the love and tenderness of a little boy. I know it will sit on my table for a long time and I also know that my eyes will often stray towards it as my heart fills with wonder and pride. And perhaps, it may just soothe any threatening bout of anger in days to come.