more project stats
A few posts back we shared some of our achievements with a sense of pride. Today I was given another set of statistics and once again one felt elated.
My mind travelled back almost 10 years when project why began, or rather when the organisation was set up. To me it was a question of paying back a debt but at that time the canvas was blank and our work could have taken on any direction. The first year was spent distributing nutrition to slum children and in the course of that year one set out biscuits in hand on a journey into an unknown world, or rather a world one had been conditioned to view in a particular way. With each biscuit came a lesson and a set of questions or ‘whys’.
The one why that disturbed me the most was: why do children drop out of school? Project why came as our answer to this question and one can say with a some satisfaction that since its inception children who have come our way have remained in school and performed well. This year again we have has our set of toppers in many classes.
The other why that was as disquieting was the alarming number of children in Delhi who are not in school – over 100 000 between the age of 7 and 13 – . So it has also been our effort to try and push children back into mainstream education. This is often a difficult task as one has to motivate parents and bully schools. This year again 6 children were admitted n class VI and 61 in different primary classes.
Cynics may think this is but a drop in he ocean and I agree, but drops create ripples. In a land has huge as ours the only way to be able to bring change is one child at a time, one day at a time and to believe that if one life is changed a real difference has been made.
the orphan and the one eyed child
I had heard the story of the the one-eyed child who lived in a small village and was the butt of cruel jokes and a sad laughing stock. His mother climbed a rocky hill on her knees to reach a shrine where it was said miracles happened. Sometime later her child lost his other eye and turned blind. At first she was unable to understand what had happened till slowly she realised that people had stopped making fun of her child and were often seen helping him and being kind to him.
This story has many explanations and many lessons to be learnt. But it came to my mind as I battled a real life situation today. We have been trying to find alternatives for Babli and Jeetu. Whereas many know Babli’s story, Jeetu belongs to times before one actually became a blogger. He lost his Mom when he was still a tiny baby. Now almost 8 he is tended for by a father who barley eeks a living. The father, like so many others, drinks and becomes abusive and violent. Last week he was seen threatening his son with a tyre that he was about to hurl on him when one of our staff members intervened.
Babli and Jeetu have parents but just in name as in either case these parents have scant time for their progeny. We were hoping to send them to karammarg but were told that a recent decision of their Board was to only take orphans.
Babli and Jeetu are not exceptions. There are many like them who though having parents live a life of abject neglect. They are left to their own devices. Jeetu does not even go to school in spite of all our efforts. Babli is a surrogate mother to her family. Her father even makes take care of the tobacco and cigarette cart he has while he is busy gambling. One year after her heart surgery she has not grown an inch or put on a pound. Having parents who do not care is worse than being orphaned as orphans are quite often taken care of by relatives and treated with kindness.
Jeetu and Babli are muck like the one eyed child, their lives worse than that of the child with no parents. Their homes situation is so hopeless that it becomes impossible to help them in situ. Their only hope is that their family – or what goes by that name – accepts to give them a better chance.
Sometimes decisions are taken in a hurry, one can only hope that they are not irreversible. It is the plight of children like them that made us seed planet why. If not for all the children at least for those who drop by our way.
when ruchi primps champa
Thursday afternoon is grooming and self-care time in the special section of project why. This is when the students are taught all about looking after themselves and even looking after each other.
Manu gets a vigorous pedicure courtesy Shalini Rinky tries her hand at making up Neha and Shaheeda gives Neetu a hand massage.
Each using her special ability in helping the other feel and look better. This week Ruchi, who suffers from a debilitating nervous condition often leads to uncontrollable tremors decided to style Champa’s unruly tresses.
To many this may seem trivial but to those who know the reality it was an extraordinary moment as for Ruchi to be able to wield a comb was nothing less than a momentous effort. And Champa’s patience was laudable.
These children never fail to move me. They come from different social ad economic backgrounds and would have never met, let alone interacted had they been what we call normal! The common denominator is that they are different in normal parlance. But when you are with them you can feel the bonding that transcends anything one could imagine.
From Manu who was a street beggar a few years ago to Rinky who comes from an educated middle class family, from Himashu barely 5 to Shalini now 31, they form a close knit group that spends a few hours each day laughing, fighting, learning, playing or in a word living!
What a beautiful example they are of how easy it is to forget differences and find a common ground. Maybe we should learn from them.
project stats
There was a time not so long ago, when we waited with bated breath for march 31st. That was the day results were declared in both primary and secondary municipal schools.
As mark-sheets landed on our desk and children dropped by with sweetmeats, our excitement grew till the moment we had all the results and reached the magic 100% figure.
As we had the much awaited confirmation, I remember setting out to write e-mails to all our friends and supporters – I was not a blogger then – to share that great moment. Then like always we turned a tad blasé and sunk in our comfort zones as 100% seemed the rule and not the exception.
What stood out the was whether any one had topped her or his class. Slowly even that became almost routine. A tiny sentence in a blog post market the achievement.
31 march 2007 came and went and so did the first week of April. As teachers dropped by the office we one again got confirmation of a 100% result and our handful of toppers!
It has been 7 years since we set this trend, 7 years when children have not dropped out but passed with honourable marks. The 400 school going children may seem a drop in the ocean in this city where over 100 000 children do not attend school, but what makes our achievement laudable is the fact that we have managed this result with untrained teachers drawn from the community itself. This in other words means that with a little bit of help a community can be empowered to take over their children’s education and contain the staggering drop out rates.
A quick perusal of our classrooms proves that not much is needed to run classes: a steer corner, an open space, some shade and a committed ‘teacher’ is all one needs. Our true achievement is of having elaborated and validated a model that works.
Now it is time to transfer power slowly and to taken the role on advisor, consultant, mentor..
Another statistics we looked at come April was the new school admissions. Not so much the little children who left our early education programme make their way to class I, but those who were not in school or had dropped out. It has been our effort to help such children integrate mainstream schooling in a class as close to their age as possible. This year again a large number of children will be mainstreamed and will thus enjoy their constitutional right to Education.
The above statistics are important to project why as they validate our core mission: to ensure that children integrate and remain in school. I know that some of our friends may feel we sometimes seem to be diluting our programmes, but that is not so. We have always remained true to our essential mission, it is just that our little team has become empowered enough to handle what once took most of our time, enabling us to reach out to larger issues as these too will affect the lives of the children we teach.
Electoral games
The municipal elections are over.. They were less noisy and almost poster free but candidates did make their presence felt in novel ways: loads of street ambulations that looked like marriage parties where the well garlanded candidates paraded as grooms (never mind the gray hair and pot bellies) led by a rowdy group of hired supporters and drum beats. Their eager henchmen preceded them rapidly shoving garlands in the hands of by standers asking them to do the needful as the hero of the moment crosses their way.
What was different this time was the staggering number of independent candidates with amusing election symbols: over and above the well known hand, lotus ad elephant we had an aeroplane, a cup-saucer, a candle, a house, an locomotive, a banana, a mango, a book, a broom and more. Notwithstanding the use of EVMs, the supporters shouted: put your stamp on ..
The multiplicity of candidates and the well known time laxity in our land made many parties come face to face in the tiny lanes and often lead to arguments and fist fights, in one case even gunfire!
I was happy to see that even simple people found this aggressive and bombastic electioneering an insult to their intelligence. They just played on.. knowing that they would cast their vote for who they wanted. They were the ones who were quick to tell me the not so glorious antecedents which seems to be a common factor for everyone of them.
On election day however many hopes were shattered as for those who did not have voter’s ID cards the options allowed by the Election commission once again divided India: PAN cards, driving licences or passports were ID’s that would allow you to vote, whereas ration cards were disallowed. So those living in slums and whose name appeared on the electoral rolls could not vote as they did not have the required ID proof as they often do not drive cars, pay taxes or travel outside India!
Election day saw money exchanging hands and the presence of liquor was evident in the sway of many people as the day passed..
A friend called saying that she questioned the validity of electoral promises which seem to state the obvious as were not municipalities meant to provide citizens with water, electricity and a clean environment?
There was a small feeling of satisfaction as the “none of the above” option was included. I remembered the fight it had been to excercise the “refuse to vote” option some years back.
We indeed had come a long way.
a huge moment at pwhy
Manu, a young physically and mentally challenged young man lived on the street, neglected, dirty and soiled. People would feed him but like you feed an animal. Children threw stones at him. His family abused him in all conceivable ways. No one touched him, when things became too much he would let out the most heart wrenching cries.
We knew we had to do something and after exploring all options we realised we had to give him back his dignity within his community. To do this, we had to gain the confidence of the community and that is why we opened our centre. We looked after Manu, cleaned him, found him a place to sleep and slowly began to get to know him, love him and discover his humane qualities. Slowly he learned to look after himself, to eat with a spoon and to spend time in the centre and even participated in vocational activities. And as days went by, not only we, but the very people who had shunned him began to discover Manu.
These words appeared on our website way back in 2001. I looked through the thousands of pictures that document project for a photograph of Manu’s as he was then and find none. Somehow it felt wrong to snap such despair, no one had the right to do so.
Today Manu is an integral part of our special section where he has his pals. He participates in all activities be it cooking or classroom work; he loves dancing and has reclaimed the right to assert his likes and dislikes, like any one of us.
We had come a long way but we still needed to establish his social identity and give him his civic rights. Has family of course had abandoned him, denying him even his right share after his father’s demise. Getting him one seemed an impossible catch 22 situation: to get a handicap certificate you need a ration card, to get a ration card you need a permanent address and so on.
But there was one thing we could get him: a bank account under the guardianship of our organisation. So yesterday Manu had his first ID picture taken. What a huge moment it was for all of us as he set out to get that picture taken.
In the course of the week we will open his account. Even I who have is by now a firm believer in miracles feel a little dizzy as I look back at the road Manu has travelled.
PS: unfortunately by the time we got to the bank the rules had changed and our letter did not suffice and Manu’s account could not be opened.
a one of a kind birthday gift
At my advanced age one does not celebrate birthdays or expect gifts. Yet this year I decided to mark my double five by unabashedly asking for a present from my crew even using the power of being captain of the ship!
I must confess that it is part of a game plan I have had for long. When the project why journey began, I had a dream: that of seeing each member of team project why one day at the helm of their individual programmes. however each time i suggested this, i was met with a salvo of: how can we? we are not capable? etc. It was to be expected as just like the children, they too suffered from a brand of poor self esteem that was almost debilitating and made them incapable all they had achieved in the past years.
So last Saturday I reminded them that it was my birthday in a few days and that I wanted a gift from each one of them. I was amused as I took time in stating the nature of the gift and watched their eager and perplexed faces. I think no one expected what came next: for my birthday I want each one of you to write a paragraph about what you have achieved in the last 5 years that I can be proud of. i want each one of you to tell me why you should be admired..
Stunned silence followed my words and before the usual No’s would land on my ears, I added that there was no discussion and added the right dose of emotional blackmail as i said that I would be hurt if someone did not do what i said as this was the first time I had actually asked for something.
I wait with bated breath for what will land on my lap on Wednesday and will share it with everyone. For me it is a way of proving to this incredible lot that they are capable of taking my dream forward!
why ki tazaa khabar
why ki tazaa khabar is a new blog that saw the light of day on March 17th. The idea was mooted by the following words sent by a long time supporter: I find a major problem which is lack of information… my only problem is that I never get any information about that project. how that project is going on..how are kids in that project…did they do any progress..how is my contribution being helpful to them…how many teachers are there in the project etc etc.
Being one who has the tendency of easily slipping into comfort zones – i.e. taking for granted what goes on smoothly – this was a wake up call. I understand my friend’s concern as once upon a time I did send out regular individual emails!
But as the project grew and so did everyday challenges, individual updates became rarer as I believed – maybe wrongly – that the blogs and updates on the site were adequate information.
Having decided right from the outset that I would not waste my funders money on heavy administrative structures, and having also chosen to employ only community people who were not savvy enough to write in English, I was left with little choice. I could have sent a mail explaining this but I just sank into a comfort zone.
The wake up call that landed in my inbox jolted me into the need of finding a viable solution that would dovetail into the why spirit and give a day-to-day account of what happens at pwhy.
The way out I hit upon was a blog in roman Hindi in the words of those who were directly involved with running pwhy. So why ki tazaa khabar will be rani and shamika’s blog in their own words and will give all a different view of pwhy.
It is the first time shamirani – the name they chose – are setting out on such a venture and if you feel it is something hat needs to be encouraged please do drop a mail to
shambakshou@yahoo.co.in.
from milk vans to call centre cars
I have always been a morning person and a light sleeper. Yet for years I never woke up before 4 or 4.30 am. If I let my memory travel back I realise that often it is was the cling clang of the Delhi Milk Scheme vans that used to wake me up. Sometimes a crow or a bird preceded it by a few minutes.
Lately I have found myself waking up as early as 2 am jolted from my sleep by the sound of a speeding vehicle. We live close to a flyover and in the dead of night every sound does get amplified. True that in yore years too sometimes their were cars whizzing past, maybe on their way to the airport, or Saturday party goers getting back home but it was an occasional sound that did not get passed the deep sleep one was in. It is the everyday sounds that reach that part of your brain like the milk van or the faithful crow.
Irked by this new phenomena that was now translating itself into dark circles under the eyes and an irritable Maam’ji, I decided to try and decipher the source of this new late night occurrence. It did dawn one such night: these were the BPO or call centre staff vehicles crisscrossing our city to meet their unearthly schedules.
A lot has been said about the effects of these new working hours that need to meet different time zones and turn night into day. many young people are paying the price and as is often the case, the once lucrative and upmarket job options is now being shunned by some and is slowly reaching the lower strata of society. Today many of our ex students work in call centres as the job profile is scaled down to meet the ever exceeding demand.
Doc P, our family doctor recounted how on a trip to the US he needed to change a booking and dialled a number answered by a young lad who was desperately trying to communicate in his newly acquired American Hinglish; no matter how many times Doc tried to coax him into speaking in Hindi, the lad held on: needless to say the booking was never changed.
While travelling to pwhy everyday one sees new hoardings for BPO training institutes that guarantee perfect English in 6 weeks or so. I guess they must be lucrative as new ones appear ever so often.
I guess I wil need to invest in a good pair of earplugs!
Sapna’s mom
To me she will always be Sapna’s mom though her name is Bimla and she is also Monty’s mom. She came to us almost 4 years ago carrying Sapna who was 5 but could not even hold her head, let alone stand. She used to drop by sometimes dragging her feet and looking far beyond her twenty something.
Slowly her story unfolded and we were shocked to learn that a still born child has resulted in a prolapsed uterus, the reason for her awkward gait. I first wrote about he almost exactly three years ago as she lay in hospital where she had initially gone to get her uterus removed but landed up in having to get a heart valve replaced. The uterus lay forgotten.. though visible!
Today three years later she again lies in a hospital this time finally free of her agony and shame. her story could have been shared many times as so much happened in the intervening years, but somehow I felt that the moment was not the right as for her closure only came today.
Bimla is 28 though she looks 128. Married to a man that not only does not care for her but is also often jobless, she bore with the resilience of Indian women a fate no one can envy: a retarded first born that was seen as a curse, a second child that was often ill, a mother in law that despised her but on whom she was dependent, nothing looked right for this woman. More was to come as her husband was diagnosed with a congenital heart problem. So the surgery she needed was delayed as she had to replace him as a dishwasher in a small eatery…
In the meantime however Sapna started walking and saying a few words and Monty got better and became a regular at pwhy! Bimla can infuriate even the most tolerant person as she often does not react to things but simply accepts her fate; I guess it is her way of dealing with what she knows she cannot change. I guess she has perfected the art of living one day at a time, and does not or rather cannot allow herself the luxury to look at the future.
Last week she came by and a look at her swollen face and body shook us out of the torpor she had manged to instill in us: we decided to get her hysterectomy done come what may as were anything to happen to her her innocent kids lives would be shattered. Luckily Sabrina and Chris were kind enough to help us.
Needless to say that it was not easy to get her husband to come and sign the consent forms but we managed though once again no one fromm her family stayed with her, it was little Deepak’s grandmother who offered to be there, another pwhy miracle.
For us it was just the question of saving Sapna’s mom, as little Sapna is considered a burden for all and only has her mom on her side.
mumbai footpaths
A mail dropped by recently in my mailbox. It opened with the words: I have been visiting Project Why for quite some time now and its quite interesting to know the way you take up issues. In fact I have been observing certain things out here in Mumbai but since I don’t have a blog that would bring up such issues I am writing it to you.
I gave myself a silent pat on my back before reading on, as somehow the 400 odd blogs that sit on this site were written in the hope that they would make a difference. Like many other things it was just that a hope against hope till Rachana’s mail came by. Suddenly what was till then a nebulous though took on a different hue and with it came the realisation of the responsibility that came with it.
This is what she wrote:
My office is located at Lower Parel in Mumbai, a corporate hub where you can find all sorts of offices. The primary concern I feel at this place that slowly and gradually people are occupying the footpaths as a living place. All shabby stuff is thrown here and there and they are doing all possible workouts from cooking to bathing. It becomes difficult especially for women out here to move on the footpath. More over the traffic on the roads is so heavy that it is very unsafe to walk on the road. Initially it was just two -three people who started living out there but now i can find almost 30-40 people in the area just opposite to the Lower Parel station and opp to Kamla mills ( where CNBC is located).
Most of these people that we want to wish away do play an important role in our lives though it may seem invisible or so essential that it has become a second habit. Just let your imagination run free and imagine life without these people. I do not know Mumbai but in Delhi they are the ones who give us most of our creature comforts and are available in the myriad of household emergencies we face.
For seven years I have lived amidst such people. What we forget is that they are just like us, have children to feed, educate and protect and dreams to fulfill, dreams that we often fuel without realising. They carry mobiles because greedy companies offer them special deals as they slowly get caught in the net of hire/purchase.
As civil society we have a responsibility towards these people and need to raise awareness on the issue of habitat for the poor which is a bomb waiting to explode!
reality check
An anonymous comment on a previous post– reality notes 2 – with you, for you, always – came as a bit of a jolt. It said: here is a bit of advice. Instead of running around like a plucked chicken trying to prove your point (and who knows what that is!), why don’t you hire your own security. Get some unemployed thugs to provide security for you. They are cheap and you won’t have these hassles in the future.
It was indeed a wake up call in more ways than one. I wish the person had not chosen to remain anonymous. It would have helped me assess whether the comment was laced with sarcasm or a genuine piece of advise. Notwithstanding both are equally disturbing.
I may seem at times to be running around like a plucked chicken. I guess most of us who try to beat the system in existence land up looking like that. Barring the initial years when we at pwhy were trying to find our feet and posed no threat to anyone, we have faced innumerable obstacles that took various avatars but had a single purpose: to get us to pack our bags and leave.
For us each obstacle came as a challenge and a vindication of our approach. If a tiny organisation like ours could disturb existing patterns than it meant that we were on the right track. To many we may just have looked like any education imparting organisation that dot our land, but it is actually a saga of whys, whats and hows bringing us slowly to one moot point: empowerment of the community. And to achieve this with a modicum we had to walk the long road, abide by existing rules and set an example that all could emulate.
So the point one has been trying to prove is that no matter what the odds, there exists a system albeit one that many prefer circumventing that works if one tries. One could have made one phone call and got the police station to accept the complaint, but that was not a solution available to all; however going to the higher authority is one that is there for all provided you are aware of it.
It would be naive of me to think that this is the last hurdle in my race. Many more will come and will have to be faced but each one will be a step in the right direction as it will show the way and may help others.
So there is a method in what seems my madness; but one your life beats at the rhythm of many others then all planning, no matter how well conceived, goes haywire and you just take things one step at a time, one day at a time.
Last but not the lest I need to react to what is suggested in the aforesaid comment: getting protection by hiring thugs. I would have preferred to dismiss this without a word but cannot. First and foremost no one is a thug by birth. We are collectively responsible for them becoming that. Then stooping down to the level of people one holds in contempt is not an acceptable solution. And last of all the solution proffered is again an individual one, what we seek at pwhy is solutions for each and every Indian.
reality notes 2 – with you for you always
As I had written in my previous post, I set out this morning with a well drafter complaint (courtesy my lawyer)to seek protection from those who are meant to give it to every citizen namely the Delhi Police whose motto we all know is with you, for you , always!
As a honest activist and proud Indian I decided to follow the procedure to the T and set out to the police post in Govindpuri. I had thought that lodging a complaint would be simple as it only required to be handed over.
The police station was abuzz with activity with men in uniform haring here and there. The antique walkies talkies were spouting incomprehensible words drowned in static. To my bewilderment no one seemed to care that we were there, let alone attend to us. One gathered that some high politician was visiting the area and hence everyone was required to be at the spot.
After some time someone deigned looking at our paper that was in English and legal jargon, and then passed it on to another. After some time we were told that they would not accept it as there were thousands of such complaints! In short they refused to take our simple complaint.
So after some cogitation and consultation with our lawyers we set out to the next authority namely the ACP Kalkaji after adding another letter stating how we had been refused our basic civic right. Our complaint was accepted by that office.
In hindsight it seemed the someone had called the police post to ensure that our complaint was not filed. This someone was part of the pack of wolves, probably the one who ensured good relationship with the local cops, the seedy nexus slowly revealed was beyond one’s imagination and yet so real to the India we live in.
So maybe I stand corrected as I have many times felt that education and a good command of English does open doors, Well it does, but not at the lower levels of the system where predators rule with impunity.
Now we sit and wait for the next assault armed with a copy of our complaint duly stamped in acknowledgement. with you for you always remain words with no meaning unless you are part of the nexus.
reality notes
I have often written about the hungry wolves that lurk in every corner trying to destroy any attempt that dares disturb the social balance they have set in place, no matter how lopsided it may be.
What is even more disturbing is that they succeed in a manner of speaking. Like all cowards they hit below the belt hoping to wear you down by their threats and abusive ways.
These predators often come in the garb of small trade unions or petty politicians who unfortunately are perceived to be powerful by the simple minds they control. A series of unfortunate consequences led one person to be convinced to file a frivolous case under the Shop and Establishments Act against our organisation. the bait was an enormous about of money dangled in front of a poor and gullible person.
The matter has been in the labour office for a while. As it seemed to sway in our favour, the pack resorted to vile tactics and yesterday threatened to send goondas to handle the issue and extort the money come what may. The threats were targeted at me in person and indirectly at the rest of the organisation.
I will be filing a complaint in the police station ad will carry on my work. However many questions come to mind. The bravado of an old woman is acceptable but can ask vulnerable people to do the same or can one put at risk children simply to make a point.
On the other hand any perception of fear would be a feather in the cap of our detractors. Does one pack up and go and thus write off the morrows of many innocent lives, or does one carry hoping for the best.
What is frightening in such matters is the attitude of the administration who fuels such frivolous cases and allows them to be filed for their own devious reasons. What is disquieting is the relentless way in which predators target even tiny organisations like ours whose sole purpose is to empower people.
What will happen this morning is yet to be seen, maybe nothing but that does not deflect from the reality of this new why that needs to be addressed.
Give me another mandir!
Today was a special treat. A visit to Utpal’s school. Rishi was kind enough to set aside the rules to allow Xavier, Utpal’s cyberDad, a few stolen moments with the one he calls pepere in spite of the fact that school examinations were on.
It was a warm afternoon just tempered by a cool wind. We reached the school at 4pm shortly after the mandatory afternoon nap. We sat quietly in the Directors room though our hearts were beating a tad faster as we held back the question we were dying to ask : where is Utpal?
A few moments later a quit knock of the forbidding door and our little fellow appeared squeaky clean, in his track suit his hair well oiled and combed to a T. We sat in silence as he tiptoed in and stood near us. To Xavier’s how are you Utpal echoed a confident fine thank you Sir. Then after some time Utpal sought Rishi’s permission to show Javire the school, and off we went dying to be in a spot where we could finally hug him.
After a while Xavier fished out a little key chain with an Eiffel Tower and gave it to him. Utpal kept it in his hand as we ambled around the school. Then it was time to leave. In a quiet voice Utpal said: can I have another mandir (temple) for my friend?
It took us a minute to realise that the mandir he was referring to was the Eiffel Tower? He got one and walked away, without looking back as I wiped a silent tear from the corner of my eye.
not to be deterred
Once again, on a fine morning the students and staff of pwhy were greeted by a gaping hole in the wall of our Okhla centre. This is not the first time and probably not the last. Wonder who did it, some drunken lads for a bit of fun or some mischief maker. Who knows, and come to think about it who cares..
The Okhla lot are used to such acts and what caused anger and hurt at one time has almost become a game. No mason or expert is needed. The morning after the incident students carefully pick all the bricks and keep them safely inside the classroom. A call is made to the office to get the required amount of cement and the kids get down to the task of repairing the damage while onlookers watch them and perhaps amongst them those who committed the misdeed.
My heart fills with pride as I watch the kids at work as more than anything taught in books, they have learnt a great lesson in life: not to be deterred by acts committed by cowards.
holi hai!
In trying to explain the significance of holi to my foreign son-in-law I found myself searching the net as my knowlede did not go beyond the Prahlad-Hollika story. On this site, I read the follwoing: Originally the festival was primarily for the Shudras who were otherwise not allowed to participate in festivals. In ancient India too, this festival was celebrated as a day when people forgot caste and gender differences and were allowed many liberties, otherwise forbidden.
I do have vague memories of my childhood in my grandfather’s home when on that day those who worked in the house joined everyone in the lawns where holi was celebrated with great gusto. Flowers had been soaked overnight to provide a wonderful yellow brew, and colours were natural, sweets had been made at home too and many sherbets cooled in earthen pots. Some were forbidden to us ; guess they were the ones laced with bhang.
Then Holi became a day one dreaded as chemical colors, and all the filth imaginable were hurled at you even days before the festival. Like most festivals, the essence was forgotten.
I was glad to reconnect with the meaning of the festival and was happy to see that the little band that played holi in my garden reflected just that essence as all the Indias not to say the world were united in fun and spirit.
cross your Ts and dot your Is mr government
In my quest to get pwhy kids and heir families the required caste and OBC certificates I set about finding out the procedure set out by our government. A quick perusal of the Delhi government website is sufficient to show that the modus operandi proposed is almost impossible to meet.
For Scs and Sts whereas the application can be signed by the local elected representative, someone that can be acceded to, the remaining papers require the signature of two class I gazetted officer, something that even i would have difficulty in finding.
In case of OBCs a new para has been added which states: I certify that to the best of my knowledge and belief that i do not belong to the creamy layer of the OBC… (para 14 of application form), However no definition has been given of the creamy layer!
It does not end here. To get a handicapped certificate you need to be 40% physically handicapped and 35% mentally challenged. Wonder what happens to those who are under! And in a city where the minimum wage for unskilled labour is about 3000 rs a month, the website states : He or she should be domiciled in Delhi for more than 5 years and their monthly income should not exceeds. 400/- and if unemployed their family income should not exceed Rs.600/
I think one would be justified to say that their seems to be a concerted effort to ensure that good schemes do not reach the true beneficiary. One would be justified in thinking that if we as civil society armed with a powerful tool like the Right to Information, set out to redress torts and ensure that existing schemes functioned this country would be a better place for all!
a cri de coeur
Today’s TV news brought pictures of 390 little bones buried near a hospital in Ratlam. Experts say they are the remains of babies. Today’s newspaper reported that there were thousands of missing children in our own Silicon valley a.k.a Bengaluru!
Post Nithari, the NHRC has asked for an update of missing children in UP. A website has been launched to keep track of missing children. Many questions come to mind and find no answers. The entire administrative setup seems to have forsaken the children of India in every way imaginable.
There are another little forsaken group of missing children, those that came for unknown reasons to seek shelter at the Baba Balnath Ashram since its inception in 1975. The present lot were rescued in early December 2006 though they too seem lost in complex administrative and judicial mazes. But what about all the others that transited this hell hole for 30 long years. Some should be almost middle aged women.
Will anyone give them a voice. What will it take to get civil society to ask these disturbing questions and seek answers so that they may get the justice they deserve? We have seen many a campaign in recent months that have brought closure to several cases. However these girls are invisible, yet they too are victims of the society we live in.
It is time to wake up and redeem ourselves if redemption there is!
Continuing little Anisha’s story
Anisha lies in a hospital bed. She dropped by pwhy yesterday morning and I was shocked to see her gasping breath. The forlorn parents told me that the hospital had refused to give a date as they had not deposited 4 units of blood and in spite of the fact that the 55 000 Rs required for her surgery had been paid more than a week back.
Knowing the attitude of the AAIMS’s blood bank that only wanted relatives as donors, I knew it was time to act. I told the mother to immediately take the child to the emergency room and that i would follow.
I mouthed a silent prayer to the God of lesser beings when I reached the hospital as any delay would have been fatal. Anisha lay under an oxygen bell while a nurse was desperately tyring to find a vein on the child’s emaciated body. Anisha weighs under 4 kilos at 9 months.
The family was desperate as they were told that there were no beds in AIIMS and the child may have to be taken to Safdurjung across the road. I told them to do what was said and had to resort to what works in India: contacts. After a long trudge and many misses I located a friend doctor in another department and asked him to intervene.
Now we wait with crossed fingers and bated breath for a little miracle: that of getting a bed and a date for the much needed life saving surgery.
I later googled for the meaning of Anisha: it means continuous…
an ordinary day in ordinary India
A middle aged woman pushing her vegetable cart in the chilly evening rain set me thinking about the life of an ordinary citizen in India’s capital city.
The heap of vegetables still lying unsold on her cart was proof that it had not been a good day. I wondered why she and not a man was pushing the cart. A widow maybe, or a woman abandoned for another. Who knows? She must got up long before the sun rose and gone to the wholesale market in spite of the torrential rain. Then she must have carefully arranged all her different vegetables on her cart ready to walk her beat calling out people to buy her goods.
Her mind may have gone back to times gone by where no gates existed in residential colonies and no permission and ID were needed, a time where smart shops did not sell vegetables in neat packets glowing under an artificial green light, a time where the local pheri wallah was the obvious option was the only viable option for many a housewife. But those days were gone… yet she carried on.
Our city is filled with such people who set out every morning to sell a plethora of goods and depend on the day’s income to feed their waiting family. We have many such people in our area, some even parents of pwhy children. I have seen many mothers sitting at the doorstep and waiting for the bread earner to come back so that she can set about cooking the evening meal, mouthing a silent prayer that he has not stopped by the watering hole.
These are brave ordinary Indians who left their homes in the hope of finding a better life in the city, and in the hope of carving out a better life for their children. They are your vegetable and fruit vendors, your corner cobbler, your scooter repair man, your street food vendor.. They are the likes of Nanhe’s mom whose family grows hungry when she sits by the side of her child in the hospital.
They are ordinary Indians who have created an invisible support system that we have gotten used to and depend on without quite knowing it. Just like us they have families to feed, children to educate, lives to run. Still embedded in the Indianness they keep many of our traditions and rites alive, those we have forgotten and forsaken.
Yet they disturb and are often as they are considered ungainly and not in sync with modern India. They are held responsible for polluting the city as we forgot about them in our planning and they just had to place themselves somehow and anyhow. And yet they were never pushed away as politicians looked at them as votes and promptly gave them voters ID cards thus making them legit.
While law makes and executors are trying to fix things in time for the nest election, these ordinary Indians are busy surviving one day at a time, not aware of the Damocles’s sword that hangs on their heads.
Creating roadmaps – manoj’s mom (2)
The editor of a famous women’s magazine shared a touching experience where her attempts to rescue a street child had failed for want of a proper road map. Ms Fernandes concludes her piece by an appeal to set such road maps. A hurt street child is taken to the hospital and treated but once healed there is nowhere for him to go, but back to the same street as there are no safe options.
There are no road maps in India as we have experienced over the years at pwhy be it with children, women, handicapped persons or the elderly. Each problem has to be taken as a challenge and a road map created.
When we came to know about manoj’s mom, we set out to look for a solution. manoj had been born at home. but one look at the mom’s face and we knew she needed proper medical attention. Strangely when you start looking for something in earnest, you find them. We discovered a maternity hospital run by the municipality that was a pleasant surprise. It was clean, efficient and above all practically free.
Manoj’s mom now has a road map for the next 4 months: iron shots for 10 days, and strips of vitamins and minerals. She will be checked regularly and will deliver in a safe environment. But that is not where the matter ended. we needed to find a healthier room with light and air to receive the baby when it arrives. I guess that by now we had caught the attention of the god of lesser beings as we found a room close to where some of our creche teachers stay. We knew she would be safe and that were her husband to beat her, many would come to her rescue, and when it was time for the baby to come, little manoj would be looked after.
In India we cannot wait for the powers that be to create road maps. We need to craft them ourselves.
Teach a child to dare ask his whys
Over the past seven years now one has been faced with innumerable questions that scream for answers. Questions about the abysmal state of environment awareness, about the total lack of information about policies and programmes, questions about how an ordinary ca citizen seek redressal.
Amidst the plethora of questions raised runs a common thread . There seems to be a total absence of responsibility as every one is looking at something or someone to bash, so if there is no water it is the fault of the government in power. What one forgets is that we are reponsible for electing them. We also forget that many of us still waste water. We also forget that the city is choking as wave after wave of migrants arrive each day.
But that is not all. Most of us, particularly our kind, find it infra dig to act: we often abstain from voting and are never ready to take the cudgels for any cause, leaving that to the other. This attitude being endemic what happens is that there is no one left to do the needful. A article on cleanliness that caught my eye recently explains this with conviction. The author seems to feel that if one targets children, maybe one can redress the situation.
Hence what is needed is to empower each and every child to dare ask his set of whys and assume responsibility for the wrongs. That is why we have decided to open a Right to Information desk at pwhy. We hope to be able to raise awareness about this incredible tool we possess and make each child aware of its potential.
A small step indeed, but one we hope will have a ripple effect so that one day humble citizens will shed their feudal attitudes and raise their voice.
a fallen hero
One will spend life in jail, the other is waiting for the gallows. They both thought that their political connections could give them licence to kill and get away with murder. But they did not. Public opinion ensured that and Jessica Lal and Priyadarshini Matoo got justice at last.
In September a professor was killed in front of hundred of people. Only 4 came forward and I remember writing about one of the them as in him one saw hope as he stood by what he believed was right. In the TV interview aired then he did mention his fears. At that time he was given police protection and we all hoped against hope that he would testify.
Yesterday all the four witnesses turned hostile, including Komal Singh Senger. Today the key accused moved the High Court for bail. In five months the powers that be had fixed every thing.
Original video tapes were doctored, and the prosecution’s case was full of glaring lapses. Now the family’s only hope is that the case is handed over to the CBI.
It all looks like a repeat of the previous cases.
Though many may blame the four witnesses there are a few questions that come to mind. Here again it was a murder that took place in a crowd that had professors, students, political leaders and many others, yet the witnesses were all simple peons. Wonder what happened to all the others. In September footage of the beating was aired over and over again by all channels. The final footage shown during proceedings omitted crucial scenes. Witnesses who should have been protected were left to their own devices and at the mercy of political goons. Wonder what threats or lollies were proffered.
The family has given up hope. Will public opinion rise again and see that justice is done. Seems a sad reflection of the reality we live in if in every single case justice will depend on whether the media will start a campaign or not.
Where is ou collective conscience gone? Don’t we realise that this can happen to one of us?
bye bye hot samosas..
Many years back, when the first fast food outlet opened in Delhi – I think it was a pizza something – I told many friends that they would never be able to compete with our own desi brand of fast foods: the zingy chats, piping hot samosas, delectable and sinful poories and melting hot jalebis -. Ask any LSR student of yore years about the gooey peas chat – mattar chat -and you will be treated to a Proustian expression. And how can we forget the oily but scrumptious bun omelet that has satiated many a hungry student.
Street food has been a tradition in Delhi, one that has withstood the test of time. An interesting outcome of globalisation is this tradition as now you can have chowmein, and momos and swharma at any street corner in India’s capital city. Just a few years back one had to make a trip to Delhi Haat to have a plate of momos, now we just walk down the street from our Govindpuri centre and get them.
This is post is not a trip down memory lane, neither is it a gastronomic review. It is an appeal to the powers that be not to take away the soul of our city and leave us rudderless as today’s papers rung the death knell of one of the oldest institutions of this city.
Street food is the grand old tradition in Delhi from the times when Kkhomchewallahs (street vendors) used to come to one’s doorstep to sell all kinds of snacks, chaats, ice creams, sweets and more. And yet the Supreme Court has decreed their demise. With a stroke of the pen our highest judicial body has wiped away an age old way of life. The erstwhile street vendors are now to be replaced by pre packed food. Just imagining a cold chola bhatura makes me lose my appetite.
True that hygiene is sometimes not quite up to the mark, but it is also the case in outlets that run from kiosks. Those who have been to Nehru Place must have seen how food outlets operate even though they run from supposedly legal spaces. Somehow the planners forgot simple things like water points!
But there is also a grimmer side to this decision. If street vendors are not allowed to operate many people will lose their jobs and many families will sleep hungry. On the other hand the popularity of these vendors is visible and one wonders where the people who eat there will go.
Just down our gali is a man who sells hot poories and lovely potato subzi. A plate of 5 poories, subzi and a bit of curd comes for 6 rs. Every morning as we drive by the smell of the poories is enticing. The place is crowded with young office goers who have no families, workers, auto richshaw drivers and others busy gobbling their hot morning breakfast. I must confess that I too have succumbed to the temptation and partaken of the treat many times.
The decision to have these vendors only sell food cooked at home and wrapped in some plastic container is the pits. Once again we have been struck by the now sated option that our administrators have made theirs: rather than face problems and find solutions, pass them on or do away with the problem altogether.
In the frenzied rush to make Delhi another Singapore or Shanghai, one cannot forget the millions who serve this city and ensure it runs. One cannot wish away people and institutions that have survived many a storm. They have to remain as they give the city an identity. Imagine Paris without roasted chestnuts, or Singapore without the morning soup vendors. What needs to be done is ensure stringent regulations, subject vendors to rigorous testing and give them assigned space. But do not subject us to cold samosas or pre-packed chat! Our desi fast food can compete with any burger giant if it is allowed to survive!
muted musings..
I cannot remember when I last stepped off the whirling world to take a breath and muse over days gone by. Life went on at a frenzied pace and there never seemed to be time to take a pause and cast the much needed critical look.
One may wonder what set off these musings. Simply an empty inbox on my screen.
For the first time in many years did I wake up to an unread (0) status on my email. This triggered a series of questions in my mind and to answer them I realised that one had to take a pause and look back.
The past year has been a rewarding one, when many obstacles were cleared and life set on an even keel. It was a year when many little broken hearts got fixed, when a little boy and his mom were rescued from a life of hell. It was also a year when pwhy took on a new role and reached out to free little girls from the hands of their abuser, a year when a little boy defeated all medical rules and sprung back to life. It was also a year when new friends came forward to support us; a year when we even got our own little building and began a new centre. A year to be celebrated and feted.
It is true that many of the things mentioned above were already being done but the difference this time is that it all came easy. I remember with a tinge of regret the days when every new programme was a challenge. I remember with nostalgia how every tiny need entailed hordes of emailing and was gathered painstakingly cent by cent. I also recall the abundance of mails of support one got and the immense positive energy generated, the thrill one felt when someone committed some support however infinitesimal.
And today an empty mailbox that speaks volumes. Am I being once again faced with a new avatar of the dreaded comfort zone syndrome. Maybe. But this is one I need to fight to the hilt as it may sound the death knell of the very essence of pwhy.
Pwhy could only happen because so many people across the globe came together and infused it with life. Pwhy could succeed because of the immense support I got each and every time I sought it. And no matter how easy seeking funds becomes, pwy can exist if and only if it continues to get the love and goodwill of people.
There can no more be empty inboxes as money alone can never sustain pwhy. After all pwhy is just a simple love story.
a bed and a class
I have always hoped that some day we will have lots of little primary extensions so that more and more children remain in school. And it has been my dream to do this by drawing all resources from the community.
Our little Nehru Nagar class is a step in that direction as the classroom is a jhuggi in which people live. As they are out the whole day they leave us their home, bed and all. Sophiya and Satish tuck themselves and their pupils wherever they can and classes go on in earnest.
From the very moment we began, I knew that if we were to make a difference, we had to create a model wherein all resources came from within. The last seven years has vindicated this view as both space and teachers are in-house. But we are still dependent on outside help for the funds needed to run.
The solution of course lies in our ability to market our one rupee a day dream in the right packaging to my peers and my pwhy parents.
We are slowly getting there with baby steps and hope written large!
a samosa and a jig…
In today’s world many of us have mastered the art of living according to rules and regulations, our lives carefully divided into little boxes and our reactions dictated by directives that are proved and tested by scientific means.
So when in this world a doctor and a hospital inform us that a child;s kidneys are not functioning and that he is severely anemic, the relevant little box of our mind sends the message that his days are counted. And you set out counting the days!
But then to your utter dismay, nothing seems to be following the pattern as the child perks up and starts smiling again till one day you find him at the door of his classroom. And days follow days as you train your mind to forget what was written on that hospital sheet.
Our little Nanhe is back in a class and eager to participate in every activity. So yesterday when his friend Heather dropped by Nanhe not only danced but partook of the treat she offered: his favourite samosa.
Now did I not read somewhere of that forgotten hospital sheet: diet light, no fried food..
morning after…
This is a picture of the morning after a wedding party in our street. Yesterday as is customary in our city, tents came up, the street was blocked and the paraphernalia needed, set in place.
This morning we saw the aftermath: large quantities of wasted food, and mounds of plastic ware.
The venue: gali no 3 govindpuri.
Such sites are so common in the densely populated areas of our cities and in the many urban slums that we have become inured to them. But today the site of so much wasted food was extremely disturbing for was it not just a week ago that a TV channel ran a series of programmes on hunger in India. The startling figures came to mind: of the 16 crore of children under six, 6 crore live below the poverty line!
We have all been to wedding parties and witnessed wastage of sorts. But somehow the site of large quantities of food lying on the street was unsettling. Food has always been respected in India and even deified. To see it walked upon and trampled was almost blasphemous and raised many questions.
What made normally god fearing and tradition abiding people act with such disregard? Normally in rural India, wastage is negligible if not non-existent. Even peelings are fed to the domestic cattle or left in a safe place for birds. What was even ore perturbing was that this was not happening in the shining India, but on the other side of the fence, one where people still live in want and debt.
Does the journey from village to city make one lose so much; does the label of urban entail adopting all urban ways, even the bad ones? And above all how does one instill in children born in urban slums lost values when what they see is the exact opposite?
Young children are endowed with an intuitive common sense that is unfortunately lost down growing up lane. Young Kiran, age 6, was with me when we took this picture. Her quiet words echoed my feelings when she simply stated: why did they not give this food to the cows.
Yes little girl, to the cows or to one of the million of children that sleep hungry every night.
The return of the buddy!
Nanhe is back. And the smile too!
Everyone was stunned as he entered the class in Sitaram’s arms. Moments later a palpable excitement prevailed in the classroom as his little buddies set about to greet their long lost pal.
All else was forgotten: Anurag stopped jumping, Umesh stopped whining and even Shalu stopped complaining. Little Sapna came alive, Himashu smiled and Manu forgot his swollen gums and quietly handed over his puzzle.
No words were needed for his pals to understand that Nanhe had come back from very far and that this was a very special moment. Had not Nanhe defeated all logic and all medical prognostics, was he not the one who had chronic renal failure and severe anemia.
We watched him in awe as we could sense the strength of his spirit soaring high and my thoughts went to Daisaku Ikeda’s words: Human life is indeed wondrous. You may be ill physically, but as long as your mental state is strong, it most certainly will exert a positive influence on your body. there may be no better remedy than hope.
Miracles happen everyday…
Last week nanhe was discharged from hospital. The discharge slip read: hemoglogin:3.2, BP not detecteable, chronic renal failure. A dismal prognostic to say the least.
When consulted all medico friends confirmed our fears.
Nanhe is special and his smile has made us weather many a storm. Not knowing what to do as no conventional options were possible, I shared my angst with many friends. Many messages of love and support poured in, and many sent healing in various forms.
The days went by and defying all norms, Nanhe held on and two days back he delighted us with a huge smile. For that one moment time stopped. That smile was nothing short of a miracle.
I recalled Deepak Chopra’s words: Miracles happen every day. Not just in remote country villages or at holy sites halfway across the globe, but here, in our own lives, and wondered as to what message that smile held.
Time has stopped for that moment indeed, but reality hit us soon after. Nothing had changed actually: nanhe was still that very special child who could never stand on his own, his mother was still that poor widow with three more challenged children and his tomorrows look as bleak as ever.
Yet his holding on despite all odds could not be without purpose.
I remember nanhe’s last day in class, when he played mentor to young Himanshu. I also recall the innumerable times when his smile has wiped away many a doubt and lifted my sagging courage. I recollect the number of people around the globe who have warmed up to this special child and who have prayed for him over and over again.
How can one forget the often illogical yet passionate strength of a mother’s love. Nanhe’s mom has been a perfect example of that, not giving up one bit but doggedly carrying on, carting her child to the hospital, pleading with doctors and getting for her child more than one could hope for.
Nanhe lives and even smiles. I guess somewhere we are blessed to be able to still have this child with us.
These are moments where logic and reason fail, and only wonder remains.
It is walking towards him…
It is walking toward me, without hurrying.”
Jean Cocteau
Nanhe lies on a hospital bed, his body wasted, his smile lost forever, his searing pain now borne with a silence more deafening than any cry. The men in white have given up, even his mom’s once indomitable will is now faltering.
There is no talk of elusive kidneys made in america. Even silent petitions to the gods have lost their fervour. And never have Cocteau’s words been so apropos!
But is it not blasphemous to wish that death hastens its pace, particularly when the life at stake is that of a child? Nevertheless I do not feel any sacrilege as I sit hoping that the healing kiss of death brushes Nanhe’s brow and free his exhausted spirit.
Nanhe is what we call a special child. In the game of survival, he was dealt a losing hand. He never learnt to speak, or walk; he never mastered the art of fighting for his rights and hurting others. He just accepted what he was given and rewarded you with his incredible smile. We slowly got addicted to that smile. In it we saw a reflection of everything we seek but never find, and above all the much needed hope to carry on when all seemed to tell us to stop.
Many years back, a friend had told me that special children were god’s special angels sent to earth to help us redeem ourselves. Today I wonder where our redemption lies.
The hospital just gave up and sent him home with a string of empty words: Let him go home, feed him, care for him… and many unsaid ones. So his mom gathered the broken swollen incontinent body in her arms and took him home.
Nanhe’s home is a a tiny airless room where a bed hogs all the place and yet it is where he has lived all his life. It is the place where he has shared with his family and felt safe in. Maybe today it will bring him some peace.
proverbial carper
I have been holding to my ‘pen’ for the last few days for fear of being branded the proverbial carper. But doing so longer would be going against my own grain.
For the past few days or more we have been subjected to a string of national news headlines about celebrities ranging from a marriage announcement to a racial debate. The later seems to fall a little flat as the persona in action chose to be part of a reality show known for getting people to put their worst foot forward in public, not to forget that the said actress was paid a huge amount to be part of that show!
Talk shows, parliamentary debates, burnt effigies, political mileage, the reaction cocktail is heady. It is a well known fact that the media plays up what pays and increases TRP ratings. What it means is that an issue like the Shilpa story is one that titillates us and hence sells.
So let us ask ourselves why such a story sells: is it the star gazer in us that is stimulated, or the atavist colonial past that we have not shed. For it is quite obvious that those burning effigies in the remotest part of our land are probably not aware of the Big Brother show. Or was it a too good to let go story that served many unscrupulous masters.
Many questions come to mind. Is such a public outcry a refelection of our society and if so, then are we only sensitive to what happens to stars? Strange that we should be so angry at remarks made on a voyeuristic show when we ourselves live in a fractured society and indulge in divisive remarks on caste, creed and social origin? We have been sadly reminded of his reality in the recent past with the Nithari case where even the lawmakers played the game with impunity.
Sadly even our social conscience seems to follow the pattern and is louder when the cause to defend is glamorous. Come to think about it, what will all this hue and cry lead to: probably more popularity for the show and the lady, till someone comes up with another show and another star.
Racism exists and often it is something that is fuelled by vested interest in search of causes to espouse, and as long as we react in such a violent way, more such causes will be unearthed and nurtured. Here again the ball is in our court and the responsibility ours, but looks like no one is listening.
The writing on the wall
A candlelight vigil was held last night for the Nithari children.
It was held at the same place where just a few months back the tout delhi was present in force, led by the urban middle class and the youth fuelled by images of Rang de Basanti, to fight for justice for Jessica and Priyadarshini. The vigil was widely covered by the media in live broadcasts.
Yesterday’s vigil went unnoticed.
Just a handful of people were there: the bereaved families and a few others. It did not even make it to the front page. An article on page 3 stated simply: Public zeal missing from Nihari protest!
A chill went down my back bringing to my mind almost apocalyptic images of the future.. People power had also succumbed to the great divide. We had failed to recognise the writing on the wall. Did we feel that such incidents could never happen to us and hence we did not need to act? Did we just feel safe in our urban middle class reality?
There are many disturbing questions that come to mind, questions we just push away as they would require us to look into ourselves and compel us to take responsibilty. So we simply wash our hands off and look away hoping that some plausible answer will be found soon and allow us to carry on till the next incident.
I am in the game of changing lives. A path I chose to walk because I felt I had a debt to pay. In the last seven years I have had to revise this larger than life attitude and come face to face with reality. Changing lives or crossing the great divide is in no way an act of charity. It is simply investing in your own future, a future where we cannot wish away those who live on the other side.
missing children- just statistics
On April 13 the 2003, little Rohan and Puja never went back home. They had gone to the nearby temple as they did every evening. That day some predator was lurking with his diabolical agenda.
Two days later their bodies were found in the sluice gate of the okhla barrage. A little shoe was discovered later next to an open drain in a nearby wooded area, a place no child their age could have reached on their own.
Rohan and Puja were pwhy kids.
I had to move heaven and earth to convince the local police that the children had not just gone off in the dead of the night, crossed dangerous streets and walked in lonely spaces to find the open drain where their death beckoned. I had to use my persuasive skills, my contacts and every ruse in my book to get the FIR lodged under the right IPC sections. I got my share of threats, bullying and intimidating but held on.
The post mortem report not surprisingly did not mention the bruises and cuts but a staid death by drowning. The case was never solved. The family was suitably brow beaten and little Puja and Rohan became simple annoying statistics.
Why were these beautiful children kidnapped and then killed is any one’s guess. Some dark ritual, sexual depravation or personal enmity… no one really cared. Rohan and Puja belonged to the other side of the fence were children are dispensable commodities. For the parents there was never a closure. They just got on with the task of surviving, their grief visible in the few extra grey hair and defeated look of the fathers and the drawn faces and the sad eyes of the mothers. Even the birth of little Nidhi could not bring the required healing.
The last weeks has brought to fore the chilling reality of the number of children that are missing and the fate that many have met. Wonder how many lie dead hidden somewhere yet to be stumbled upon. Wonder also how many could have been saved had the law makers and protectors done their job with a modicum of honesty.
It is time for us to stop and think about what we can do to change things and ensure that tender lives like tat of Rohan and Puja, like that of the children of Nithari or the ones found in the Punjab mill are not in vain.
golu and his sweaters- a mom’s recipe to beat the winter chill
The mercury has dipped to 2 degrees and delhi is freezing. But our kids turned up as usual in the morning chill.
As they filed into the room, we were a little baffled to see little Golu who seemed to have difficulties walking and waddled through arms stretched at an awkward angle. It took a little time and investigation to realise that he was wearing 6 sweaters his mom’s recipe to beat the cold.
One does not know if he warm warm, but one could see he was undoubtedly uncomfortable and unhappy.
We removed some of the layers so that he could play and jump with his buddies but did not forget to put them back on when it was time for mom to come and collect her son.
whoops of pure joy
Who said that some things have to be learnt to be experienced? Who said you had to be born on the right side of the fence to experience certain moments? Who said you had to be normal to know the how and when of appropriate behaviour?
Certain things just happen naturally and turn out larger than the best!
Last week a group of young professionals brought a special treat for the children. Beautifully wrapped packets of goodies – pencils, colouring books, crayons and a pencil box -. It was a rare treat as we have by now been used to receiving used gifts piled up in cartons. For many children it was perhaps their first gift ever and we did not know that we were about to be treated to an exceptional moment.
As we handed them out to our very special kids nothing could have let us imagine the whoops of joy that were let out by each and everyone. Be it our very own Manu who spent he better part of his life roaming the streets, or Shalini whose thirty years on the planet does not warrant such a reaction. Little Ruchi’s uncontrollable nervous twitches took leave of absence while she opened her packet and Umesh and Ankit could not stop smiling. I am sure that for that instant Neha, Shahida and Rinky’s world of silence let the sound of the rustling of the paper slip into their silent reality and Himanshu forgot the obsessive images of his dead mother hanging on the ceiling fan while he set about the task of discovering what lay inside the gold and purple paper.
Each one of these special kids who struggle each day to survive, forgot their dismal existences and were just like any child the world over savouring the thrill of opening a simple gift.
It takes so little to make a child’s world right, something we tend to forget.
a one rupee fix
I have been worried about the proliferation of what I call the pouch invasion in urban slums. We decided to do a survey and maybe try and initiate a campaign to raise awreness on the matter.
We been busy collecting pouches to and one of the stops was Nanhe’s mom’s cart as she sells a panoply of them. When we reached out for a particular one she stopped us midway telling us not to buy it as it was bhang gola a product made from cannabis.
The packet costs one rupee. On it is written: ayurvedic medicine!
You can imagine our total dismay as packets are available a dime a dozen at most shops or carts selling such products. It is accessible to anyone even children legally. A simple one rupee fix on the way to easy addiction.
At times like the one is left speechless!