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.

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.

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.

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?

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!

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.

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.

Our battle to make nanhe’s mom see sense is taking on disturbing dimensions. In order to ensure that little nanhe is well taken care of and in the face of our total failure in making the desperate mom see sense we decided to play the game and follow her search for kidney, the rider being that we will help her if we were assured that all was above board and provided we got a written estimate as was the case with our heart surgeries in AIIMS.

D, our staff member was appointed for the mission. He was first introduced to a so called relative who happened to have nothing to do with the hospital. A middle aged dubious looking character was introduced to D and told him with total confidence that a kidney would be available for around fifteen thousand rupees give an thousand or two. A doctor in the burns department of the said government hospital would arrange it.

D was told to act dumb and gullible so that we could get to the bottom of the story. When he enquired about who the donor woul be, pat came the answer: gurda amrika se ayega – the kidney will come from america.

Kudos to D for not having fallen off his chair. he kept a poker straight face saying that one had to satisfy the potential donor and hence meet with the doctor. He was told that the doctor was recovering from an accident and would be available in a week or so.

This is not fiction or the plot for a serial. It is stark reality that is unfolding in front of our eyes and concerns little nanhe, a child dear to many. The so called relative has already extracted five hundred rupees from the poor mom for mithai – sweetmeats – presumably given to the doctor as a new year gift.

One may recall that nanhe’s mom was initially told that the kidney would cost one hundred thousand rupees till the kind relative jumped in and said he could fix things for her. 500 rs may seem chicken feed to us but we must remember that nanhe’s mom is a poor widow with 4 children, three of them challenged, that she ekes her living from a cart where she sells whatever she can and that on a good day she makes under 100 rs.

This is where thing stand today. We plan to follow the matter and see how we can expose the truth which could range from a simple extortion from the so called relative, to a much deeper racket.

We need to do it for nanhe and or all other desperate mothers who would believe in any thing just to save their child.

A recent news item about the introduction of savoir-faire classes caught my attention. Apparently B schools like IIMs now have classes to ensure that you don’t attack the custard with a soup spoon!

True that the world is shrinking with host of new opportunities for young Indians, and true also that a potential employer would want his employee not to commit a gaffe, but I wonder whether expats coming to India for employment in desi companies – and there are more each day – are taught how to eat with their hands, or whether a young aspirant to a job in let us say Beijing would master the use of chopsticks.

Often learning about another culture becomes a way of breaking the ice and establishing a healthy exchange where both cultures find space. Moreover even in fork & knives culture there are variables, about ways of setting tables, placing cutlery to indicate that you have finished and so forth. Were these to be taught would result in confusion whereby one is trying to recall the right manner and thus fumble and appear gauche.

On the other hand were he left to behave naturally, he would soon find out the right way of the moment and execute it with grace. But there is a deeper side to this issue. I wonder if there is an unexpressed feeling of inferiority that makes us want to ape the west. I have always held that it is only when we are proud of our own culture, that we can aspire to widening our vision with success. Manners cut across countries and cultures and are often inherent. I have seen impeccable manners in the homes of pwhy children where one is at once made to feel comfortable and where food and drink is shared with pride and love.

It is sad that we are slowly losing our identity in our rush to ape cultures that we feel or are made to believe as better. The shrinking of the world should be an enriching experience for all, where all cultures are given the same importance thus enabling each one to learn from the other.

Come January 1st and we all set out making new resolutions for the new year. I use to do it too and then somehow these were forgotten as life took on its course. This year I just let January 1 be like just another day, the difference being that I watched it go by with more awareness. And just another day it was with its share of simple joys, its tinges of drama and its moments of weariness.

In the street where I work and which is far remote from the glitz and glamour, nothing seemed different. The street vendors let out their call at the appointed time, braving the cold and morning fog, shops opened their shutters, people set out to work as a day missed would mean a hungry family and barring the rote like ‘happy new year’ people exchanged, it was an ordinary day.

2006 had slipped into 2007 without much ado.

To me each day is a new beginning and that is what makes it extra-ordinary. As one set out in the morning one cannot begin to imagine what it will hold. But come to think about it just the simple fact that it goes by quietly is a celebration in itself. So much could go wrong, and yet nothing has.

Each day also brings its set of challenges that need to be met as well as moments to savour: it could be an extra smile or a tiny achievement many would not see or that warm cup of tea enjoyed in the watery sunlight that was finally agree to pierce through the dense fog.

We seem to have lost the ability to seek out simple joys and look for causes or crutches to ‘celebrate’ and maybe January 1st is one of the most jaded.

Yet it is just another ordinary or extra-ordinary day, depending on how you wish to look at it.

Nanhe’s predicament haunts me ceaselessly. As someone wrote: this is the battle of the mind and the heart, and none of them are wrong.

Nanhe is precious to many of as we are addicted to his smile. Somehow when Nanhe smiles than for that tiny moment everything seems so easy.. and most of us would like to believe that we would fight to save it no matter what.

Easily said than done as this time the battle is anything but fair. Till now, every time the smile was in danger a few days at the hospital, a surgical intervention, a few strips of medicine was all that was needed. But now he needs a new kidney and suddenly the adversary has turned formidable.

The docs dismissed the mom by quoting an sum that would seem astronomical to any one, let alone a poor widow with three challenged kids and a pitiable cart that she fills with whatever she thinks saleable. It would have seemed the same to us but somehow offers have come without our asking.

But the real issue is not whether we can raise the money or not, it not even whether we can find a kidney or not in lies in doing what is right for Nanhe. I recently read an article on compassion and about the need for caring, and how little of it there is around. But in situation like this compassion itself is challenged. Where does true compassion lie: in getting a complex surgery done knowing it is wrought with danger, in spending an astronomical amount of money to give some more time to a child who will never be able to survive this world, in finding the courage and the right words to tell a mother that her son is dying.

One could also try and explain to her that it is in not simply the one hundred thousands rupees asked for but the cost of dyalisis and expensive medecine, the risk of rejection and so much more and the care needed afterwards. one could gently remind her that she has three more children two of whom as challenged and the other a daughter that needs to be married soon. But have you ever tried talking to a desperate mother fighting for her child’s life, even the gods in heaven sometimes have to accept defeat.

Once again today I wish I had a dream catcher

In times when nets and cell phone proliferate, making courtesy calls is almost an aberration. There was a time when paying a call was the only way to get the news you sought. Oddly, in some cases it remains at times the only way at our disposal.

Three calls needed to be made: one to enquire about a lost smile, the other to our cerulean boy, and the third to a mother who needed to be admonished.

So we set off in the watery sun of a winter morning. The first stop was at Nanhe’s in search of the elusive smile. We found him a tad better, but no sign of the smile. His body was less swollen though the pain was still visible on his face. On checking the hospital papers we were horrified to se that his weight was a mere 15 kilos, a stark reminder of the fact that he had barely eaten for the last two weeks. His brave mom filled the silence by telling us that the doctor had asked her to come by this afternoon to get a date for the operation. We realised that what was comingin the way of the surgery was the poor condition he was in.

A few mental notes were made by all of us: get some liquid food supplements, provide transport for the hospital visits, get his teachers to come by and sit with him. None of us spoke as we left him. We had not found the smile.

The nest stop was to see deepak who we were told had come home. As news of our arrival traveled fast, we were met by Deepak himself in the arms of his much relieved grandma. We were happy to see him as gone was the blue hue that had worried us so much. He was as pink as can be and gratified us with a huge smile. The only reminder of his 7 months ordeal was a scar that began almost at the base of his throat.

Next we had to meet sapna and monty’s mom, as the two kids had plaid truant for far too long. We found her sitting at her tea shop. She was looking weary and dragging her feet and told us that she had not been able to get them ready in time. We did chide her and extracted a promise that she would make the effort, but in our hearts we knew her problem. Sorry for being graphic but this poor woman has lived for over two years with a prolapsed uterus. When we had tried to get her operated it was discovered that she had a heart condition and needed a valve replacement. That had been done but somehow the uterus had been forgotten.

We told her to get to the hospital and fix her surgery and that we would help in whatever way we could remembering that the last time the operation had not been done because she had no one to donate blood.

The calls were over.. we returned back in silence

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Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the world

Had I written this post yesterday, it would have been filled with anger, dejection and ire. It would have turned out to be a litany of vociferation against everyone and everything and would have missed the miracle that unfolded before our eyes. The rants and raves against a system we actually are responsible for creating, would have obliterated the real story.

Yesterday 45 little girls finally had god answer their desperate prayers. Just take a moment to imagine what a child feels when its body and should is violated, when those one trusts become monsters. Think about the long days and longer nights spent in filth, cold and hunger. Envision looking at a sky that seems unreachable and try to conjure the words sent in prayer to a god that seems as remote as that piece of sky.

And think about the night that comes after the illusion of freedom as you pack your tiny belongings, in some case just a tiny handkerchief and realise that once again freedom has eluded you.

Then when all hopes seems lost forever, when the terror of what will befall you when all the people have gone and you are left to face your tormentor, a lady arrives and tells you that all is well and it is time to leave the hell hole.

That is the miracle that needs to be celebrated, a miracle that has no place for recriminations and blame, a miracle made possible by the will an indomitable spirit of a young reporter named Anchal.

here are a few images of the house of horrors. they were sneaked out during the two initial visits made by pwhy!

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Night was the title that Elie Wiesel chose for his account of the horrors of a concentration camp. No adjectives, no nuances, nothing, just one word night to qualify the horrors.

The little children of swami ashram spent one such night, if not worse, as there was not the night of incarceration but the one that should have spelt freedom. As I watched the pictures of these little girls clutching their tiny belongings, hope and fear written of their faces, not comprehending why in spite of the men in uniform, the kind lady, their reporter Didi of 10 days, and many others they were still there.. and as time went by they realised the unbelievable: they had to spend one more night with their tormentor.

The cold night inched away as bureaucrats of all hues raise even more absurd issues. The elusive DM was found and stated that he would act after getting the results of an enquiry commission that would start the next morn! never mind if the NCW had already decreed that the girls needed to be saved. The tormentor – a swami – sat in his office with a smug expression calling his contacts. It was the begining of a sordid game. The victims one again victimised.

When I had first heard of this ashram I knew the adversary was formidable, but I could not have imagined in my worst nightmare that the girls would not be rescued. The worst case scenario for me was that the swami would go free.

But even now the girls are in their hell hole. The story is on national TV. Viewers normally do come forward and I hope they will once again. Children need to be protected and need sensitive laws to handle them. The kids did not do anything that would warrant the abuse they have suffered.

I knew this was a to be a long battle… I will just end this with a quote by Elie Wiesel: “…to remain silent and indifferent is the greatest sin of all...”

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Some of you may remember my post about the little house of horrors, and the plight of orphan girls locked up in pure hell. I had ended the post with the words: we need to act.

Some of you may have wondered why the ensuing silence and even thought that we had forgotten about the little girls. No way. From the time we knew about their plight we sprung into action. But we knew we had a formidable and dangerous adversary and we also knew about the state of things in our land. After much thought I asked a dear friend for help. She is with NDTV and I knew that only the media could help.

Young Anchal went undercover and brought back a chilling story but we had all decided that this would be aired only after the safety of the girls was assured. It is a sad reality that the Minister in question did not act or help, even after seeing the footage. Finally the NCW intervened and a raid was organised today as the story went on air.

You would all think that once the raid was done with the proper permissions the girls would finally be out of that hell hole, but as I write these words they are still there huddled in a corner while the state and central police fight it out, and the DM has gone missing. NDTV reporters are there, and NGOs workers are there but some administrative hassles and battles continue. The network has asked for public blankets and food as they envisage a long night..

I am outraged as I cannot understand why the girls cannot be taken out and brought to safety. The story has gone on air, the little voices shared their horrific experiences in barely audible and pathetic words. The lawyer interviewed cited a litany of sections of the law that the owner of the place has infringed, and yet the little victims are still in that netherworld. What is wrong with us, with our administration, with our politicians.. with each one of us

It will wil be a long night….

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A few days back little Deepak went back home after his heart surgery and tomorrow little Anil goes for his. Statistically speaking they are no 8 and 9 in pwhy’s heart repair shop!

It was just over three years ago that we answered a desperate plea from a great father . Raju was operated upon and the matter could have ended there. But not with Sitaram who decided to help others. That is how from 1 heart surgery we have reached 9.

But this is not the reason for this post. What prompted me to write it is something quite different. As I sat writing an update on Deepak a few days back, I realised how easy it is to become inured to things, no matter how extraordinary they are. During operation no 1 I remember writing regular updates,almost giving a blow by blow account of the surgery and how numerous were the answers either seeking more information or just sending support.

Three years and 8 surgeries down the line, the situation is different: the updates were answered with an almost deafening silence. I sat and pondered for a long time about the possible reasons. Had the situation changed in anyway. Difficult to say as I am sure that the pain and anguish of Raju’s mother was in no way greater than that of Deepak’s or Anil’s. What could be different was the fact that to many this was something we had done earlier and almost become masters at . Once again we were in that space that frightens me: the comfort zone.

No matter how dramatic the event, it does not take log for it to become jaded. We are always on the look out for something new to admire, support, criticise and reach out to. Yet there are things that need our continuous support as no matter what way you look at them, they are still extraordinary.

I have always held that the poor emulate the rich! This is apparent in more ways than one: urban slums weddings for instance now look like upmarket ones: food stalls, decorative thrones, DJs and smoky dance floors.

This is also apparent in the proliferation of cell phones, bikes, VCD players et al!

Yesterday I saw something that made me smile. Our local juice vendor was rushing with a bunch of plastic bags filled with orange juice, and dropping them to different jhuggis. Actually each jhuggi had a sick person in it.

Yes health consciousness has also hit the slums.

I did not even dare think about the quality of the plastic or the origin of the water used to dilute the juice…

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