amrika se ayega..
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.
soup spoons and fish knives
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.
back with a bang
It is back with a bang. Nanhe’s lost smile was there to greet us when we went visiting yesterday, reminding us that children have their own way of dealing with problems, ways that remain mysterious as Nanhe’s battle is far from over.
But the feeling was short lived. His mother was still lost in her dream of getting a new kidney for her child and not willing to listen, let alone understand the enormity of the situation.
She was excited to share that she had found someone who had told her that were she to part with 10 000 rupees, things could be arranged. We were aghast as earlier she had told us that what was needed was 100 000 Rs. As she went on we realised that she had been caught in some network that runs deep in government run hospitals and feeds on gullible and desperate families. Lost in her own world she refused to listen when we tried to explain what a transplant meant. She just wanted to believe in what some doctor had told her and held on to those words as gospel truth.
We tried hard but were no match to the desperation and determination of a mother!
We all know that no organ transplant can be done in a paltry 10 000 Rs. At the same time we know that Nanhe’s mom is not lying. Then what does this imbroglio conceal?
At best a new found way of feeding on a poor mother’s desperation and then finding a cowardly way out when one has milked her dry. Or is it something darker and deeper. We cannot retreat into the wait and see option. Too much is at stake: the possibility of Nanhe’s mom sinking into a debt trap, the risk of some sham surgery done on the child to appease the mother and justify the monies extracted…
We need to find out more.. after all it is all about Nanhe’s smile
an ordinary day
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.
an unequal battle..
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 real danger
My mother died of cancer. Many do. The difference was that she stubbornly refused all form of treatment. She bore her excruciating pain with rare courage. Life had to be lived till the very last breath was her leitmotiv, and she did, remarkably alive as she quietly died.
She could have had the best treatment and at least the most sophisticated pain killers, but somehow she refused them all. For many years after her death I battled with ifs and buts and ceaseless torment. My demons were only set to rest when I met a leading oncologist who shared his view about terminal diseases with me.
Dr de Souza had been with Bombay’s leading cancer institute for many years and has held a unique discourse to many patients and their families who come remote parts of India. Strangely enough he has ofter sent them back, counselling them not to spent their meagre resources or sell their last possessions for a treatment that will never cure the disease. One must remember that the poor only come to such specialised institutes when the disease is too far gone. His advise is to take care of the living and their future rather than fight a lost battle. Instead of hospitals he set up hospices so that the terminally ill could be cared for, and the family find some support.
All this came back from some recess of my brain as I made sense of our poor little Nanhe’s mom was trying to convey. She had just been told that both Nanhe’s kidneys had packed up and that his only chance of survival was a kidney transplant. I wish he had just taken the Dr de Souza way and sent her home with the right advise, no matter how harsh and cruel it sounded as what awaited her was even worse.
The doctors who gave her this unreachable ray of hope knew Nanhe’s condition and what awaited him. They were aware of the fact that even if he got a kidney he would never walk, never comprehend the world and never be able to survive. One is not even thinking of the innumerable obstacles that exist on the way to an organ donation. To rid themselves of the constant nagging of a loving mother, they just told her to buy a kidney at the cost of Rs 100000. Maybe they thought she would be scared away by the astronomical figure, but they forgot they were dealing with a mother.
But we know we are.
But how does one tell a mother that there is nothing much that can be done for little Nanhe. How do we tell her that her son is slowly getting ready to move on to another and hopefully better world. How do we explain to her that what the doctors have said were empty words, and that for this one time ever a mother’s prayer will not be heard.
We have had many a difficult moments, bu this is one that defies them all as where does one find the words to say that Nanhe’s smile is today in real danger?
a very special tree
o
The world celebrated Xmas. In a tiny lane of an urban slum in Delhi a bunch of very special kids did too. Just like children all over the world they wanted a Xmas tree and nothing could stop them.
Nothing to write home about, some would say, but what if I told you that each and every child in this little group is different: some have remarkable minds locked away in useless bodies while others try to make sense of the world with limited means. Some are condemned to a world of silence while others live in immobility. Oops I forgot to tell you that all of them have never known the thrill of opening a present and have only survived on hand me downs!
But somehow the Xmas spirit is such that it breaks down all barriers so we were not surprised when we saw them storming to the terrace in search of a potted plant, any one would do. In the most remarkable example of cooperative effort and armed with bits of papers, cloth and heavens knows what else, they set out to create the most beautiful tree I have ever seen. True it broke all conventions, but while doing so it set its very own and these seemed closer to the Xmas spirit.
This tree was imbued with the purest form of joy, it was one that needed no borrowed trimming or expensive decoration, even a discarded old white sock looked pretty as it dangled in the blowing wind and as they proudly posed for the customary picture, the air was redolent with the abundance of giving that emanated from this humble tree.
I do not know whether anyone of them knew about Xmas and its significance, but somehow they had intuitively grasped its ever essence.
Isn’t that what xmas is all about!
never say die
Imagine my surprise when a mail dropped by this morning from another land asking me whether I would give a motivational talk to the staff of a big organisation. The reason stated for choosing me was my can-do-never-say-die spirit.
The idea was daunting, particularly for one who has never liked centre stage. In spite of what some may believe, my tryst with the media was short lived as I realised that for most of them, one was just a good story, and my illusion that it had a role to play in making a difference was just that: an illusion. I just carried on my work strong in the belief that there was a reason to it, and as long as the reason remained, solutions would come.
Project why has been a one day at a time saga, often making it difficult if not impossible to really define its ambit. True we are an education support organisation but we also.. and the list becomes endless, as one takes on every challenge that comes our way and find a way out.
I wonder whether this is what comes out as a can-do-never-say-die attitude.
When I look back on the seven years of pwhy I must say in hindsight that there are many times when normal circumstances would have made one give up, or say no, or look away, I just know that I could not have.
How do you turn away from the wondrous eyes filled with pain that look at you from a scalded one year old baby, how do you send away a limping brave but worn out father who desperately seeks your help to fix his son’s heart, or a mother who knows her child is dying?
Do you walk away when you know that your detractors want just that, knowing that in doing so you are trampling the dreams of so many children? Never mind the allegations, the broken tents, the bulldozed classrooms? Do you leave children to the jaws of predators lurking to suck them into their dark world just because of a threat? Do you give the complex administrative machinery the satisfaction of wearing you down to the point of saying, I am better off not doing anything.
It is not a never-say-die attitude. To me it is simply the only way worthy of anyone one with a modicum of a conscience. Anything else would have been not acceptable. So if I am to go and share the last seven years, it would be simply to say that sometimes it is not easy to be true to the little voice you hear inside you, one just has to and the doors open for you.
That is what the miracle call life is all about.
a return courtesy call
A few days back we had made some courtesy calls, to find out about the well being of some of our children.
This morning, little Deepak made his return courtesy call. It was a very special moment for all of us. He came in his grand mom’s arms but soon decide to show us all he could do with his brand new heart!
He pranced around, giggled and even marked his territory. Our thoughts went back to the days where we could see his tiny chest heaving as every breath he took was a almost Herculean effort.
As I watched him I wondered what would become of him in the years to come. I really cannot imagine as in spite of all odds a host of possibilities await him.
I can however visualise what would have happened if his surgery had not been done. He would have lived a few short years, heaving and panting till his tiny broken heart would have given up.
It took very little to make the difference, just a few caring hearts.
To all those of you who have helped us repair broken hearts a big thank you.
courtesy calls pwhy style
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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bags of hope
You may wonder why this silly pictures of plastic bags. Actually they are not just plastic bags. They are bags full of hope.
As I write this post they sit patiently under my ironing table, in the very corridor where one little bundle of joy ran blissfully pretending to be Krish just a few weeks away, charging themselves with the good energies that surround them.
In them is what is needed to begin a new life on a winter day: warm bedding, toiletries etc. In a short time they will bundled into a car and taken across the city to fetch their owner, the brave mother of a spirited child. For the past 8 months that woman has waged a lonely battle against the bottle and today she comes out of the rehab centre a little frightened but determined to begin a new life.
The bags will then travel to another part of the city and even cross a border to land in a happy place where hope abounds. waiting for her there is Durga born of a loveless union , who finally found a safe place. Mother and daughter will be reunited and will rediscover each other and make up for lost time.
In a few days a little man will join his two ladies and finally the little family will be reunited. he never gave up on them, even when all else did
As I watch these bags sitting patiently under the ungainly table, I wonder what would have happened if I had not held on to hope.
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whose life is it anyway
Nanhe has lost his smile, pain was too big an adversary. It is heart rendering to see him moan in pain. He is not eating and can barely sit up. He barley connects as he is on heavy medication. His body is swelling because of his tired and stone ridden kidneys.
His mother is running from pillar to post but the doctors keep on postponing the date for his surgery. We try and do our best but somehow it seems that his spirit is giving up the battle.
One does not have to be a medico to see that his body is wearing down and that his multiple ailments are getting the better of him. But how can one tell a mother that. Even a tired, poor, single mom does wants her child to live, even if he is broken one. She wants to do everything possible to save his life.
The doctors on the other hand see this little angel has a gone case, not worth fighting for. And the game continues: the mother relentlessly makes the now almost daily trip to the hospital carrying her hurting child , and the doctors prescribe a few palliatives, write a few test and send them away.
I have been watching this for some time not quite knowing how to break the circle. On the one hand all those who love him and I am one of those, want him to live as long a possible. On the other hand one can also understand the doctors of the government hospitals.. and above all one’s heart cannot but go out to a mother who cannot give up..
A little life is at stake, but whose life is it anyway
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morning has broken
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!
| www.ashram
|
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Night
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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Outraged and dejected
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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Wish I had a dream catcher
Good dreams slip through the hole, and bad dreams get caught in the web.. says an old Chippewa tradition… whereas the Lakota tribe believes that good thoughts get retains in the web while bad ones slip through the hole… which ever way I wish I had a dream catcher today..
One that would ensure that Nanhe continues to smile, .. one that would protect all the tiny tomorrows that we hold in our hands today..
My first blog about Nanhe was entitled when today is over, as I feared for his life from the very instant I saw him smile as his smile was one to die for.
True that Nanhe was a child without tomorrows but we still invested in his smile wanting to give him all we could and make his stay with us as happy as possible. And frankly many a time, he showed us the way as our problems paled in front of his. And soon we were all addicted to his huge smile that lit even the darkest moment. There were many a stay in hospital, many nights of excruciating pain, seizures and incontinence but he never stopped smiling. And last week I was thrilled to see that Nanhe had taken on the role of a mentor to little Himanshu.
That night I even dared dream about many tomorrows for Nanhe. But that was not to be. The next day I learnt that he was back in hospital and this time things were not quite right. His BP shot up, his seizures multiplied and the pain was agonising.
Nanhe is back home, still in pain and it seems that the men in white have given up. Today there was no smile..
At moments like these I feel helpless and hopeless. True that we knew that one day his frail body would give up and so would the smile. I do not know what to say to his brave mother who refuses to give up and looks at us with desperate eyes for some reassurance.
Yes I wish I had a dream catcher…
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how long does it take to become jaded
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.
pencil box to simply jometry
Where did I buy my last jometry quipped little Kiran.
For a few moments I was perplexed then it dawned on me: she was referring to a pencil box a.k.a. geometry box. I am sure many remember the rather ungainly tin box that we carried to school many years back and that included all geometry implements and pencils and rubbers.
Somewhere the word box got dropped and the tin box acquired many an avatar, but to school children from the other side of the divide the name jometry remained.
Jometry today for most slum kids is the word to define all shades and hues of the precious pencil box they carry to school.
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children will be children
I had to share this picture with you! This is a Kodak moment of the afternoon session of our bran new Govindpuri primary extension. the room we have is so tiny that it is only sufficient to lock up the meagre resources we have. Classes are held on the roof as the weather is clement these days.
Just two weeks back this centre did not exist, and most of these kids wandered on the streets. Today its is cracking at the seams and filled with laughter, joy and above all hope.
As soon as we were spotted by one of the kids, there was a scramble down the stairs to open the door and usher us into this new world. The children almost fell over each other as they ran down the tiny stairs and greeted us.
These children are just like yours and mine: eager, mischievous and eager to imbibe whatever we can teach them, still hungry for more. Their guileless trust makes us painfully aware of the responsibility that rests on our shoulders, as somehow we have become the ones who may just fulfil their wildest dreams.
But can we?
orange juice revisited
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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Locked in silence
Sometimes you wonder why children are made to suffer! I wrote about Himanshu locked in his world and who had found a pal in Nanhe.
Well someone got jealous or cast a spell and the next day nanhe found suffered acute renal colic and had an epileptic fit that send him to hospital and Himanshu found himself without his new friend.
Himanshu’s story is what horror films are made of: his mother committed suicide by hanging herself, probably because of domestic violence. His maternal grandparents then asked the father to come to the village proposing that he marry the dead wife’s sister. the father thought it would be a doable option for his two children as Himanshu has a younger sister.
In the village, in some remote part of Bihar, what awaited him was a family seeking revenge. The man was shot by the brothers and the whole deed made to look like another suicide.
Today the children are being looked after my the dead father’s sister who has chosen no to marry in order to bring up these two children.
I wonder what Himanshu saw that made him the way he is, locked up in a strange world of his own, trying to deal with something he cannot understand.
In the face of such tragedy I remain speechless.
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dil deke dekho.. dilli!
A few weeks back we were contacted by a organisation asking us to participate in a national effort whereby young bankers of a leading multinational bank would come and spend a day at pwhy as part of the CSR effort.
A draft programme was sent to us and we were asked to send a concrete proposal which we promptly did. The idea was that about 10 such persons would ‘spend the day’ with our kids and participate in various activities.
Then as usual we got caught in our day-to-day life. Yesterday we remembered that the programme was scheduled for this week-end and having not heard from anyone we decided to call them.
Why was I not surprised when we were told that though Bombay and Calcutta had met the required numbers, Delhi had failed to do so. No need to wonder why, Delhi will not give up its Saturday spent mall crawling, star gazing or partying to walk filthy slums and play with poor kids.
Dil deke dekho– dilli – try spending a little of your heart!
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when cars land in slums
Over the past six years I have had to fight many battles. Lost some, won some. Sometimes the adversary is too formidable as was the case of the MLM people who came with their rehearsed pitches, their alluring promises and their fast track to riches!
They came, saw and conquered many young men and women promising them a quantum leap measured of course in gleaming bikes, and natty cars. My sensible words fell on deaf years: some listened by respect, and others just took the longer road to avoid the babbling old lady telling them to take one step at a time.
I felt a pang of guilt as pwhy boys and girls were naturally selected to lead as their social and communication skills were well honed by years of tender grooming. I watched with despair as some dropped out of colleges to be able to sell more computer software to gullible slum dwellers. The MLM gang was quick to scale down their minimum qualifications to ensnare more lads. Graduate, to class XII, to class X and even less.
I prayed my favourite God to make the pyramid crash sooner than later but to no avail. I have to confess that all the ex pwhyans have gleaming bikes and some have even bought cars, leaving me even more uncomfortable as I know the inevitable outcome.
So R got his brand new Innova. It is parked on the other side of the Giri Nagar road, in front of his tiny shack that is barely sufficient for the family of 5, next to the tinier shack that is the bathroom. Every morning his teen age sisters open the car, switch the AC, put on loud music and happily brush their teeth and have their morning tea. The car is also often used as a sitting or even sleeping space!
That is what happens when cars land in slums..
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three step forward and two and half back
I am livid. Do you remember Babli?
Here I was back in a comfort zone feeling smug like a proverbial Cheshire cat, thinking that with her brand new heart, Babli was sitting on a school bench making up for lost time when I was hit by another thunderbolt.
R and S came back from a field visit visibly upset. On the way they had passed Babli’s slum cluster and found her sitting on a cart selling chewing tobacco, cigarettes and biscuits instead of being in school, her little sister standing in the background.
The cart was supposed to be the father’s way of earning some money, but he simply left her there to pursue his gambling habit. Seems that it happens often as she sheepishly told us that her name had been struck of the roll of the school.
The mother spends long hours in the factory she works in and the father does as he pleases. Come tomorrow and we will set out on a remedial mission which will start with some plain talking with the impossible farthest threatening to put him behind bars if he abuses the child in this manner. Then a PR expedition to government school to ensure that she is taken back. Somewhere down the line the mother will get a dressing too.
These moments are when you just feel throwing your hands up but you stop midway and wonder how you can address the situation that actually is one of protecting children’s rights. We can carry on our crisis intervention, but there is a larger question that needs to be looked at: parents need to be informed about the laws in existence and about the importance of giving girls a good education.They should be made aware of the child labour laws and more..
The presence of little Arzoo in the background is a blatant proof of the fact that girls are treated differently as Ramu the brother goes to school.
There is so much to be done, one step at a time…
Note: two days after this post babli was back in school, and sister arzoo back at pwhy’s creche.
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the lure of comfort zones
I have always feared comfort zones. You fall prey to them unwittingly. When things look alright, when no untoward incident occurs, that is when comfort zones appear and you easily fall prey to their lure.
This has happened time and again at pwhy though I have tried to fight it as best I could. When things are smooth you even stop seeing things as they are.
Then something happens to bring you back to earth and you feel a tad guilty looking for meagre excuses where none exist. And when it pertains to a child, then the guilt is far greater. So many little miracles have escaped my mind and yet where there for all to see.
Many of you may wonder why I have not written about Nanhe for a long time. Simply because I feel prey to the comfort zone syndrome. But a lot has happened and it is time to share with all those who have loved and supported him.
After his leg operations Nanhe has been able to stand and is slowly learning to walk with a walker. It is a huge step for this child who till recently was condemned to drag himself in a sitting position. To us who take our standing as granted it may not seem so important, but imagine what it means to little Nanhe. he can now stand with his classmates and take part in the morning exercise routine, and even dance with them.
No wonder then that the smile has got even bigger!
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Come November…
Come November and it is time for me to get off the spinning earth and look at time gone by as a rank outsider…
November never held much significance in the first for decades of my life. But the year 1992 changed it all. November took my father away and brought the most difficult closure in my life. For six long years I sought every crutch possible just to the fragile vessel of my life from sinking.
But November is also the month when life came full circle with the setting up of pwhy’s first class in Giri Nagar and somehow with the intuitive realisation that I had embarked on the last chapter of my life.
The last six years have been the most rewarding ones of my life. A barely formulated wish of paying back a debt turned into a discovery of India. What began as an effort to give Manu a life with dignity is today a throbbing project where over 500 children reclaim their right to be a child.
It is a matter of utter joy to walk every morning and be greeted by smiles and laughter filled ‘ morning ma’am’, when each child tries to get one’s attention. It is a matter of outright joy to see my staff dressed in their smartest outfit bustling around efficiently redeeming their lost identity. And above all its is a matter unqualified pride to see Manu smartly dressed sitting with his pals and solving a puzzle. And to say that just six years ago I sat in front of our one room centre trying to rid him of the maggots that infested his much abused body.
A deep sense of peace fills me as I relive these last six years, but I cannot allow myself to sink into a comfort zone, there is still so much to do. Pwhy is still a six year old child that needs to learn to survive independently.
And if I allow myself to dream about the future I see the November when pwhy will be sustained by the community itself, run by some of our ex students, the day when Manu will proudly show his identity papers as he sits in his own kiosk, earning his living with the help of his spirited younger sister.
That day I will allow myself to retreat into a comfort zone.
So help me God of the lesser ones!
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hijacked by hubris
It was sad to watch Delhi come to a standstill. Whereas the big fish will remain unscathed, small shopkeepers will as usual suffer.
I the days when gandhigiri is a la mode, one wonders whether bandhs are the right form of protest. Gone is the outsider, the foreign invader against whom you unite, the enemy sadly is within each one of us.
I was not surprised when a prominent TV channel dug up the erstwhile master plan for India’s capital city and revealed that only 15% of its provisions had been met, one being the creation of markets and commercial space.
Yesterday was also the day when a man got the death sentence 10 years after committing a heinous crime that he thought he had got away with simply because of his father’s position.
So where have we gone wrong or to put it otherwise what ails our society?
Somewhere down the line our entire social fabric got hijacked and we sat in silence. I have seen it myself when our neighbourhood market which a few years back had vegetable an meat shop , a haberdashery, a stationery shop, tailors and dry cleaners and more today is a haven for luxury and branded shops and jewellery stores. When a few years back only local residents came often on foot, now people come from across the town in their gleaming cars.
And when the market itself was not big enough, residential buildings around it were commandeered too! Leading to the chaos that necessitated the courts to intervene.
One may wonder how it happened? Law makers and protectors hit their eyes to small aberrations for a few pennies, and slowly greed on both sides took over till a hydra headed monster emerged and got out of control.
Today both the administrators and the administered are battling the monster that grows a new head everyday.
We are a society that got engulfed by hubris and even challenged the Gods! Now our hubristic side has been exposed as we try to make sense of things a blame game has begun. Maybe it is time we took stock of things and accepted part of the guilt. Are we not the ones to look for the easy way out, jump a few queues, grease a few palms? So why be astonished when the little drops have turned into an angry ocean ready to submerge us?
The appeasement policy and bad aid therapy of our politicians has to stop. A new master plan trying to white wash past aberrations will only delay the process. Walking over the judiciary will ultimately lead to chaos and will catch up just as it did with the man being sent to the gallows. We must finally accept part of the responsibility and each give up a little to set matters right.
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the three most beautiful words
I got a mail this morning from a friend of pwhy, who lives miles away, whom I have never met. I only know that he sees with his heart as he has always responded to my innumerable appeals with spontaneous generosity!
This is what he writes in response to my wondering why I deserve the support I get:
And do you really need to ask why
you deserve it?
Reminds me of a scene from the TV series Star Trek (In case you’re
unfamiliar with it, it is about a group of people travelling aboard a
spaceship seeking out new civilisations and trying to understand them). At
the end of one episode, the captain gestures out the window to the doctor
and says “You know, out there right now someone is saying the three most
beautiful words in the universe. Know what they are?”. The doctor looks
quizzically at him. You might expect the words to be ‘I love you’ or such
like. But the captain, gazing out of the window, says “Please. Help me.”
You are one of the few who are driven to listen for these words and try and
help out. That’s why you deserve good fortune.
I sat quietly for a long time my mind traveling at incredible speed as I went back to the days when I too had watched this episode, and wondered when and where I had learnt to listen to these words, a question I had never asked really myself. It is true that my seven years of trying to raise funds have been an eye opener and leads me to think that maybe it was the way we were brought up, the values we were taught and the education we got that made us this way. And maybe these are the very things that are slowly getting eroded leading to other ‘ideals’ where looking with your heart and giving are not on the menu.
I can only say that I feel truly blessed to have been able to find many persons who had the ability to heart these three most beautiful words loud and clear.
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rite of passage
For most I should be elated and jumping with joy – age permitting – two monumental battles were actually won in the last few days. One with a huge bank vindicating the stand that no matter how big the adversary, if truth is on your side you ultimately come out on top, the other with a large funding body that you finally manage to convince in accepting what you always intuitively held as being the right way.
For project why this has been a quantum leap from days where you wondered whether you would survive the next one, to an easy sail where you know winds are favourable for months to come.
Then why do I feel a tad sad and empty? Another why to answer.
There are many reasons. Is it because this is a rite of passage for pwhy, and all rites of passage are always difficult as they spell the end of a stage in pwhy’s life and the onset of another yet unknown? Is it because with this step pwhy gets a life beyond all else and hence deprives me of the driving seat? Is it because we are moving into a comfort zone, and to me such times are filled with hidden dangers? Is it because this will make us deviate from our main challenge; that of finding a donor base within the community we work with?
Maybe all of these in some degree or the other. The real test lies in viewing this much needed help as a way to double one’s effort towards the initial challenge that becomes more doable when one is not struggling to keep from drowning. It means a change in direction where efforts would not be on seeking help, but would have to be aimed at keeping the team sufficiently motivated and to veer them from sinking into a stage of complacency. Easier said than done when my detractors love saying that I have enormous funding that I conceal!
But no matter what, this has to be done as otherwise pwhy will lose its very essence and could just become another clone of many existing efforts. It becomes imperative to view this gift as a stepping stone to the day when the bread of pwhy – staff and space – would come from the tiny drops gathered from the community leaving the butter and jam to outside support.
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the toad in the well
Some of you may remember the little house of horrors.
We have not forgotten the children and are in the process of trying to save them, but we need to tread carefully and ensure that all aspects are covered before the final kill. The adversary is formidable and has been running this hell hole for over three decades. A master at concealing, he carries on his game fooling one and all and hiding being the garb of righteousness.
recently when some of our staff went on a cleaning and fact finding campaign they were stunned by the place and had no words to depict the horror. I had sent them to ensure that I was not overreacting and applying high standards. the ladies I sent were all from the slums and all were ready to hit the roof and had to be restrained as our game plan was not in place.
What shocked them most was the size of the solid gate and the fact that these girls could not ever see the outside world. One of them described the children as being little toads in a deep dark well looking at an inacessible sky!
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a banker who sees with his heart
The last few weeks have been harrowing as one found one’s self in a soup for no fault of ours. A clerical error, a hurried decision and our bank closed our accounts.
It was a David takes on goliath situation but I was I knew the god of lesser ones was on our side. When the matter could not be resolved, I had no option but to write to the bigChief and felt like David. But then the god of lesser children was on our side and the banker was one that saw with his heart. Thirty six hours later, our accounts were restituted.
I just hope that one day he will come by planet why and meet all the children he helped and who would like to thank him in person.
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justice at last
The Priyadarshini Matoo case has come to an acceptable closure and maybe Priya’s soul will finally be able to rest in peace.
Eleven years or so to finally send the rapist and murderer behind bars. I cannot even being to fathom the agony of the last eleven minutes of Priya’s life as she lay fighting her last battle, the pain and courage of her father who never gave up while her killer lived on, got married and even had a child. Did he feel that his father’s position was enough to have him do what he pleased. No Sir. We live in a democracy that works and have a judicial system that is fair. We are protected by a constitution that guarantees us our human rights.
Maybe it takes a little longer than hoped but if like Priya’s father you do not give up, you do not heed threats and carry on your fight, you win no matter how small, unconnected and fragile you may look.
Will potential rapists now think twice before they commit their dastardly crime? Will those who thought that money, connections and power were sufficient licence to do as they please finally understand that they are not above the law? I hope so.
Priyadarshini’s case is the victory of the people of India, a force to reckon with, one that is slowly emerging from the dark.
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david takes on goliath
Never explain – your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe you anyway, said Elbert Hubbard. Maybe that is why a blog written a few days back has been lying unpublished. Each time, my finger wanders towards the publish button, something holds me back.
Wonder why. Is it because what has happened looks so terrible, because it holds within it so many assumptions each needing to be addressed and denied? I do not know.
Is it because a touch of that key will maybe alienate many forever and leave us rudderless, or is it because one is afraid of tarnishing one’s now glowing image needs?
Let me explain as best I can now that I can view things with a little distance and less anger and even some hum our. Let me start by a asking you a question: what would you do if one day for not fault of yours, without any prior information you received two envelopes with two drafts, no letter or explanation barring a mention of the counterfoil stating that your accounts stand closed?
After wondering for an instant who the generous donor was, I read the words with horror and felt my whole world crash as innumerable images rushed helter skelter in my tired brain. I am sure my head grew a few more white hairs!
To cut a long saga short let me just say that as an easy way out and after operating our accounts for two whole years and not finding any fault, a huge bank decided that we were non-grata and just threw us out without any professional ethics probably thinking that we were to small to react. Surprisingly the same giant sent us two letters dated later than the draft that asked for a certain papers and with no mention of the closure.
When we asked for a reason and explanation and at least for a letter to the authorities stating the reason for such action, we just got wishy washy replies and a vague reference to Bombay being the ultimate authority.
Had this been a personal account of even a business one, I may have thought twice before taking Goliath but 600 pair of eyes was all that was needed to realise that at least the God of Lessor children was with me. So knowing that had done no wrong I wrote a letter to Bombay which had been held to me as the ultimate Goliath!
An answer came and then phone calls and vague explanations. The battle is still on and though I want no one hurt I still want to know why I was treated this way and above all a way to redress the tort.
The battle is on and I will no rest till it is won. However if I stand by what I was taught as a little girl my a doting father: always look for the larger picture, maybe there is a lesson to be learnt: work like ours will only succeed when the basic support comes from within. So no matter how things end, one has to work towards the elusive one rupee option as all other solutions, no matter how easy and comfortable, are fragile and finite.
True one will have to deal with the there is no smoke.. types, they always lurk around as it would give them the awaited opportunity to slime out of commitments. One will also have to explain and vindicate one’s self and the trust painfully and patiently gained over seven long years
Yes one will have to pick up the pieces carefully and gently, and weave them together again with the hope that no cracks remain. And yet there is another lesson to be learnt, one that corroborates my almost intuitive vision when I wrote the first official document for pwhy, one that highlights the vulnerability of any developmental work that depends on outside support: true success lies in one’s ability to build a support system within the group one works with. One that is so small that it escapes all possible attacks, and yet powerful enough to grow by the day.
I just hope that those who stood by us will continue to do so.
Note: For those who are curious the problem seems to have arisen from the fact that someone forgot to look at all the documents filed and took a hasty Poncus Pilate way out.
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the little house of horrors
I have been battling many demons and what now looks like trivial problems, when my good friend mr god decided to call me to order in his inimitable way.
We had been invited to talk about pwhy at a expat gathering when another ‘project’ was also presented by some of the ladies themselves. I must confess that at first we were a little put off as it seemed we were losing a bit of the limelight. How was I to know that it was mr god at work!
As the project was introduced and images flashed on the white wall my hackles stood up. And as one image followed the other I knew that this our presence their was for a reason.
The project is question as an orphanage for little girls an hour’s drive away. And as the lady shared what she had seen I knew that I was looking at something that was evil.
The worst was the plight of 15 little disabled girl who lay in their dirt with no one to look after them. As the last slide was projected I found myself looking for the lady who seemed to be the one in charge and offered our help. She gave me the name of a person who turned out to be a kind hearted well wisher and he asked us to come as soon as we could.
The place turned out to be a house of horrors: over 50 girls and 15 disabled girls between the age of 2 and 15 lived live without any one to look after them, not a single woman is there to care for them. The place is filthy and foul smelling, children are not bathed, their clothes ripped and some do not have wear undergarments. There seems to be regular physical abuse and god knows what else. The swami in question does not seem to believe in education and the children never go out.
What was the most disturbing thing was the fact that this operation has been going on for 30 years yet no girl was over 15! Where are the missing girls, and above all who are these girls?
My mind traveled back to the days when I first met Manu but somehow this sight was far more disturbing. I still do not know how the little girls are going to be saved, but saved they have to be. Every extra hour the children have to be spend in this house of horrors weigh heavily on my conscience..
We need to act!
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r.i.p jatinder
A young class IX student, just 14 years old killed himself… the reason being his public humiliation by the principal.. the reason for that being his delay in paying his fees. Jatinder was the son of a driver who had dared dream huge dreams for his son and enrolled him in this school.
Public humiliation in front of his peers, and inability to sit for his half yearly examinations were too much for this child. He simply put an end to his life. Adults often fail to realise how fragile children’s egos are and they revel in flinging unkind words not realising the damage they can have.
One of the reasons project why began its curriculum support programme stemmed out of a public humiliation. It was in a principal’s office that 6 class X boys were dismissed as useless gutter filth and sure failures in front of me. I saw how they cringed and shrunk and had I not been there to pick up the pieces I wonder what would have happened to them. To salvage their hurt egos I told the principal that they would clear their Boards. A challenge immediately accepted by my lads whose body language changed in an instant. The said Boards were a mere 2 months away, their classroom the roadside in the bitter December cold, their class hour: 7 am. But they came and gave their best and all cleared their examinations. Some of the boys are today in college, others working, one has even bough a car!
When young Rani who now is one of the pillars of project why was beaten in public for being two days late with her school fees and subsequently fainted, her illiterate but sensible mom stepped him and took the only decision she thought right: withdrawing her child from school. Today Rani has cleared her XII Boards while working with us and taking on challenge after challenge.
Jatinder had no one to pick op the pieces of his hurt ego and probably felt that he had no other way but killing himself. probably he did not even realise that his death would have the aftermath we are seeing. He just could not walk back into his world both at school and at home with his head high.
Often adults take insensitive decisions without thinking of the terrible consequences they can lead to. My heart goes out to Jatinder who many may forget after a few days. I juts hope and pray that his death will not go waste and that over and above the arrest of those guilty, some laws will be made to deal with such matters to ensure that no child has to take his life again.
may he rest in peace!
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feudal lord to babulord
Five years ago, when I first heard of the local money lender and his alarming interest rate of 120%, I could have never imagined that the day would dawn when I found him almost ‘likeable’.
I have often held that my years discovering the India of urban slums has been a huge lesson in life, where many of my set ideas were not only questioned but sometimes even reversed.
My first encounter with our moneylender’s ways was when I realised that he not only lent at 120%, but sent his goons to collect his monthly pound of flesh on each payday without fail. I was appalled and set out explaining to people that this was illegal and that there were institutions that lent money at sensible rates. Of course at that time I did not realise that poor slum people could never walk into a bank, let alone apply for anything.
The years went by and so did the moneylender and his ways. I often heard about his having given the few paltry rupees in the dead of night when someone’s misguided child had been taken by the cops, or his having disbursed the needed money to buy eats for a visiting marriage party.
Whenever we could, we used to help people in need, but never had sufficient funds to do so on a sustained basis. I often wondered why this seemingly absurd system did not stop and kept thinking of alternatives.
Last month one of my team members told me he had applied for a loan from a known bank and the interest rate was 2%. seemed fair to me who does not have a head for financial affairs. After much form filling, telephone checking and too’s and fro’s, he was given 25 K or so for a 30 K loan.
I then ventured to ask Amit to find out what all this actually meant. To cut a matter short, our colleague who is barely literate had signed on a paper that would make him pay almost 55 K for his 30 K amount, and for an insurance policy of 3 K per year, something he had not wanted. The financing in the name of a leading bank was one of those agarwal sweet kind of things where leading companies give their name to middle men.
It was another transition from feudal lord to babulord. From human money lender to institutionalised money lender. I did start by saying that to me the former seemed more likeable. Well let me tell you why. Our local money l;ender at his astronomical lending rate hounds you mercilessly for year one, then a little less harshly in year 2, and normally lets people go in year 3 as he has recovered more than enough. The bank will drag you to court and hound you till kingdom come. With the former it is a clear and well understood operation, the later is full of hidden traps that simple and illiterate people fall for.
Wonder where the solution lies
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Do we need to change horses..
The Okhla saga ended well.. the young lads who had broken the wall repaired it after hearing our healing touch pitch.. In the ultimate analysis everyone can be saved, or at least one can try and plant a seed and hope that some day it will germinate..
The two kids in the picture -Raju and Rakhi – are busy emulating their Bollywood heroes to impress their little audience. it is a very serious affair. But both these kinds have all the chances to grow into what we call bad elements: Raju does not have a dad and his mom just manages to keep things going, and Rakhi’s dad has already been to prison and lives on the edge..
So the wall breaking incident could very well be repeated in the future where one would be the lady love and the other the forlorn and rejected admirer..
I have been disturbed recently by the course we have taken at pwhy and have been feeling that our set of horses are tired and need to be changed. The many perturbing occurrences in the recent past that seem to aggravate schisms in our society need to be looked at seriously. Our experience in okhla has shown us that many dangers lurk around a growing urban child. Just teaching them the normal 3 Rs will not get them anywhere. We have to combat the divisive forces at the grassroots. Children have to be made conscious of their role in civic society, of their democratic rights, of the tools they have to combat problems (RTI) and of the dangers of alcohol and drugs.
My encounter with the gang boss was perturbing. In a flash we recognised ourselves as enemies and as he carried on telling me how bad the young lads were I insisted on saying that every child could be saved. Today everyone is talking of Gandhigiri versus Dadagiri being un uneven battle as the later has no principles, no scruples and no values.
Two roads are left to walk: the former is the one that was depicted in the reaction of one of our upmarket volunteers as she heard of the incidents and said: You must find a safer place; the later is that of digging your heels and try and beat the system by using it to your advantage.
Okhla has two small time Dons, one is the one that cross swords me, the other is a young spirited woman who has now become a friend, and who will ultimately help me in my battle.
Strange that I made my will just this week..
I am ready for battle. It is for the children and therefore for the future
all is fair in love….
On my mission to find out why the brand new wall of our school had been broken, I could not have imagined in my wildest dream that the main culprit was Cupid!
Apparently one of the young gang leaders of the are – and there quite a few – was romantically inclined towards one of our students. When she told him that he was not up to the mark, her yardstick being pwhy teachers, the young lad say red. At night he tried to break the wall of the school alone, but when he could not, he gathered 5 pals and they set out to the task of destroying the quite solid brick wall. I presume they were aided by Bacchus too!
On the flip side, the young man in question, was responsible enough to own his action, and in doing so he gathered a few plus points from me.
But it does not stop here, when I went to find out what happened I found myself once again faced with the puzzle that is India. Another student of ours had been beaten by the same band of boys. As I tried to find someone to go and fetch the ‘culprit’, a fat man that oozed bad vibes came and stood in front of me stating loudly that the boy was a very bad element and that nothing could change him, he was scum of the earth. And as his diatribe grew longer and louder, I knew that there was more than met the eye. After handing him a few no child is hopeless and everyone is born the same way, I set out to find more.
I was not surprised to learn that he was the one who first got the boys into drinking and using and then made them do petty crimes. The student who had been beaten had refused to drink!
I am sure that the vile man is working for some politico who works for a bigger wish carefully nurturing the needed brute force to meet their agendas. As I left I was more and more determined to get the boys in my fold and have been trying to find ways, even if the first one that comes to my mind is that rather than break a wall to impress a lady, maybe studying would work better.
I forgot to mention that as I was leaving I witnessed the arrival of the local leaders all offering unsolicited help that of course my staff was politely refusing.
Sometimes everything looks so forlorn, why is it that I always see a ray of hope.
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