A generation, some would say.

And yet, when I look back at the journey of Project Why, it sometimes feels as though it all began only yesterday.

I can still hear Manu’s cries.

They had shaken me out of the almost catatonic state into which I had sunk after the death of my parents. I had been rudderless, with no idea where life was taking me.

Today, I understand that Manu gave me a second life.

He gave me another chance—not only to live, but to do something that would honour the lives of those I had lost.

That was how the journey began.

There was no roadmap. No instruction manual. No carefully thought-out plan.

There was only one child, an overwhelming desire to help him, and a question that demanded an answer.

And then, as so often happens in life, one question led to another.

And another.

That is how Project Why began.

Taking care of Manu meant entering a world I barely knew existed.

It was a world on the other side of the invisible lines drawn by society—the lines that separate one class from another, one life from another.

I had grown up far away from this world. And yet, as I began spending time in the lanes of the slums of Delhi and entering the homes of the families who lived there, I found something strangely familiar.

I found the India my parents had lovingly described to me as a child growing up in faraway lands.

It was not the India I had known.

But it was a world filled with warmth, humour, resilience and an extraordinary capacity for love.

The love and acceptance I received made it easier to overcome the many hurdles that came my way.

And slowly, almost without my realising it, that world became mine.

In the winter of 2000, Project Why began in a small mud jhuggi across the road from where Manu lived.

There were barely forty children.

We had a few volunteers, a small spoken English programme and absolutely no idea what lay ahead.

We certainly did not have a blueprint for the future.

But we had children.

And we had questions.

The first class was soon followed by another.

Then a special educator arrived at our door with a few children who had nowhere else to go. Their school had closed its doors, and she wanted to know if we had a class for children with special needs.

We did not.

But the answer was an immediate yes.

It was one of the first deafening ‘whys’ that Project Why had to answer.

And so, almost before we knew what was happening, our special needs class began.

Some of those children who arrived on that cold winter morning are still part of the Project Why family today.

Taking care of Manu meant entering a world I barely knew existed.

It was a world on the other side of the invisible lines drawn by society—the lines that separate one class from another, one life from another.

I had grown up far away from this world. And yet, as I began spending time in the lanes of the slums of Delhi and entering the homes of the families who lived there, I found something strangely familiar.

I found the India my parents had lovingly described to me as a child growing up in faraway lands.

It was not the India I had known.

But it was a world filled with warmth, humour, resilience and an extraordinary capacity for love.

The love and acceptance I received made it easier to overcome the many hurdles that came my way.

And slowly, almost without my realising it, that world became mine.

In the winter of 2000, Project Why began in a small mud jhuggi across the road from where Manu lived.

There were barely forty children.

We had a few volunteers, a small spoken English programme and absolutely no idea what lay ahead.

We certainly did not have a blueprint for the future.

But we had children.

And we had questions.

The first class was soon followed by another.

Then a special educator arrived at our door with a few children who had nowhere else to go. Their school had closed its doors, and she wanted to know if we had a class for children with special needs.

We did not.

But the answer was an immediate yes.

It was one of the first deafening ‘whys’ that Project Why had to answer.

And so, almost before we knew what was happening, our special needs class began.

Some of those children who arrived on that cold winter morning are still part of the Project Why family today.

Years later, I found myself standing in that same place, hoisting the national flag at the Giri Nagar centre.

The sight of it took me back to the winter of 2000.

The little mud jhuggi was gone. The handful of children had become a large family. And yet, standing there, I could still feel the presence of the beginning.

This was where it had all started.

This was where Manu’s blue plastic chair had once stood.

This was where I had shared countless meals with him, sitting on a little red stool and dipping pieces of flatbread into the dal he loved so much.

To me, those simple meals were manna from the gods.

As I stood there, listening to the children sing the national anthem, I felt overwhelmed by the passage of time.

Twenty years had passed.

And yet, in that moment, it felt as though I had come full circle.

I was standing in the place where Project Why had begun.

And somehow, I could almost imagine Manu at the end of the road, as though he might appear at any moment.

From that tiny beginning, Project Why grew.

The forty children became hundreds, and then more than a thousand.

The small spoken English class grew into primary and secondary classes. The special needs class grew into a family of its own.

We began working with women, helping them learn skills that could give them a measure of financial independence.

And slowly, the small lane where it had all begun was no longer enough.

Project Why spread to other parts of Delhi.

Centres opened in different parts of the city. Children came to us. Women came to us. And along the way, so did many other challenges.

Some were expected.

Many were not.

A child needed an open-heart surgery.

Another had survived terrible burns.

A family needed help.

A child needed protection.

There was always another question waiting to be answered.

And somehow, we kept trying to answer them.

We were not always sure how.

But we had learnt something very early in the journey:

If a child stands before you and needs help, you cannot simply turn away because the problem was not part of your original plan.

But that is only one side of the story.

The other side is made up of the incredible people who reached out and made all of this possible.

They came from different parts of India and from across the world.

Some donated money.

Some donated their time.

Some came to teach, to help, to paint, to organise or simply to sit with a child.

Some believed in us so deeply that they even set up organisations in their own countries to raise funds for Project Why.

Each one of them became part of the story.

Each one of them became part of the Project Why family.

And then there was the team.

The people who showed up every day.

The people who dealt with the difficult days, the impossible problems and the endless questions.

The people who stayed.

Over the years, they became the cornerstone of Project Why.

Together, we faced one challenge after another.

There were successes, failures, moments of despair and moments of extraordinary joy.

But somehow, we kept going.

And that, perhaps, is what a family does.

When I look back, I find it difficult to believe how far we have come.

Twenty-five years ago, I began this journey with no roadmap, no instruction book and no idea where it would lead.

I was, in many ways, alone.

Today, I have the largest family I could ever have imagined.

The children of Project Why.

The team.

The volunteers.

The supporters.

The people who believed in us when there was no reason for them to do so.

Each one has left a mark on my life.

Each one has a special place in my heart.

And then there is Manu.

The child who began it all.

The child who gave me back my life when I had almost stopped living it.

I began this journey because I wanted to take care of one child.

Somehow, along the way, that one child led me to thousands.

And every one of them taught me something.

I began by trying to answer the questions life placed before me.

I soon discovered that there would always be more questions.

There would always be another child.

Another need.

Another ‘why’.

And perhaps that is the real story of Project Why.

Not that we found all the answers.

But that we never stopped asking the questions.

I feel humbled by the journey.

I feel grateful beyond words.

And I feel incredibly blessed.

Twenty-five years later, I still have no roadmap.

But I have a family.

And I still have dreams in my custody.

I hope and pray that we will continue to fulfil them.

And somewhere, I like to believe, Manu is smiling.