One always tends to highlight the achievements of the pwhy kids. One talks of their school results, their Board results, the jobs they get, their successes and so on. This has almost become a norm as every year and in all our centres children do us proud in more ways than one. What we tend to forget is the fact that none of this would be possible without our incredible band of teachers! It is they, and they alone who make all the small and big miracles happen.
It is time I paid tribute where it is truly due: the terrific staff that holds the fort and holds it so well.
Let us begin at the top: the two souls who run the two arms of project why with utmost efficiency and like a clock work orange have been with us for almost a decade. One of them was barely sixteen when she joined our wagon as an unpaid volunteer who use to come and run a small medical post that we opened for two half hours a day. She then graduated to distributing nutrition and that is when I discovered her inborn managerial talent. She learned at the speed of light and slowly but surely carved her place in project why. Today she runs her part of the show single handedly. Over the years she carefully selected her team, hired and fired with the needed aplomb. I have never seen her buckle under any circumstance, she always conjures a better solution. When she joined she was what you call a school drop out, not because of lack of aptitude but because she was beaten mercilessly and her mom decided that she should not go back. But she is not one who gives up. While working with us she completed her class X, XII and is now sitting for her BA final exams. What is amazing is that she never took a day off. You may have guessed, I am talking of Rani.
Rani is aptly seconded by a vibrant team of teachers. Some have been with us for many years, others have joined more recently. Each and everyone of them is committed and diligent. Come to think of it most of them were not destined to be teachers. Many were simple housewives whose education had been truncated by an early arranged marriage. Others were young people who had finished their studies in some remote place and come to the city to seek greener pastures. They learned on the job and boy they learned well. I can only say Chapeau bas to all of them.
The other arm of project why, namely the women centre was created from scratch by a young man who joined us a a teacher but soon emerged as social activist at heart, someone who strangely echoed my way of thinking: almost a kindred spirit. He soon graduated from his role as a humanities teacher to being the one I turned to in moment of crises. When we decided to set up the women centre as a case of force majeure, it was he I turned to. The result is there for all to see: a vibrant centre catering to more than 300 souls. And here again there is a superb team that runs the show. Well done Dharmendra.
The true measure of the success of team project why is my redundancy. Quite frankly project why does not need me to run. And though my team will vouch for the contrary, I can recognise the writing on the wall: I am really de trop! My only utility is as a fund raiser. That is the only thing my team has not mastered in spite of my best efforts. In hindsight I should be happy as otherwise I would have been completely superfluous. That is not quite the truth as I am aware of my shortcomings and of the fact that I am not eternal and for project why to run beyond me, my team will have to master the art of fund gathering. Maybe that is what needs to be done.
If planet why does see the light of day, and that would be my fund raising master stroke, my real swansong. I know my team will be able to run the show and carry on the work. If that does not happen then they will have to explore new ways. Deep in my heart, I know that many of them will not let project die wither and die.
My little grandson left last week after spending nine months with us. An eerie silence pervades the house making it uncanny. It is almost as if its soul had suddenly gone missing.
For the last eight months the house had been commandeered by a little bundle of energy and joy. Everything moved around him and was tuned to his needs and demands. Even the old biddy had adjusted her ways to his schedule and my work day for the past months looked a little strange. The house itself had lost its erstwhile pristine look. Toys lay strewn in every nook and corner, the drive and garden were requisitioned by brightly coloured cars and cycles of all sizes. We had to learn to live around all these alien articles. But I am not complaining far from that! We all loved the new arrangements.
For the last eight months a new vocabulary became ours as we followed a little boy’s forays into mastering a new language. The air conditioner was christened as thanda machine or cold machine, and Namaste became Manaste and stayed so. When any task was completed be it a meal or a painting session a loud fini was heard and no force on earth could challenge that. We simply adopted the new lexicon, adding new words as they were mouthed by a little lad. The months flew at an incredible speed and the day of parting dawned. Never were Lamartine the french romantic poet’s words more true: one person missing and all life goes away. Even if the missing one is knee high to a grasshopper.
We are slowly learning to live without little Agastya. It means filling up time that hangs heavy, adjusting our ears to eerie silence, getting used once again to an immaculate house. Somehow when he was around one had learnt to complete all our work in the time slots when he slept or was away at pwhy. I must admit that we all managed pretty well. True some things were never quite done but it did not matter. Today we have to learn once again to fill our time with what once was ample but seems so deficient. Time to revive what was put on hold, easier said than done as one seems to have forgotten what filled the days before Agastya.
Holiday homework! A bane for both parents and children. I thought I had graduated to the no holiday homework status but not quite as I am now parent to young Utpal who has reached class IV. Spending summers chiding children to get on with their task and then having to spend hours with paper and glue was never my idea of fun. But that is exactly what I am doing this summer. The two typed sheet that spells out all the work to be completed sits on my desk. Lists of what is needed have been made and several trips to local stationery shops have ensured that we have all that is needed.
The homework is daunting. Daily pages of handwriting from both English and Hindi newspapers, essays and grammar charts, tables and sums, models and art work, the list is endless and I am at a loss as the little chap has another definition of holiday all together: playing, watching TV, going out and eating! An unbelievable time is spent in coaxing and negotiating. Every day a small amount is done after a battle royal. We are getting there at a snail’s pace and immense wear tear on Ma’amji’s nerves. Maybe this is the plight of every parent.
Not quite as was revealed in an article in a leading weekly. Believe it or not you can now get your homework outsourced if you are willing to pay the price. Children do not spend time on creating models and projects: they take a trip to NaiSadak and buy the home assignment, or go for a package deal: 4500 Rs is a total homework package. Reading the article made me uncomfortable. This approach to me is cheating, or should one say cheating with the blessing of your parents. Taking professional help definitely helped my children get top marks admits a mother quite guilelessly making one shudder. If I was the teacher I would give higher marks to a clumsy project that is undoubtedly the work of a 9 year old then to a perfectly executed one that is undoubtedly again the work of a professional adult! But it seems that in school today that is not the practice.
One could argue about the ethicality of those in the homework business. But it is simply a question of demand and supply. It seems that there are enough clients to make the business lucrative. Yet one is compelled to ask whether one is teaching the children to take the easy way out, a lesson they will continue to follow and one that can have disastrous consequences. A first lesson in corruption, speaks volumes for the kind of society we have become.
I agree that the holiday home work is tedious and irksome. I also agree that if you have planned to travel during the holidays completing the home work is close to impossible. But does it mean you need to cheat. Wouldn’t a simple letter the school be sufficient to explain unfinished homework? To my mind the only people who would need assistance to complete the holiday homework would be the brave underprivileged parents who tighten their belt till it hurts in order to send their progeny to a ‘good’ school. But how can they pay the money required? To complete the homework of our boarding school kids, we have a assigned a teacher whose sole task is to help the children finish their work at no cost of course!
For Utpal it is good old Maa’mji and her rusted knowledge. Thank God for Google! So the next days will be filled with cutting and pasting and making charts and models. Somehow I am beginning to look forward to it and if all is not done then tant pis, one has to remember that holidays are meant to be fun and that is what is important.
As I drove in my proverbial three wheeler to the market next door yesterday morning, I knew something was wrong though at first I did not quite know what. It took me a few seconds to realise that the streets were strangely empty.. something was missing. Then it struck me: all the small business persons were missing. Let me explain. On the short less than 500 meters run to my local market we pass by a street cobbler, a street tailor, a street barber, a street tea stall, a vegetable and fruit vendor. Yesterday they were all gone! As we reached the market I saw a posse of people, some cops and a truck where stuff was being loaded. What hit was the eerie silence that greeted me, as if the sound track of a film had been cut off. As I alighted from the scooter and started to walk towards the market I heard someone say in a whisper: komittee aaiye hai! The committee has come. In a flash I understood the script. This was a descent by the municipal authorities aimed at ridding our city of illegal businesses! I looked again and realised that what was being loaded on the menacing truck was the entire belongings of the little tea-cum-lunch stall that had thrived under a banyan tree for as long as I can remember.
This stall catered to all the workers and passers by in search of a cup of tea or a warm meal at a reasonable price. It had always been a comforting sight with its smiling owner doling out platefuls to waiting customers. The food was fresh, the place clean. No one seemed to mind its existence. But someone did: the local authorities and their illogical sanitising drives. I thought the Commonwealth games were over and life back to its old ways. But that was not so. The predators were back with a vengeance! I had forgotten our city’s preferred mission: get rid of the poor. Thank God someone had warned some of these people, that explained why barber, cobbler and vegetable vendor had gone AWOL.
I would like to ask the powers that be a simple question: how do they expect over half the population to live if they deny them their right to be small entrepreneurs particularly as now you have to earn less than 20Rs a day to be considered poor and have access to social welfare. Do read this article that gives the new Indian Fortune List @< 20 rs a day. It is an eye opener.
But let us get back to our small entrepreneurs who courtesy the authorities lost a day or more of earnings. The city is replete with such people. They assess the need of the hour and provide the service with efficiency. They cater to one and all and are not the prerogative of the poor. They are your water vendors, juice sellers, vegetable sellers, cobblers, tailors etc. They provide a meal to those who serve you and believe you me they are mean business minds as they gage the need of the hour with clock work precision. In winter they sell you peanuts, in summer cooling drinks, during festivals they bring you exactly what you need. Others cater to your small daily requirements: a broken shoe or a garment that needs to be altered. Wonder where one would go with a broken heel if the road side cobbler was not on call?
Now let us look at the other side of the story. The people we are talking about and who seem to disturb the powers that be are human beings tryings to find a way to survive. They have families who depend on them. They have dreams for their loved ones: education for their children, medicines for their elders and so on and though the Planning Commission thinks that you can live on 2o Rs a day, the reality is quite different. Most of the street vendors leave their homes and come to cities to look for a better life. They soon realise that they will not find jobs and have to create their own. Their common sense guides them and they identify possible avenues. Why not make samosas and sell them at the street corner, or walk the lanes peddling what a household would need. Come to gali no 3 where our centre is located at any time of the day and you will see a host of street peddlers selling an amazing array of things: brooms, plastic ware, clothes, bangles, pickles and more. The task is not easy but it keeps the pot boiling. At the top of the street stands a cluster of food vendors doling out hot meals or cups of tea or the famous bread/omelet and at any time of the day they have clients. They are there in the scorching heat, the freezing cold or the pouring rain. They never miss a day. I too have often stopped for a cup of tea or a plate of hot snacks and never regretted it. There is a also a very old fruit vendor who hobbles on his bandaged feet and sets up his cart every morning. Maybe this small endeavour restores his dignity in his son’s home. I often buy fruit from him.
If the powers that be have their way then I wonder where people will go for that reinvigorating break. Experience tells us that they will all be back. Some money will exchange pockets. One must not forget that each of these vendors pays a monthly tithe to local officials: the cops, the municipal agent and so on and no one is quite ready to lose their bounty. Corruption rules. And everyone knows that these small entrepreneurs are the lifeline of the city. I wish ways were found to give these unique small entrepreneurs their rightful place and accept them as a legitimate members of society.
Sunday was party time. A wedding in the extended family meant all were welcome. A good way to show our volunteers what an Indian wedding was all about! They were to say the least speechless and this was in no way an upmarket bash! Among the guest list two little boys from different worlds bonded by the illogical love of an old biddy. The biddy is yours truly, the boys young Utpal and tiny Agastya. After a long drive through parts of Delhi I had never laid eyes on we reached the venue, a wedding garden garishly decorated and brightly lit. The rains of the day also meant that the grass was wet and the carpets soaked. Much to the delight of my two heroes who enjoyed the water squishing under their shoes.
We were amongst the first to arrive and had the place to ourselves. The boys ran free stopping only to gorge themselves on the yummy snacks. At one corner stood the notorious DJ and soon dance music was blaring from the huge speakers. That is when my little boys made a beeline for the dance floor and started dancing. They did not stop till it was time to leave! They danced and danced, the little one trying to copy the bigger one. I am so glad someone filmed them!
I must admit I did not take time to watch them that evening but I have looked at the one minute clip over and over again and it has brought smiles to my lips and joy to my heart. These two little boys come from such different world. Utpal has a past even adults would find difficult to carry and Agastya my grandson came into our world with the proverbial golden spoon in his mouth. Both walked into my heart and taught me the meaning of pure unadulterated love, the kind you give without expecting anything in return, the kind that fills you with joy, hope and trust. They took to each other immediately, Utpal the caring big bro to rapidly growing Agastya. Agastya who lives thousand of miles away has never missed a PTM when in town. The two boys revel in each other’s company, the little one following the bigger one at each step. The sight of them fills me with happiness and lights up my darkest hour. How blessed I am to have these two little souls in my rapidly dwindling life.
In four days my grandson will leave after eight magical months. I know there will be a huge hole in my heart but I also know that another little boy from another world will be there to fill the void till he returns.
One always tends to highlight the achievements of the pwhy kids. One talks of their school results, their Board results, the jobs they get, their successes and so on. This has almost become a norm as every year and in all our centres children do us proud in more ways than one. What we tend to forget is the fact that none of this would be possible without our incredible band of teachers! It is they, and they alone who make all the small and big miracles happen.
The other arm of project why, namely the women centre was created from scratch by a young man who joined us a a teacher but soon emerged as social activist at heart, someone who strangely echoed my way of thinking: almost a kindred spirit. He soon graduated from his role as a humanities teacher to being the one I turned to in moment of crises. When we decided to set up the women centre as a case of force majeure, it was he I turned to. The result is there for all to see: a vibrant centre catering to more than 300 souls. And here again there is a superb team that runs the show. Well done Dharmendra.
