I was surprised when I heard that young K was going to spend a few days at home. I am always delighted when she is with us as she is a ray of sunshine, but this is school and unit test time so what the hell was she doing! I obviously had to ask what was happening. That is when I first heard of a custom called Chaupadi, practised in Nepal. What I was witnessing was a revised and ‘modernised’ version of this abhorrent custom. The article gives an elaborate description of the horror. In short a woman is considered ‘unclean’ while she is menstruating and is kept in isolation as the gods will be angered and bring ruin upon hapless male members of the family. So she is locked up in a dark hole. Men need to be protected as is always the case.

I do remember some elders in my own family make inane statements like ‘don’t touch the pickle jar‘ as it is believed that it will rot if touched by one who has her period. We were also banished from the prayer room and not taken to Temples. I found this unjust but never raised my voice as my parents, though traditional always sifted the grain from the chaff as far as traditions were concerned, and only taught me what they felt stood to logic and my cartesian mind. I remember telling my father first that I had had my period and we both went out to buy me a gift. I was 10!

This terrible custom does not stand to any logic, however warped. Menstruation is part of the normal growth of girl and needs to be celebrated just like you celebrate the first word, the first step, the first day at school and many more firsts. How illogical it is to consider the very essence of creation as something dirty! Having your first period is traumatic for any child. That is when she needs love, affection, help, care, tenderness and above all the presence of her family. Imagine how she feels when she is sent to the cowshed in the village or to strangers home in the city! Once upon a time this isolation was considered as ‘forced rest’ and could have made some sense if the woman was well looked after, but now she is still meant to work. As one woman says: if I can feed the cow when having my periods, why can’t I drink its milk? If I can collect firewood for the kitchen, why can’t I cook? If I touch a plant, it will die they say, then why am allowed to breast-feed in the chaupadi? This is absurd.

The watered down version that I am seeing today is incomprehensible. The young girl will continue to go to school and carry on with her life but cannot see any male member of her family for the next 7 days! Blissfully in this version this is only for the first cycle.

My curiosity compelled me to find out the origin of this Hindu practice and thanks to the WWW and Google this is what I found: According to religious folklore, Indra, the King of Heaven was accused of killing a Brahmin and because of the illicit acts with women that Indra committed during his quest to redeem his sin, for these acts all women were said to be punished through menstruation. So if I get it right, a God goes philandering and it is all women, including you and me, who are punished and tormented. Hey that is a good one for explaining all the rape and abuse against women. You are being raped because Indra went astray!

This practice has landed in our city because of the large number of migrants from the region where it is the most prevalent. Urban existence has compelled families to revisit the custom and contain it to the first cycle only. But that is probably the worst ‘modernisation’ you could have come up with.The first cycle is when a girl is still a child and when she needs maximum support. You cannot lock her away or send her to strangers. And how can you think that a menstruating child’s touch can  hurt the males of the family! What she needs most is a hug from her father. That is what I got.

To be continued

Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime wrote Herbert Ward. Most of us do not understand this has we have never been abused. But this is the harsh reality, one I have witnessed myself. The medias have shifted gear. There seems to be a surplus of meaty stories. And with elections around the corner, the politicians will hog all the space. The horror of abuse of little girls cannot compete with scams, political quibbling and all kind of breaking news. Yet children continue to be abused as we carry on life as we know it. Yesterday evening at 7.45, as we were maybe sipping our sundowner, watching TV or otherwise engaged,  the little five year old who had been brutally raped 12  days ago and was fighting for her life in  a Nagpur hospital breathed her last and gently passed away without fuss. We will never know what went on in her tiny and innocent mind for those long 12 days and 12 nights. She will be mourned by her loved ones but they too will have to move on as the game of survival the poor in our country are compelled to play does not allow you the luxury to grieve for long. She might make a few headlines, spark off some protest but then she will become a statistic to be added to the horrifying number of children abused in our country: 48 838 is the official number of children raped in India in the last ten years. These are the reported cases. You can easily multiply the figure by four. And if you add the children groped, molested, fondled and assaulted within their homes, then the figure is staggering. Yet we keep criminally mute.

If you have the strength to read what child abuse is all about then I urge you to read this article. I know it is not easy but do to read it, just to honour the little girl who passed away yesterday because of our indifference. You cannot begin to imagine the horror a child goes through because of us , adults. I use ‘us’ responsibly because we are collectively responsible. I know many of you will not read this article in its entirety. I had to brace myself to do so. Allow me to just reproduce one story before we go further.

To begin with, hear the story of one child. On 17 December 2012 — just one day after the gangrape of a young paramedic in New Delhi shook the world — a three-and-a-half-year old baby girl returned from school with her clothes streaked with vomit and blood.

Her father, Gagan Sharma (name changed), had moved from Kolkata to a slum in west Delhi in 2003 in search of a better life. The little girl had been listless and reluctant to go to school for weeks. Now, when her mother asked her what had happened, she told the story haltingly, riven by fear.

She spoke of a bald man — the principal’s husband — who had threatened to hang her from a ceiling fan if she dared to open her mouth. She spoke of how he had taken her to the bathroom, made her lie down, and inserted his penis and fingers into her vagina and her anus, blaring music in his room to drown any noise. She spoke of how he had done this to her many times before, forcing her to keep quiet by saying terrible things would happen to her parents if she talked about it.

The girl’s mouth was full of ulcers from a drug the alleged perpetrator — a man called Pramod Malik — had forced her to take to render her unconscious while he raped her.

The fact of the rape is horrific enough. Here’s what came after. According to the parents, it took them 12 hours at the police station to get an FIR registered. They were taunted by a woman sub-inspector for living in a colony of “disrepute”; their own reputation was questioned; the little girl was asked to recount her story in front of three policemen. The woman sub-inspector prefaced the inquiry by telling the little girl: “Tell the truth or insects will crawl all over you and your mother and father will be beaten.”

Despite these threats, the little girl repeated her story exactly as she had told it to her parents. In the magistrate’s court, she was challenged again. She told her story again. The medical examiner, however, ruled out rape and left the report vague. The headmaster was let out on bail on 28 February. On the other hand, Gagan Sharma’s landlord asked him and his family to leave. They are still struggling with the case.

This is not just a narrative of a rape. Every line screams of horror, injustice and pain. First the age of the child: three and a half year old. Take a moment to stop and things of the children of that age you know and love: your own child, your grandchild, your niece or perhaps your neighbour. She is just a baby, someone to be loved, protected, cared for but not to be viewed as a means to satisfy your sexual need! She is just a child whose life till that horrific moment was filled with thoughts of toys, goodies and chocolates, swings and rids, and joy and laughter. And then suddenly a change in mood, a fear she cannot convey, a scream that remains stuck in her tiny throat for weeks. She does not want to go to school. But school is where she is meant to be safe, it is meant to be a happy place. Is it not the preferred space we all want to send our tiny ones to? And then one day the screams breaks the barrier of imposed silence and mutates into halting words impregnated with fear. She recounts the horror she has been subjected to, the pain, the incomprehension, the threats and names the perpetrator. It is not a stranger but the Principal’s husband! 

In any civilised society one would want to believe that from this moment the child would be safe and not subjected to any more humiliation and indignity. But there is more, much more. The child has to relieve the nightmare again and again and tell her ‘story’ to insensitive police officials, even a women who tell her to Tell the truth or insects will crawl all over you and your mother and father will be beaten. She has to relieve the horror again in front of a magistrate.

The end of the matter was that the medical examiner ruled out rape! How could he do that when the child had described as graphically as a three year old can do the acts perpetrated by the man. The main is out on bail. And her parents have been thrown out of their home by their landlord, their reputation sullied. I do not know what logic works here. I am speechless and seething.

The equation is skewed. It is not a case of 1 victim and 1 perpetrator. It is the a matter of one tiny victim   just three and a half and a slew of perpetrators: the rapist, his wife under whose watch this happened, the police and their taunts, the medical examiner whose report is shocking, the magistrate whose understanding of rape is beyond one’s understanding and last of all the community who as always lands  up blaming the victim. How can a child be heard.

I can only quote Heather Mc Claine’s words when she says The only reason why child abuse is alive today, is because we as adults fail our children when we fail to listen to them. Listen to a child today!

There are several more stories like this one in the mentioned article. 

The reason of this post goes further. The rape of these little girls is abhorrent. One has to have a sick mind to think otherwise. But there is another from of sexual assault that happens every minute within the walls of homes of all strata of society, assaults that are never or rarely reported as the equation is again skewed: one girl versus family honour and the equation is again skewed. What chance does the girl stand and as sometimes it is not rape in the legal definition – penetration- it is often poo poohed away by the elder one goes to for help. What many do not understand is that child sexual abuse is NOT  only intercourse. Even a single instance of groping by someone you trust is sufficient to scar a child for life. The incident takes on the form of a predator that lives for ever in some dark recess of the survivor’s soul and raises its ugly and monstrous head at the least expected moment, often when the survivor feels she has healed and wants to live a normal life, or when she dares to dream. The beast is a hydra headed one and can take many shapes: an unexplained illness, a sombre mood, anything to ensure that the survivor does take that one step that would spell release and freedom.

Many of us do not know that. There was a time when I too did not. But this is the raw and stark reality faced by a child sexual abuse survivor simply because a trusting adult broke the trust in a vile and reprehensible way.

The survivor is scarred for ever. As a survivor who was raped at the age of 16 and could not remember the faces of those who violated her:“All I remember from that night is a smell” . A smell that impregnates every part of her memory forever.

An SMS this morning from my husband read: I believe you are in the papers today. Congrats! The husband is presently outside India and I wondered how this news had reached him? Some friend I guess. My first reaction was to send him an SMS back asking: good or bad? Good was the reply. I heaved a sigh of relief. It has been a long time since the media came a visiting! Wonder where this came from. A bit of sleuthing around and it transpired that a local tabloid run by a known media group had decided to publish an anniversary special entitled making a difference and honouring fifty individuals who had in their opinion made a difference. I am one of them. I must admit that no one came to visit, but I know remember a phone call from a journo who had once visited us asking me what was new. I must have given her some information. The result: a mishmash of what has been written over and over again with some new elements provided on a phone. The only ray of light was that Manu was mentioned and thus his existence acknowledge in true spirit. I can never forget the debt I owe him. I dedicate this to him!

The article does not say much that is not known. I guess I must feel honoured and humbled to have been selected as one of the 50! I am, undoubtedly. But what caught my attention was the title the journalist had chosen: The constant questioner? Of all things written that was the only words that were relevant. Those three almost innocuous words brought me back to earth. No statistics or successes would ever be enough to allow me to sit back and say: job well done! There is still so much to do. If the mission as it his stated in the article is to provide basic human rights to children in slums, then I have far from succeeded. True the handful or even fistful of children that have realised their dreams because of our presence is a step in the right direction as a constant questioner time has perhaps to look beyond   school success and job skills, to the stark and brutal reality that hits us in the face every single day. This weeks magazines bring to fore the question of safety of our little children in slums. A tiny soul was found brutalised and is now fighting for her life. She had simply gone to the toilet. She lies in the same hospital where a another brutalised child is recovering. I wonder who will heal the scars on their soul.  Another magazine reports on the rampant sexual abuse of children in India. The article is one that we should all read and hang our heads in shame. Imagine 48,838 children raped in just 10 years. Imagine what it means when you are told this staggering figure — which is a National Crimes Record Bureau statistic — is possibly only 25 percent of the actual child rapes going on in the country. And that only 3 percent — a mere 3 percent — of these make it to the police. Imagine what it means when you are told child rapes have seen a chilling 336 percent jump from 2001 to 2011.

Looks like the questionner has to kick herself out of her comfort zone where school results and news of good employment, interspersed with some life saving surgery seem to be enough for a pat on the back. That she should stop complaining about her age, creaking bones and dwindling eye sight and taken the deafening whys that can be heard by one and all. Any self respecting human being who professes to work for children in India cannot afford to stop, not till her last breath.

So help me God!

If you want to read the article, here it is:

It is disturbing that much of what I have often expressed over the past years on this blog is being stated by those one calls experts. How I wish I would have been wrong. In a recent article entitled: Has India lost the XXIst century an educationist writes: “It has not been in the interest of any government to ensure universalisation of education,  why would a government deny its people universal education? Because education gives you access to ideas, rights and opens doors of abilities. Education upsets the status quo and if, as a government, you stay in power by virtue of votebanks that you create and nurture, it is not in your interest to ensure everyone gets education.”

When we began pwhy, I was naive enough to think that all was well in our education system. The things that disturbed me then were the fact that children went to school for half a day and the fact that they had to spend the other half either loitering around (boys) or in household chores (girls). What upset me was that these children had no place to play, no one to help them with their school work etc. I wanted project why to be the place where they could have just that and be children! I imagined pwhy to be a large space with books, toys, games, computers and some teachers to help with the homework and teach them spoken English. I also dreamt of an open space where the children could play. I even dared the large community centre with sprawling grounds that lay vacant and desolate. I was told it was the old labour court that had now shifted. There was even a large auditorium. Time and again the community hall was spruced up and used for a wedding. Once the party over the hall remained littered with used plastic cups and plated till the next wedding or party. We too used that hall for our only two annual day. I also learnt that two rooms were used for sewing classed and for a creche though I never saw any proof of that.

That is when I thought that maybe one could suggest to the authorities to use that space ‘intelligently’ and for the benefit of the community: proper creches, a library, computer classes, etc as well as sports for children as the grounds were ample. Of course the powers that be did not want that! Soon after there was a lot of activity. The building was being given a makeover. A few days later there was a big inauguration with delhi’s who’s who! But as always in this land of ours, everything was undercover, behind locked gates. One did peep and saw a huge signboard that had all the possible heads under which one can get funds if one runs a NGO: education, health, HIV AIDS, special needs children and adults, revival of art and craft, you name it and it was there. WOW. It seemed that the organisation was run by one of heirs of an important individual. Well the story was short and bitter. I was told of some horror stories that happened behind those walls where mentally challenged women were kept hidden and abused. And then that do stopped. The building lies unused behind a lock. I guess the said individual has collected all the funds he could and moved on.

This was an aparte that fits in. Let me carry on with my story. The idea of the large space where kids could be kids was soon sacrificed to the alter of a very loud WHY! In tune with my initial dream and because of lack of resources we had begun humbly with spoken English classes for a handful of kids. It was not long before the outrageous and shocking reality of State run schools: little or practically no teaching, overcrowded classes, no drinking water, no toilets, corporal punishment. Still naive, I  attempted  to address the corporal punishment issue with friends in the press and visits to the school. This is circa 2003. I learnt the hard way when I hard that pwhy children where being targeted by the teachers and beaten even more! I beat a quick retreat.

I had however l realised that it was not a happy child centre that we needed, but space to teach as many children as possible. I again tried to seek political help as, many of you may not know this, I had worked for the ruling party and had entrees in many circles, did I wish to use them. The saga of that chapter is told here, should you wish to read it. I do not want to recall the details as they still make my blood boil.

The first incline of the sad yet true reality that the powers that be were not interested in education at all came when local politicos decided to declare ‘war’ on me after they had failed to insidiously try and get a foothold in my organisation. When they knew I would never accept that, they brought the big guns out. Our school that run in an erstwhile pig park that we had cleaned and accepted to share with our porcine friends, far kinder than the human ones, was bulldozed one fine day. We shifted to the roadside and thus began our nomadic existence. But we refused to give up. I had finally understood the game. Mrs B was dangerous because she upset the status quo: she employed teachers from the slums, the very ones who were till then part of the nurtured vote banks, she gave education to slum kids and more than that gave them dreams – the most outrageous one being that of Sanjay, a young gypsy kid born and brought up on the roadside who first became a teacher at pwhy, then acted in a movie and is now an International model recently signed by a well known Agency – something that they felt was dangerous.

They did it all: bad mouthed me in public meetings, accused me of swindling funds, accused me of evangelising because of my short hair, threatened my daughter. But I stood firm and never stopped my work. The only thing I stopped was to seek help from the authorities. They had taught me one thing and I thank them for it: you have to find your own options yourself.

The education system has many aberrations that can only be explained if you are willing to accept the premisse that the state is not interested in giving education to every child in India. The schemes and programmes and rights that are voted at selective times are just an eye wash with a wonderful cherry on the cake: sources of making illegal money. The sound good, fool uneducated people and get them the votes they need. Voila! End of story. Everyone is happy.

What is frightening is that while making all the right noises: right to education, right to whatever, the state is promoting commercialisation of education which is the most dangerous way to go. The recent 25% reservation for poor children is a farce. The really poor parents are unaware of the scheme and totally at a loss to put together the formalities needed, it is the middle class who is taking advantage of it. The difference between the two is: education!

The examples are plenty. Why is 33% still the pass percentage needed to succeed in an examination when it opens no doors. Affordable universities are now seeking 90% and more and in most cases jobs, even in the government want a 50% pass percentage. The recent mushrooming of private universities is proof of the fact that it is a good business proposition and with the phenomenal fees it is only for the rich. Higher studies are not for the poor. Why are state run schools in poor areas run abysmally when the same state runs central schools for its own kids. Every school should be run like a central school. Only then will all children get what has been promised to them in the much heralded Right to Education!

There is a proliferation of second and even third rate institutions that provide degrees in a wide range of subjects. They churn out unemployable graduates. The same article says: some 200 management schools have shut down in the past few years due to poor placement. Of the 1.5 million engineering students in India, over 70 percent are unemployed. The IT sector has also suffered, with 75 percent of graduates going unemployed. Degree holders are being churned out in a factory-like manner by institutions, and there is a genuine skilled manpower crisis for jobs that do exist.

What we need is to relook at the entire education story. We need to impart skills that are needed and not  dreams that will never be fulfilled. We have failed our youth miserably. Will we have the courage to set things right. No. Not as long as political paries need vote banks they can manipulate.

We need many more goons in this country! Don’t get me wrong. I do not mean the goons we normally think of. Let me elucidate. The last few posts on this blog have been grim to say the least and filled with a sense of deep hopelessness. But they only reflected what is going on around us day after day after day. As I wrote these wretched accounts my heart yearned for something positive to brighten things and rekindle hope. My prayers seemed to have been heard when I stumbled upon an article entitled ‘doctoring a revolution‘ and discovered Dr Punyabrata Goon.

Dr Goon provides in this land of exploitative health care, a different brand of care which he aptly calls: humanist care! It is not free or charitable but comes at a price people can afford. Instead of expensive and often unnecessary tests often advised in order to get a commission, Dr Goon has trained assistants that take time and listen to each and every patient. This reminds one of the good old family doctor, a vanishes species in our time and age. Then the patient meets the Doctor who is all smiles, takes his time  to chat with his patient.

Dr Goon is probably one of the rare doctors who fully follows the Hippocratic oath he took. For him medicine is meant to improve society. True he has his committed political preferences. he fights for injustice and takes on the mightiest. His hospital only prescribes generic medicines! I urge you to read this article.

Though Dr Goon candidly says: Surgery is a really romantic thing,You get to go into the operating theatre and come out a hero. But this isn’t what I want to do anymore. There is so much one can do with a rational system of allopathic treatment, to my mind he is a real hero, the kind we need desperately in our country where money seems to be the only mantra.

I salute him!