(I begin this post by urging you to spare a thought for Aruna who was sexually assaulted and brutalised almost 4 decades ago. Since she lies in a vegetative state abandoned by one and all: her fiance, her family, her friends and even the justice system. She waits in a dark room for death to release her from her terrible ordeal. This is what happens to victims of rape and sexual assault.)

She went to a movie with a friend in a swanky South Delhi mall.. After the movie she boarded a bus with her friend. What happened next is nothing short of a nightmare. She was  gang raped by six or seven men including the bus staff and mercilessly beaten with an iron rod. Her friend who tried to protect her was also beaten. She was then stripped and thrown out of the bus. As I write these words she is fighting for her life in a hospital. As always the authorities – in this case our Chief Minister – have promised strict action, whatever that means. Five of the six suspects seem to have been arrested. I only wonder what punishment will be meted out to them.

This happened in a city which is ruled by a woman, in a country where one if not the most powerful political person is a woman. The incident occurred in a posh area of the capital city makes it that much more alarming. In any civilised city one should be able to go and see a movie with or without a male escort and return home safely using public transport. That is what this young girl believed! Then things went terribly wrong. Many questions come to mind all begging for answers. First and foremost how was this rogue bus allowed to carry passengers? How does a passenger know whether the bus she is getting on is a genuine one? How were so many drunk staff on the bus? Maybe the transport authorities should look at that? But these are not the real questions. What really needs to be asked is why is our society churning out so many men who feel they have the right to view women as commodities, use them and then throw her away like a used object? Why do such men brazenly feel that they can get away with it?

What is horrifying in this case is the brutality meted out to this young woman. The doctors have stated they have never seen a victim of sexual assault subjected to such brutality. What could provoke these men to behave in such an outrageous manner. I heard on a new channel that they wanted to teach a lesson to the girl. A lesson for what! For being out at night; for being with a man; for fighting back; for having broken the unsaid covenant that says that women ONLY are the keepers of a family’s honour. Many questions that need to be answered one by one if one has the will to do so.

Everyday women are abused, raped,  molested, assaulted sneered at, leered at and more of the same. Many, too many, remain silent. Some cases come to light because of their being out of the ordinary like the one of the young woman. Then the show begins: politicians find a new way to espouse their agendas; the media to increase their TRPS; civil society to vent its pent up anger. The question is how long with this anger last? The authorities are masters at the waiting game. This too shall pass as everything seems to.

I think it is time we gave a thought to a woman named Aruna that we all seem to have forgotten.  It was on the 27 November 1973, almost 40 years ago, that she was raped, sodomised and strangulated with a dog chain. She has been living in a vegetative state for 4 decades, abandoned by all: her fiance, her family, the justice system, collective conscience.  Aruna’s story movingly recounts what happens to a rape victim in reality.

We clamour for quick justice for the perpetrator; but who gives justice to the victim. Even if she is not physically mutilated, she is emotionally shattered. Our system is such that if she wants justice then she has to accept being raped over and over again: by the police, the defence lawyers and the whole caboodle that makes our weak and spineless justice system.

When I was a young woman I too lived in Delhi. That was 40 years ago. I worked at the radio station and my duty hours were at night. An official car use to come and fetch me at 9 pm and drop me back at 2 am. Sometimes the cars broke down in far off places as we had to fetch people from many locations. I often would be the last one in the car but when I look back at those times I remember an array of emotions: anger, frustration but never fear. Delhi then was safe. True there was some Eve teasing and misplaced comments but not the chilling fear we are experiencing today. In those timed a stern stare would make the person look away. In those days we went out alone or with friends. I remember how we sneaked out of college at night to have paranthas at a known outlet and came back safe. We saw evening movies and caught public transport back without feeling scared. If we felt a tad apprehensive the presence of a male – pal of relative – was enough to set things right. Even the parents approved.

The recent incident has put an end to that sense of security. The girl who is fighting for her life was with a man. And  she was so brutally and inhumanely aggressed because she dared fight back. It seems that the perpetrator resented to having been bitten by her and flew in a manic rage.

Come to think of it, even the Taliban views women as  safe with a male escort. But that is not the case in India today. Women are unsafe no matter what. When they get molested or abused, authorities are quick to find fault with them, it is always what they wear, where they go etc that is the cause of the reprehensible behavior of their male counterparts.

What make men take such liberties and feel they can get away? One of the obvious reasons could be the fact that most of the cases of harassment go unpunished. Perpetrators seem to get away with alacrity and impunity. But there is more. It seems that our society has become one where though we still loudly praise Goddesses in all shades and hues, we treat our women with abject contempt.

The men that committed this heinous crime were one of a multitude that inhabit a city that has seen an exponential population growth in the past decades subsequent to the wave of migrations that we have witnessed courtesy the ever growing need of a city aspiring to become a world class one. For that to happen it needs hands willing to get dirty and those come from across its limits. The perpetrators of this week’s crime were a bus driver, a cleaner, a fruit vendor, a gym trainer. Young men eager to spend a Sunday on the prowl in their pals bus. Now rape is a power game and power comes courtesy hooch so easily available across this city. (The government seems on an overdrive in opening watering holes in every nook and corner of the city!). The perpetrators in question have been well honed in the art of denigrating women as they belong to homes where women have scant authority. They come from homes where their mothers are beaten by their drunk fathers and little girls are killed before they are born. They come from a section of society where boys are treated like demi Gods and made to believe that they have license to do anything. They come from a place where one’s whistles at the passing girls or sings cheap film lyrics that denigrate women. They come from a place where if women dare step out of line they need to be chastised at once. So when a young woman dares challenge them all their misplaced manhood is violated and they act the only way they know. That is not all. The move to the city has brought into their lives realities they cannot process or handle. It is a recipe for disaster and one sees the outcome in every aberration you hear about each and every day: children and women raped and assaulted. The question is how to we address the crux of the problem. Education? Awareness? Gender sensitisation? But what can you do when even the basic chapter on sex education is not thought in state run schools. The teacher often asks the student to read the said chapter.

The city is in damage control mode. Old laws yet to be implemented are suddenly revived:  ban on tinted windows in vehicles, more patrolling etc. Will it change anything? I for one remain sceptic. There will be a lot of hue and cry for a day or a week and then every one will revert to old ways.

It is heartwarming to see the outrage across the Nation. But can we sustain it till we ensure that things change? I do not know. But that is not enough. What needs to change is our attitude to women. Can we hope that the young men protesting on the street will be as vocal when their parents demand dowry or their sister choses to marry a person of her choice? Or will the traditions and misplaced code of honour silence their newly found cause.

There is a long way to go. Are we ready to walk the talk.

What does it take to get people to open their hearts? I am at a loss to find the right answer. This is why.

It has been almost a month since a little crew of very special children decided to craft dreamcatchers. A little background first. It has been our endeavour at the special centre to try find something that children with special needs could craft and sell. This is because the ones I call children as some have been with us for more than a decade, are now young adults and like all young adults they too want to earn a living and become independent. We have explored many avenues but they all fell short in some way or the other . Some were too heavy to mail – our waste material mats -, others too fragile – our painted earthen pots –  and so on. And of course we needed something that was not seasonal. And one more thing, we wanted everyone to participate in its making in some way or the other. That is when I thought of an object I had stumbled upon quite by chance and warmed to immediately: dream catchers. I had always been attracted to the wisdom of Native American tribes and found solace and comfort in many of their sayings.

Dream catchers are meant to filter out bad dreams and let good dreams and thoughts enter our minds. The legends are many but the bottom line is that dream catchers filters out bad forces, and help us stay on the right path in life. Is that not what all of us want! I for one believe that dreams come true and thus the dream catcher is something right up my street. Moreover it was lights and unbreakable thus solving the problems we had with our earlier ventures.  The idea was opportune and God sent as it came when we have Emily with us, a young volunteer who knows how to make dream catchers. And above all is this not the right object for our very special bunch of dreamers who can all participate in some part of the making of dream catchers. Ok they may not look perfect but remember they are made by those we far too often tend to forget or ignore.

Our dream catcher crafts persons are a motley crew of people with a huge heart. Some cannot walk, others cannot hear or talk and yet others cannot understand the world in the same manner we do. Yet they put their heart and soul in the beautiful dream catchers they create and in with each turn of the thread or feather hung they add their little prayer just for you. They wait with bated breath for orders as with each dram catcher sold their future seems a little more secure.

Behind them is a marketing team: Emily, Shamika, Rani and yours truly. We set up a Facebook page and an on line payment option. We all thought that with the thousands of friends we had, orders would pour in, particularly as it was Xmas time. But that did not happen. True some die hard friend and supporters reached out and placed orders. But that was it. Irrespective of the number of reposts, the results remained the same: a deafening silence.

 I guess people have lost the ability to see with their hearts. Wonder if anyone could tell me why.

This morning I went to INA market. For the uninitiated, INA is probably Delhi’s treasure trove for food, and a cornucopia of pleasures for the senses in every way possible. The abundance of colour, fragrances and aromas make it a sensorial delight. You can amble for hours feasting your eyes on the beautifully arranged vegetables, the mounds of assorted spices, the stalls of fish and meat and so much more. For me INA has become a kind of pilgrimage since the day my father breathed his last, as it has he who made me discover this unbelievable place. So today, his 20th death anniversary I found myself amidst fish and vegetables, remembering the man I so loved. Ram was not just my father. He was so much more: my friend, mentor, guide, my confidante, my first and perhaps last true love and even my partner in crime. He taught me so many things, actually most of what I know today. Ram was larger than life. A master in the art of living on the one hand, and in diplomacy on the other. One of the youngest recipient of the coveted MBE, but also a Commander of the Wine tasters. With him I rubbed shoulders with the high and mighty and dined at the finest tables. Thanks to him I discovered the pleasure of reading and was primed in to every art form possible. It is Ram who also took me to every corner of the countries we lived in and imbibed me with many cultures.

But that was just one side of Ram, probably the lesser one. What he truly taught me was the art of looking with one’s heart. Our visits de the INA did not end with impersonal shopping sorties. Far from that. Most of the shopkeepers he frequented were known to him at a personal level. For many he had provided pro bono legal help. He knew about their families, their problems, their achievements. To them he was topi wala sahib, the men in a hat, as he always wore some kind of head gear. So every trip to INA was never a short one. True we came back laden with baskets of fish and poultry, fruits and vegetables and often a warm treat for Mom  who shunned food shopping. But we also came pack with precious human stories that made the experience unique. When he died, many of the INA shopkeepers closed their shop to attend his funeral. And when I gathered the courage to go back to INA after his death, I was overwhelmed by the number of persons who stopped me to say: Topi wale sahib bahut yaad aate hain – we miss the man in the hat so very much. And the bonds remained as once when I went to Papa’s preferred meat shop to get some meat for a party, I was shocked and rather annoyed when the owner ignored me whilst attending to another customer. The mystery was solved when the customer left and Abdul Bhai turned to me and said with a broad smile: the meat is not good enough for you! And though I came back empty handed, having just got a cup of warm syrupy tea, the moment was one to be cherished as it brought memories of Ram in abundance. So imagine my surprise when today, after 20 years I found the meat shop owner at his shop, a rare occurrence as he has aged and now leaves his sons to run the business. For me it was a boon: an occasion once again to reminisce about the topi wala over yet another cup of luke warm over sweetened tea!

This truly special moment made me realise what my true legacy from Ram was. It was not just Ram who taught me about life but also topi wala – for want of a better name! If Ram initiated me to the high end of life experiences it was topi wala who taught me about life itself. From the pleasures of caviar laced with non alcoholic bubbly to the delight of a rustic roti eaten with mustard oil and salt, he made me discover the true meaning of things. From the pleasures of the intellect via books and art to the soothing lull of a bhojpuri berceuse, from dining with royalty to sharing the table of the house staff, he ensured that I remain grounded in reality at every given moment.

He taught me to always keep an open mind; he taught me to learn from the smallest and the humblest, as that is were one found the truly inspirational stories and real values. When he left this world I was to say the least shattered. I mourned him for many years and simply gave up on everything. Life simply seemed to have lost all meaning. I was rudderless and lost. In hindsight I feel terribly ashamed of the time I lost. It is not what he would have wanted me to do. But I needed time to pick up the pieces and rebuild myself into something that would appear whole. I know if he were here he would have given me a kick in my butt and told me it was time to put all the lessons learnt to the test. But I am not as strong as he was, or he thought I was. I needed time to process the loss and reinvent myself. It took 8 long years: from November 1992  to June 2000 when I met Manu. I wonder today if Manu was not sent by an exasperated Topiwala ! The bottom line is that something happened that day. It was as if I had finally awoken from a long slumber. The rest is history and there for all to see.

Sometimes people wonder why I taken on every challenge that comes my way be it opening a new class or mending a broken heart. You see, for me it is honouring Ram’s memory in every way possible. He for one would not have wanted me to chicken out of any situation and I intend to agree. So the road ahead is long and filled with challenges. I will walk because I knowRam walks by my side!

A rather irksome and totally unwarranted incident occurred a few days back needing my intervention. It was a rather unwelcome moment, as I do not like playing boss! But it  did need my attention as one of my dearest staff member had been deeply hurt and I absolutely had to show my displeasure to the instigators. I did,though I did not like it at all. But when you are in a position of supposed ‘power’, you have to exercise it when you see your carefully erected edifice in danger of crumbling. Everyone is looking at you to set things right and you have to walk the talk.

However this post is not about the incident which I hope is done and gone and will not have any ugly repercussions. This post is more about how this occurrence brought to the fore my role at project why. It is true that I was the one who created, founded and seeded project why. That was more than a decade ago. In those early and somewhat benign days, project why was a small organisation, with a handful of staff and volunteers. Its outreach was small, the beneficiaries few and the problems fewer. Funding simply required me to take out my cheque book and sign a cheque as one has to be in existence for a stipulated 3 years to get all the registrations and other official stamps to be eligible for serious funding. The papers were in process and one could only wait. That was the time where I spent most of my days with the children. It was also the time when one could sit with a cup of chai and dream big. I remember the lunches shared with Manu in the warm winter sun. I also remember how I spent my day sitting on a red plastic stool on the little street where we were located, ‘lording’ over what was project why: behind me a small mud hut that housed our English classes and across the tiny street  the pavement under a plastic awning that was our first class for special children. Those were moments of intense satisfaction and pure joy. Today I sometimes find myself yearning for them, knowing in my heart they will never come back.

Time passed. Formalities were completed. Project Why was ready to take off and my role would change surreptitiously with each passing day. True I still spent a lot of time at the project having graduated from my red stool to a small office in a mud hut next to a family whose income came from slaughtering pigs. I today wonder how we managed to carry on day after day in spite of the howls of the pigs! But we did. Somehow we human have the capacity to bear anything if the need arises. I simply remember murmuring a prayer each time a pig was put to death. The project was now larger as we had been given the use of the derelict park nearby. From 40 children we were now a few hundreds. And though I still spent time with the children, fund raising seemed to be what I found myself doing day in and day out as we had the nasty habit of taking new challenges without thinking where the funds would come to meet them. Actually this is what is called seeing and thinking with your heart and we were masters at that.

In the initial days we were lucky to be supported by several expats in Delhi: the French community, the Irish and the British. I can never forget how the then British High Commissioner’s wife and dear friend came with a posse of gardeners and a truck laden with pots, plants and bags of organic pesticides. You see we had been given a park but its previous inhabitants were pigs and we needed to make it fit for human kids. She spent the day with her hands in the mud, much to the horror of her staff and to the surprise of mine. By the end of the day we had a clean park with new plants and even flowers. That was our space for a couple of years till the authorities decided to bulldoze us with the false promise of building a centre for us. The centre was build but given to an outside organisation. Thus began our nomadic existence. The expat community organised many events for us: a ball, an Irish evening, a Parisian night and thus we could not only carry on but grow. But then our friends left and the successors found other projects. It was the end of our Page 3 status and back to the grind for me. Mercifully it was the time we got our permissions and could start raising funds seriously.

As I said no more page 3 status but nose to the grind! I had always been a disaster with money and related matters. That was probably my bete noire. But then it is said that the Gods have a way of getting back to you and the one who found it infradig to ask for money, even what was owed to her had to master panhandling in a jiffy as hundreds of smiles dependent on her just doing that. By that time the easy option of dipping into one’s pocket was gone as no inheritance, however large, is eternal. Blissfully this was when a wonderful soul dropped by and decided to help us big. He set up a support group for us in France and a chunk of our needs was taken care for. But there was always a shortfall to be met. And having become a sort of recluse, I found myself happier creating of network on the world wide net. The initial days were laborious to say the least. I was an Internet neophyte and I remember writing individual mails not having found the magic of bcc! The mails were long and often recounted the day to day activities of  pwhy: the challenges, the achievements, the failures. I chose to be as transparent as possible and relate things as they were. It was a mind numbing task. Then one day, one of the recipient of my mails took pity on me and introduced me to the magic of blogging. That was an ah ha moment for me in more ways than one.

Dreams have an uncanny way of becoming reality particularly when they are heartfelt. They often strike you out of the blue when you least expect it. When I was a young girl and even later in life, I always wanted to write but never found the right avenue. I never knew that I was at the threshold of my dream the day I began to blog. Blog I did, a tad hesitant at first and then with more confidence. The proof almost 1500 blogs on my site and counting! Along the way I also wrote a book; the next is on the anvil. That was an aparte I needed to write. Apologies for that, but let us carry on with my supposed role. As you may have guessed I had graduated to chief fund raiser with just one skill in hand: words. In hindsight it seems I did pretty well as we managed to create a worldwide network that today supports   our work. However it needs constant cosseting as any prolonged absence is quickly noted. This method is somewhat relentless, you are not allowed to have a writer’s block.

Somewhere along the way I became aware of the fragility of this approach to fund raising. It was time to think long term. Planet Why was conceived and ‘marketed’. But to no avail as I was unable to raise the funds needed. My words were not good enough. I really missed the page 3 days but getting them back was not possible.

Today I am still the sole fund raiser juggling two hats: the short term and the long term! Not an easy task and one that has to be completed before curtain time. So no respite there.  I still go to the project everyday, even if it is just for a short time. That is because I want my team to get the confidence to work independently without the somewhat smothering presence of AnouMa’am. But I too need my feel good shot! I need to see my little ones and hear their laughs; I need to see my special kids as they always make me walk the extra mile effortlessly. I need to imbibe the spirit of pwhy, the very spirit I help create. I need to feel humbled and elated at the same time and sometimes give myself a pat in the back.

I have a dream. I want to see project why become sustainable and freed of the need of an ageing woman. I want to spend time with the kids, sharing their joy and pain. I want once again to sit on that red stool and watch pwhy live. Today I need my very own 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 you look at it, I wish I had a dream catcher today. I wrote these words way back in 2008. That was a time when problems were abundant, some insurmountable, and I resorted to every trick in the book to try and conjure miracles.Then slowly things settled to point where problems simply vanished and sadly dreams too. Things were on even keel and the ship sailed on calm waters. One simply forgot dreaming. Till a few days back when the very special kids of project why decided to make dreamcatchers to remind us that dreams can change lives, dreams can make miracles happen, dreams are precious and above all that dreams can brighten the todays and all the tomorrows. As I was handed over the very first dreamcatcher, I woke from a deep slumber as I realised that I had forgotten to dream, so ensconced I was in my comfort zones. It was a huge wake up call. It was time to dream again. Dream of all that was still unaccomplished, of all that had to be done. I held the dreamcatcher and beseeched it to let all the good dreams flow through as I knew that each and every dream held within it the seed of its realisation. I for one would never stop dreaming.

But the special children had more in store. They want to ensure that everyone dreams, and dreams only good dreams. So these precious dreamcatchers made by children who may not be able to walk – do you need to walk to dream – or talk – who said words were needed to dream – or see the world the way we do are for sale! You can order them by going to their Facebook page and they will reach you where ever you are. And there is one more secret that remains to be told: these priceless dreamcatchers will allow these incredible kids to become self sufficient. Isn’t that enough to motivate you to order your own unique dream catcher. You can also gift one to those you love, hang one on your Xmas tree and tell all your friends about this new venture.