I went on a net search to find the origin of this expression. This metaphor was coined by Stephen Covey and seems to be a way of strengthening family ties. It is definitely worth a read as it could help restoring trust within members of a family. I will however take some liberty and use the same expression in a slightly divergent manner. We all face difficult times and have our own ways of facing them. When faced with a situation when a dear and loved one is facing emotional upheavals and processing facts that are painful and often felt as unmerited, they rely on their partner to draw the strength they do not have and take the decisions that they fear. This is where I stand today. In all the challenges that I have faced during our 40 years together, he has been the one to hold my hand and walk me through. When I have been slighted by one and all, his trust remained unwavering. Be it a personal or a work issue, he has never failed me in any manner whatsoever.

Today he has again put his trust in my hands and I cannot fail him. Starting this week I will have to take life altering decisions and stand by them. I will have to answer questions, will have to face commiserations and listen to a plethora  of advice with a smile on my face and yet firm in my mind that I will only follow my intuition and hart. This is a journey I do not look forward to and yet cannot escape. The roadmap is not in my hands neither is the final destination but whatever it may be, I will be held responsible for every step.

To be able to undertake this journey I need to fill my emotional bank to the brim as I will be drawing on it to simply keep myself afloat and moving ahead. This can only be filled by the love, trust and support of all those who have believed in me in the past years and have become more than family. Without each one of you I will not be able to keep my brave face on and not break. I hope you will be there for me. 

I have always believed that nothing in life is fortuitous. This in reality is a lesson my father gave me quite early in life when he told me that no at single leaves moves without the will of a higher spirit. For the religious I guess it is God in whatever shape, for the non believer it could be a greater force. Anyway the outcome is the same. Every thing happens for a reason. I got a mail this morning from a very spirited young lady I admire immensely. She wrote in French and I reproduce her words and give a translation to the best of my ability.

Mais en même temps, on a de la chance de vivre au moins jusque 50 ans, il y en a en ce moment qui meurent de faim avant l’âge de 2 ans, ou qui meurent entassés dans des bateaux d’immigrés, ou des enfants soldats. Tu sais tout ça mieux que moi. La vie nous donne une chance d’être nés dans des milieux plutôt sécurisés, et on sais que ce sera le cancer ou un arrêt cardiaque qui va sûrement nous surprendre un jour. On a le choix de vivre sa vie comme on le  veut en attendant.

“But at the same time we have the good fortune to live till we are fifty or more whilst there are those who today die of hunger before they are two, or those who die crammed in immigrant boats or child soldiers. You know this better than me. Life has given us the advantage to be born in secure and privileged environments and we know that it will cancer or a heart attack that will catch us unawares one a day. Till then we have the choice to live our lives as we want to.”

In the midst of all the kindness and support that have been coming my way, it is these words from a very young lady that brought me back to hearth and out of the state of self-pity that I was finding myself sinking into. I said it in one of my last post cancer is just another vehicle of death like millions of others some as innocuous as a banana peel! I was about to let myself be ‘seduced’ by the larger than life image many have given this ailment as it’s cure has so many zeroes attached it that it makes it dazzling to our innocent eyes. And we get lured as carefully scripted and delivered spiels are directed our way. We are so overwhelmed by this manufacture hydra headed monster and we allow it to take all the place in our lives. And in doing so, we forget all the wonderful things that have been so generously gifted to us, the first being the enabling environment to make it this far.

Instead of spending all our time and strength and money (we often do not have) in looking for cures proliferate as we are such easy targets, let us take a few moments and look at all that has come our way and feel deeply grateful for not having been born a child who would never see her second birthday after having slept almost a thousand nights hungry. In a country where almost 5000 such innocent and beautiful children die every day robbed of their morrows, we have seen 5 or6 or 7 decades. Isn’t that precious. Have been thankful enough for this wonder or just accepted it as our ‘due’! So of we go the ‘due’ way then the cancer is also our ‘due’; we cannot be selective or dishonest.

We still have time and above all have choices that we can exercise. Think about those who have none, even when attacked by the same beast. We can live our remaining years either in ‘remission’ and abeyance and get lured by this new lexicon that is thrown at us or treat this ailment as we would any other and live each day as if it was the last doing all that is left on that forgotten bucket list of ours.

The Grim Reaper will come at the appointed time. Till then we have the luxury of living life as we want. Are we not blessed?

For the past month or so you may have seen a flurry of posts that sound more personal and often have nothing to do with pwhy or any of the subject I usually rant about. I seek your understanding and extend my apologies. I am a mere mortal with her shares of problems and challenges. Some are too insignificant to be shared  and blow way. Others however have the power to annihilate you totally if you are not careful. I am at such a crosswind at the moment.

Over the past few years I have come to realise that writing has become my catharsis. By laying my soul bare on the a sheet of paper or should I say a bland screen and pressing the key that will make the words fly across the universe I feel a tremendous emotional release. It is almost a sense of freedom, or rather the warm feeling that there are wonderful souls to share my pain with, souls who will understand and lend a helping hand.

I entreat you to be there for me in the difficult days that await me.

A little word from you will make all the difference

 How would you feel if your labour of 13 years was judged in 3 days and dismissed as inadequate and unworthy to be given a second chance? Not good I presume particularly if you have spent 13 years of your time to build it brick by brick from scratch. Sadly this is what happened to me, to us at pwhy a couple of days ago. I will not go into the details. I hold no bad feelings, I gave up those long ago. I simply hope against hope that this unfair dismissal will not cast a slur on the relentless effort of those who have put heart and soul in making pwhy what it is today. However, when such occurrences happen, I feel the need of taking a harsh and candid look at what we have achieved, to assess where we went wrong and could we have done things better. The recent incident made that more imperative than ever.

I feel particularly hurt as it seems that a lack of some creature comforts that could have been sorted out, reflect on the hard work of a wonderful team and the morrows of almost one thousand deprived children. These children depend on the generosity of donors the world over and the slightest slur can put an end to their hopes and smiles.

I chose to put a picture of the wonderful smiles of Umesh and Anurag who are two children of our special section and have been with us for many years. I browsed our old pictures and found these! How big they have grown and how happy they look today! I am not boasting but had we not been there I wonder what would have happened to them. For the past decade, these two lads and many of their companions have been coming to pwhy and every day and spending some hours laughing and learning, something that is the right of every child but is often denied to children with special needs. If just for that I think I can say we at least did something right. I still remember the cold morning when a lady dropped in to our office with four or five kids in tow, Umesh being one of them and asking us if we had a class for children with special needs as the one these children went to had suddenly shut its doors and moved to greener pastures. It did not take me a second to tell her that we did not but would start one.

And our first class for special children was on the

pavement. It was winter and a blissfully a sunny one, so the classes could be held out in the open. They shared their space with a bunch of class X boys who were busy preparing for their Boards. But come the heat and it became impossible for the special class to stay in the open. A quick switch was made and the English classes that were held in a small mud hut became their classroom. Soon primary classes were added and we taught every where and any where: a reclaimed park where we erected a lovely tent, in between buildings
when we were thrown out of the park, in a reclaimed garbage dump. Any space would do, as long as we could continue our work. From a handful of kids, we became hundreds and even touched a thousand! We fought every battle needed: the slum lords, the wily unions, the scheming politicos but survived each battle. We met every challenge thrown at us and found solutions: be it life saving surgeries, destitute women or unfair court cases. We did at times have to lick our wounds but they healed faster than we could imagine as they seemed paltry compared to the smiles that filled our lives.

Our kids have grown. The little girl leading the morning walk of our very first creche is now a stunning young lady in class VII. She studies in a public school as her family has understood the importance of education and has tightened their belt to give her the best education. One of our first students in class I has completed her schooling and is now a teacher at pwhy. A young boy who joined the classes we ran for a gypsy camp because of the young international volunteers who taught there. He completed his education, worked as a teacher with pwhy and is now an international ramp model!

There are so many heart warming stories that make up the 13 years of project why. All of them have been shared in the 1500 posts of this blog. We have also shared our errors, our lapses, our failures as candidly as possible.

Today when I stand at a crossroad, wondering whether it would be wiser to wind up this unwieldy project that has grown because I followed my heart at every single moment, or maybe scale it down by applying some hard logic leaving the heart aside, I just have to take a walk down memory lane to see how absurd the idea is.

I only wish people did not judge 13 years of work in 3 short days!

My very first encounter with the word ‘cancer’ was circa 1957. My grandmother was diagnosed with ‘cancer’. I was five. All I remember is mama’s silent tears as she read a letter that was delivered to her through the weekly diplomatic bag. We were in Rabat where my father was posted. In those times there were no dial up phones or internet. News from India came once a week in the ‘bag’. Sometimes later I was told my Nani had ‘cancer’. I did not know what ‘cancer’ was. I only knew it made my mama sad and sometimes made her cry. cancer was a bad word. That is what the little five year thought and went with her life. On July 13th 1958 a telegram arrived. Telegrams were often bearers of bad news. My Nani had died. ‘Died’ was also a bad word as it made mama cry and papa sad. She had died of cancer. Now the little girl was sure that ‘cancer’ was a very bad word! I did not know then that it would become my greatest enemy with many battles lost!

Life went on. Between postings across the globe, we always spent time in India in Meerut where my grandfather lived. For the little girl it was her Nana and Nani’s house but this time there was no Nani. She had died of cancer. I had memories of her, memories that still linger in my mind today and bring a smile on my face; memories of baths taken together, of mangoes eaten under the mango tree, of delicious food my Nani use to cook sitting on a charpoy under the same mango tree. As I grew up, my mama told me many stories about my Nani and I realised what a special woman she was.

The word cancer would reappear in my life as I grew up from child do adolescent. Mama had a lump, mama needed surgery and a biopsy. But then all would be well when the results came in. Cancer was always a fear that kept cropping in and out of our lives. But mercifully till 1989 it remained just that: a fear quickly allayed.

But things were to change forever. On a sunny afternoon in the summer of 1989 a phone call from my father changed my life forever. We were in Prague on a posting. My parents were in Paris and had promised to visit us. We were all excited at spending some time together in the city where I was born. The call was from papa. Mama had had an opacity in one of her lungs and had had what looked like a stroke as she seemed to have lost her recent memory. I rushed to Paris and was shocked to see a woman who in no way looked like my mama. She was lost in her own world and frightened like a child. In hindsight that was the day I lost my mother. The last year  of her life she had been hijacked by the opacity as we were not allowed to use the word ‘cancer’. I do not know whether it was instinct or vanity but mama never visited a doctor, never wanted any treatment, never agreed to pain management. She bore it all with rare dignity and great courage. She died in my arms living life to its very end.

It was hard on papa and I but we respected her decisions even though her hearts broke each time we saw her smile through the deep lines of a pain she tried to hide. I wish I had known about alternative therapies, about nutrition, about the many ways the beast could be fought. But we were greenhorns papa and I, and only knew about medical treatment that shred every ounce of dignity you had. We had ignored the beast as that was what mama wanted and he took her away.

As papa and I sat licking our wounds and missing her smile, the beast decided to strike again, this time it was papa. Had he somatized the ailment that snatched the love of his life. I do not know. What I know is that one fine morning papa complained of a bleed. It was the beast again, the one who had kept me in fear for half a century. This time we went for the medical ‘protocols’ that translated into a mutilating surgery that robbed my father of his dignity and will to live. It took just 29 days.

I was told that I was high risk, and that I needed to be checked every year. This was unacceptable to me. I would not live my life in fear of the beast but instead of trying to avoid it by nor naming it and letting it run wild, I would learn every thing about it. I read books and more books, survivor stories, alternative therapies, different options. I learnt about nutrition that could prevent it from attaching and put myself on a diet. I began to exercise, meditate, do yoga, gi quong. I had to take the bull by its horns and rid myself of the fear I had nursed far too long. I was ready for it should it attack.

But it had other plans. Surreptitious and insidious ones. It again attacked a loved one in the most unexpected manner. But what it does not know is that I am prepared. First of all I am going to give it a name of my own and address it directly. Zozo is what comes to my mind and Zozo it will be! So Zozo, you want a fight, you will get one and remember David conquered Goliath.

I do not know why you have been given an exalted status. People die of a myriad of illnesses but no one says a malaria survivor, a leprosy survivor or a dengue survivor. Death comes at a given time, and you are just the chosen bearer. Maybe you serve the interest of pharmaceutical businesses and commercialised health care. And too many fall into your trap. I to did once, but not anymore.

 I am ready for you in every which way possible. I will make informed decisions, I will use an arsenal you cannot even begin to imagine. I will chose each and every weapon I have mastered over the years. I will starve you giving you all the things you hate. I will hit you with targeted bullets of all shapes and sizes. I will not leave you a moment of peace. This is a battle where if needed David will die before allowing Goliath to win.

Let the battle begin!

Blissfully till now my trysts with the medical mafia were few, far away and second hand. They were oft recounted by people I knew and sometimes by my project why family for whom private – commercial – modern medicine is a sine qua non to social mobility. Just like for weddings they will be beg, borrow and steal to get their dear ones admitted to one of the top medical five star facilities. I feel appalled and angry when I see people paying tens of thousands of rupees for c

Just like public schools mushroomed a few years back, private hospitals, some obscenely grandiose, are proliferating at every corner of our city. They come as a counterpoint to the avalanche of private health insurance companies that promise the world and more. Somehow the whole symphony sounds extremely false and is the absolute opposite of the spirit of the Hippocratic Oath! You even have a modern version now! I think I am going to write a desi version sometimes in the near future.

I have never been one to plan life with logic and good sense. I am more the one who leaves everything in the hands of the one residing above and take life a day at a time. So I am not the one who took time reading the fine print of a loved one’s insurance cover. A simple query that was answered by a short: everything was enough to satisfy my fleeting need. I must confess that there are moments or rather issues that I deal with hubris.

Someone had other plans as my carefully crafted world got a blow that almost knocked me out. In spite of all my careful orchestrating I forget that life’s symphony is composed by another we have no hold on. I who had clamoured with misplaced confidence that I would never – never say never again- allow myself to be caught in the vortex of private and commercial healthcare suddenly found myself in the midst of it! The never read lines revealed their truth. The everything so easily accepted turned out to be a maze best typified as illogical. It turned out that the post and number of years toiled in a PSU entitled you to a double room. I wanted a single one. Naive as I am I thought that paying the difference would be sufficient! Not at all was what I was about to discover in a well staged and acted play.

Twenty years ago, when my father needed a surgery there were no super speciality hospitals. You either went to a state run one or chose a nursing home. I selected the later. I was given a price list with different items, one of them being rooms. I chose the best. The rest of the items were fixed! But that is not how it goes now. It is the room that defines the price of the rest of the items be it the OT charges or the nursing ones. I wanted a single room for many reasons and tried to dig my heals. I was sent from pillar to post as I kept asking why this could not be. I was met by a series of people whose nomenclatures seemed more appropriate in a corporate house than in a home of healing. I got the whole enchilada from the kind and polite PRO, to the less kind and polite god knows who; from the seemingly understanding secretary of the Doctor to the most supposedly humane Doc who sent me back to another set of people whose kindness and politeness differed. After having been swung from here to there I was ready for the kill: a meeting with the head of finances, Cerberus herself, devoid of kindness and politeness who barked at me that there was no way I could get that single room, and if I did want it my bill would grow at an exponential rate. And that any way there were no single rooms available. And anyway you are a book judged by its cover and I was not wearing the right shoes, carrying the right bag and dripping with the right jewels.

I came back licking my wounds and trying to rearrange my head in accepting that my poor partner will be subjected to the snores of another. Trying to come to terms with the fact that we would not be able to be with him as a family. So alternate plans were drafted and it was decided that we would admit him as late in the day as possible and get him out as soon as possible. I did not know then that the ‘protocol’ – a word with a whole new meaning for a diplomat’s daughter – was to keep a patient in ICU one whole night even if the surgery is minor. Actually in state run hospitals they would send you back in a few hours. We got our open heart surgery kids back in three days! But we are now in the realm of commercial health and the meter has to keep running for as long as possible. Makes me sick when I see the millions who cannot and do not get access to any form of humane treatment.

So as per plan we shipped the husband to the hospital late in the night! Imagine my surprise when I was told that he had been given a single room! Was it an answer to my entreaties or to my prayers. I do not know. But I feel a little better knowing I beat the system.

Popples a.k.a. Utpal left yesterday morning. It was heart wrenching as for the very first time after many comings and goings he was sobbing. Normally I got a Bye Maam’ji as he hopped into the car and most of the times did not look back. This time however there were tears an hour before leaving and then in the car. I was deprived of my hug and smile. I would have liked to see him go with a big smile as this is a time when my emotional bank needs to be filled to the brim as I am going through tough times and will need all  the support I can muster. A weeping child was not  what I wanted to see. It almost felt ominous and I quickly brushed the idea aside. I could not afford to go that way.

Later when I was a little calmer I tried to analyse young fellow’s behaviour and it all came to my in a flash. Utpal had spent the whole summer holidays at home and had a great time. But that was not all. I guess for the first time he felt part of the family, a new experience for this little lad whose life till recent times yo-yoed between sordid homes, midway rehab homes, boarding school, our women centre, and many others including mine. But this time he had savoured the comfort and security of a home though he is still battling with relationships, something we need to help him with. Agastya being there made the  departure harder as the last month had been filled with fun and laughter. I guess anyone would have cried his heart out. I could make peace with the tears that were far from being ominous were a sign that we were all hoping for.

Today I went to GK M Block market a favourite haunt of my two little fellows. The reason: the toy shops of course.  But I just needed to purchase some inane need. As I walked into the market I suddenly felt terribly alone. There was no one tagging along, no little hand in mine and no one calling me Nani or Maam’ji! No one dragging me to the ‘toy shop’ and no visit to the the famed toy shop(s) with demands fired at me from both end of the proverbial ‘gun’. Today I could go where I wanted, browse every shop in the market. Today I did not have to halt at the Pizza vendor and order three slices of pizza for my ever hungry big boy, or look for the missing ice cream vendor for my tiny vanilla ice cream lover. Yes I could do what I wanted except rewind the clock and savour one more of those delightful moments.

I miss you!

I was waiting for the rains
The dark clouds to gather
The skies to open
I waited and waited
Holding on to the tears I needed to shed
I wanted to take a long walk
Stomping in the rain
My face turned up to the sky
So that the tears would mingle with the raindrops
And no one would know I cried
But the clouds blew away
And the tears remained unshed
Choking my very soul
Crushing my spirit
Whilst the smile, the brave one, remained
Stuck to my face
Let us not forget
It is showtime

But how long would the tears
Remain unshed
I knew they would swell
Into a torrent
And come gushing out
Ruining the carefully scripted play
And revealing to one and all
The agony I am so painfully trying to hide

I could not wait for the rain Gods
I needed to find another outlet
To mask the tears I so needed to shed

Blissfully I found the way
The daily walk on the treadmill
And the humidity soaked air
Would provide the domino
I so desperately sought
All it would need was a little extra push
Of the ageing body
Would bring the sweat that would hide the tears

So every morning
For the time it takes to complete four kilometers
The tears spill unabashed and freely
Mingle with the sweat that conceals them so well
Providing the relief needed to carry on
Putting up a stellar show for the world to see

There are tears of regret for things of the past
Tears for the fears of things not yet come
Tears for the prayers not answered
Tears for the dreaded reality that brings you full circle
And makes you stand at a place you stood before
Holding the morrows of loved ones in your shaking hands
Knowing your words will seal the fate of all to come

And as the tears spill out ceaselessly
You find yourself in a spinning time machine
That takes you on a ride you never wished for
And all times gone by
All wounds you had thought cured
All hurts you had hoped healed
All you failures and blunders
Come back to haut you seeking answers
You know you do not have.

The flood gates are opened
There is no going back

Don’t lose faith in her were my pa’s final dying words. ‘Her’ in this occurrence is India. That was 21  years ago. I must admit it has been no easy task to keep the faith, specially as for the past 13 years I have seen its underbelly in more ways than one. One often plays the game of comparing persons to animals. In India’s case it would be loads of hyenas and vultures who feed on the helplessness, hopelessness, vulnerability and despair of others. To keep faith is not easy task and yet when you are about to give up, a cameo appears unexpectedly and brings back to your senses. This has happened to me over and over again and perhaps that is why in the midst of corruption, scandals, gimmickry and aberrations one holds on to that little glimmer of hope.

For the past month I have been going to the Temple every morning as I have taken a pledge to do so for the well being of my loved one. Every morning I get a red thread tied on my wrist by a so called priest sitting outside the sanctum sanctorum. Like all Hindu mores, this too has a series of rites prescribed for the last day when you cut all the threads. One of them is of course giving alms to the priest. Imagine my shock this morning when the said priest asked me for a mobile phone as his ‘fee’. I was surprised and outrage. Even religion had its share of hyenas and vultures. I almost swore to myself that I would stop visiting temples once for all.

But someone had other plans. As I walked back the long alley that leads to the temple I saw a mother combing the hair of her elder daughter while her two younger daughters stood by. What was striking was that all three were in their school uniforms. I could not resists asking if they went to school and the mother proudly said that they did. A simple glance at the two large plastic bags stuffed with things confirmed that I had suspected. They were beggars who lived in the Temple and slept on the long covered interspersed with a few fans. That is in fact the 5* sleeping place for beggars. The woman and her husband begged during the day but sent their three daughters to school. I asked the little girl if she went to tuition as without tuition there is scant learning in our schools. The mother proudly said that her elder one did and she paid 600 rs a month! I told them about project why and will ensure that the girls get admission as soon as possible. Just for this one could not give up on India!

But India – as represented by its rulers and administrators as well as by the likes of us – has given up on these children who have the same rights as any other child. Who will be their voice? Makes one hang our heads in shame.

But what is really striking to me about India, much more than most other countries I have been to, is the indifference of privileged sectors to the misery of others. These words are an excerpt of a recent interview Noam Chomsky gave to a leading magazine. If one[ could do a word or rather thought search of the almost 1500 blogs I have written over the least 7 years, one would find this thought echoed a zillion times!

In the very same issue of the magazine there is another interview of an eminent sociologist. The book in question is Dipankar Gupta’ s Revolution from Above. In his opinion the much needed social change can only come from above, from what he calls the ‘citizen elite’. I guess people like you and me. And empathy is the condition of social change. I can but agree. I have just purchased the book and may share further thoughts when I finish reading it.

Turning Indifference to Empathy seems to be the way to change India. But the question is how do you do this. In the Chomsky interview there is a very telling incident that I would like to quote here. It speaks volumes about how indifferent we have become. But what is really striking to me about India, much more than most other countries I have been to, is the indifference of privileged sectors to the misery of others. You walk through Delhi and cannot miss it, but people just don’t seem to see it. Everyone is talking about ‘Shining India’ and yet people are starving. I had an interesting experience with this once. I was in a car in Delhi and with me was (activist) Aruna Roy, and we were driving towards a demonstration. And I noticed that she wasn’t looking outside the window of the car. I asked her why. She said, “If you live in India, you just can’t look outside the window. Because if you do, you’d rather commit suicide. It’s too horrible. So you just don’t look.” So people don’t look, they put themselves in a bubble and then don’t see it. And those words are from somebody who has devoted her life to the lives of the poor, and you can see why she said that — the misery and the oppression are so striking, much worse than in any country I have ever seen. And it is so dramatic.

When will we garner the courage to look outside the window and not feel like committing suicide, but feel like screaming, feel like getting out of comfort zone and do something, however small. I presume that will be the day when the ‘citizen elite’ Dipankar Gupta talks about will be born. As long as we hide inside gated communities, as long as we refuse to look outside the window as we zip towards our favourite mall, as long as we continue to ‘shield’ our children from children from the other side of the divide, as long as we waste food with impunity, as long as we continue believing that India is ‘shining’ or ‘incredible’ nothing will change in this country. Children will continue to die of malnutrition @ 3 per minute. Rights like the one to education, or health or dignity will only reach the chosen few. And the divide between rich and poor will deepen by the second.

Some time back a relative conveyed to me trough the convenient  sms medium that I was  incapable of valuing relationships because I had no siblings. I blogged my hurt as writing out in the open is the best form of catharsis I know. The truth is I had a sibling, an older one. He lived for barely 48 hours and then gently flew away. And yet he was and remains an integral part of my life. He would have been 63 tomorrow. Last year, for the very first time, I felt the need to acknowledge his existence and wrote a letter to him! That letter made me realise that his little life of barely a few hours had made a huge difference to mine, and had he not died there would have been project why!Project why was started with the my parents bequeathed me; had he been around then things would have been different. I am sure he would have head a better head for finances and invested wisely. His bird brained sister simply used the capital. What came out of it is for all to see is a 13 year old project why and lots of happy smiles. So because a little life was truncated thousands of lives were bettered. Somehow I believe he is the little Angel who watches us from the Heavens. No life, however short or however wretched is in vain.

Take Manu. He lived almost 3 decades before we met on one scorching day 13 summers ago. Who would have thought that a pathetic and godforsaken soul like him could play such a huge role in making an ageing woman see her calling. Yet he did. If not for him project why may not have existed!

No life is too short, or too miserable. Every life has to be celebrated.

Today I celebrate a tiny life that made all the difference. Happy Birthday Ramesh Goburdhun!

One of the first ‘demands’ of parents of the slum where we began our work way back in 2000 was to teach their children English! Somehow these illiterate parents knew intuitively that knowing English would give their children a better start in life. We heeded to their request and as you well know by now the first ‘centre’ that we opened was a spoken English class that catered to about 40 students of all ages. I must say with some amount of pride that a large chunk of our first band speak good English and are gainfully employed. In those days classes were taken by a group of volunteers from the other side of the fence and thus their English was to say the least spot on!

Over the years Project Why mutated into a after school support operation and a well thought model was evolved that was based on employing local talent, thus people from the other side of the fence. Our mission was to ensure good results in school and contain drop outs. The space for English was thus restricted. International volunteers were assigned that task it was quasi impossible to find people who spoke good English willing to work at salaries we offered and in the conditions we worked in. In spite of this, our children are quite proficient in the language.

That English gives you a better start in life is a reality we are all aware of. However today’s blog is about how little knowledge of the language can land you in big trouble. There was a news item is yesterday’s paper that illustrates perfectly what I am trying to say. Here is an abridged version of the tale. Two young girls were carrying raw meat in their bag, probably their dinner. They were stopped by the officer in charge of the scanner. A journo decided to intervene and ask why meat that was neatly packed could not be carried in the metro. The man said it was a banned item and showed him a list of banned items pointing at the item: meat cleaver. The journo tried to explain that meat and meat cleaver were two different things but the man would not hear anything. The matter was taken to a superior and the girls were allowed in. However the man was still insisting he was right and the matter got out of hand with the poor journo being roughed up!

My first reaction was how come a meat cleaver appeared on the list of banned items. I guess it must be a lost borrowed from another country. And I agree that meat cleavers should not be allowed. But what this incident shows is that little knowledge is dangerous. The person manning the scanner did know the word ‘meat’ but had no idea of what a cleaver was. I do agree that ‘cleaver’ is not a word that appears in school books frequently but then I think the staff has to be trained and shown what the banned items are, or maybe one should add a picture of the items to overcome language inadequacies.

I felt sorry for the poor journo who was being gallant and a good Samaritan, but the incident brought a smile on my face and the inevitable reaction on the stupidity of the administration.

The very first day I started visiting the Kalka temple every morning at 7am, my attention was drawn to a woman many would called a beggar as that is how she supports herself. But I was drawn to her as to me she seemed regal and beautiful in a haunting way. On days when I did not see her,I would look for her and if I did not find her, I would leave a tad disappointed. Each time I saw her, sitting and sipping tea, talking to someone or just standing I would wish her with a loud: Jai Mai Ki! I was sort of mesmerised by her. She was always impeccably dressed in the brightest of colours, squeaky clean – not and easy task in this environment – and smiling. Sometimes I would slip her a few rupees which she accepted with extreme dignity, making me feel grateful. As days went by we used to exchange a few pleasantries. I must confess I looked forward to these small trysts. I was dying to hear her story but never asked anything for fear of offending her.

A few days back she stopped me. She wanted to ‘introduce’ me to her niece. She told me the little girl was orphaned and was being badly treated by the relatives she was living with. Bhavna is nine and a lovely child. She asked me if I could give the child some clothes as she only had the one she was wearing. She also told me that the child would be leaving soon. The nest day I gave her some money to buy the girl some clothes. I also asked her what her name was and how come she had landed in the temple. She did not tell me much but told me her name: Rani. Rani means queen in hindi, what else could she have been named.

Two days ago she told me she had decided not send Bhavna back but to keep her with her as she wanted her to get an educations. She asked me to help her do so. While we were talking a few of the regular beggars gathered around supporting her decision to ‘adopt’ Bhavna and offering to help in every way they could.

I could barely hold my tears. Of course we would help this child. But what moved me was how the very people we reject and sneer at, the ones that live on her so called ‘charity’  had a heart far larger than those who live behind gates or in impregnable mansions.

It was the biggest lesson in compassion I have received. Bless Rani to have allowed me to tiptoe into their world. I am humbled.

PS: this is not the best picture of my friend Rani. Will get a better one some day!

Utpal won two medals in a skating event held by a  local skating club. It was a national (!) event as there were participants from other states. Utpal life on skates is a long saga. In the summer of 2011, when he was very disturbed and almost unmanageable, Radhey his all time pal and my auto rickshaw driver suggested he take skating lessons that were held every evening at a nearby park. After much cajoling and coaxing he agreed. The rest is history. he took to skates like a fish to water and graduated to professional skates in no time. Somehow he felt empowered while skating. At that time his school had skating as an extra curricular activity and Utpal spent all the time he could on his skates. Sadly, for reasons I am unaware of, skating stopped in his school. It was heartbreaking when he brought his precious skates back on a short break. I then decided to make sure he continues skating when home on long breaks.

This summer, it was his pal Radhey who discovered a skating club in the area and Utpal joined it and began skating again. He was soon into figure skating and complex manoeuvres and one fine morning I was told about the competition and the need for dishing out 200 rs to register. I did.  A few days before the event, Utpal got the jitters and started making excuses for not wanting to participate. He did not want not to win! It was time to talk about winning and losing and the importance of participating regardless. It worked and Utpal participated in the event and won two medals. We were all thrilled and so was he as he proudly strutted around the house showing his medals to every one!

It has been a difficult year for me on the home front and moments of joy have been far and few. The two medals were much needed balm to a hurting soul. But more than that, they were the gentle reminders I needed to find the strength and the courage to carry on as I must admit there have been times during the last 12 months when I have been on the brink of looking at winding up pwhy, as I have been unable to give it the time it deserves. My team has been ace and has kept the project alive and kicking but the Damocles sword of funds still hangs and the sustainability plan is still just that a plan!

Sometimes one wonders how things should end. (apologies but thoughts of the Dark Angel have been up most on my mind). Life is replete with endings and new beginnings. The wise know that. Many early civilisations and even our own gave the choice of deciding when to proceed to the forests or the mountains. I have always wished for an exit with dignity for those I love. I realise that I want the same for project why. But the two little medals were a gentle reminder that there was still more to be done before the last hurrah

We have come a long way Popples and I. When I first saw him, I could have never imagines that the little bonny chap being bathed every morning in front of what used to be my office would one day become an integral part of my life. He had to suffer excruciating physical pain and tormenting mental hurt before he did become part of us but the way is still long and before my last hurrah, his life has to be secured. If I am to be worthy of being Maam’ji, then there is a long way to go. But what is important is to start planning for all eventualities now. Yes I am a proud Maam’ji with all it entails.

As always Nani was on ride duty yesterday evening! Rides at the Kalka Temple which are my grandson’s preferred ones. And the all time is the ‘jump jump’ which is a big inflatable copy of a  Disney character. It is also Utpal’s all time comfort    place as it has been a constant in his tumultuous life since he was a baby. So it is a place I cannot escape as both my boys love it. The strange thing is that it grows on you once you get past the initial shock as it is a place that aggresses all your senses    with a indescribable violence, leaving you gasping for breath. If you are brave enough survive the initial shock and set your apprehensions aside, you are in for an unforgettable experience. The place is magic and grows on you as the squalor you first see surreptitiously gets replaced by the intensity and fervour of the faith of everyone around.

A visit to the Temple can be a family outing. Women dressed in glittering attire, bedecked with jewels, children in their Sunday clothes coming to pay hommage to the Goddess who is not easy to access. Sometimes the wait in the queue can be for hours at end, but no one minds. Strewn along the way are shops selling ritual offerings, but also drink and food and of course toys! After paying obeisance to the Goddess it is time to relax and enjoy: a stop at one of the many eateries offering a varied fare, shopping for religious ware of all kind, from idols to incense; succumbing to the constant tug at your clothes and whining demand and purchasing a toy or stopping at the rides, the options are varied and numerous. Certain days are busier than others.

Amidst all, the visitors are the ‘residents’ of the Temple. I do not mean the priests but those that have made the temple their home. The ones that society has marginalised and forgotten. There are the very old and  the disabled but also younger men and women as well as children. The temple premisses gives them not only shelter but allows them to live with the dignity they lots for no fault of theirs. They live their life on terms they may not have chosen but have adapted with grace. In the early mornings when I go to the temple to complete my chalisa (40 days), I have never been asked for money but for a cup of tea, a fruit, a meal, clothes..!

Yesterday, when I was ‘on duty’ at the rides two little girls approached me. They must have been 9 or 10. It is always difficult to guess the right age of One was wearing a worn out municipal school dress. I do not know if she does go to any school. I do not think so. The other girl was wearing a washed out dress of indeterminable colour. Both were bare feet and seemed to belong to the ‘resident’ community and must have left their posts and gone for a stroll. They stood besides me for a long time. Then one of them mustered up the courage to ask the question they had been dying to: buy us a ride! Those three little words brought to fore in an instant the terrible reality we are all guilty of: letting down the children of India born on the wrong side of the invisible fence, in spite of all the highfalutin  schemes and laws that are so eagerly shoved down our throats by wily politicians. We pay the cesses and levies that are dumped on us in the name of education, health, and what not, never wondering why any child should be begging on the streets, or working in a home or in a tea shop!

All children are children and have the same desires and dreams. Be they rich or poor. Buy us a ride is a poignant proof of this sad reality.

I did buy them a ride, or rather many rides! I hope that for those few moments they forgot all their woes and laughed their hearts out the way only children can!

Everybody Loves a Good Drought is a disturbing and thought provoking book written way back in 1996 by P. Sainath. One could substitute drought with flood or any other cataclysmic event. Just like the telling book about hunger, Ash in the Belly, that makes you ashamed of your very existence, Everybody Loves a Drought throws light on the idiocy of what has been termed as development. In a review of the book a reviewer writes Sainath has captured an entire landscape of people for whom everyone from global agencies downwards to the mohalla politician and bureaucrat has a concern. Often this concern either gets diverted to the pockets of the local strongmen or lands up for the wrong cause. Things have not changed

17 years later the floods that have devastated Uttarkhand must be ‘welcomed’ by many as they will once again be able to feed on disaster like vultures. It is noteworthy that the CEO of the State rushed to the capital to secure as much funds as possible. One would have thought that he would have remained on his turf overseeing rescue operations. The tragedy was waiting to strike. For years the fragile eco system of the region has been violated in as many ways as possible. The efforts of environmentalist to get the zone declared has eco fragile was shot down by politicians. Not heeding warnings and driven by greed, the policy makers and their acolytes went on a development frenzy that blocked the natural flow of the rivers. This is something that seems to be the rule rather than the exception as we have seen in Delhi where the flood plain is brimming with construction. Another view is that the cloudburst was a natural calamity. The author writes : Humans haven’t yet perfected the art of bringing rain, forget about a cloudburst! What he suggests are concrete measures that would ensure proper emergency measures should and when a natural disaster happens. Natural disasters will happen no matter what.

Believe it or not we have a  national disaster management agency headed by our PM and replete with ‘specialists’, experts and bureaucrats and a swanky website! A interesting and revealing post on FB gives a bird’s eye view (pun intended) of the true functioning of the NDMA with a rather grand office in SDA providing sinecures to retired generals, bureaucrats and politicians. One has not heard from them at least not as one should have! However as it is pointed out in the post the members have been on junkets across the globe to ‘study’ disaster management! Yet when ‘they’ are needed one does not hear a squeak from them. As always it the Armed Forces that come to the rescue. The local administration simply crumbles.

Everyone loves a good flood and the writing is on the wall, some of it quite shameful and which shows how defunct we as a nation are of values such as compassion, empathy, kindness, humanity and all the synonyms one can think of. I was horrified and ashamed to hear of the looting pilgrims had to suffer. How can anyone take advantage of suffering and loot unabashedly and with impunity! Women have even been molested and dead bodies looted. But that is the beginning of the loot game. Like in all disasters funds will be diverted and misused as it was after the 2004 tsunami!

And that is not all. As we are in pre elections time, everyone is rearing to get as much political mileage as possible. One senior politician decided to rescue people of his state only! Absolutely unacceptable. Others are seeking as many brownie points as they can accrue. The floods did come at the right time.

Money will pour in. I hope it is not squandered or diverted as some of it is more precious than anything you can imagine like the 20 000 Rs donated by the rag pickers of four states!

Some compassion still exists, albeit in the heart of the poorest. Maybe it is time we learnt from them.

It was hot and humid and I had survived a rough morning. The mood was definitely not the best. Things were not getting better as no one was answering the door bell. Someone finally did. But before I could vent my annoyance my eyes fell on a packet lying in on the table near the entrance door. I picked up and tried to look for the addressee as the rains had done their job of smudging the writing. It was indeed for me and came from way down under from a lovely person who I so loved. She and her darling man had come twice as volunteers and spread love and joy across pwhy an had somehow crept  into my heart in a place that lay empty till then. The more than half a century was well worth the waiting.Each time they came, they had bags full of surprises for the children and I somehow thought that they were sending something for the pwhy kids. But I was in for huge surprise: this time the kid was me.

The last months have not been the best for me personally. The pain of a loved one is by far the worst ache in your heart, and not being able to heal it is agony. Trying to keep a brave and happy face in the wake of all odds is undoubtedly a piece of acting worthy of an Oscar! Anyway I went to the kitchen to get a knife to cut the parcel open and imagine my surprise when I realised that it was for me! Well not quite me, as there were things for others in the family, but I would like to believe it was just for me. The box had a book for me, one I had been longing to read, and one for my golf mad partner. There were other things: a soft toy, a key chain, and trick moustaches as well as two beautiful cards and lots of little stars. One card was from people one had never seen but felt one had always known.

That was the visible elements, but that was in no way what that box contained. Like the Little Prince you had to look with your heart and out came truck loads of love, joy and happiness; countless prayers that could in no way go unheard and the feeling that the miracle I have been seeking would materialise. It was just a matter of time.

I was moved, speechless, transfixed. Then from I do not know where the smile I had lost for so many months reappeared and joy filled my heart.

It is always the unspoken words, the unseen things and the invisible articles that say more than any perceptible ones. Long after the box was emptied of its contents, it is still radiating joy all over the house.

I have another confession to make. From the time people who love me know I am going through a rough phase, another loving soul has been sending me boxes of chocolates that I greedily eat alone, to ashamed to let the world know my peche mignon. Each mouthful is again another burst of joy!

That my two guardian Angels share the same name cannot be mere serendipity.

[Saturday is the day I visit the Shani Temple in Govindpuri. I have been doing so for quite some time now. It is a quick ritual as one lights a lamp and bows one’ head and scoots off. Last Saturday as I was wearing my shoes, an man entered the Temple. He must have been in his late 40s but a life of want and strife made him look much older. He simply told the priest: I am hungry give me something to eat. I was holding a ladoo and simply gave it to him. An array of feelings caught choked me sending me into an almost catatonic state. I who normally do not take any time to dip in my ‘pocket’ and hand out everything I have just stood frozen. It would take me some time to process what I had witnessed and why I had reacted so violently.]

For the past 19 days I have been going to the Kalka Temple every morning at 6. I have to do the same for 40 days. Prior to this, my forays into this teeming temple were for other reasons: take Utpal to the rides that are almost akin to a pilgrimage for him as he has been there since we was a tiny tot. For me it was at best a moment with Popples. I never ventured to the holy side of the Temple as somehow the long queues and crowds were anathema to my version of the spiritual. I always look for peace and calm. The hustling and bustling seem to put me off. And I am a little agoraphobic and claustrophobic! I guess that is the fashionable way of defending your inequities. But never say never! I far too often forget this wise maxim though I have experienced it more times than I would like to believe. Let us get on with the story, if one can call it that.

This tale has many elements that need to be recalled.

When I decided to enter the world of what is again fashionably or cynically called NGOs, I was at a loss. I knew I had to repay a debt for all that I had been given since the minute I saw the light of day, I did not the way. So when you do not know the way, your best bet is to latch on to something visible and disturbing. To me it was the beggar child that tapped at your car window at ever red light. So, quite naively I came up with my nutritive biscuits idea that of course was doomed to fail. And though project why thrived in its new avatar, the issue of beggars and children made to beg never failed to disturb me. And the callous attitude of those in power and with power always enraged me. I also fell for the ‘mafia’ theory too well portrayed in Slumdog Millionaire. The situation seemed hopeless.

Those were early days, when one was naive and credulous. Times when one believed almost blindly in the multitude of programmes and legislation that were passed to benefit the poor and undiscerningly  voted swayed by the pro poor slogans so cleverly crafted. With such legislation India would or should be ‘shining’! It is when I ‘dirtied’ my hands and experienced the reality on the ground that I saw how we  had been had and  fooled by politicians time and again.

Today we are again being seduced by yet another pro poor Bill: the food security bill and  politicians  of all shades and hues want their share of the pie as elections are looming large. The proposed bill will ensure 5kg of food grains per person to 800 million Indians. The model is faulty as it seems to perpetrate the saga of the generous donor and the poor recipient without addressing the large issues of hunger and solving them.  An interesting article points that rather than give them means to build their lives, we give the poor ‘food’. This is the condescending attitude of an inherently ossified system which considers doles and grants a matter of great benefaction and magnanimity, and expects the ill-fated recipients of such a transaction to be eternally grateful and genuflect before the ruling classes and meekly vote them back into Lutyen’s Delhi. I think one does not need to be a rocket scientist to know that the Bill will not eradicate hunger in our country.

The biggest problem is that with the complex and administratively heavy formula of identifying the ‘beneficiaries’, I wonder whether the man I saw in the temple would ever ‘qualify’ for his 5 kilos of grain!

As I said earlier, I too ‘fell’ for the mafia image of beggary. However this is far too simplistic and there are several categories of beggars in India and some are truly quite horrific. But there also extended families who are compelled to leave their villages and come to big cities to beg or those who have been brought by greedy contractors who are not willing to pay proper daily wages and thus get labour from faraway states. When the contracted work is finished, many families stay on and eventually turn to begging. This is probably the story of the families living under the bridge on my way to pwhy. But for the last 3 weeks or so I have seen another side of mendacity up close and personal. My walk from the road where you alight from your vehicle to the shrine is rather long at the Kalka Mandir. At the time I go, the ‘beggars’ I encountered on the few occasions I visited this temple in the past or the many occasions when I accompanied Utpal to his favourite rides, it was normally ‘working hours’ and one saw the beggars in their begging mode: sitting in a line with their array of working tools: a bowl, a pan, a visible injury (real or fake) and the well rehearsed script aimed at getting your attention and pity. Some of the beggars have some stuffed plastic or cloth bags that they guard with their life! It is true that in their working avatar they look quite wretched but and one often walks past them without a look except if it is the  day when you are in alms giving mode and have your coins in hand and drop them in the proffered begging bowl, often without looking at the beggar!

But for the past three weeks I have seen a different side of these souls some of whom have even become ‘friends’ as we greet each other every morning. The before working hours scenario is quite something else. As I walk past, I come across touching and moving scenes. The walkway has a tin shed and some fans placed I presume as a gesture of devotion to make the waiting (sometimes for hours) of the devotees a tad easier. The walkway has an iron barrier and the fans are place just on top of these barriers. This becomes the five* sleeping space for beggars. As I pass by at the same time everyday, some are still fast asleep: a father and a young son with their legs entwined, an old woman in foetal position her sari covering her face to keep away the flies; a mother with her children. But the biggest eye opener for me was to discover the ‘treasures’ contained in the bags that one sees next to many beggars. They contain their entire possessions and are often practically empty when I pass by in the morning. The bags have sheets and blankets, empty plastic bottles for water I presume, a half cake of soap, a used and overused tooth brush, some utensils, an umbrella, some clothes, a plastic sheet, bits of cardboard that are judiciously aligned to make a ‘bed’ at night; some half eaten biscuits packets and toys if there are children, a broken mug, a broom to clean the space they sit in. The contents differ according to the age of the beggar or whether they are alone or a family. The older women seem to have a stick I guess to chase dogs.

The ones who are awake when I walk by are busy with their morning chores, just like any body else. There are no begging scripts being spouted but normal conversations: a mother talking to her child while she bathes him – yes bathing is very important – women gossiping away while their hair is drying, men sipping their cup of tea while chatting. Many of the beggars who now recognise me say a bright Jai Mati di, Jai Mata more as a greeting than soliciting, often accompanied by a huge smile. It is surprising that I have not been once asked for any money! This morning one very old woman was busy eating her ‘breakfast’. It consisted of a tiny quantity of one day old rice and half a fiery red chili! This reminded me of an article on malnutrition and starvation where mothers gave very hot food to their children as this would make them drink a lot of water and hence quell their hunger. Maybe this old woman did not know how long she would have to wait for enough coins to buy a meal. There are days when devotees organise feeding sessions and food is plenty. The Temple also runs some kind of a soup kitchen but I am not sure if it is every day and more than once a day. I presume the innumerable eateries must also give their leftovers if any. The fruit vendor certainly does as I have sometimes seen bruised and over ripe fruits being eaten by the old and the children.

It is a motley crew making you wonder what made them come to this place. There are some very old men and women who one guesses may have been thrown out of their homes, there are some younger women with children one would like to believe are theirs. In some case it is very obvious. There are some disabled people. One sadhu who seems ancient has settled down on the side under a largish bamboo and plastic contraption which hold a bed, an alter, a grouchy old wife. The old sadhu, also grumpy is always busy cleaning the outside of his ‘home’ with water and a wiper! I would so like to hear their stories, but am still hesitant. Maybe I will pluck the courage to do so before my 40 days are over. There is one lady who I think may share her life  story. I call her a lady because she is regal and beautiful in a haunting sort of way.

Somehow I cannot anymore club  these people under the word ‘beggars’. For me they are people, each with their story, each with their dignity, each with their life. They are worthy of our respect, if anything.   My daily tryst with these people has once again outraged and incensed me. Many questions come to mind and once again I wonder if these people will ‘receive’ any of the benefits of the zillions of projects, programmes, bills, laws, ordinances that are promulgated, enacted, passed amidst great fanfare by political parties who all want appear as the Saviour of the Poor. One just has to think of the innumerable slogans invoking the poor as a sound election plank. Over the past decades all parties have  tom tommed about eradicating poverty. If they were a tad sincere then we would have looked different as a country.

I have said this time and again, almost as nauseum in various blogs but to no avail. Yet I repeat it once again hoping this time will be the right one. There is a question we all need to ask ourselves when we see aberrations like children dying of hunger in the thousands, or families begging, or children roaming the streets: who do they belong to. The simple answer is us! Yes each one of us who has allowed things to come to this. Our apathy, our indifference, our refusal to step out of our comfort zones are the real reasons why we have come to this. When will our collective conscience awaken? Never seems the answer!