Dear Kamala,

It has been exactly 23 years since you left me. And every minute of those years I have missed you. I have missed your smile, I have missed your grace, I have missed your words that were always the ones I needed to hear. I have memories of you that go way back to when I was still a child, memories of walking holding your hand in new cities, under sun or rain, discovering new sites and I remember how you never tired of the million of questions I asked. You always answered them with a smile. Yes your smile, that incredible wand that made the darkest moment into a sun drenched one. I remember how you were always there for me be I a child or a middle aged woman. It is in your arms and at your feet that I found every answer I needed and healed every hurt from the scraped knee to the harshest blow. You were always there to soothe away any grief or pain your child had suffered.

You wanted an army of kids, you only got one! For the 38 years we lived together you made me feel loved at every instant, even when I threw a childish  tantrum or behaved unpardonably. I feel tiny and shamefaced when I recall some of those instants, specially those when I was grown up!

We lived together for 38 years + nine months, and each of those years, months and days were blessed. This year I too have been a mother for 38 years. But I can tell you now without hesitation that I was and could not be a mother like you! And somewhere it is because you were too perfect a mom! Having married late and lived a difficult yet extraordinary childhood and young womanhood, where you broke so many social mores to get your way, you became a mother who could bring to her child innumerable and astounding examples of life. You were the woman who had battled every more and tradition to not accept marriage before your country became independent as you were part and parcel of the fight for Independence being a  freedom fighter’s daughter. In times were women were still in purdah you were the one who had to apply homemade balm on the lacerated backs of your father and his camarades in arm. I think if was that terrifying experience for a child that made you decide not to have yours before India became free. You did not want to bear a ‘slave’ child. You would rather remain an old maid. But you had made a sacred pact with your father: should you still be of marriageable age you would marry any man your father chose for you. And you did even if it meant leaving your home and loved ones in an age where communication across the world were in their infancy. I married the man I chose and ensured that I live close to you and when my husband was posted out of India and I was unwilling to make the move, you scripted a act that would make things easier for your precious child: you left with papa for a European holiday and made you sure that your last port of call was the place we were in.

You were the woman who had to battle to get educated. Your father would have, like all fathers happily stopped your studies in class VI, if there were any studies at all. If I remember well, you told me that in those days girls were put to test by potential in laws. The ‘tests’ were  whether the would be bride knew simple arithmetic, whether she could talk – lest she be deaf and dumb – whether she could sing devotional songs, whether she could read the holy scriptures or more often whether she knew them by rote. That would have been the sum all of your education had you played by the rules. But you were made of some other mettle. The first school for girls  opened in the small mofussil town where you lived. The two exceptional assets you had were your mom and your paternal grandmother both born women’s libbers and what I would call your education drama in umpteen acts began. Needless to say you were Roll no 1 in the said school and your Gandhian methods of fasting (while you were fed at nigh by your two partners in crime) ensured you pass your class whether she could sing devotional songs, go for your Bachelor’s degree to Benares Hindu University and live in a hostel, secure your MA, LLB and a PHD in Prague. My education came on a silver tray as everything else in my life. The best schools across the world, the best Governesses, the best of everything. But what you did manage to make me understand was the importance of education, specially for women. Something I always remembered and valued and perhaps the first seed of what awaited me when you would not be there with me.

My life was replete with amazing and unique lessons that would take volumes to recount if I were to do you justice. Maybe I will some day. The one I very often recall is how you stopped me from leaving food in my plate and wasting it. You who had known hunger and want at a tiny age could not see your child not value food. You had to teach an Ambassador’s daughter the pains of hunger pangs. You did. You just kept the food I had left in the plate in the refrigerator and placed it cold and congealed in front of me for all subsequent meals. Being stubborn and spoilt it took 3 days fro me to break and believe me when I tell you that never did a morsel taste so good. What I came to know much later was that you and Pa had not eaten for those fateful days. You would be appalled and saddened so see how much food is wasted today whilst millions sleep hungry in the country you fought for.

I could go on and on as memories of you are so easy to recall.

You died on the 13th June 1990. But you somehow knew that I would need you again years later to show me the way and heal my hurt. You knew that one of the ways I dealt with hurt and anger was to turn the house upside down and go on a cleaning spree. On one of those occasions I stumbled upon a diary you must have written in the last year of your life when your knew you were losing what you cherished the most: your mind! You scribbled feverish words that you knew I would read at the appropriate time. I did find the diary and it was as if you had guessed everything about my morrows. But that was not all. You shared your pain and in some ways shattered many images that I had held as true as you had always put up a smiling face for your child be it when you sat in a car after a major crash with all your bones broken or when my father hurt you because he loved you too much. Love can sometimes be so smothering and even hurtful. I thank you for sharing that pain with me even if it was after you were gone. I wrote you a letter last year on this very day to share what I felt reading those poignant words.

I have strived to be worthy of you mama. I guess I will know the truth when we meet. I know we will.

Your child

anou

It went from my head and out through my feet! Wonder what that means? I give you three guesses or maybe I should just reveal the meaning! But to get to that a little background. When my grandson left India a few months ago he spoke Hindi like a native, English with a pwhy why tinge and a spattering of French with an undecipherable accent. Then he left us and flew to St Louis in the Missouri. He quickly learnt all the ‘Oh man!’ and other local expressions and in spite of our I would say meagre efforts to speak to him in Hindi on Skype and spite of his regular watching of Chotta Bheem and his mom’s occasional Hindi tirades, we slowly realised that his Hindi was slowly and ineluctably being devoured by Midwest American if such a language there is. And has he speaks at an incredible speed Nani and Nanou sometimes needed an interpreter aka his mom, to understand what we were being told.

When his mom one day asked him why he had forgotten his Hindi his first answer was that it was broken, then more recently he came up with the statement cited above: his Hindi went from his head out through his feet.

At present the house is almost like a Tower of Babel with all kind and shades and hues of Hindi and English being spoken everyone trying to communicate at best. It is really amusing seeing Radhey the auto driver speaking his version of Hinglish and the rest of the staff making yeoman’s effort at conversing with the prodigal boy and Utpal is practicing his English. He is here for two months and I wonder whether his Hindi will shoot back to his head or whether the rest of his favourite gang will find his version of English crawling slowly from  their feet to their heads!

The best language classes I have ever witnessed!

My little grandson is back. He will fly in tonight and revive our home and hearts for the next 2 months and one week. The last months have been bleak for more reasons than one. Nanou has not been well, Nani has been running like a headless chicken not knowing which way to go, or what to tackle first and quite honestly not been very good at keeping things on course. But to my little Angel Nani is the best girl in the world! So Nani aka me, has to put her best face on, her best foot forward and live up to the little chap’s expectations. The last week has been hectic: trying to finish Utpal’s homework – dreaded each and every year particularly the innumerable pages of inane writing that still sort of incomplete –   so that the rest of the holidays can be spent playing and having fun. Now with the mercury at 45 plus, a lot of planning is required specially with a boy whose mom is very strict on TV viewing and a child who cannot stay indoors.

Utpal has been a huge help as we have set up the playroom. washed all the old toys and brought some new ones and loads of crayons and paint so that the boys can be creative. The old air conditioner has been repaired and all fingers crossed. But there will still be the power cuts and the fact that Agastya moves like a bolide across the house. As the trusted Doc is on leave for the next three weeks, a visit was made and all the medication for all the potential problems that could arise has been bought and kept in the medicine cabinet.

All the favourite foods have been bought and put in the fridge or the store room. The favourite menu of pharatha, dal and alu gobhi (flat bread, lentils and potato and cauliflower curry) has been ordered. Just need to buy some bits and bobs and we are ready for the return of the beloved child! I am thrilled beyond words at the fact that Utpal still has a month holiday and the two little loves of my life can bond and play to their heart’s content under Nani’s moist eyes.

But just like Utpal, Nani has not been good with her homework. I still do not know what colour Percy or Gordon are and have still not seen Toy Story 2 and learnt about Buzz whatever is name is. And it took me visits to a 6 toy shops to find one Buzz! They seemed to be out of stock.

The next weeks are going to hectic and for all the right reasons. Welcome home beloved Agastya!

Heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of wrote Blaise Pascal. This saying often crops in my mind when I find myself doing something that defies my Cartesian upbringing and my ever questioning mind. Yet I often find myself sprouting out words that seem to bypass reason, or agreeing to something that seems more than ludicrous, or extending my hand while my reason is screaming that there is no way ahead. I guess these are the times when the heart takes over, or to once again quote the Little Prince, I see, hear and speak with my heart. I guess we have all had our share of such instants, and I am sure Descartes must have had them too!

Of the occurrences that come to mind I could cite the day when a man came hobbling on a stick and sought monetary help for the operation of his son, and I heard myself say instinctively: I’ll see what I can do. As the words were uttered, reason took centre stage and reminded me that the sum that was being asked was what it cost us the run project why for one whole month. But what was said was said and we conjured the amount. The child in question is now in class XII! Subsequently we sponsored more than 18 heart surgeries. And what about the instance when while reading a medical discharge slip of a little child with third degree burns that stated that his chances for survival were close to nil, I found myself looking into his eyes and saying to his desolate mother: he will live! Today he is all of 11 and a lovely lad studying in class VI!

Over the past years there have been such occasion where I have promised the moon and managed to fulfil my promises. And every time some miracle happened. Reason did not find a suitable answer but I did. I created my God of Lesser Beings who was the one who made me say the seemingly absurd words and then ensured that everything played to his perfect script. The last instance even baffled me. This how he it went: as I was above to leave the office and had settled book in hand in my three wheeler, a man came to me seeking monetary help for his wife’s surgery. It had been along time since we had stopped medical help as most of the donors had vanished. In spite of every things screaming against my saying yes, I did! Within hours we had the money pledged. A gentle reminder that my God of Lesser Beings had not finished his plans for me.

For the past few months, my life partner has been unwell, and no one has been able to diagnose the problem. Reason failed and stood exposed. So I found myself knocking at every door that could help. I was told that he was going through a bad astrological period and I should perform some prayers. I did. Then someone told me to keep a wow and visit the Kalka Temple every day for 40 days. For one who is agoraphobic it was asking the impossible. Reason reminded me gently and then forcefully of all the instances when I had fainted in crowds. But I accepted without batting an eyelid and go every morning to the said temple. Someone else suggested the offering of alcohol to Lord Bhairon. I do it every Saturday. I am sure that I will accept the next suggestion without hesitation.

As Pascal said Heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of !

I am hurt! I had thought that some passed aberrations that plagued my personal life for quite some time had been, if not healed, at least laid to rest. I had made my peace with all the ugly and unnecessary yet distressing events that shook the very core of my family  and have left scars that can never heal on the soul of one who has never hurt a fly.

Every family has its share of issues and problems, some real, some imaginary and some created with animus. The panacea of all problems, big or small is and will always be honesty and communication remembering that there is always two sides to any conflict. When you chose to resolve a conflict by listening to only one side it always results in hostility that slowly mutates to at best indifference, or most of the times hatred.

Communicating at an early stage with all protagonists brings solutions that can lead to healing or at least understanding. When you chose to take sides all that happens is ugly words and more words, some so reprehensible that there is no coming back. One of the lessons of my parents that I cherish the most, was to always think before you speak, specially in a situation of conflict. When I was little, my mother never reprimanded me on the spot, but waited for the right moment to talk over what had happened.

Unfortunately in my situation the worst was said. I would have kept quiet and I did, till the day when unacceptable remarks were uttered about the ones I love. I withdrew and preferred keeping away and silent as I am no saint, and the things that were mouthed would had resulted in more hurt had I decided to counter them.

Alas, in spite of hoping that the status quo would remain, circumstances beyond one’s control entailed  communication and resulted in pain and anger. My simple statement urging to keep things as they were led to my being hit below the belt.

In any situation there is a thin line that should never be crossed. Once it is then, you must be prepared for the consequences. The accusation that was flung at me crossed that invisible line. I was told I do not value relationships because of a turbulent childhood and because of having no siblings!

Let us begin with the ‘turbulent’ childhood. In the dictionary turbulent means characterised by conflict disorder or confusion. I wish people understood words before using them! My childhood was a blessed one, devoid of any conflict or disorder. True it may not have been your run in the mill one as my father’s job took us the different part of the world and thus I had to deal with rupture and partings. True I had older parents who smothered with love and I admit that made me a rebel in my teens, but it was all par to the course. There was no confusion as my parents inculcated the right values and never made me believe I was a class apart. I went to regular schools and not those where expat kids went. I was never confused about who I was. I was primarily Indian with a western education. My parents taught me to  value relationships to the hilt.

I had a sibling but never knew him. I do miss him, more so today when I feel so alone and lost. I often wonder what my like would have been if he were around. I recently wrote about my feelings should anyone care to read them. I am who I am because my brother passed away. I do not understand how not having a sibling makes you incapable of valuing relationships.

And last of all I am quite shocked to be told that I do not value relationships. It have actually been checked for believing in people at the drop of a hat and have many a times paid for my credulity.

I value relationships more than anything. But if a relationship crossed the invisible line then for me it is curtains as once the line has been crossed nothing can ever heal the hurt incurred.

I know I will have to face my Maker, and I will face him with my head held high.

PS. Needed to write this post. It is my catharsis.

“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose” wrote St Exupery in the Little Prince, a book that I have always found solace in. To some it may just be a children’s story but to me every word has a deep meaning and hidden  but only if you read the book with your heart. This quote is not about a fox and a rose but about going all the way when you extend a hand  to someone in need. If you do so there is no going back; there is no half measure and above all there is no certitude to how the future will enfold. You can make all the plans you want but you must be prepared for them to go awry and for you to have to conjure all the solutions needed. It is a one way road and you have to walk it till the end.

Two Angels landed in my life without any warning and changed my life forever. The first was Manu. Manu was the kind of being you pass on the street and never look at. To many he would be just a beggar who seemed deranged and bedraggled. He roamed a street I passed regularly. I often wondered what could have got him there, but it was a fleeting thought that disappeared in a trice. But one fateful day a heart rendering cry he let out as he was being riled by someone pierced my heart and soul in a way that I cannot describe in words. It was like a deafening cry for help targeted at me and demanding to be heard. I did hear it. The rest is history, something I have written about time and again. Manu was a mirror to my soul, the reason that really made me take the less travelled road. His mission as I see it was to show me the way at a time when I was somewhat confused and did not know which way to go. All I knew at that instant was that I had to help him. How to help a beggar who roams the streets is not written in any book, you just have to find your way. And in finding my way, a larger plan enfolded called Project Why! I made myself a promise that no one knew till maybe much later. Manu would one day have a warm bed, a set of friends; would share a meal around a table, and would watch TV to his heart’s content. To many it would have sounded ludicrous but to me it became a life and death decision.  At that moment the ‘how’ and ‘when’ were of no consequence. As time passed we moved a step at a time towards a dream that I rested in the recesses of my mind.

Project Why grew by leaps and bounds. Every day was better than the previous specially for Manu. He was bathed, fed and had his own bed in the veranda of what was our office. And when we launched our class for special kids, he was Roll no !1 So to some perhaps it could seem that the game was over, never mind the dining table or the TV. Not not for me. The small challenges and big ones we managed to overcome gave me the audacity to start dreaming big, too big. Was it hubris? I do not know. Maybe.

The idea emerged in my mind when we began thinking about long term sustainability. While on the ground the ideas were mundane – chocolates, earthen lamps, candles, paper bags and even pongamia oil soaps – my mind was busy conjuring what came to be know as Planet Why! In its first iteration that was in my head it was to be a place where Manu and his mates could grow old and die with dignity. I imagined a green building, with terracotta bricks and old style floors, with arches and little windows that would let the breeze in. It would be Manu’s home, and workplace as he was able enough to learn gardening. And the strange things is that many believed in this dream. We bought the land, drew the architectural plans and set out looking for funds. But then on a cold January Day in 2011, my dreams did not fit with those of the Gods of Lesser beings. They decided Manu had completed his mission and he breathed his last leaving me lost and rudderless. There would be no Planet Why for Manu. The best I could  do was to craft a small residential unit where Manu and a bunch of special and regular kids lived together. Yes there was a dining table, there was a TV, there was a refrigerator and cold water and special treats. Often it was Manu who decided the menu and of course we never ran out of biscuits, Manu’s all time favourite. Manu died quietly after having had his tea and biscuits. The Angel who sustained and protected me for more than a decade flew away leaving me with one unanswered question: did I fulfil the silent promise I had made to myself. When I feel a little lost , all I have to do is look at his smiling face that sits on my wall frozen in time and remember that the only way to honour his memory is to continue my journey.

The second Angel that landed on my planet was a broken one! True I had tapped his little head many a times as he lived in a tiny room adjacent to my office. He was barely one and his mother use to bathe him outside just around the time I walked into my office. He was a bonny boy with incredibly beautiful eyes. I often asked his mother when she would send him to the creche and she use to reply soon! One day in March 2002 I saw a lock on the door of their house. I was told the little fellow had fallen in to a boiling wok and was dead! I felt terrible but thought that with third degree burns maybe death was a better option than a maimed life. Imagine my surprise when I week later I was told that the baby was back! He had been sent home to die was what I was told! I walked into their tiny home and saw him swathed in bandages and as I looked into his eyes something happened and I simply said: he will live. The first few months were spent fighting for his life and every day we were treated to miracles. Soon his wounds were healed and he met all his milestones on time.

I had discovered by then that his mom was an alkie. And there I was, making plans again! We would find them a nicer home, I would give the mom a job and when he was older he would go to a good school and .. the list was endless. But the bottle was too big an adversary and even after many rehabs mom was back drinking and the child living in pure hell. When he was just 4, I sent him to boarding school. And when he was 6 his mom vanished. By then I had got his partial guardianship from the authorities. I have often written about Utpal’s story on this blog and shared the lovely and touching moments we have lived together. He has also taught me many things about life and about myself. I also made my dream of being published true as it is for him and about him that I wrote Dear Popples.

Today he is a lovely boy in class VI, a master on skates, and a regular kid who can be trying at times like any regular 11 year old! But he is a bundle of joy and a child that can amaze you many a times in the most touching manner. It has been a slow and difficult road to make him believe that he is cared for and find answers for questions that none. The most poignant one being: where is my mother? You do not lie to a child and the only honest answer you can come up with is: I do not know?  And for a kid that is not enough. Utpal had to go into therapy to deal with difficult questions in school be it what do you parents do, or sneer at his scars. Children can be very cruel. That is only one aspect of the tale. Coming back to the rose, and the fox and the responsibility, as that is where we began, reaching out to another is never as simple as one would like to think. You find a scalded kid, you nurse him back to health because you have the wherewithal, you peep into his life and find out the issues that need to be sorted out, you again think you can do it, you make plans way into the future because you think you can foresee it, and sit back and wait to watch the script you have written play itself out. But then everything goes awry and you find yourself having to rewrite it word after word as events beyond your control engulf you and you need to find your breath to carry on. So the fairy tale that began as once upon a time there was a child you got burnt and saved, his mother found a good job, the child went to school and university and found a good job and they lived happily ever after, turns into a survival story with rude awakenings at every turn.

Today Utpal’s future has to be rewritten without drama, one day at a time. You have to be prepared to do so: deal with the tantrums, the homework – my bete noire – with the tears and the questions. But you are rewarded with the smiles, the hugs, the unexpected occurrences like finding him ready at 6 am to accompany me to the temple when normally you have to battle to wake him up. You have to make him accept that he has a home and security and make others understand that he has no other place to go.

And last but not the least you have to think of the after Maam’ji days and craft a support mechanism wich can deal with the emotional as well as the financial side. Someone to mentor him, to guide him through his life and be with him at every step, and also ensure that he is never a financial liability to anyone. So it is time to create a Trust Fund for him now. I have been mulling over it and procrastinating for far too long.

It this story I do not know know who tamed who, but I know I am the one responsible for the little Angel who dropped into my life and changed it forever.

Exactly one year ago, almost to the day I was learning about Chutki, Doraemon and seeing Mamma Mia at least 4 times a day! You guessed my teacher was no other than my grandson Agastya. I had also mastered expressions like: this is my spot! The preferred toys were cars of all kinds and of course the oko aka auto rickshaw. My baby could digest a car a day and Nani was there to make it happen much to the displeasure of Mommy! For the past months my darling lives in St Louis and when we talk on skype I have to ask my daughter what he is saying as there are new expressions in his Midwest vocabulary that old Nani does not know.

Last time he kept on saying: To infinity and Beyond and I was lost as I am not  Toy Story savvy and do not know Buzz Light Year. You would not believe me but t I have been by told by my little fellow that when he lands, and that is in 5 sleeps as he says – for the uninitiated after you have slept five nights –  he will test me on the names all of Thomas the Engine and his friends and the colour they are.  I must confess I know the names but am not yet proficient in the colours. Have 5 sleeps to brush them up and learn up on Buzz whoever he is.

I like the expression to Infinity and Beyond. Somehow it appeals to me. When you google for its meaning this is what you get: There, and anywhere else, it is a hyperbole, i.e. a purposeful statement of excess beyond reason,  exaggeration as a rhetorical device or figure of speech.  There is no reasonable meaning to the term. It has amusement value. I would interpret it in a different manner. Maybe it just means walking the less travelled road, or even the road never travelled!
I like that!

Now back to my homework. I have only 4 sleeps to do it!

Think Eat Save is the theme of this year’s Environment day. Many of us often brush aside the warnings  environmentalists send our way. We often feel it does not concern us as we have plenty of everything and are quite comfortable wasting water and food, using plastic bags and so on. I urge you to read this week’s Tehelka magazine. It should move you out of the comfort zone in which you live and should really be an eye opener. We have to stop living in a fool’s paradise, believing that the money we worship will keep us safe from all the horrors that the green brigade wants us to accept.

The article begins with these words: From farm to plate, we waste 30-50% of our food even as every seventh person on earth goes hungry. With the 7 billion global population poised to grow by nearly one-third by 2075, we could rethink food or starve. The choice is now! There are one billion hungry people in the world. Quite shameful for a civilisation that I presume wants to be remembered for all the larger than life inventions that have come our way be it flying in the air, conquering space, or I guess one can say trying to compete with the Gods. On the way we had to sacrifice values like compassion and empathy to the alter of success. We can pass by beggar children without batting an eye lid, without wondering why these children are denied their rights or why people should chose to live under bridges, their meagre belongings in bundles. Have you ever watched these beggar families tending to their morning chores. I have more than once as I pass them every morning on my sway to work. Some are brushing their teeth with dirty tooth brushes, women are lighting their stoves made of a few bricks and some wood, others are already slapping their chapatis (bread) on the heated griddle. Some are still asleep. Last week I was touched beyond words when I saw a little boy, probably 3 years old washing two decrepit soft toys with a tiny bit of soap and a small can of water. A few weeks back I saw a young woman wrapped in a thin sari bathing on the main road. Her daughter was helping her and scrubbing her back while the woman tried to make sure that her sari did not slip and reveal her body and maintain the shreds of her dignity. It was I who felt ashamed as I and all of us were in some way responsible for her plight.

Have you ever asked yourself how the poor survive in your city. The kind of homes they live in. How they earn their daily bread. I will answer you in one word: with dignity, dignity and a smile. Their houses or what goes by that name are often dark sunk in holes with a corrugated tin roof. The rooms are tiny and often house more than 5 or 6 people. In the heat they are ovens where you can barely breathe. Often rucked between factories in places like Okhla, they are often surrounded by open drains that spew chemicals laden water. Many are daily wage workers who sit around at specified points hoping someone will that day need a carpenter, mason or simply someone to carry loads. If they work there is food on the table provided they have not returned via the watering hole. You will be surprised how many liquor shops, run by the State, exist in the most unlikely places. They are great revenue earners. Many of these sleep hungry. Many of them are malnourished children. Many of them are anemic moms with tiny babies. Many have to fight for water as water is scarce. Many are in deep debt to the local money lender as they often have to borrow to manage a meal or a medical emergency. Most of them left their villages because the land was not giving them enough to survive on. And the city, with its mad building frenzy, was always in need of cheap labour.

Most of these people do not know what their rights are, are barely aware of the innumerable social programmes that are initiated for them at regular intervals, following a political time table that they are unaware of. The fruits of these programmes are often hijacked because of their ignorance or because of the wiliness of those who are better educated and have learnt the ropes. I guess it is time for us to think of the millions who go hungry and take ownership of the problem so that solutions can be found.

Charity begins at home it is said. So maybe it is time we honestly look at ourselves. The article states that at least 30 percent of the food that survives bad roads and poor storage is simply thrown away.  This is not only in rich countries. It happens in India, the land where 5000 children still die every day. Look at the waste at each wedding, at each party or religious feeding. Look at the food we leave in our plates. Look at the food we leave in restaurants. Tehelka went looking in rich homes dustbins! Do look in yours. We urbanites waste 100kg of food per person per year. This is shocking and criminal. Ponder over this: Forget swank hotels in the metros, a city like Bhubaneswar wastes around 26,000 tonnes of food in its restaurants, food joints, social gatherings and households annually. That works out to around 70 tonnes of food wasted on a daily basis. Even if we were to put out a decent meal of 275 g a person, this could feed close to 95,000 people. Is it not time we started doing something. Think next time you shop!

The sad part that has shocked me over the last 10 years when I have worked with slum people, is the amount of food the urban poor waste. I have always checked my staff, but often to no avail. There is a uncontrollable urge to fill your plate and then leave part of it that goes into the dustbin. I have seen rice, chapatis, and vegetables thrown in the garbage, and food wasted at marriages in the slums. Is waste an indicator of having climbed the social ladder by one rung. In slums water is wasted, food is wasted, electricity is wasted with impunity! This makes my blood boil.

Water soon become scarce and that is because again we feel that water is perennial. Just this morning I saw workers cementing the little strip of soil that was still there between the concrete road and the so called pavement. That tiny strip allowed some water to percolate into the soil. The reason for this inane idea is probably a last ditch effort to rake in some money before the coming elections. All the cementing is choking the remaining trees and killing them slowly. It takes a lot of water to produce food. If our diet is 80 percent plant and 20 percent animal products, the water needed to produce that quantity of food will be around 1,300 m3 or half an Olympic-size swimming pool per person per year. One kilogram of meant needs 50 times more water than one kilogram of vegetables. Should we not turn at least partly vegetarian if not fully!

But to grow food you need good quality top soil. This top soil takes thousands of years  to form. Top soil erosion is the biggest environmental danger. 60 years is all it will take to exhaust the earth’s top soil if business as usual continues. Only last year, the world lost an estimated 24 billion tonnes of topsoil — blown off by wind, washed away by water, made sterile by chemicals or simply covered with concrete. The fingers points at us Delhizens as we see this happening in front of our eyes and say nothing. We cynically brush it away as ‘yet another way for politicians and corrupt bureaucrats to make money’! The amount of concrete that has been laid in front of our eyes is mind blogging. As I write these words the last tiny stretch of soil is being covered! Now there is not a square mm of top soil visible in front of our house. 60 years is not eternity. If we do not do anything now our children and grand children will starve unless we ‘invent’ a food pill or find a way to consume money, the God we all pray to!

Water is wasted by each one of us every day. Overflowing tanks, washing cars, watering huge lawns etc. How many of us in Delhi have bothered installing a rain harvesting system? Mea Culpa too! WE simply complain when drains overflow and streets are water logged. A simple water harvesting system would take care of that. And don’t tell me you cannot afford it. Just give up a couple of meals at your favourite restaurant.

I was also surprised and a tad amused to see an article on obesity in the special issue on Environment. The world produces 4 billion tonnes of food every year, enough to feed its 7 billion people. Yet, every seventh person on earth sleeps hungry. Is it only because we waste 30-50 percent of our food? Or do 2.6 million children die of malnutrition every year because another 40 million under the age of five are overweight? Ironically, obesity has already become a bigger killer than starvation. Think about it. I am sure we can do something on this one!

The special issue of Tehelka as more information and also many success stories that are like oasis in the desert but prove that we can change things of we act now. I will not enumerate them. If what I have written has been a wake up call then go on line and read the rest. You do not even have to walk out in the heat to purchase a copy. It is on line!

If you believe in some of what I have written then there a few things you can do now. Buy one of those contraptions that alert you loud and clear, a  bit like railway station announcements, that ‘tank is full, please switch off the pump’. It also has entertainment value as you smile each time you heart the electronic voice. Make sure you buy as much as you need. You do not have to go to wholesale markets and purchase groceries and vegetables for an army. You have vegetable vendors who come to your door step from dawn to even late night. They are a little more expensive but remember they feed their families so you would be doing a good deed! If you have a garden, even a small one and a lawn that needs constant watering why don’t you try to grow a forest. Yes you can! You will be saving water and also helping the earth heal!

Look at your dustbin every day and work towards ensuring that no edible food is thrown away. If you cannot eat it, then I am sure you can find a cow or other animal who would. Don’t look at beggars with contempt or cynicism. Look at them as people fighting to keep alive in the same land where you thrive.

Scream at your local representative each time you see more concrete being laid or trees being suffocated. We are literate and have a voice should we chose to use it. It is sad to see that the Highest Court of the land had to intervene to stop choking trees, and sadly even they are not heard!

Mother Earth treats you the same way. She does not  care about cast, creed, social background, gender, age, nationalities. Stop raping her every day! 

The class X and XII results are out! As always all our kids have passed! As always they have done us proud! For me it was the moment to walk down memory lane, to the day when it all began. It was in 2001 when we ran spoken English classes for primary and secondary children. In one of the classes were a bunch of class X lads from the nearby secondary school named no1. One day one of them turned up with what looked like welt marks on his arms. It turned out that he had been beaten with a stick by his teacher for some sundry gaffe that at best should have entailed a verbal admonition.

Not conversant with the realities prevailing in Government school. I set out with a few colleagues to find out what happened and expressed my dismay at the use of corporal punishment that I knew had been declared illegal following a Court Order. The school looked like something out of Dickens novel with grim corridors and masters wielding heavy sticks. The Principal sat behind a huge desk in a huge room his stick lying on his desk. He listened to us with what seemed like amused contempt and then asked for the boys in question to be called. They came, with their heads bowed wondering what would befall on them next. The dour Principal looked at them with disdain and asked us why we were wasting   time on such guttersnipes who would never be able to pass their exams. I do not know why but my immediate reaction was to look at the boys and ask them whether they were ready to take on a challenge to prove their Headmaster wrong. I will never forget the way the boys’ body language changed and the beaming smiles on their face and the loud yes Maa’am!

It was then that I realised what my on the spot decision entailed. What was I thinking.We had scant resources to pay any teacher or rent space. But I had to walk the talk.

The reason I chose this picture to illustrate this blog was that we began our classes the very next morning on the pavement and the teacher was Naresh – who still teaches at pwhy – who had completed his BA and was looking for a job. He had a passion for teaching and had been tutoring children. I told him we could not pay him at this moment but would do as soon as possible, but it was a matter of honour that these kids pass their Xth. It was already December and the exams were in March. We had no time to waste.

Classes were held from 7 to 9 am on cold winter mornings. Rani’s family provided tea to warm the kids up. Naresh roped in a friend and the two of them did the impossible: all kids passed and I won my challenge. My honour was intact.

That was more than  a decade ago. Since we have had 11 batches who have all cleared  their Boards and are in good jobs. The boy with the welts is now father of a little boy and all set to immigrate to Australia after having completed his higher education.

This year again 16 class X students and 16 class XII students have passed their Boards with success. Deepak, Arvind, Vikas and Vineet topped their respective schools.

I guess the challenge I took over a decade ago was not foolhardy.

Well done Kids and we love you Naresh Sir!

When the Government announced with great fanfare the passing of the Right to Education (RTE) Bill, I was among those who hoped against hope that the Government would adopt the neighbourhood school policy and upgrade all State run schools to Central school quality so that every child could walk to a good school. The RTE per se should provide quality education in their own schools to thus allow every child in India to access such education. The model elucidated in the Section 12 of the Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act  2009 states that the Act has made it compulsory for every private unaided school to admit at least 25% of its entry level class from children belonging to weaker and disadvantaged groups. The article cited above shows the many flaws of this proposal and is worth a read. One of the comments I agree with in toto is the following: This minor social engineering has produced some ridiculous protests from the elite. Yet, equally ridiculous is the claim that this will significantly help the poor. Of India’s hundreds of millions of schoolchildren, only a few thousand poor will enter the elite havens. The others will remain at the mercy of third-rate government schools that provide no worthwhile education. We seem to be a State that loves social engineering and reservations of all kinds. For the last six decades and more we have shown that we are masters at perpetrating divisive polices and thus create a new caste system.

I have also realised over the years mutating from a naive and ignorant person, who believed with credulity that every social programme initiated by the Government was done for the right reasons, to a cynical and disenchanted one, that these programmes are not meant for the stated beneficiaries but to fulfil wily political agendas and fill deep pockets. This is done with great finesse and a perfect play. people are led to believe that all such programmes are debated by activists and the people and thus carry   a stamp of approval. This is a sham as ultimately all the inconvenient parts are deleted and the Bill presented at the appropriate time like just before elections to show one’s self as the Messiah of the downtrodden. And we gullible idiots refuse to see through their game.

One of our most respected activist who has been the at the helm of many important proposals resigned yesterday from the  National Advisory Council that  that sets the social agenda for the government. In her statement she said: It is difficult to understand how a country like India can deny the payment of minimum wages and still makes claims of inclusive growth. The story is the same be it minimum wages, education, health and even food security. I do not understand how startling statistics such as more than 5000 children dying every day of malnutrition does not trouble our law makers and administrators. I guess it is perhaps it is not their children who die. It is only when we find it in ourselves to take ownership of all that is wrong and raise our voices that things may change. Why do I feel that that day is still a long time coming.

I started this post by expressing my reservation on the 25% reserved for poor children in all schools from the swankiest to the humblest. First of all the stark reality is that it is not the poor kids who are availing of this facility but  middle class kids with clever parents who are masters at getting fake documents. However let us presume that some truly deserving kid make it, there is no way the child can keep abreast with the remaining 75%.  Here is a small example.

I am in the process of helping Utpal finished his holiday homework. His school did give us hard copies of the said homework but in the case of Kiran, the homework had to be downloaded from the Internet. I wonder how a kid living in a slum could manage that. Then the homework itself required lots of searching on the Net and most of the questions could not be understood by the child himself and needed adult help. And last but not the least it cost me over 1500 rupees to get all the stationery and other material required to complete the homework. I would love to ask our Education Minister how he expects illiterate and poor parents to get their child’s homework done.

This is only one aspect of the situation. There many more. Just put yourself in the place of a slum kid in a swanky school. You will have all the answers.

We need to stop fooling ourselves. It is our money that runs all the social programmes in the country. It is time we demanded accounts. But to do that we must first accept that there exists a whole world on the other side of an invisible line, and they too are citizens of this country with same rights as us.

This is the picture that is sits on my computer and on my phone screens. It is my feel good shot and normally can bring a smile on my face under any circumstances. But for the past weeks or should I say months the magic has not worked. True the smile does appear but it is a tad jaded and laced with sadness. Recent events have brought to the fore the reality that you may make all the plans you want, and think you have the power to control your destiny, everything can change in a moment as you are a puppet and the strings are in unknown hands. My father tried to explain this to me in a spiritual way by saying that not a single leave moved without the will of God. Yet we mortals easily fall prey to hubris and defy those very Gods. When things go right, we become brazen and start making impossible dreams and with each dream or wish fulfilled we begin to believe that we are masters of our destiny. For the past decade or so my life, both personal and ‘professional’ – I guess that is what pwhy is – has been nothing short of wondrous, barring a few hiccups easily resolved. It was an obstacle race I managed to win with ease. From a tiny project with barely 3 persons and a small biscuit distribution programme, we morphed into one that reaches out to 1000 beneficiaries and at every stage we cleared every milestone almost effortlessly.

I discovered a whole new world and fell in love with it. My greatest gift and blessing was Popples landing in my life. True they were many lessons one had to learn and accept, some quite troubling and even distressing but that was part of the game. My own world kept pace and all those I love prospered and flourished. I became a grandmother when a little Angel landed in my heart. My life partner moved into retired life with a spring in his gait and opportunities galore. His strong shoulder was always there to lean on when things looked a little blue. Everything seemed on course and life could not have been better.

Then one day, almost a year ago, my carefully constructed and nurtured life fell apart. The one, who had always been the strongest fell, ill and this time nothing went as planned. I only could watch helplessly as he who was my strength began wasting away in front of helpless eyes. I knocked at every door from the white coat specialist to the preferred star gazer. Every test was inconclusive and every magic formula in vain. No one seemed to understand what was happening. And as days became weeks, and weeks turned into months a new lexicon stemmed out of the recesses of my mind. I started thinking almost surreptitiously about the expiry date of one’s life. Alas it is not printed on the soles of our feet when we wail our way into this world. Actually the only thing we are sure about when we are born is that we will die and what comes in between is anyone’s guess. So the maxim that urges us to live one day at time, and live it as if it was our last is true and believing that everything  will run the way we want because we are knowledgeable and have done all the right things is pure folly.

Everything could change in a instant. Gone was the hubris. The wise thing would be to start tying loose ends as quickly as possible. Time to stop dreaming. One actually had to live every day as if were the last one and complete tasks with a yesterday deadline.

When I look at my little boys today with a somewhat despondent smile, I realise that for one of them at least my task is far from over. When you extend your hand to someone and s/he holds it tight, it is a lifelong engagement. The child can be the one you gave life to and who clings to your finger instinctively or the one that everyone gave up on except you. I would like to see my grandson grow into a young man but that can only be wishful thinking. But the one I reached out to is another story. Maybe that is the biggest loose end that needs to be tied. I know there are many who love this little fellow, but his future can only be secured if I ensure that he has a Trust Fund that would look after his further studies, and give him what he needs to begin life. At least ensure his needs, if not his wants. So from today on, this picture will be a reminder of what I still have to do and do fast. I just hope and pray many will come forward and extend their hand. It is funny that I who till now was the one reaching out to others find myself on the other side of the fence. I guess this a lesson that has to be learnt. The sad but true reality is that in the world we have created and are so proud of there is scant place for compassion and empathy. The lexicon in use is that of money. I am sure many would be willing to look after this little man provided they do not have to dip into their pockets. I may be sounding cynical but this is something I have learnt over the years. The child protection law that has declared me person deemed ‘fit’ to look after this child and keeps an eye on him as we have to ‘produce’ him in court every time he comes on a school break, washes their hands of him the day he turns 18. He would barely be out of school. And then who cares for him? The law decrees he cares for himself. Who makes these laws I wonder. I only know that I have to make sure that he has money for further studies and also mentors to guide him and love him. Not an easy task but one that has to be done.

It is also time to sift what my mind demands from what my heart yearns for. Secure my pwhy family without chasing impossible dreams; tie up the few essentials of my personal life and ensure that my children can walk into my shoes without any pinches. So need to make a sensible bucket list and fulfil it!

For the very first time in my life, I am truly out of my depth and feel I am caught in a swirling vortex of emotions and events I cannot handle. It is a first for me as till date I had always felt I was in the driver’s seat. As an only child my wonderful parents always made sure that I felt that way and come to think of it, this game continued till the day they left me and even after. They had given me the skills needed to overcome obstacles and challenges without falling apart or if I did, then bouncing back before anyone knew.

After they left, my partner took over and never stood in my way and was always the wind beneath my wings and I a soaring free bird. Today I am grounded. There is no wind to propel me. I feel like Baudelaire’s Albatross: a clumsy winged voyager!

I never realised that in all my existence there was always someone to blow the wind needed to move the wings insisted on wearing. It is a reality check. Maybe God’s way of seeing whether I can be a soaring winged voyager without help or just a clumsy one!

A mother of five watched two of her children die of hunger! I wonder if you can even begin to imagine the pain and total helplessness of this woman. We are of those who run after our kids with plates of food, willing to conjure anything alternatives treats should our brat refuse the fare of the day. We are of those who move heaven and earth should our child get a minor scratch. We are of those who have never experienced hunger pangs or seen our child hungry. So how can we even begin to feel the agony of that mother. The authorities with their art of splitting hair  and their misplaced wisdom declared the children had died of diarrhea as they always do to keep their statistics clean. According to them few really die of starvation. For us it is just a news item, if we are one of those who switched on the TV at the opportune time.

Starvation is something we prefer ignoring as it shows us in a poor light and is not in sync with the image our rulers and many of us want to project. But starvation is real even it we want to look away. It is a terrible failure on our part and is partly if not mainly due to our inability to ensure that social programmes are implemented properly and not hijacked by the corrupt ways of some and the total indifference of others. Grains rot as we can’t put a distribution system in place and most of all the really poor slip out of the net of obtuse paper work. The equation is skewed to favour the administration not the beneficiary and thus the real poor get left out.

Starvation or near starvation exists in XXIst century India. It is not all about food but about systemic failure and the failures of all programmes that could have helped the poor regain ownership of their lives. The proposed Food Security Bill solution to starvation is that all those people who are identified would be guaranteed two free meals per day for six months. My question is: what happens after 6 months, provided of course that persons identified are true beneficiaries.

In Ash in the Belly the author recounts how mothers ferret rat holes for grain to feed their children! I do not think anyone of us can understand the pain and desperation of these mothers and yet they do the best they can even if to many it sounds degrading and unacceptable. These are true stories you can read if you have the heart.

A Food Security Bill, no matter the flaws, was introduced in Parliament in December 2011. One would have thought that the 500 odd representatives of the people would at least come together and pass this bill swiftly. But they did not. For them hunger is just a game to be played at the opportune moment, let us say before elections. No one really cares about those that are dying simply because we have not been able to implement programmes meant to alleviate hunger. For our lawmakers these are just gimmicks to make them look good, and once the law has been passed, then ways to enrich themselves.

The amount of food that is wasted is humongous from the grains that rot for want of space, to food thrown at parties, weddings, religious feeding etc. Our children throw food and we say nothing. Respect for food is not instilled in our young ones. I do not know if you have seen the ad for a food supplement for children, where a brat pushes away a plate of healthy food with distaste. I shudder each time I see this ad. Such representation should be banned! It is time we taught our children respect for food and told them about the starving children. It is not right to hide realities from kids. Compassion and concern should be taught to children at a young age.

But let is come back to the Food Security Bill. I do not know if it will really bring the change it meant to. It is likely to go the way all social legislation have. And that is often because of our indifference. A recent article published in a weekly traces the chronicle of the Integrated Child Development Services  ICDS, a scheme launched with great fanfare way back in 1975 to improve the nutritional and health status of pregnant and lactating mothers and children in the 0-6 years age group, to reduce infant mortality, morbidity, malnutrition and school drop-out rate and to lay the foundation for the proper psychological, physical and social development of the child. Had the scheme been well implemented India would have looked different. As we all know it is 9 months and 1000 days that are the most crucial to a child. The article aptly entitled Privatising the ICDS once again proves the way our rulers like to take each and every time be it education, health, midday meals or any other programme that benefits the poor. The well run pilots proved that the scheme were successful but the Government was extremely lethargic in moving to universalise the scheme, and provided only pathetic amounts to finance it and enable it to function properly and this even after a Supreme Court Judgement noted that the ICDS was very important in the overall development of children in India and ordered the Central government to universalise the scheme to cover all children in the country. The State did but a recent report shows that 61 per cent of the AWCs  (creches) did not have their own building, and that another 25 per cent were functioning out of kuccha/semi-pukka buildings or partially open structures. Between 40 and 65 per cent did not have separate spaces for cooking, storing food items or separate spaces for children’s activities. Fifty two per cent of the AWCs did not have their own toilets, and 32 per cent had no drinking water facility. Functioning weighing machines for children and adults were absent in 26 per cent and 58 per cent of AWCs respectively. The State promised to change things and now proposes to hand over the running of the creches to NGOs and private parties. You can imagine the consequences.

I said earlier that the change we would like to see, as I presume that even if we are cynical, the idea of children dying of malnutrition is preposterous and unacceptable, needs us to take a proactive role. I am sure many of you would be thinking I am mad. Our political duty does not stop at casting a vote but should also extend to asking questions and giving a voice to those who have none. We have a wonderful legislation in the Right to Information, and how many card games or kitty and other parties we would have to miss were we to take a sheet of paper and file an application under the RTI Act asking let us say for example how many Anganwadis there are in a locality, maybe the one where those who work in our homes live, where they are situated, what nutrition is give, does their weighing machine work. Or why could we not ask our maid to take us to an Anganwadi and see for ourselves the reality on the ground and then write to our MP or MLA. If we did, then believe you me things would be different.

This may sound like wishful thinking, but is is time we took ownership of things that shock us and lend our voices to straighten the tort.

Will we? That is the question!

Dear Mama and Tatu,

Today would have been your 64th wedding anniversary. I do not know why after so many years I feel like writing to you. It has been more than 2 decades since you left me and there has not been a day when I have not missed you. It is strange how we miss those we loved more after they leave us. I guess as long as you were there one just lived by the day and never saw things in a larger perspective.

When I was a child Tatu you were the one who always stood in the way of my wanting to fly on my own wings bet it an invitation to spend the night at a friend’s house or go on a school trip, and when I was older to go out dancing or just hanging with friends. I must confess that I learnt to jump the walls and sneak out every night. Today I realise that it was because you loved me so much. You would have got the moon into my room if that were possible, but could not live a minute without knowing I was safe. Your safety rules were very restrictive and incomprehensible at that time and led to many banged doors and tears but then how can I forget the gentle knock on the same door that always followed and the super treat that you then cooked for me to the dismay of the kitchen staff, as they were not used to Ambassador Sahib whipping omelettes for his rebellious child. How could they ever imagine that all it took was a banged door and a fluffy omelette to set things right between an adoring father and his adored child. As I said, those were days when we lived one day at a time, and sorted our problems one at a time. And if your brand of safety did feel almost abusive at that time, today it seems it was the only way you knew to express your love. That is only one side of the story. There is another when you and I seemed more like partners in crime trying to hoodwink mama. How can I forget the innumerable dinners for two you and I shared as you instilled in me a love for gastronomy even before I could walk or talk properly. I remember dining with you at Maxim’s. I could go through a 4 course meal without a problem while having to be propped up on several cushions to reach the table. But that is not all you taught me. I think the biggest lesson you taught me was that of compassion and humility. Yes I was the spoilt Ambassador’s brat, but you sent me to neighbourhood schools where I rubbed shoulders and made friends with regular kids. You taught me respect for the other, no matter who the other was. I remember how on each and every Diwali celebrated in faraway lands, you ensured I touched the feet of everyone older than me, be it the cook or the housemaid. And I never resented it as you had instilled into me that it was the right thing to do. As we both grew we may have drifted apart but I can tell you today that there was only one place I felt safe and that was in your arms. 

If I am profoundly Indian it is because of you Mama. The very first word you spoke to me was in Hindi and you carried on doing so until the day you were sure that Hindi had become my mother tongue. I remember being shocked when I realised that you spoke other languages! It is at your knees that I learnt about my land and its beauty. You shared storied of your life that were imbibed with India’s fight for freedom and though you never believed in ritualism, you celebrated each and every festival in all its minutest details to allow me to make my own choice when time was ripe. Both of you never stopped me from participating in any religious festivities of friends and encouraged me when I wanted to fast with my Muslim friends or attend Mass with my christian ones. I guess this is why I accepted Hinduism as it felt like a religion that was all embracing. It breaks my heart to see what is happening today in the name of religion.

Mama you also gave me another lesson that I am deeply grateful for. I remember when during school holidays you would insist I learn to cook, sew, iron clothes, wash clothes, clean the house and help the staff. There were times when it did irk me, but today I realise that you were teaching me dignity of labour. It is something that is truly lacking in today’s India. 

I grew up in many countries but both of you ensured that I knew who I was and where I came from. My education was westernised but it never came in the way of my Indianess. Actually it enriched me in more ways than one and allowed me to be a better person or so I would like to believe. I could go and on as my memories are filled with exceptional moments I lived with both of you. Let me just say that if I am who I am today, it is because of the two of you.

But today is your wedding anniversary and I find myself writing about me! I guess this is part of the only child syndrome. Today I must talk about your incredible love story that few know. 

Mama you had resigned yourself to being an old maid as you had made a decision of not marrying before India gained its independence. You were quite a gal as you drove your own car, lived alone in Delhi under the watchful eye of one of your father’s client who had been accused of some horrible crime but has been acquitted thanks to your father’s pleading. He owed his life to him and thus protecting you was sacrosanct. He was a true Cerberus. 

Papa you too were living a lonely life in Mauritius though professionally you were at your zenith. You were a judge at a very young age and had even been  one of the youngest recipient of the MBE. I have your medal safely tucked away in a drawer and a yellowing picture commemorating the event. You told me you had once been engaged but the marriage never took place because of your mother’s demise. I guess you were both resigned to your lives. But someone had other plans.

Ma, I remember you telling me that when you had got your father to accept your decision not to marry in an enslaved India, you had also promised him that if you were still of marriageable age at India’s Independence you would marry anyone he chose. You must have been around 30 in 1947. It was an age when women were considered old maids. But your father remembered the promise and was on the look out for a suitable ‘boy’. Destiny took over and a common friend of both families suggested Tatu for you. I guess loneliness had got to you Tatu and your needed a wife on the new career you were embarking upon as you opted for Indian nationality and were to join the Indian Foreign Service. You were an odd couple: the highly educated Gandhian small town lass and the westernised bon vivant. It could not have been love at first sight for you Mama because as you told me once, when you first saw Tatu you thought he was the father for a prospective bride for your brother!

Tatu had been posted to Prague where he was meant to open the Indian mission and had a few days leave. He decided to woo you in the only way he knew: the western one. So there he was taking you on tonga – horse carriage – rides to the Lodhi Garden which was then almost on the outskirts of the city to buy you roses and then to Hamilton, the jewellers of the Brits, to buy you an engagement ring. You followed him wide eyed and totally in love. The only one who was not happy was your Cerberus!

I found a bundle of letters that you wrote to each other during you courting days. I must confess that I only gleaned through one and could gage how much in love your both were. I could not read those letters as I felt I would be prying in a space that was yours. Maybe my children will read them one day!

Your love story is not the kind you find in books and novels. It is borne out of your desire to reach out to the other in ways that were unique. Mama you had to get rid of your nationalist persona as you were  now the wife of a senior diplomat and embrace a world of luxury so alien from the one you knew as the child of a man more often in prison then at home. Papa you had to learn how to please a woman who tastes were so incompatible to yours. In communist Czechoslovakia you had to conjure green vegetables for the woman you loved as she was not one to share your taste for scoops of caviar or an orange duck. But mama you were to the manor born and all through your life you performed like a star.

When I came into this world and was old enough to understand things, both of you always seemed the perfect couple and incredible parents. It is only when I read one of your diaries after your death mama that I realised that there were problems and that you had handled them with such dignity. Tatu your jealousy and possessiveness was almost psychotic. You were unwilling to share the woman you loved with anyone, even her own family and siblings. You resented the time she spent with them in the most childish manner. Mama you were able to look beyond the petty attitude of your husband and realise that it was just his way of loving you and you accepted it without a sigh. I could never have done that. But this was your way of proving your love and I hope you understood it Tatu. You know that this incredible woman whose child I am so proud to be learnt French just for you, as French culture was engrained in your soul and she wanted to share what you loved best. 

But I think Mama that the best proof of how much Tatu loved you was in the last year of your life when you fell ill and lost part of your recent memory. You had cancer, but no one was supposed to utter the C word. You refused treatment and wanted to live life till the last breath. How difficult it was for you Tatu to see Mama wasting away and not accepting any medical help. But you did what she wanted and found ways of easing her pain. You had a hairdresser come almost every day and a beautician take care of her at home. You took her for lunches and to the theatre or concerts, even if you did not like Indian music. You had read somewhere that fish was good for her condition and Mama you ate that fish for him even if I know you threw up after each meal. Wow you guys were something.

In your last days you refused to sleep Mama and would only accept to do so if Tatu sat next to you holding your hand and waking you up every 45 minutes and he did that night after night without a word of murmur of protest. There are so many incidents of those days and I will not recall them all but there was one that particularly moved me. When you had completely lost your recent memory and could not remember what you had done the previous day, Tatu would make you write a daily diary and if someone came to visit you, you would quietly go into your room and read the relevant page and then act naturally. This was his way of protecting your dignity. 

I sit today remembering both of you and wondering whether I have been able live to your expectations and to the quasi impossible ideals you set as an example. I can feel your presence in the home you built with so much love.

Today I too have been thrown a challenge that will test my ability to rise to the heights you did and prove that I too can love in the exquisite way you showed me. 

I miss you Mama and Tatu.

Your child

Anou

For the past months I have been terribly stressed. The reasons are many, some personal and some professional. This cocktail has been a heady one and needs immediate first aid. The normal remedies do not work for me for several reasons. I find it hard to meditate though a friend recently told me a form of meditation called gibberish meditation that seems compatible with my personality. It is called gibberish meditation and goes from singing la la la to the sky to talking nonsense non stop and even jumping and rolling yourself on the floor. The trick is to go on for 20 minutes! I have not begun yet as I am still trying to find the appropriate time and space to ‘meditate’ without having my household think that I have had a meltdown and lost it! But I do intend starting this very soon.

Sometimes the Gods do decide to smile upon you and they did. With stress mounting by the minute, I knew I had to find some outlet I had to find some relief and it came in the most unexpected manner. You know how much I dread Utpal’s holiday homework as it is always a battle royal to get it finished. Most of it is quite inane and makes me wonder what the child learns. It has been, for the past years, a bane that spoils the holiday mood as most of the time one is hounding the child to write his daily page or do the annoying sums. But this time, when Utpal landed and showed me his homework he was all smiles and ready to take on the homework challenge. More so because he wants to finish it by the time Agastya my grandson and his pal land early next month. So we attacked the homework head on.

I took the printed sheets and worked out a plan. There was some research to do and I began in earnest and found myself enjoying every minute of it. So for the past days we have been collecting material, making posters, making charts and colouring them. Harvest festivals, malnutrition, antonyms and synonyms, proverbs, environment is what has kept me busy and stress free, at least for a couple of hours a day. I have been having a whale of a time doing things I did when I was young and loving every minute of it. Handling glue, colour pencils and crayons. Sharpening pencils and drawing straight lines with a ruler are things I had forgotten and like Proust’s madeleine brought back memories of happy yore years.

So till I find my space to scream and shout, holiday home work is my all new stress buster.

When I started Pwhy I did not know that my life would change surreptitiously in more ways than one. Till then I had been a rather private person. Perhaps this was because I had grown up as an only and lonely child with no moorings as mine was a nomadic life courtesy my father’s profession. Like all only children I had my set of imaginary friends, talked to myself and dealt with my good and bad moments alone. My adult years also were somewhat solitary. Friends and colleagues remained at a distance. After the passing of my parents I found myself slowly turning into a recluse. It became my comfort zone.   The children had grown up and found their wings. My imaginary friends mutated into books. But this was all about to change in a way I could never have imagines.

When I first thought of setting up a organisation, it was primarily to perpetuate my father’s memory and to pay back a debt. It was never meant to allow anyone into my private zone. But slowly things changed and I found that the gates and doors I had carefully placed around were soon to be blown away. You cannot set up an organisation teeming with children and people without opening your heart as wide as possible. It was the most rewarding and humbling experience and I felt blessed.

The life of a lone wolf is lacking in events that affect others. They mostly trouble you and it is up to you to sort them out or simply live with them. But once you open yourself to the world round you, particularly to those in need, then you become responsible for each and every action you do. Some can be quite devastating, but you have to take them on no matter what. A friend told me somewhere along the way that the best way to deal with your lapses and wrongdoings was to be candid and share them with one and all. I followed that directive as best I could, and have often found sharing in my blogs personal failures and gaffes. You always need to take responsibility for every action you do or word you utter.

Today is one of those moments.

For the past months now I have been walking a tight rope because of some personal issues and it has taken a huge toll on my nerves. I know I am at the end of my tether and have been very concerned about breaking down. I only did not when it would happen and who would be the target. Sadly it happened yesterday and the victim was none other than my most beloved Utpal. As every afternoon, I went to see him in his room to cajole into doing some homework. I found him in front of the TV munching biscuits. I must admit I was a little cross but still in control. As I sat down to straighten some of the mess around, I saw a huge plastic bag filled with cookies and biscuits. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I just lashed out, venting all I had been keeping inside for too long. The poor child was confused and then broke into tears. He could not understand why a few biscuits could unleash such reprimand.

His tears called me to order and I took him in my arms and told him how sorry I was. How could I explain to him that the words addressed to him were actually a meltdown. And how could I have forgotten that biscuits were his comfort zone as that is what he connected with his mother who always bought him biscuits! I was ashamed and not proud of what I had done.

I know he has forgiven me and moved on. But I cannot forgive myself and did not like what I saw in the mirror today.

Why is it that it is always children who are the target of our own frustrations!

Life has its own uncanny way of calling to to order, particularly when you have sunk in a comfort zone and feel that everything is on course. Those are times that you feel your master of you destiny. You even become hubristic! You believe, however erroneously that nothing can get you down as you can take up every challenge thrown your way. For the past months I have been dealing with the health issues of a dear one and until yesterday thought that I would be able to find the right solution and set things back on course. Did I not have an array of options be they as zany as astrologers and their remedies or as logical as the medics who have healed you till now.

Yesterday my entire coping strategies turned out to be a house of cards. All the carefully laid plans, the painstakingly created network of all possible experts one may need in life and the fastidiously drawn out list of all that could possibly go wrong and probable solutions for every aspect of one’s life came to naught. I was suddenly faced with a situation for which I had no ready solution. The ones available were not up my street. I found myself lost on a road I did not know existed. Suddenly all beliefs that seemed so true faded in the face of a situation that concerned a loved one. Oh it is so easy to pontificate when the circumstances concern others or are hypothetical. But when reality hits you a blow in the guts then you realise how fragile you really are.

I have spent the whole day, aided by an army of well wishers to find two mere units of a certain blood group. It is unbelievable but true that you may have all the resources possible be it money, education, contacts et al and yet fail. We were only able to get one unit. How lost and vulnerable you feel. And there you were once thinking you could conquer the world.

But that is not all. The recent events I have experienced have once again brought the fact that our life is ephemeral and we are in no way masters of its duration. One has to keep this in mind and tie all the loose threads before it is too late. Never have I felt this as poignantly as today. So over and above doing my best and more for the one who needs me, there are two things I need to do before it is too late. One is to register my will, something I have been wanting to do for quite some time, and the other is to start a Trust Fund for   little Utpal who has no one but me in the whole world and who would be lost forever if his Maam’ji does not set things right today.

So help me God.

Note: I hope some of you will come forward and participate in Utpal’s Trust Fund that will help him get  a solid higher education and thus a  profession and help him settle in life without being at the mercy of others.

I start blogging in April 2005. That makes it 8 years and almost 1500 blogs. It all started like this. It must have been circa 2003 when I realised that the proverbial ‘pockets’ I easily dug into whenever    extra funds were needed were emptying at the speed of light or even faster. All the people one knew had been tapped and thus it was time to seek new pastures. At that time I was slowly discovering the magical word of the world wide web and it must have been around then that the first pwhy website went on line. Actually 2003 was quite a fateful year. It was the year when Utpal fell into the boiling cauldron and entered our lives; when two of our creche children died in strange circumstances and we discovered the apathy of the police who never wanted to register a case; when we were successful in raising funds for Raju’s open heart surgery. It was also the year when we were at the top of our page 3 days and the darling of many who organised stunning evenings and balls to help us raise funds. It was also a time when we were at the height of our fairy tale existence. It was also at that time that someone suggested I join a social network called Ryze. I must confess that I had a tough time building my page and it looked very puerile. But I managed to get quite a few contacts and thus began the pwhy network that is so precious to us today. We had a website that was not quite what I would have liked and I realised to my horror what the cost of maintaining would be. I had 2 options: not to have a site at all – not really an option -, or learn how to maintain it myself. I cannot remember how many nights it took to learn a new language – HTML – but I did. The other things I began doing was sending individual emails to all the people I knew. I had not yet discovered mass mailing or just BCC option. That is when a kind person – God bless him – suggested I start a blog. It would change my life forever.

It was a hesitant beginning but I had a forum where I could share the life of pwhy, the stories of our kids, the little things that happened everyday. I thought of it like a sea captain’s logbook that would preserve the chronicles of pwhy. True it started being just that but somehow mutated almost insidiously into a record of happenings in India viewed through a different prism: that of someone passionately in love with her country and often at a loss in comprehending the stark inequalities between rich and poor, the hidden agendas and corrupt games of the powers that be, the dignified and touching survival modes of the poor. The project why stories took on a larger meaning and I found myself writing about issues I felt important. The tone became harsher, the criticism more acerbic and the mood somber.

Simply making a difference in the lives of the hundreds and more children who came to project why was not enough. True it was important as it was tangible and thus valorising but I felt the need to add my voice to those of others fighting for causes I empathised with. And slowly the fairy tale like stories of project why became far and few. There were more important issues to address.

For me this became a platform to share my thoughts, my anger, my distress, my anguish, my horror and my opinions to aberrations that seemed more the rule than the exception. I wanted to be heard.

In 2009 I began writing my second book. This one was about the project why story. Once I again I opted to write it in the form of letters to a child and entitled it Dear Popples II. The bye line was ‘then project why story’. I wrote about 100 pages without any problem in a very short time. And then one day I simply could not continue. The story stopped circa 2004. It was a strange writer’s block that refused to go. I tried many times to pick up the threads but to no avail. I decided to let it be till the time was right.

It is only a few weeks back that I found myself opening the abandoned file and reread what I had written and see if I could move on or if not at least figure out what had happened. It took me some time to realise that my pen had stopped at what I call the fairy tale years and that somehow the approach that seemed right for the first 100 pages did not and would not work for the remainder of the story. The bye line could not be ‘the project why story’ but had to become something like ‘India song 20??-2013. I had two choices either rewrite the whole book or make it in two parts. I opted for the later as only this way will the reader fully appreciate the dynamic and organic nature of project why but also share the changes such an experience has on a human soul. For I cannot shy from the fact that I am in no way the same person I was when it all began. Have I changed for the better? I do not know. I do miss the naive and trusting being I was then and something do not like the bitter and splenetic woman I sometimes seem to have become. Maybe the truth lies in between the two.

Even though I will have to sneak time to write the book, I will continue to blog, as blogging is an immense catharsis for me and I need to rant and rave or else I would blow a fuse, but I what I would really like is people to react to what I write. Sadly my 1500 blogs have only 800 comments!

It is not always easy to pass on the mantle and yet that is what I have been trying to do for some time. The reasons are many: creaking bons and dwindling eyesight reminding one that age is catching on; the one woman show syndrome which may look attractive and inspiring but makes the entire structure rather shaky and fragile, and above all the seemingly forgotten mission that set the ball rolling: empowering people to keep the show on the road. I have been making myself as scarce as possible even though I must admit I more than anyone else miss my earlier persona and role. However and no matter what anyone else says, the experience has been positive as the project had been running like a clock work orange. project why needs another face, and the one I would like to project is that of my A team: namely Rani, Dharmendra and Shamika. Somehow I feel that as a crew they encompass most the qualities I have. I know that there is still the fundraising issue but given time I know that they have the ability to overcome the challenge in their own way.

This morning the children had to perform in front of a large group of expat spouses in a very posh hotel and the performance had to be preceded by the much dreaded speech. I must say that Rani made a wow speech in front of the same group at their Annual meeting some weeks back. So I had decided to let them go without me and repeat the performance. Yesterday I could see that the girls wanted to say something but did quite get to it. I stood my ground and repeated that I was not planning to go as I had other things to do. Imagine my surprise when I switched on my computer this morning and found this message: The office does not feel the same without you in it! You are our support, our strength and our energy! We still are very raw in doing stuff! We get very inspired by you. You are a great mother and a wonderful boss! We are very nervous about the event tomorrow  and don’t want any thing to go wrong. I was touched and a tad  cross at the same time. There I was trying to make them stand on their feet and gain confidence.

I was funny that my daughter chose to send me an email from her room within the same house. I guess this is modern communication that I still have to get used to.

I read the message a few times and realised that I had to act in the right way, and the right way at this point was to accept to go with them and hold their hands. The game of passing the mantle has to go through many twists and turns, and you have to play by the rules or else everything may crumble like a house of cards. I also realised that though my A team was doing great, they still needed to be helped and I saw my role like the prompter on a theatre stage: remain invisible but be there when you are needed.

I will be there till I am needed to make sure that the show goes on but I know that the day will come when my team will have the ability to write their own lines and perform them with aplomb.