2012 is coming to a close. It is time to reflect and ponder about the year gone and ask one’s self as candidly as possible whether we really walked the talk. 2012 was pwhy’s 12th year on the field, more than ample time to make the difference we set out to make more than a decade ago. I will in this post highlight some of the important moments of 2012 and view them in the light of the mission we gave ourselves when it all began. I would also beg your indulgence in case thing are not in chronological order, but isn’t that expected of a project that has always followed its heart.

Project Why has always endeavoured to keep in sync with the reality that surrounds us and put in perspective for the children we nurture. Thus I cannot but begin this narrative with today, a day when a whole nation mourns the death of the  braveheart who suffered the worst form of assault imaginable. Since that terrifying night I have been following the story with horror and dread, more so because the barbaric perpetrators come from the same social strata as the children we teach. This makes our responsibility and task that much more critical and compels us to look back at the gone years and assess the work we have done in a whole new manner. True our mission as stated time and again was and has been to provide quality education support to children from slums and give them the required skills to excel in school and in life. But was our definition of quality education broad enough? We always followed the Delors 4 pillars – learning: to know, to do, to be and to live together. But did we emphasise enough on the ‘live together’? Were we not swayed by the ‘to know’ as every parent across the board is? But it is not the moment to delve on what we cannot change. Today the people want to see a new India, one that is safe for all its citizens, one where every man learns to respect women, where laws are strong and justice delivered. Where little girls are taught how to protect themselves and sex talk is not taboo. Yes we need a change in mindsets as well as laws and mindsets can only be changed one day at a time starting at a young age. So as 2012 ends, we at project why have taken certain resolves.

We strongly believe that one of the best ways to get boys and girls to learn to accept and respect each other is that they grow together. We would like to see all state run schools become coeducational. However till that day comes we have no option but teach boys and girls at different times. However since last week we have decided that on all holidays boys and girls will come together to the project and interact in every way possible. It is heartwarming to see that though there was some reluctance and hesitation, particularly from the boys, within no time the children were working together as pals and chums.

Several workshops on self esteem and gender biases were held along the year. We will ensure that these are held with more often in the new year. We also plan to hold gender bias and sex education workshops for the staff as we realised that coming from traditional backgrounds, they are hesitant and uneasy and need to be taught how to address this issue with children of different ages.

We alas live in a society where the girl child is still in danger and needs to learn to protect herself. Therefore we are launching regular ‘good touch’, ‘bad touch’ classed for all our primary girls. We also plan to have awareness programmes with the parents and hope these will be useful.

The horrific rape that shook all of us was also discussed with the older children. They were then asked to write their feelings. I will share this with you in a subsequent post.

Now let me briefly share the main happenings of the year gone by. As always the children did us proud   and the project why results for all centres and all classes was 100%. Hats off to all children and their teachers. I guess we have by now fulfilled one of our main objectives: to contain drop out, mainstream children and ensure good results.

This year we held several workshops in all our centres: a  work shop on self esteem in our Okhla and Khader centre as we have realised that children from underprivileged homes have poor self esteem. A workshop on the girl child was also held at our Khader centre. A workshop for the teachers of the special section was held in September to introduce new approaches in teaching.

Our main workshop however was a workshop on Right to Education, held with the support of an eminent jurist and that ended in a postcard campaign whereby the children wrote of the Chief Justice of the Delhi High Court about the situation in their school. The children were charged up and wrote unabashedly about the violence and abuse by their teachers, the lack of facilities be it toilets or desks, the overcrowding of classes and the poor quality of teaching. These cards were included in a PIL with the judges demanding immediate action. Action was taken but the suspension of 2 teachers named by the student resulted in a huge problem for us as the teachers belonged to Khader village where our centre is located. Our landlord almost threw us out. It is the extremely wise and diplomatic skill of our coordinator Dharmendra that saved us from this explosive situation. Our children were also targeted in school but tempers calmed down and today the schools are functioning a tad better. This was  a lesson for all: bringing change is never easy. It needs courage and staying power.

For the women centre, it was a musical year as they had a western music workshop run by Diya, a young student from Singapore. A group of 8 children were introduced to western music and tried their hand at the guitar, the keyboard and bongos! In January 2012, Praveen one of our extremely talented student, began professional singing classes. His dream is to enter a singing reality show! More power to him.

2012 was also dancing year for the project children. It was decided to run dance workshops for all children, including the special ones.  And even though their performance would not meet  Bolshoi standards, the children had great fun and laughed to their hearts’ content.

We hope to have the children perform somewhere in 2013.

Everyone is invited!

This year it was the Okhla children who had the chance to get behind a camera thanks to the workshop run by one of our summer volunteers. You can see the pictures they took here.

We managed a few outings in spite of paucity of funds. The Govindpuri children went to the Science Museum, the Red Fort, the Children’s Park and India Gate. It was still open to the likes of you and me then. The special children went to Delhi Haat and Lodhi garden.

A group of children from Khader were taken to a movie and to an outing at the mall by some supporters.

As always we celebrated festivals: Republic Day, Independence Day, Gandhi Jayanti, Children’s Day, Diwali, Teacher’s Day, Eid and Xmas. On these days children often put up their own show with dances, exhibitions, speeches and song.

The star this year was undoubtedly our very own Santa.

We also had our share of visitors from all corners of the planet and of course our volunteer who make a huge difference as they bring a little of the world into our planet! We thank all of them warmly!

Some statistics and facts now: we are now a family of 1000! And to say that when we began we were a mere 40! We have a team of 45 and each one of them is precious and deserves to be saluted. The computer centre, library and secondary were shifted around. Secondary classes were started in our Govindpuri centre which now goes to class VII.

We would like to share two very special events.
Preeti from the special section has now been admitted to the Open school and is preparing for class X  and Shamika our special section in charge got the Karamveer Chakra award.

We are proud of you girls!

Our boarding school kids are well and growing by the day. They are good in their studies and participate in many activities: skating, yoga, dancing, music. I wish we could give this opportunity to every child.

Over 200 women completed their sewing and beauty courses this year. many of them have got employment and some of them even opened their own beauty parlours, two of them in the village. More power to you.

Planet Why remained frozen this year. All our efforts came to naught and we are now seriously thinking of alternatives. However our special children and Khader children kept the sustainability light alive.

The special children now make dream catchers that are on sale and our Khader chiildren made beautiful greeting cards that can be purchased on line. We hope these enterprises grow by leaps and bounds.

But all this would not have been possible without those who have believed in us and trusted us through the years. We hope you will continue to help us make a difference. To everyone a big thank you.

Happy 2013.

Yes I, the Indian woman, am dented and painted but not in the manner you politicians think! I am dented – and here I would like to use the verb ‘dent’ in its meaning ‘diminished’- from the very moment I am conceived. Even as I entered my mother’s womb, I knew everyone hoped I was a boy. If it was discovered that I was indeed a girl, I ran the risk of being brutally aborted and my tiny life ended in a pool of blood or a garbage bin. The day I was born, I was greeted with wails and tears and my mother cursed for not having born a son. You see the X Y chromosome story is understood by no one, or I guess they do not wish to understand as how can I boy do anything wrong. In my country giving birth to a child is wrong.

As I grew up I was often bewildered at what I saw. My brother always got what he wanted and I did not. I was often chided and put back to place. My brother got better food and even a better school bag. he even went to a private school while I had to go to the municipal one. I was often made to miss school as there was always something to do t home, and after the birth of my younger sibling, I became a surrogate mother even though I was just 6. I often heard my parents talking about me in disturbing words. Was I really a burden?

Imagine my surprise when as I grew a little older, I who loved playing on the street with other children, of being told that I had to remain in the house. It was not only my mother or father who scolded me, but even my younger brother, the very child I had carried on my hip for so long, never complaining. If I laughed too loud I was told to tone down as ‘girls’ were not meant to behave this way. If I peered out the window my brother pulled my braid and told me to ‘behave’. I never figured out what I was doing wrong as others laughed and peered out of windows.

I soon learnt one indubitable truth: a girl was controlled by a male – father, brother and the elusive husband that loomed large from the very moment I began understanding things. Time and again I saw my father abusing my mother in every way possible and saw her keep quiet or at best shed a few tears. I felt a boiling rage inside me and wondered why my mother did not react. Slowly I understood that this was the way things were and we as girls had no other choice but to comply. As my brothers grew older I even saw them abusing mother. I realised that we women were diminished in more ways than one.

If I was lucky I would escape the groping and harassment that many suffer within the confines of the so called safety of my home. It could be an uncle, a neighbour or even a friend. If I did gather the courage to speak up, then I was likely to be introduced to the deafening code of silence that is invoked in such cases by the very one who gave you life. That is when another stifling word was added to my vocabulary: ‘izzat’ – honour- ! I suddenly became the repository of the honour of my family even it I was the one who had been damaged and taken advantage of. I had to bear a shame I could not fathom. That is when I realised that we women had to live a double life and put of a show for the world to see. That is the day I knew that we dented women also had to be painted. Painted in the shades of patriarchy and its biased and baffling mores. I learnt to slowly reconcile myself to my station in life.

In spite of missing many classes to tend to chores at home, in spite of not being given the tuition so easily proffered to my male siblings or the books I needed, I studied hard and passed all my examinations. I guess it was the attraction of extra money that made my male handlers accept I take up a job. I was over the moon as it was a step to the freedom I so longed for. I stepped out of the house on that first day with a song in my heart and a head filled with dreams. How was I to know that another set of men would appear and remind me once again that I was just a woman in a world that belonged to men. The journey to my workplace made me open to sneers, lude remarks, groping and misplaced gestures. I learnt to make myself as small as I could and hope that I would reach my destination safe. Anger boiled inside me but I learnt to control it, in a way all women learn to in this land. That is also part of the paint job. If God forbid, something would have happened, I knew what awaited me. The ‘izzat’ scenario again from my very own, and had I gone over that then more abuse at the hand of law keepers and justice givers. If a woman is raped, she has to accept to be raped over and over again and even then she never gets justice.

Had I met a boy and fallen in love like every girl has the right to, I ran the risk of being killed by my own father or brother again in the name of ‘izzat’. So if I did fall in love, I knew it could only be covertly, till the day the men in my family found the next man to hand me over to. But those few days of love would be my silent rebellion and my few moments of freedom.

One fine day I will be told to get ready and look my best as a boy was coming to see me. Once again I could not but realise that I was a mere object. Should the boy like me, then I was to be hitched to him with a great relief from my family. Their duty was over, the burden passed on. Thank God the ‘izzat’ was intact.

Life would have come full circle. I would get pregnant and so conditioned was I, that I too would wish for a boy. I too would be chided for giving birth to a girl. I too would bear the abuse of my husband. I too would curtail the freedom of my daughter, buy a better school bag for my son and so on. I too would one day teach my daughter her place as a dented and painted object in a land where we venerate Goddesses.

Rest in peace dear child.. you whose name we do not know but who has become our very own.
I know you are in a much better place, a place where you can roam free and safe, a place where you can walk at night without fear, a place where you can soar free and see all your dreams come true. A place worthy of your spirit and courage. Rest in peace sweetheart we were not worthy of you.

We salute your courage to fight the most horrific ordeal and some out of it alive; we salute your desire to live in spite of all odds. But it was not to be. Did you give up or did you know deep in your soul that it would ultimately futile as things never truly change. Maybe you are the wiser than us all.

You came to this city to fulfill your dreams. We as a city let you so terribly down. You went that fateful evening to see a film with a friend. You went to see a film that was about surviving all odds, did you know that you would be faced with the worst nightmare barely a few moments later. I cannot begin to imagine what you went through when you were aggressed in the most revolting way but I know that even if you were humiliated in the most debasing way, and yet I know that the perpetrators were never able to violate your spirit and soul. That remained yours, and yours alone. We salute you little braveheart who today stands taller than us all.

Today we hang our heads in shame for not having been there for you.

We hang our heads in shame for every time we were made aware of an aberration perpetrated on any woman and simply moved on after a few clucks of false pity. We hang our heads in shame for simply having looked at rape and violations as statistics, disturbing yes, but not worthy of our intervention.
We hang our heads in shame for every time we have silently witnessed a woman being slandered and abused, be it in our homes or outside. Every time we have chosen to adopt the code of silence in the name of honour, reputation or simply misplaced morality. We hang our heads in shame for having kept silent each time a girl was killed; be it in the womb or because she wanted to life life on her all terms.

We have much to ask forgiveness for.

Will you forgive our apathy and indifference. Will you forgive us to have remained deaf and dumb when we should have screamed loud. Will your forgive us for not having raised our voice when we needed to. Will you forgive us for having made a mockery of democracy and not expressing our horror and distress each time we saw injustice being done.

Your terrible ordeal did move us out of our apathy. Somehow it touches us in a way we had never been touched before. That is perhaps we intuitively felt you were one of us. But will your forgive us for not having felt the same anger and outrage when others had suffered the same plight. Maybe if we had you would have been with us.

While you lay in the ICU fighting for every breath, we did not always look good. Will you forgive those who made the most insensitive remarks, some coming from those in power, those made to protect us, those we are meant to trust. Many young people like you faced the brutality of those who should have been in the streets that night and come to your help. How can I explain to you why it took days for those who rule us to make come out and mumble words of concern that sounded so empty. Will your forgive those who thought they should indulge in self praise rather than address the harsh truths that stared us in the face. While you lay in your hospital bed, other women were violated and abused. The horror does not stop. I do not know if ever will.

While you lay stripped of your clothes but not your dignity in the dead of night and in bitter cold, many watched and did nothing. Can you forgive their indifference. I cannot and will not and wonder sadly whether all the people who came out in your support will at least now reach out to anyone in distress. Why is it that I find it difficult to believe they would.

They say you are the turning point that will bring change. I hope this happens but somehow find it difficult to believe. Everyone wants the perpetrators punished. But will that ensure that such horror does not happen again?

You fought bravely and your spirit has given us the courage to go on and ensure that you did not die in vain. Everyone of us is responsible for your death. We need to look within ourselves with honesty and accept our wrong doing and see what we can do.

Today darling child we salute you and beg your forgiveness.

May your death not be in vain.

We as a country hang our heads in shame.

Rest in peace beautiful one. You live in our hearts and will so forever.

Since last week concerned citizens, students, women, children, senior citizens gathered around India gate and then decided to move towards Rashtrapati Bhavan to voice their anger, concern, hurt, indignation and outrage at the horrific incident that occurred a few days ago and at the increased insecurity for women in the city. They wanted to be heard. They wanted to be reassured. They wanted harsher laws for crime against women. They wanted to share their angst with those they elected. And that is why they approached the hallowed gates of our first citizen and meet him. After some persuasion a small group was allowed to meet  one of the President’s men. They were informed of the protocol regulations and told to seek an appointment. My question is why could the President not meet these kids! Was the situation not important enough to break protocol. It was not.  The letter the kids wrote hurriedly and with hope; it must be still lying on some table along the protocol journey.

The crowd were swelling and the mood angry. Kids are kids and the young are known to be in a hurry. They are not like our antediluvian politicians. They fretted and got restless. They pushed and shoved like the young do. A simple meeting would have calmed things down. But instead they got hit by water canons in the cold, had tear gas lobbed at them in scores and even got lathi charged – a preferred show of power of our cops – and pushed back. No one came to meet them or talk to them. Their anger rose and more water and tears were sent their way. And as the news spread on Live TV, angered people joined the groundswell and sadly many lumpen elements. The mood got angry.

It was a spontaneous crowd, the kind one has never seen. It was not a protest organised by a political party where people are paid to come. Here every single protesters felt the anger and the hurt. It was perhaps for the first time that we saw true democracy where the electors wanted answers. No one in power recognised this reality. Had they done so, the events that ensued.

In the late evening the Home Minister finally address a press conference. We were subjected to believe it or not praise for the police! Praise for those who had earlier used water cannons and tear gas shells! Then we were given the vapid platitudes we normally get when any aberrations occur: setting up for commissions, empty promises and more of the same. And that is not all: we were told that the minister himself and his second in command had 3 daughters and thus felt the pain and anguish of us all. Who are you kidding. First of all nothing would ever happen to YOUR daughters as they come under the hallowed and super protected category of VIPs. And had it ever happened, god forbid as this should never happen to any one, the rapists would have been killed in a convenient encounter. We were also introduced to a new concept, one that is unacceptable: the gradation of rape. There are rapes, rare rapes and rarest of the rare rapes. Believe me Mr Minister every rape is and should be considered rarest of the rare as it is the most cowardly, heinous, ugly, disgusting, despicable crime.

The day ended. The protesters were angry, the authorities felt smug.

What the young were looking for was their statesmen and leaders. For the first time young Indians – students, professionals – concerned parents, and simple citizens had come out on the streets to express their anger and hurt. For years we have born stoically all the aberrations thrust upon us. We have turned a blind eye to issues like gross corruption, poor governance and arrogant behaviour. We have waited as patiently as we could to see laws enacted and waited helplessly to see them implemented. We have paid our taxes and have reconciled ourselves to poor amenities. We even performed our civic duty by voting every time we had to.

 Saturday the 22nd of December 2012 was a red letter day for us, simple Indians. It was the day we wanted to see our Leaders and share our pain. It was a day when we still believed in them. It was a day that comes just once. Our leaders did not see the writing on the wall. How wonderful it would have been if our First Citizen broke protocol and accepted to meet a few young Indians. How healing it would have been if our CM had come and sat with the young protesters. How uplifting it would have been if one of the younger politicians has broken all rules and come and met the very people who make them leaders. Then all the ugly incidents that ensued would not have happened.

One may wonder why this rape incident struck such a chord in the hearts of so many when so many rapes and other aberration occur. It was probably the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The story of the young woman so brutally raped was the catalyst that made us scream ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

The next day genuine protesters were back. Some had even spent the night despite the cold. But the police swung into action and pushed everyone out of India Gate and surrounding areas. However how far can you push people. They had to be let in. Protests continued. Against the rapists but also against the cop’s behaviour. Sadly lumpen elements joined the show and very ugly scenes ensued. The brutality of the police was shocking: women, young students, senior citizens – no one was spared. It was vicious, barbaric, more so as the main issue that was being addressed was the safety of women. Need I say more.

The next day the entire India Gate area was shit to Indians. Even morning walkers were not allowed in. An alternate place has been given and young people are still protesting. But there are less people. I guess many parents must have not allowed their girls to join in after the terrible events of the previous day.

The Home Minister spoke again. According to him every demand has been acceded to. I guess he is in sync with the powers that be: commission set, empty promises spouted. He also insulted our intelligence by trying to make us believe that the unruly happenings were politically instigated. A terrible sense of deja vu! He has missed the point though as this time we are protesting against this very attitude. When asked by a reporter why no one from the government did not go and meet the young people on the first day he was  horrified: how can they come and meet us. It has to be the other way! He missed the point again: this is the attitude we are protesting against: the VIP culture, the disconnect between those we elected and us. We were also subjected to more platitudes. The Congress President and the heir in waiting missed a golden opportunity to reach out to the very people who could have made all the difference in 2014. Now it is too late. Nothing you door say can make us forget the terrible images of December 23rd 2012.

And finally when the Prime Minister did finally condescende to speak to the nation, a blooper or Freudian slip said it all. It was all a show.

We need statesmen and leaders. Till then nothing is theek hai!

If there was an Oscar for insensitivity, I am certain Delhi Police would have won it hands down! It was a huge shock to hear, on the much awaited press conference of the Delhi Police Commissioner and the Home secretary, praise for the police for having cracked the case so speedily. Just allow me a moment as I am unable to contain my anger and need to gather my racing thoughts…

That was not all. We were then subject almost ad nauseum to a string of meaningless and somewhat galling  statistics: how many buses were impounded post the incident, how many tinted windows were checked, how many charge sheets were registered in the past year, how many rapes occurred last year, this year.. and when the figure for this year happened to be higher the PC was quick to assign the increase to population increase and/or increase of women coming forward to register cases. Who are you kidding. It looked like a PR exercise aimed at whitewashing a police that has lost all credibility. Sorry Sir it did nor work! Your blowing your own bugle sounded terribly false. And then the stats that you threw at us were pathetic.

First of all the measures announced seemed to be based on the premise that a similar incident may occur again. God forbid! That is not what all our anger is about. Our anger is about all the abuse that women go through every time they step out of their homes and whatever their caste, creed and age. I would like to draw your attention on the latest rapes in the city: a 3 year old in her play school and a 40 year old mother of 4 in her home. So forget about your tinted windows and your check on illegal buses figures and talk about facts. Come to think of it, if all your cops have been doing for the past day or so is check tinted windows no wonder rapes continue. God help us all! The Home secretary repeated use of the words ‘brilliant’ and ‘outstanding’ to commend the police was galling, to say the least. The police failed that young woman that night. This is a sad reality. And by the way the tinted windows should have been checked 6 months ago following a supreme court order. Why was it not then when as according you it took just a day to check so many.

We have been promised a safe Delhi but in the same breath been told that all bars etc will have to close at 1am. Cannot figure this one. Our CM was on the box too. She told us that she hated Delhi being called the Rape Capital. So do we. Please do something. We do not want to hear again ad nauseum that you are not in charge of the police. If that is a deterrent to things goings right, let us do something. Crying on national TV does not cut ice. We are past tears. We have cried for far too long. Our tears have dried up and been replaced by anger and rage. PR exercises and tears cannot begin to heal our hurt.

We need better laws. Actually we need better implementation of existing laws too. We need a sensitive police. None of us feel comfortable walking into a police station. Come to think of it, we are leered at there more than anywhere else. And we all know the power of money where cops are concerned. Maybe it is time to set the cop house in order. Charity begins at home, does it not! Maybe the recruitment policy should be looked. I am told from the horse’s mouth that you have to pay lacs of rupees to get recruited. No wonder you then need to make up the loss through bribes collected.

The CM has announced  the setting up of a round the clock control room for women in distress. One then needs to define distress. Do we call the number each time we are groped or given a once over. I do not see how it works.

Everyone is crying death for the culprits though the cops have said they would go for life imprisonment. True a harsh punishment will go a long way in bringing some healing to the survivor, her family and perhaps even us. But will it stop rape? Will it stop harassment? I do not think so. It is time we look within ourselves, within our homes and  towards society and see where we have gone wrong with all the honesty that we can muster, even if we do not look good. How do we treat women; how are we treated by those near to us; how are we treated in our work place and above all why accept such treatment. Are we ready to take this journey and truly try to find long term solutions? I wish I knew the answer. Do you?

The story of the young girl fighting for her life has touched many deep chords in me. And that for many reasons. First her spirit for survival. Even the doctors are amazed at her desire to survive. But that is not all. I heard an account of the visit made by the Lok Sabha speaker to the her family. In her mellifluous and somewhat haunting drone, Ms Kumar told the moving story of this young woman. She comes from a poor family. Her mother is illiterate. The father sold the only piece of land they possessed to fulfill their daughter’s  dream: to be a doctor. A rare occurrence in a country where parents bend themselves backwards for their sons; one that is so much more touching as they have two sons. Ms Kumar was impressed by the dignity displayed by this couple in the wake of such pain. There was no anger. Just  composed acceptance and the plea that this should not happen to any other girl.

I have witnessed this dignity time and again in humble families and have been moved. The wisdom displayed by those we often do not even look at, is more than humbling. I can only salute such individuals. I can also understand why this young girl is fighting all adversities with rare courage. You see she is fulfilling a dream that has been made possible by the sacrifice and unconditional love of her parents. It is too precious to give up.

This young woman is very akin to the young girls I have been caring for ever since the project began. Young girls who have dreams. Young girls who have the passion to fulfill their dreams. I remember Babli when she first came to us. She had a congenital heart problem that needed surgery. One could see her heart beating furiously as she spoke. The very first words she said to me was that she wanted to be a ‘police’. That was her dream. I did not have the heart to tell her that even if she got operated she would not be able to be a ‘police’. I simply told her to hold on to her dream. Babli was operated upon and today studies in a boarding school. She may not become a ‘police’ but I know she will succeed in fulfilling her dream. One will simply have to revisit it a little.

Today there is a young woman battling for life, battling for her dream! A woman who wants to honour the sacrifice of her parents. For the moment her dream is on hold. I pray to all the Gods in heaven to heal her and give her the chance to fulfill her dream as her spirit is intact. I hope God will hear this prayer.

She has to live.

But there is another aspect of this terrible tragedy that has kept me awake at night. I saw a grainy picture of 4 of the perpetrators and my heart missed a beat. These boys too are just like the boys I have seen in the past years. Second generation migrants living in slums and having their own set of aspirations no matter how skewed. Kids who grow up on the street as this city only opens school gates for them after 1pm. Boys who spend their mornings hanging around the corner and probably whistling at girls passing by. Kids who grow up listening to bad lyrics of Bollywood films that often denigrate women. Kids who have no mentor. Kids who cannot process the reality they live in and that is made of conflicting images: the tradition of the family and the uber modern urban reality they face. Kids who see their fathers drinking and are quick to emulate them. Kids who see their fathers beating their moms and believe that is the right thing to do. Kids who have costly wants that no one fulfills and so they come up with their own ways. How easy it is then to go wrong.

These are the kind of children that come to project why before they go to school. We have been mentoring and guiding them to the best of our ability but this week’s incident has made my blood run cold as it proves how much these children need and makes us that much more responsible.

Everyone is talking of what should be done to ensure that such horror is never repeated. Authorities are talking of banning tinted windows, increasing patrolling etc. But the real challenge is to change attitudes and teach our young lads to respect women. Moreover it is crucial to give them quality education that allows them to grow in an enabling environment and not cramp them into classrooms with brutal and insensitive teachers. That is what the State must do. It is appalling that India’s capital city does cannot provide proper schooling to its children. All children need love, understanding, compassion and guidance. That is the only way we can bring about the change we all seek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have a dream. I want to see project why become sustainable and freed of the need of an ageing woman. I want to spend time with the kids, sharing their joy and pain. I want once again to sit on that red stool and watch pwhy live. Today I need my very own dream catcher.

 Good dreams slip through the hole, and bad dreams get caught in the web.. says an old Chippewa tradition… whereas the Lakota tribe believes that good thoughts get retains in the web while bad ones slip through the hole… which ever way you look at it, I wish I had a dream catcher today. I wrote these words way back in 2008. That was a time when problems were abundant, some insurmountable, and I resorted to every trick in the book to try and conjure miracles.Then slowly things settled to point where problems simply vanished and sadly dreams too. Things were on even keel and the ship sailed on calm waters. One simply forgot dreaming. Till a few days back when the very special kids of project why decided to make dreamcatchers to remind us that dreams can change lives, dreams can make miracles happen, dreams are precious and above all that dreams can brighten the todays and all the tomorrows. As I was handed over the very first dreamcatcher, I woke from a deep slumber as I realised that I had forgotten to dream, so ensconced I was in my comfort zones. It was a huge wake up call. It was time to dream again. Dream of all that was still unaccomplished, of all that had to be done. I held the dreamcatcher and beseeched it to let all the good dreams flow through as I knew that each and every dream held within it the seed of its realisation. I for one would never stop dreaming.

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

My daughter Shamika was awarded the  Karamveer Chakra by iCONGO yesterday evening. This award was instituted for the real unsung heroes, the people who work silently and in the background to make change possible. She more than anyone else deserved the recognition. her citation read: Shamika was 9 when she first told her mother she wanted to work with special children. She could not finish school and at 15 began volunteering with children with autism. It did not take long for everyone to realise that she was made to take care of children with special needs. She trained for 6 long years and brought smiles to many children but soon felt she wanted to do more. Shamika joined the Project Why special day care centre when she was 19. For the past years she has been looking after 20 children with special needs and bringing joy and laughter in their lives. She passionately believes that special children need to be treated with respect and dignity and can have a future if we care to give it to them.In spite of her young age she can take on any parent and fight for the rights of her children. She has proved that you do not need degrees or pieces of paper to care for those in need. What you need is the ability to look with your heart.

Every word stated is true but there is so much more in the life of this young woman of substance. Shamika has always seen with her heart and continues to do so every minute of the day. My thoughts got back 31 years, on that beautiful morning when I first held her in my arms. She was beautiful. Like all moms I counted her little toes and little fingers and looked into her tiny face. I knew she would be very special. Many had hoped for a boy as I already had a daughter but in the nine months I carried her in my womb I knew she would be a girl. That is what I had prayed for and my prayers had been fulfilled. She was an adorable baby and a delightful toddler. But it did not take long for me to realise that she was different and would not fit the mould. She tried poor child, as best she could. Those were difficult years when too pushed her mercilessly to fit frame that was too small for her. She was made for far larger things. Even today I am not proud of myself though I could find million of reasons to justify my actions. It would take many years for me to hear her deafening yet silent screams and  have the courage to break the mould. I am glad I did and though everyone was dead against my decision to have her drop out from school, I knew it had to be.

It was time to fulfill Shamika’s biggest dream: to take care of special children. I did to the best of my ability. The rest is history. There was no looking back. From the moment she entered their world, things fell in place and her course was charted. She was home safe and sound.

Shamika put to test the very essence of motherhood, wherein a mother is the one who can and should hear all the unsaid words of her child and having heard them, take on the world if need be. Shamika made me do just that. I can never tell her how proud I am to be her mother. To be a mom is to stand by your child against the whole world if the need arises and I stand very humbled yet very tall. Shamika also proves that you do not need to walk the well trodden road to succeed. Success comes to the one who has the courage to walk the road less travelled.

I am so happy that she has got recognised by the world at large, she more than anyone else deserves the honour. I know the world awaits her. I also know that I will be by her side for as long as God allows it. After that I will watch her from the heavens above.

PS The husband and I are the worst photographers in the universe. These are the two pictures taken yesterday.

Utpal spent Diwali at home, like he has been doing for many years now. It has been four years since his mom vanished and six years since he has been in boarding school. Things have not been easy for this little braveheart as he has had to deal with many disturbing questions, questions that do not sometimes have obvious answers. The most poignant has been: where is my mother? The only answer I could honestly give is: I do not know. One cannot and should not lie to children, even if one knows one is hurting them. So Utpal gets the truth even if it sounds shallow and flimsy. His mom did leave one fine morning. No one knows where she went. For the past three years the little chap has been trying to deal with this absurd reality. What can a 7 year old do? He tried being aggressive, impossible, demanding and challenging, hoping against hope to get our attention and make us tell him what he needed to hear but we remained mute: we had no answers. His behavior become so impossible that we had to seek help.

It began with sessions with a counsellor. Each session was a nightmare: he refused to go, kicked everything in sight, banged doors and howled. Nothing worked: cajoling, bribing, scolding. The situation was hopeless and we all felt helpless. At home questions after questions were thrown at me. Every attempt to soothe was met with a counter question that stunned me. The sessions with the therapist were going nowhere. It was time to take out the big guns. A visit to the child psychiatrist was scheduled. The verdict: SMD (Severe Mood Dysregulation). Popples was put on medication. His sessions were to continue. The outcome was miraculous at the beginning. Gone were the mood swings and the pouts. But not the questions. They were still there, crowding and choking his little mind. They surfaced many a time and were met with the same answers. We did not have new ones.

Time went by, interspersed with sessions with the therapist. Slowly the fears were expressed and then dealt with. Utpal realised he had no home. We had to build him one, with a family and all that it entailed: love, care but also discipline and counsel. It was not easy. True a piece of paper had made me his legal guardian almost 3 years ago but it was just a paper. We all had a lot to learn, to deal with and to conjure. It was an adventure with unknown morrows. They had to be crafted one day at a time, one challenge at a time. I would have given the world and more to know what was happening in his little mind. But I could not rush matter; he had to take his time.

It isn’t easy for anyone, let alone a 9 or 10 year old. Imagine having to close a chapter of your life, however bad and then walk into a new one, however good. Many may think that the choice is obvious: from slum to big house! But that is not the way it works. Slum was where mom was and that made all the difference. And the big house does not have mom. The challenge was huge. Would we be up to it?

Slowly we began to notice imperceptible changes. One had to find a way to his hurting heart and be accepted. The biggest achievement was when one day he came to me and said quite candidly: Maam’ji you are old, you will die. The rest of the question was left unsaid but I guessed it: What will happen to me! I was on cloud nine. The battle was won, he had adopted us.

This Diwali, Utpal was an angel. He took interest in every aspect of the festivities, from helping to make sweets, to purchasing ornaments, to decorating the house. He even made a beautiful paper garland for the temple. And he sat doen for prayers and shut his eyes, I knew he had come finally come home.

I was reminded of Dorothy Sayers’s words: I love you- I am at rest with you- I have come home.

Welcome home little man!

This picture was taken this morning. Diwali morning! For this young rag picker it was just another day. He had loaded his rags on his hand cart just like any other morning and was now going to set about sorting the trash so that it could be sold by the evening maybe just in time for Diwali prayers with his family of he was one. There are many children like him, children who should be in school and not rag picking or panhandling at red lights. Children who are born with the same  right are our children and yet who do not have anyone to ensure that their rights are protected. Laws are passed, and more laws are passed: Right to Education, Prevention of child Labour and so on and yet one does not have to be a rocket scientist to see that millions of children are denied these rights every single day. These kids are not invisible as many would like us to think. It is just that we have lost the aptitude to see them and by we I do not just mean you and I, but the very people who make the laws aimed at protecting them.

Even today as we will whizz through the city to make our last minute shopping or drop the now proverbial box of sweet and/or Diwali gift – ranging from a set of cheap glasses brought from a China market or a box of the finest crystal from branded stores – we will not see the little girl who taps at our car window, and even if we see her and even give her a coin, we will not get outraged at the fact that a child of India, protected by the same Constitution we have such pride in, is begging. We will not remember the laws that exist and certainly not ask ourselves what we can do to make sure that the childhood of children that are not ours is protected.

How quick we are to take up the cudgels on behalf of our children if they are slighted in the least? How we run to school to meet teachers and principals if we feel that our child has been hurt? Then why is it so difficult for us to feel a light empathy towards the child that begs at a red light or the one that works at your neighbour’s home? These are questions that have always disturbed me and continue to do so each and every time I see a child in pain. How I wish I could take each and every child and give him what he truly deserves: love, security, care, education and the right to see his dreams come true. Even after 12 years of working with underprivileged children and trying to fulfill their dreams, I still feel extreme sadness and helplessness.

It is only when we all feel responsible for all that is not right that things will really change.

Happy Diwali

Some astonishing statistics have been in the news lately. Let us start with the 1 crore (100 million) dais for a politician’s daughter’s wedding. Most of the money was spent on flowers imported from faraway lands. What happened to flowers grown in the country? And come to think about it was just a one night stand. The flowers withered the next day and must have simply be swept away. Not to mention the outrageous use of official machinery courtesy you and I. And all this while his party is busy polishing its tarnished image by highlighting its concern for the common man.

But that is not all. What was a bigger shocker to me, though it may not be to others was the cover story of a prestigious weekly entitled: where’s the party tonight? The article is about the new partying habits of urban Indians, the rich of course.  I urge you to read it.Your grandchild turns eight, you bring snow to hot sweltering Chennai. The tag 20 million rupees. Your husband is busy and you are bored, you catch hold of a few friends and take off for some exotic location thousands of miles away. Every thing is good for a celebration and nothing too expensive. Millions to fly international stars, 30 million for a party, 50 000 for a bottle of sparkly. And wedding can now cost two thousand million dollars! Birthday cakes all the way from Paris@ 300 000 Rupees! Mind boggling? Outrageous? Galling? I am speechless.

Please do not think this post is a case of grapes are sour. I do not grudge anyone for spending what they earn honestly. That is your right. I only ask a simple question: where is your conscience as most of the people who are indulging in partying as if it was the last day on earth, rarely reach out to the less privileged. I am sure these people leave their ivory towers and golden gates and even if the windows of their luxury cars are heavily tinted and their eyes shielded by luxury sun shades they see the reality around them. At every red light some child must be tapping at their window; along their speedy travel they must be coming across building sites where malnourished women carry unbearable loads on their heads; and how can they not go by the innumerable shanty towns that exist every where being the only habitat the poor have. Does these not make them stop and think? Does it not disturb them?

In spite of having spent the last 12 years of my life reaching out to the less privileged in every which way possible, my heart still bleeds each time I see a little child holding his hand out. A few days back at  the Nehru Place red light a beautiful little child with light eyes and a heart warming smile came to me. She must have been 6 or 7. In her arms was a tiny baby perhaps a couple of months old. The little girl held out her hand with a smile. Sadly I had no toffees of biscuits in my bag. By then an older child who knows me told her that I never give money. The little girl simply went to the roadside and sat on the curb hugging the baby and smothering it with kisses. I had tears in my eyes. I wanted to whisk the girl and the baby away from this terrible reality but knew it was hopeless. The light turned green and we drove away.

The image of the two children stayed with me throughout the day and a big part of the night. My helplessness vis-a-vis their plight was tormenting. My mind travelled back to the first few days after the creation of the Trust and the very first thought/idea that came into my mind: the beggar children. Way before project why as you all know it when our dream was to try and find a way out of children begging. Our simple but naive idea was to get people of our city to hand out biscuits instead of coins to every beggar knocking at their car window. What was truly troubling was not the beggar children who were quite happy with their biscuit, but the attitude of the likes of you and me who could not see the core issue and how they could help.

After 12 years of having doors banged at my face when I dared seek help for the poor, I am still shocked at the widening gap between the two Indias separated by invisible yet impregnable walls. If the people who spent with alacrity and impunity spared a tiny amount for the less privileged every time they went on a spree, what a difference it would make. Spend. It is your right. You have earned the money but spend with a conscience.

How does one get people to look with their hearts. The pride in the eyes of a child when she hands you an A report card after years of failing is worth any party you can host; the fast steps of one who could not walk or the first coherent word of one who could not speak is worth more than the crores you can ever spend, particularly if these miracles happened because you were there!

Guys I sometimes need a dose of project why for want of a better expression! This happens particularly when I am down or worried and these days I have been both. 2012 is nearing its end and we have not been able to find the money needed to build planet why, which is in no way a delusion of grandeur, but  an essential means to keeping project why alive and kicking even after my last hurrah. Though it began as a dream it did transform into a sound business model that would have kept the morrows of many children secure. I had hoped 2012 would bring the miracle we needed but it seems almost chimerical. I must confess I had not delved on this for a long time, but it all came back when my Finance Director called me to inform me that funds were getting desperately low. Bam, the old story was back on track. Shortage of funds and need to conjure new tricks. Easily said than done. There was a time when I would have taken the bull by its horns and jumped in the fray: hundreds of emails would have been sent at the speed of light, calls made and voila the challenge would have been met. But today the fingers are slow, the mind exhausted and the bones creak. What was once easy-peasy now looks like an herculean task. I saw myself sinking in a new kind of despair. Questions I had never asked myself surged to the fore: had I not done enough? Was it all worth it? Was it not time to slowly wind up? How could I do it over and over again.

The blues has taken over and though I knew that ultimately I would pick myself up: exhausted mind, creaking bones and slow fingers, it would not be easy. But the heavens had something else in store. When I woke up and wound my way to my computer as I do every morning in the early dawn, I found a a data stick on my keyboard. I opened it and it was a series of pictures taken by Jon over the last month. I began to look at them one after the other and found myself grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Wow! How wonderful to see all these children smiling and being happy. There it was my needed dose of project why! My heart filled with pride and tears of joy started prickling my eyes. This is what 12 years of toil had achieved and there was no way I was given up creaking bones or no. My spirit lifted and I knew there was only one way to go. 

When I first dreamt of project why, in the days when I was still a green horn and did not know the reality, I conjured a lovely and enabling space where slum children could come and spend time after (or before school as even after 65 years of freedom our capital city has not been able to build sufficient schools for its children and thus the same building runs 2 shifts a day) school. I envisioned a place where there would be some tutors to ‘help’ with the homework and loads of fun and creative activities. Board games, paint and colours, musical instruments, computers and whatever else a growing child and fancies. In hindsight I was a little like Marie Antoinette when she was told about the people not having bread and quipped: Let them eat cake! (Though it is said that it was another princess who uttered these words). You may wonder why I am using this simile. Well the bread and cake of French royalty are   akin to the studies and extra curricular activities of Indian underprivileged children. How could I offer them extra curricular knowledge when they were no way near getting to terms with their basic studies.

The lovely enabling space had to be sacrificed and replaced by a down to earth school support one. So Project Why became what it is! Creativity was quietly laid to rest or so I thought.

A few days ago an organisation contacted us. Their aim was to promote art and institute an Art programme in pwhy. They asked me to write a proposal in which I was to highlight all the artistic pursuits we had undertaken till date. My first answer was almost a loud None but I held myself back and promised to get them what they needed asap. Time to put the thinking cap on and revisit the recesses of my ageing memory. Quite frankly I was not expecting to find much creative activity. When I think of pwhy I see a multitude of little heads bent over books and looking extremely serious. But then    I had to get over this image and delve deeper. It just took a little time and wonders of wonders a found a real treasure trove. How could I have forgotten the three Annual Days we wad in the first three years of our existence. They were a mine of creativity from the unusual decor made with bits and pieces as we was as always short on funds to the terrific performances.

There were dances choreographed by our staff often inspired by evergreen Bollywood but executed to perfection. There were action songs by the tiny tots in an English taught to them by our Ugandan volunteer Stone and sung with great aplomb in an accent that was almost impossible to fathom where circle sounded like socko! And what about the plays written by the older children with the help of the teachers and touching on issues that disturbed them or felt important to them: importance of education for girls, alcoholism and its effects on families and dowry and bride burning. The play had even got a scene where the young bride was burnt. It took a lot of persuasion to made them change the ending and have the young bride saved by her sister-in-law! Talk of creativity! It was there in ample measure. Oops and how can I forget the piece de resistance of one our Annual days. It was a Bollywood dance but three of our senior boys and had been choreographed by the local Michael Jackson, a young man who had christened himself Michael in hommage to his favourite star.

In our shows every one performed and the most touching item was the one presented by our special children often an action song where all the class was on stage. Sometimes a kid or teacher wanted to sing solo and sometimes it was not quite in tune, but who cared, they were ours and deserved a big hand.

But the the project grew and spread out in different locations. Annual Days were given up as they were a drain on our meagre resources. Stage performances had to be abandoned. But creative activities were insidiously present though not center stage. In each of our locations however all festivals were celebrated and children put up small performances in their class space: dances, folk songs and even little plays. There were two plays in English performed by our Okhla kids and our Khader kids. They may not have been the best but they were unique as they had all been written and produced in-house and were loudly applauded.

My memory is on over drive now and long forgotten things surge from everywhere: the lovely friendship bands the children made with the help of some  volunteers and what about the candles and diyas made by the special children Diwali after Diwali? Are they not creative pursuits? And how can I forget the liters and kilos of paint and paper that have been diligently turned into works of art week after week in each class during drawing hour. True it took a long time to graduate from the mountain/river/sun/tree syndrome that seems to be the preferred theme of all Indian kids but we got some stunning paintings along the way. Should have kept them. And what about the brown paper gift bags with a child’s drawing pasted on it that we made one Xmas. They too were one of a kind.

Oh and I just remembered the lovely hand shaped Xmas decoration made by our special children and hung on their tree. A true treasure.

Our kids have made papier mache masks, terracota objects, bead jewels, finger and vegetable printing, face painting, murals and much more. The special children do face painting once a week and the results are really something!  The Khader children even painted pictures of two fairy tales for a Pantomime in Bedford (UK) and have made many drawings that were used for greeting cards. We have had a dance teacher come and work with the children. Praveen a young student from our Khader centre expressed his desire to learn singing and is now attending regular singing classes sponsored by a friend.

We have also held drawing competitions of specific themes, one of them being pollution. The results were truly impressive.

And that is not all. Some children of Khader and Okhla participated in photo workshops and mastered the art perfectly. They gave us some stunning pictures. I am sure that if I had time to scroll the tens of thousands of pictures I have, I would find more examples of the creative ventures of project why. It is simply that they got forgotten and ignored in the face of the dreaded exams and ensuing studies. We are truly all stars!