He is all of 10! Has it really been 9 years since this little bundle of joy entered my life. Time has really flown past. Utpal celebrated his 10th birthday in school last week. We will do so on Friday when many of his old pals will be there. By old pals I mean those who have stood by him in all his trials and tribulations and boy he has had more than his share.

It was on Holi 9 years ago that he fell in a boiling pot and his life was transformed forever. Had he not had this ‘baptism by fire’ his life would have been very different. I often find myself wondering what his life would have been had he not fallen in that bubbling cauldron. At best he would have been going to a government school and coming to project why in the mornings. At worst, knowing what his parents were like, he may have been working in a tea shop or simply roaming the streets. But the God of Lesser Beings had other plans.

Utpal’s life changed the day he came back from hospital swathed in bandages practically moribund. It took one look and not only the little one year old’s life changed the fifty year old biddy’s too! The following years could be qualified as ‘combat’ years.  First it was the fight to get the burnt boy back on his feet, the daily agonising dressing of his wound to the sound of Mozart that seemed to soothe the little one, the quotidian chicken broth lovingly prepared at home that he gulped hungrily; the innumerable toys bought to cheer him up as he lay in a cot in my office. This was a fight we won hands down as he gained strength by the minute. Soon the bandages came off leaving ugly scars. But we knew they would heal. And then he starated walking and was soon a student of our creche. I cannot tell you how eager I was to get to work every morning and see his darling face. He had as you may have guessed, walked into my heart.

As Utpal’s life unfolded new battles began. The first one was the offensive against the bottle. His parents were both die hard alkies and though I did not much care about the surrogate father, I wanted to give back to Utpal a recovered mom. The first step was to give her a job and we did but the adversary was too strong. I remember the days she came drunk and we had to send her back; the days when I decided to pay the family a home visit and saw little Utpal running on his pudgy legs to hide the remains of the night’s revelry. I remember the days when the little fellow told me with a serious face that his mom had been ‘naughty’ again, his word for drinking. I remember the day when he told me that his new motorcycle, a gift for hsi 4th birthday had gone. It had been sold for a few bottles of hooch. And I can never forget the day I was told that men had come to their home and while one stayed back with the mom, the other took Utpal out for a ‘walk’. That day I knew that we had to change battle plans. I spent the night browsing the net for a rehab centre and also for a boarding school for the tiny brave heart. This battle was also won as I found both. The mom was checked into rehab and Utpal would go to school the coming July. I felt on cloud nine and started conjuring grandiose dreams: the mom would be in recovery and we we would give her a home and a job at our newly opened women centre – guess one of the reasons for the centre was Utpal’s mom – Utpal would spend his holidays with his mom and life would follow on an even keel. How naive I was was soon to be revealed.

Whilst Utpal, in spite of his young age, took to his new life like a fish to water, the mom was another story. To sum it up swiftly let me just say that we went through three rehabs, a stay at the psychiatric hospital as she was discovered to be bipolar, harrowing times when all hell broke loose. The end came when she decided to revert to her old life and rejoin her drinking partner. The following months were nothing short of a nightmare: when Utpal came from school his parents would turn predators using the child to extort money for their beloved bottle. Utpal was in pain and I a mess. We both prayed for his return to school and for sanity. The battle was slipping out of our hands.

This is when we decided to seek the help of the law and to my delight the experience I had dreaded was rather easy and comforting. It did require a few visits to the children’s court that were not pleasant particularly for Utpal who had to make the tough decision to choose between his mom and us. He did. He chose us. The paper work was completed and I was declared ‘person deemed fit’ to care for him. It was a battle won but only time would tell the price at which the victory came.

We again believed that all was in the bag and we could resume our lives but that was not to be. Utpal’s mom who realised that she had no more to gain simply vanished leaving a little boy bewildered, hurt and confused.  Unable to express his feelings he regressed and withdrew. His grades fell and his behaviour became impossible. He turned aggressive, non compliant, demanding. It was pure hell. He refused to engage in any conversation or share his feelings. It was time to act. We first sought the help of a psychologist but the initial sessions were nothing short of a nightmare. We had to move a step further and seek the help of a child psychiatrist. We did. It was a miracle. He was put on mild medication and more sessions with the psychologist. Slowly things fell in place and once again the little boy I had fallen in love with re-emerged from the dark clouds he had hidden behind. Today Utpal is once again whole. Some questions still need to be addressed but I know the answers will be found.

Utpal’s first ten years on this planet have been tumultuous and traumatic. I truly admire him for having withstood them with courage and fortitude. He now enters the second decade of his life as I enter my seventh. At the end of this decade he will be a man. I wonder whether I will be around to see him become one. I would so like to but that is not in my hands. Today as he sleeps in my home I can only pray to the Gods of all Pantheons to walk with him and guide him. He is a blessed child: the child of none and all. 

My grandson has moved thousands of miles away but he is with me in my bedroom twice a day: early morning and again in the evening. Who cares if everything is a little topsy turvy as it is morning here and evening there and we get mixed up on the good mornings and good evenings so sticks to Namaste or Manaste using Agastya’s language! Sitting on my bed I can see him getting ready, eating breakfast or dinner, prancing about his home. Last week he was on his potty and on hearing my voice shouted: bring Nani here! His mom obliged and took the laptop to the loo. Come to think about it barring the fact that I cannot hug and cuddle him, I have my darling boy with me. This is the magic of the wireless Internet.

Rewind to time when we were in Prague and the children were 10 and 4. My parents lived in the very house where I carry my daily virtual love affair with Agastya but things were different. In those days the only way grandparents connected with grandchildren were letters and the special day phone call which were more of a screaming session where nothing much was said. On festivals, birthdays and anniversaries after carefully calculating time differences one ‘booked’ a call. Then one could do nothing but wait and it could take any amount of time. When the phone rang the operator went through the motions of stating your number, asking if you had booked a call and then eventually connecting you. By the time every one had said their hellos, and it could take some time, the conversation would be interrupted by the operator with an annoying: 3 minutes over, do you want to extend.  Needless to say you promptly said yes, but somehow the flow was broken and one ended up having a dissatisfying conversation that often ended with a: I will write to you. In between phone days your time was spent writing letters and waiting for the postman.

Rewind to times when I was a child and lived with my parents away from India. Then the connection with grandparents was letters brought by the diplomatic pouch once a week. Letters my mother read to me. The only think I remember vividly was that my Nani wrote in red ink. When I was big enough to write, I too wrote my weekly letter to my Nani under my mother’s supervision. My Nani passed away when I was six years old. My memories of her are from the one visit to her home when I was 4. Earlier than that I was too young to have any memories. But somehow in those short two months she smothered me with enough love to last a lifetime.

Many may have issues with the net, but for this Nani it is God sent!

Industries in which very heavy types of raw material are used are known as heavy industry. This is not a joke! This is the definition of heavy industry as it appears in the class VIII book of the Punjab School Education Board. God help the children of India as this is not the only aberration one finds in text books across the land. A recent article in a weekly tells how schools are becoming laboratories of disaster in which children are being fed not just inaccurate information but also politically coloured rendition of reality.

The examples given in the said article are numerous, each more preposterous than the other: from to historical bloopers, grammatical slip ups and glaring omissions making a history professor call the text books disabling ones and state that they (the students) would be better off not reading such books. These text books are published by state education boards and used by the poorest students.

In the same magazine is another article by an eminent educationist entitled: the primary crime. It is not, as one may construe from the title, a write up on murder or theft. The article recounts the sorry state of primary teachers in our country. The author states quite justifiably that primary teaching is the last resort in the quest for employment. And all primary teachers have only one objective in mind: to move up. A nation’s economic and social well being depends on the quality of its pre-primary and primary education. Alas that is not the case in India. Primary teachers are often the least paid and the least respected. In certain states primary classes were taught by para teachers with fancy names – shiksha mitra, guruji, vidya volunteers – who were often paid a fraction of what the regular salary. This drama has been going on for a decade resulting in a whole generation of children with poor literacy and numeric skills.  And now to meet the new student teacher  ratio of 1.30 that is supposedly to be implemented by 2013 states have resorted to distance mode teaching. One can only imagine the results of such an enterprise. It is time we restored the dignity of the primary school teacher.

I wonder how each one of us who belong to a ‘certain’ strata of society would react if our daughter decided to marry a primary school teacher! We all know the answer. On the other hand we have had over the last decade volunteers from many parts of the planet studying in top institutions who want to be primary school teachers. One such volunteer is a Rhodes Scholar! But I cannot in my wildest dream conjure any of the young off springs of family and ‘friends’ deciding to become primary school teachers! It is sad as good primary teachers are the need of the hour. Imagine the difference it would make to the life of a slum child if her teacher was one of us. Dream on Anou!

The Right to Education took an incredibly long time to legislate. But how can the children of India aspire to quality education if there are no quality teachers. If nothing is done to set up enabling infrastructure, correct and accurate text books and train caring and motivated teachers willing to take on the challenge of educating the poorest of the poor, then the Right to Education will simply be another meaningless peace of legislation.

Note: the articles referred to in this blog appeared in India Today (March 19th). I was unable to find them on the Internet.

Baby Falak is no more. She died late last night of a cardiac arrest. Her story is heart wrenching. She fought for two long months in the hope that we could and would hear the silent cries of the countless abused children of India. She fought relentlessly to give a voice to those who are never heard. But her valiant battle went unheard. Just a few days back another little girl, just 5 tiny years old, was brutally abused and then murdered.

I am relieved that the God of Lesser beings took mercy on this little Angel and took her away. This place was not for her. This place is not for vulnerable little girls. This place is not worthy of little girls. It is a land where Goddesses are worshiped but little girls unwanted from the day they are born. It is a land that has become inured to the plight of girls who continue to be used and abused, their silent and helping cries falling on deaf ears. It is a land where victims are made treated as culprits in subtle and insidious ways.

Today’s front page headline describes how the young mother raped by seven spends her days at the police station without being questioned. “I have to go there daily, sit around. People stare at me, but that’s all right. They give me tea. In the evening, I have to sign a register and then I can go. Why don’t they ask me anything?” she quietly states. Why is she treated with such insensitivity? Why are all women who have been hurt treated in such uncaring and cruel ways. How long will it take for things to change. I have no answers and cannot believe in miracles.

Farewell baby Falak. You deserve a better place. Please forgive us for all the pain and hurt our callous world sent your way,

Rest in peace.

A young mother got gang raped by seven men on her way back from work late at night. She was traveling back in a cab with her younger brother when her cab was stopped and she was pulled out, forced into another car, taken to a flat, raped repeatedly and then ‘dropped’ at a metro station. This is not a movie script it is a sad reality that we have almost become inured to, as we have to a host of aberrations that plague our society.

I cannot begin to imagine the pain and hurt of that poor woman. The ‘investigation’ is in process and it seems that some have even be arrested. I only hope they are not let out and pay for their crime but this seems like wishful thinking. Anyway, that is not the point of this blog. What made me see red was a comment made by a senior cop. The woman had stated that she worked in a pub. However the cop in question was quick to retort that she was not employed by the pub but worked as a “help” for single men enter the “couples only” pub. My question is: did that make her ‘rape material’ in the eyes of the law. God only knows what circumstances made this young mother step out from her home and work late hours. Whatever it is did not give her the right to be raped!

It is now common practice to blame the victim for any crime against women. It is always what she wears, where she goes, the hours she keeps that are brandished as causes for her being molested, abused, assaulted, groped, raped and even murdered. Her clothes are too revealing, her hair is too short, she is drinking, she has too much make up, she is out too late and so on. What is revolting is that it is always the supposed guardians of law that come up with these aberrations. No wonder they are not really interested in bringing the culprits to book.

I did not take long for my thoughts to be super vindicated  as today’s headlines screamed : Don’t work after 8pm, Gurgaon tells women! So here it is, the solution our administrators and law keepers have come up with. Malls, shop keepers, pub owners have been told not to employ women after 8pm and have absolved themselves of all responsibility just like Pontius Pilate. In cases of rape, molestation et al women are the problem. This is unacceptable and offensive. How long are men going to treat us as objects, slaves, commodities to be treated with utter contempt and disrespect. We need to be told what to do, what to wear, where to go, the list is endless.

The constitution gives us equal rights and we are in our entitled to exercise them all. The state has to provide us the enabling and safe environment to enjoy all the freedoms enshrined in our constitution in the same manner men do. As I have always said I am not a rabid women libber but at this moment I am outraged and rightly so!

It has been a long time since I have written about project why! I guess it is a case of the proverbial ‘no news is good news’. However I think it is time I shared the comings and goings of pwhy with everyone who has made this incredible journey a reality. So where does one begin is the question. I will just follow my heart  to give you a glimpse of the comings and goings of pwhy.

It is exam time and almost all our primary and secondary children in all our centres are busy writing the dreaded end of year examinations. The last month was dedicated to revisions and extra study. All centres had mock tests and put in extra hours to brush up what was still a tad hazy. We now have our fingers crossed and hope all our children will do well. Exams are normally scheduled post lunch and children even come on exam morning to get tips from their teachers and a last minute dose of encouragement and morale boosting. I must admit that we too are as nervous as them. As I said it is exam time for one and all!

The tiny ones too are busy studying. Fifteen of them will now move to a regular school so they are brushing up their letters and numbers and learning their colours and shapes to prepare for their entry in class I. But it is not all work and no play. Lots of time is still spent on singing and dancing and learning new gamed. Watching these kids is always pure joy.

The special section is buzzing with activity. Weaving had been introduced in the class and the older students are busy mastering this art. If all goes well we may even consider marketing their product in the future. We have also begun baking classes an all time favourite. The children have learnt how to make scrumptious cookies and cakes.  Maybe some we will be able to run a small bakery manned by these very special children We have also begun computer classes for the special children. It is an activity they all love! Last month the special class went for an outing to Lodhi Gardens. For many it was the very first time they stepped out of their limited world. They lolled in the sun, played in the grass and for a few moments forgot their dreary existence.

Our computer centres are running well. We have introduced 3D animation courses that are very popular. Some students have finished their courses and got their certificates and new students have been enrolled. Thanks to some generous friends we have purchases 2 new computers and will thus be able to take more students.

Our vocational classes for women are in full swing. The stitching and tailoring class is doing well. Some ladies completed their course and one of them found employment in an export house. Beauty classes are also doing well and helping extremely deprived women to find work and become financially independent. One of our old students has even opened her very own beauty parlour. Way to go!

Last but not the least our boarding school kids are also busy with their final examinations. They will be coming home for their annual break in two weeks and then will go back to their new class. Their last report cards were excellent as always and we hope their final result is the same.

Today over 700 children and 80 women benefit from our presence. All this could not have been possible without the help and support of our friends and well wishers. A big thank you to all!

Two deaths in less than six months. Two deaths of persons younger than me is a lot to deal with. C’est la vie as it is said. I had not thought of this cousin for a long, long time. Yet today memories have come rushing, and surprisingly all of them are happy and warm. Estranged or not we had once been close, or let me say as close as two people born almost 15 years apart can be. Hundreds of sepia pictures tucked away in an old chest are proof of that. But before letting my mind wander in the past, I decided to browse the Internet to find out more about him. The little boy I knew had come a long way. I was happy to see that he had made his mark in the journey he chose for himself and was held in high esteem. Sadly I had not known the grown up man.

Pictures of him showed a handsome man in the prime of life. I sadly had no memories of this person. To me he remains the curly head bonny boy that one liked cuddling and spoiling. He had lived with us for some time when I was a college going girl and he barely ready for school. His baby talk was endearing and I loved spending time with him as he romped around the house.Then we must have a few times fleetingly as memories of these are hazy and blurred. To me he will always remain the little bonny boy who was the youngest of us all.

To think he is no more is almost surreal. Children are not meant to die and to me he is and will remain a child. Maybe I will unlock the old chest that is the repository of my sepia memories and look for pictures of the happy times we shared.

As I write these words I am filled with an incomprehensible sadness. I wonder if we should have tried to mend broken bridges in spite of all our elders and built our own. Maybe we should have. But what is the point of crying over spilled milk. The one lesson one can learn is to follow one’s heart no matter what others say!

A friend sent me a link to an article. It is entitled: barefoot – the other side of life! Do read it. It brings to light many of the issues I have ranted about time and again. Two friends both Indians, both from swanky US universities decided to come home and do something meaningful. Nothing new you would say as many do that. But wait a little and read on. To understand the plight of an average Indian – sorry the cliche – they decided to live like an average Indian. After some computing they decided to live @ 100 Rs a day! Their journey is documented here. Hardly a day went by during the past month, in which we didn’t think of food sums up their experience. But that is not where they stopped. They decided to place the bar higher and live on 32 Rs a day which is the official poverty line.The experience was harrowing but an eye opener for these two young men.

Their experience with poverty raised many disturbing  questions. I would like to share their words that echo much of what I have always felt: “It disturbs us to spend money on most of the things that we now consider excesses. Do we really need that hair product or that branded cologne? Is dining out at expensive restaurants necessary for a happy weekend? At a larger level, do we deserve all the riches we have around us? Is it just plain luck that we were born into circumstances that allowed us to build a life of comfort? What makes the other half any less deserving of many of these material possessions, (which many of us consider essential) or, more importantly, tools for self-development (education) or self-preservation (healthcare)? We don’t know the answers to these questions. But we do know the feeling of guilt that is with us now. Guilt that is compounded by the love and generosity we got from people who live on the other side, despite their tough lives. We may have treated them as strangers all our lives, but they surely didn’t treat us as that way…”

 What they learnt was that hunger can make you angry. That a food law which guarantees adequate nutrition to all is essential. That poverty does not allow you to realise even modest dreams. And above all  that empathy is essential for democracy.

I am speechless for more reasons than one. First I must salute these young men as they have walked the talk in every way possible. Theirs is not the political drama of spending a night or sharing a meal in a poor home or a reality show that makes a mockery of poverty and makes one see red. It is not page 3 chatter post the success of slumdog millionaire. I cannot help myself recalling that Q&A, as the book was entitled by its author did not sell as well as the reprint bearing the Hollywood title! No these young men were not playing to the gallery. They lived as they had set out to eating some rice and a banana a day and walking miles to reach their destination. I really wish our politicians, law makers, potential donors did the same even for a few days. I guess it would change them forever and in the bargain make the world a better place.

I too have felt guilt and somehow it is that guilt that made me move from the comfort of my home to yet unknown pastures and discover things I never would have. And just like these young men I too felt the warmth and generosity of what we dismissively refer to as the poor.  No matter where you went, which home you entered, who you met you never felt an outsider. Something very alien for us who live in a world where we often do not even know your neighbour.

Crossing the divide has been the best thing that happened to me. I feel humbled and blessed.

Today is Shivratri. Millions of devotees will pour millions of gallons of milk on Shiv Lingas across the country. I have always found the ritual of pouring milk over stone deities deplorable particularly in a land where millions go to bed hungry every night and thousands of children die of malnutrition every day. 5013 to be exact. This is no exaggeration, it is the sad reality substantiated by cold and harsh statistics. Nothing to be proud of. And the milk devotees will pour today will find its way to a gutter.

A Facebook messages urges us to offer only a tablespoon of milk on the Shiv ling. In India 1000’s of children die of malnutrition, donate the milk to children and gain blessing from their families. I could not agree more. I am a Hindu and proud of being one, but I also feel that my religion gives me the flexibility of interpreting rituals with sagacity and keeping in mind the reality I live in. So if I am asked to offer milk on this blessed day then it could be a teaspoon or even a drop or why not just touch the packet to the deity and then give it to one of the innumerable children that crowd the lanes of temples. I am sure God will approve and send the sought blessing.

My mind goes back to the teachings of Ramaksrishna so lovingly taught to me by my father. Ramakrishna coined the term  daridra-narayana, God in the form of the poor, and asked us to serve Him: ‘Where should you go to seek God—are not all the poor, the miserable, the weak, Gods? Why not worship them first?’ And what better way then by giving the milk we earmarked for a stone deity to the first hungry child we come across.

It is time our rituals got revisited. The situation in our country is alarming: 42% of all the underweight children in the world live in India. 5000 children die every day due to preventable diseases and about 47% of adolescent girls in India are undernourished. Keeping this in mind waste of food of any kind is unacceptable be it the honey and milk of our religious rituals, the waste at weddings and other celebrations or the grains rotting in the open. True we can blame the government for not having sufficient silos or for not implementing pertinent legislation but the buck does not stop there. We as a nation are also responsible and must do our bit. Perhaps we could start today by donating the milk pledged to lord Shiva to hungry children who are the true image of God.

This picture was sent to me this morning. Look at it well. The picture was taken in a Government run school in, hold your breath: Delhi! You may recall the fact many schools are bereft of desks. This school is not. But the desks provided to the little ones are too big so the poor dears have to study standing!

This is yet another aberration doled out by our  rulers. One wonders why they always get it so wrong. It is a known fact that many state run schools are in an abysmal condition. The only asset they have is a piece of prime property. I guess someone did get it right once upon a time. But then it all fell apart. Instead of enabling buildings many schools are still run in ramshackle tents that barely protect the children from the vagaries of the weather. Then if building there is then these are often poorly maintained. The loos have no doors. The classrooms have no bulbs and so on. Then comes the furniture. Many schools have children sitting and learning on the floor.

One hoped that if furniture was provided it would be at the least fit to be used. Alas the picture above shows you the sad reality: desks that are far too high for small children and with such desks who needs chairs. The kids can learn standing. While I can still see the logic of children sitting in the floor and learning- we do that at project why- I can not begin to comprehend how anybody can think of children learning while standing at their desk. One would have thought that had the desk been wrongly made, the school authorities would reject them rather than put them to use as we see in the snapshot. I presume a carpenter could have solved the issue for a few rupees.

Such an absurd situation makes one see red I agree but also raises many questions. Do those in authority not care about the education of poor children as seems evident? Poor children have no voice and neither do their parents. Try doing this in an upmarket school and see what happens. Is the Right to Education only for a chosen few? Seems so as no one cares about the condition of state run schools, particularly those in the poorer areas of the city. Schools should be centres of excellence where a child can learn and grow and carve her/his future. With such desks it almost seems as if someone is playing a cruel joke on innocent souls.

Strange but gender bias has hit me hard. Perhaps it was because of a recent invitation urging women to ‘look pretty‘. I must confess it did bring the point home. I was in combat mode. The anger had barely subsided when another aberration was heard on the news. Women demand mobile phones, they are not demanding toilets stated our esteemed Environment Minister. Now what does that mean, I guess only a man can enlighten me. Needless to say the women activists are up in arms. The polemic will be fun to watch! I will just say that I cannot see what phones and toilets have in common. Beats me.

However gender bias raised its ugly head in another way altogether. I was asked by a funder to provide details about the number of children we had at project why. I asked my staff to give me the latest figures and was astonished to see that at the women centre the number of boys in the primary sections had fallen. This was very surprising and led me to ask the coordinator why this happened. The answer was most astonishing. It seemed that parents were enrolling their sons in private schools. These ran in the morning and hence the boys had stopped coming to the project. The schools in question were what I call teaching shops that have mushroomed all over the city, particularly in less privileged areas. They run in small buildings but boast grandiose names like ‘Rose Valley’, ‘English Academy’, ‘Sundar Public school’, ‘SK Convent’ etc, each stating that they are ‘English medium public school’. My forays into some of the them revealed that English was barely spoken by principal and staff. The fees in these schools range from 300 to 500 a month. The parents who are eager to send their sons to such schools are reluctant to send their daughters to the English stream of government schools for reasons better known to them.

Public school is the name private schools go by in India. The lure of these public schools was first brought to light by Kiran in the most candid way possible when she asked me whether my daughter had been to one! Kiran now studies in a swank public school. Her admission was nothing short of a nightmare.  Kiran is also the one who told me last week that there were only 10 girls in her class though the number of boys was 35. In her matter of fact way she added: parents send their boys to better schools. Yes you are right darling child this is a sad reality that cuts across society. Boys get a better deal. Girls have to fight every step of the way. Time we did something!

My mind went on overdrive. How could anyone write such a thing? In spite of women having conquered every field imaginable with success, what mattered was whether they were pretty or not. And what does pretty mean: well dressed, well groomed, well proportioned? I do not know and do not care because my canons of beauty are quite different. But I am digressing. Let us come back to the main issue: gender insensitivity.

Gender bias is rampant in our society; why else would we mourn the birth of a daughter and celebrate that of a son. I can never forget how the film Matrubhoomi was shunned by one and all and what disturbing questions it raised. When I did manage to see it I felt physically sick just as I had after viewing Leaving Las Vegas. You and I may not realise it but being a girl is a curse in large parts of our society. A girl is unwanted in the very land she is worshiped in. We even fall so low as to kill her in the womb if we can. Statistics are proof of this. And if she is allowed to live, she is never made to forget that she is only a girl. We see this every day in our work. Girls are not fed the same as their male siblings, their schools fees are not paid, they are never send for tuition and as soon as they are old enough, their childhood is hijacked and they become mother’s little helpers. When they grow they are married to someone and their role widened: cook, clean but also produce children and preferably a boy. I still cannot understand why family planning programmes do not include awareness on gender determination which is the sole prerogative of the man. How many women are abused for not giving birth to a son! It is time the equations were set right but how is the question. We are trying to do this every day but it is not easy task as we need to deal with deeply seated mindsets.

One would have thought that things were different across the fence. But the words on the invite proved me wrong. In high society too women have their role defined: in the present occurrence to be pretty. True money has freed us from the cooking and cleaning roles. In lieu we have been given a new avatar that of looking good. How many girls suffer for not meeting the standards. The growth of the slimming industry is proof of that. The new credo is cosmetic surgery and Botox mornings that have surreptitiously replaced the Tupperware ones. The look pretty industry is on the rise.

I am not one of the burn the bra brigade. I like my femininity and am proud of it. To be a woman is a wonderful journey I would never trade. Yet I am a person first with hear and brains and would like to be respected for that. I guess I speak for many.

Valentine Day has never meant much to me. I have not been one to be swayed by hearts and red roses. I have fond memories of making cards for my father as a little girl but that is where it ended.  The rank commercialisation of the event has led me to shun it and to me 14 February is simply another day. Quite frankly I had even forgotten today was St Vs! On the other hand though I do not quite understand the hype attached to the day, I feel indulgent towards the young ones who celebrate it and let us not forget the flower vendors who make a killing. Celebrating love can do no harm.

As usual I came to my office in the wee hours of the morning and switched my computer. A quick check of my inbox and then a browse on FB. There was a comment addressed to me that read:  reading your book. was an absolute delight. Thank you so much for penning it and teaching me so much as I read through the letters. I was pleasantly surprised as it had been some time any one had mentioned Dear Popples let alone write about it. I clicked on the link provided and stumbled upon a write up entitled: coffee, a book and some love. I read on and was overwhelmed to see a review of Dear Popples the book I had written a couple of years back. It was a perfect Valentine treat as Dear P is a love story written with abundant love. Revisiting it made my day special.

The author of the article has summed up better than I could ever do the essence of  this book: Dear Popples is a favorite evening ritual, reading, re-reading and understanding. It helps me imagine a future for love, selflessness and happiness. It shows me the importance of being human, and understanding that every child is a miracle born with dreams. It awakens me to the beauty of growing up, and guides you with a motherly compassion: an ageless whisper urging you to make a difference, to bring a smile, to join hands. Thank you Lakshmi.

I browsed the thousands of images of Popples I have and selected this one. I must admit this heart sways me.

If you wish to read dear Popples you can order it here. And should you read it and enjoy it do let me know.

We heard some terrible news. Meher’s father is on his death bed. Too many years of drinking hooch have had their toll on him. He is in his village and everyone has given up hope. He wants to see Meher one last time and in a few hours Meher will make the journey to bid farewell to her dad. I cannot begin to imagine what she will go through. Children have their won way of dealing with tragedy and pain. She has had more than her share.

My mind leaps back to the moment she came into my life almost four years ago. On that fateful day she walked into my heart. There was no looking back. A road map was made for her: plastic surgery to give her back her hands and then a sound education to ensure that in spite of her scars she can craft her destiny. I knew that once again it was the God of Lesser beings at work as everything fell in place. A set of protagonists appeared on cue and Meher took her first steps in a new life, far removed from the dark hole in which she lived and the garbage dumps she searched for food. Post surgery it was time for school and that day too dawned. Meher has now been studying in a boarding school for the past two years and will be promoted to class II in April.

Meher kept her side of the deal to a T. She bore all the pain of her complex surgeries that lasted over a year like a champ. Then she took to her school like a fish to water walking in every heart that came her way and bringing back exceptional report cards. We were on cloud nine. Till yesterday when the news of her father’s condition was broken to us.

As I write these words someone has left to fetch her from school and in a few hours she will board a train that will take her to her father’s death bed. My heart goes out to her. I know she will need all our love and compassion when she gets back. Till then all I can beseech you all to do is say a little prayer for her.

Little Falak is still battling for her life, her battered body stubbornly fighting infections and fevers. She is holding on as the sinister series of events that brought her to this scary hospital bed enfolds. She is holding on as best she can so that we hear the silent and desperate cries of little girls like her. She was born in the deadliest place in the world for a girl child. I do not say that; the mighty and credible UN does. When the Fates wrote her destiny they must have conspired to alter it a little. It was time said the Parcae to give a voice to the suffering little girls of India. Falak’s life was to be a mission. Is she an Angel of God.

In all likelihood she was battered by her present minder. In her case a 14 year old whose life seems to nothing short of a horror tale. When we first heard baby Falak’s story everyone wanted the person who had committed such atrocities punished in the worst way imaginable. I would like you to hold your verdict and hear her story. She was first abused physically by the one who should have loved her, cared for her, helped her take her first step, hugged her when she scraped her knee, made her feel safe and secure: her dad. But he did not. He was in jail for murder and when he did come out on bail all he did was beat her mercilessly with belts and sticks. Her mom who could have tended to her incomprehensible pain was also abused and one day just gave up and died. The young girl was now left to the mercy of her first tormentor who  threw her into the den of sexual predators. She was sexually abused cruelly time and again. The so called boy friend was nothing but her pimp. One day he brought a toddler home and asked this physically, mentally, emotionally abused girl to look after her and vanished without giving her any money.

The young girl must have tried to do her best till the day the child became a handful like all 2 years old. She apparently fell and howled the whole night. It was too much for the young teenager.  For a brief moment she snapped. Memories of belts and sticks on her raw skin, memories of unspeakable pain as her still nubile body was ravaged by wolfish predators flooded her mind as she found herself in a yet unknown position of power. For the first time she held the stick. A rage that must have laid dormant for too many years gushed out. Sanity vanished as she hurt the child without mercy doing for the first time what others had done to her for too long. Before she could take hold of herself the harm was done: Falak was broken beyond repair. I wonder how the girl must have felt when she regained her senses. Let us not forget that she was the one who brought her to the hospital. The question I ask is: do you still feel she should hang?

I don’t. The ones that should hang are her father, the so called boy friend, the women who led her to her to the flesh trade, the men who used and abused her, and above all the society that lets this happen over and over again and remains mute, unconcerned.

I had thought of ending this post but before I could do so more news came in. The horror continues relentless, never ending. The search for Falak’s biological mother far from bringing some healing has unearthed another tale of abuse. Falak’s mom is herself a victim. Forced into prostitution by the one she married, sold to another, her children taken away. The whole sordid tale seems to be a terrifying mix of flesh trade and child trafficking.The mother wants to see her child but this will be only after a DNA test. Maybe little Falak is holding on just for that moment. Last heard: her sister has been traced but no one knows where her brother is. One can only hope he is safe.

Falak made headlines a few  days ago. But today she is only a news item. This is so reflective of the society we have become. True the human bites and battered body were sensational enough to ‘hog’ headlines for a short span of time. Now if there are more sensational inputs we will hear them too. But what about the real issues? Will they ever be addressed? I was horrified when a police officer in a press briefing refused to qualify Falak’s story as proof of child and women trafficking. She was quite content to term it an isolated incident where ‘everyone knew everyone’ whatever that means! My mind goes back to the Ghaziabad girls and their abuser. Though the sting operation that unearthed their tale went on to receive recognition and accolades, the plight of the girls remains unknown. I wonder what happened to their saintly abuser who is apparently on bail. Everyone lost interest. It just became yesterday’s news. Will Falak also become yesterday’s news.

All this makes me terribly sad. I had hoped, naively I guess, that Falak’s ordeal would be a wake up call. But I guess I forgot that she was born on the wrong side of the fence. The so called civil society would not take up her fight, as they would for one of their won. The outrage, if any, will be short lived. I wonder what makes us move. Every day we hear of some form of child abuse. We just carry on unmoved and dry eyed. Falak’s story will remain an individual one. Many will and have offered help. If she lives, Falak will be cared for. But about the other Falaks. Will we fight for better laws to protect our children. Maybe not as our children are not targets. It is time we change our attitude. It is time we start seeing with our heart. Falak’s pain can not be in vain.

Thanks to the wonder of Skype I get to see and talk to my grandson every day. Never mind that the 12 hour time difference muddles our good mornings and good nights! Anyway we get to live a few moments together and that is nothing short of wonderful. Agastya treats me to his version of daily trivia. The latest was his visit to the zoo where he saw a popotamus! He then went on all fours to show me what the popotamus was all about. Then it was showtime for the new toys he had be bribed with: the transformer, the car, the truck. Yes the kid has to be bribed because he does not like the new school he goes to. Understandable as till now he was attending the project why creche where he was king of the castle and the centre of all attention. This despite my repeated pleas to treat him as any other kid. But all pleas well on deaf ears: he was Anou Ma’am grandson.

I keep or at least try to keep a straight face when his little face crumples, his radiant smile vanishes at the mention of school. I try to convince him that his school is nice, his new ma’ams kind but my heart is not there. I guess both of us will have to get used to the new reality. I need to accept that he is growing up. But I know that from now on in our home a hippopotamus will always be called a popotamus just as an AC is a thanda machine (cold machine) and cars are vroom vrooms.

My thoughts go back to another little boy, now all grown up, who added the word Boman to my vocabulary. It was ‘bhagavan‘ or God and was to this little fellow anything that was big, made of inert material and had to be shown respect. Never mind the creed! The little boy has grown up and now does not use the word anymore. His God has now assumed an identity and a creed. I only wish all Gods remained Bomans. The world would be a much kinder place. I still find myself praying to Boman when things get tough. Maybe he is the real God of Lesser Beings I so often quote. Children make the world a better place and give us the best lessons in life. Why then do we not listen.

Far from that. We commit the terrible sin to letting them down and even abusing them. Every day stories of such abuse hit us in the face but we chose to look away and shut our ears. I urge you to try and listen, just once if you can. And if you do miracles will enfold and light your life. And if each of one did then the world would be a safer place for children at least. I wonder what would have happened to Utpal, Babli, Meher, Manisha and so many others if I had not listened.

Today little Falak is fighting a lonely battle. Every breath she takes is a loud scream that she wants us to listen to, if not for her, at least for all of India’s suffering children. Will we hear her?

She is battling alone for her life. She is just 2! She was named Falak. It means star. Wonder who gave her that name. But it was the right one as this little girl refuses to stop shining. Her story is nothing short of barbaric. She has been abused in the most inhuman way imaginable. Broken bones, smashed head, burnt and bitten, not by a animal but by the worst predator possible: a human being. If she lives the doctors fear brain damage. A beautiful little life has been maimed forever. And the whys scream to be heard but only silence resounds. A disturbing silence… the silence that always surrounds abused children. It is time we heard her cries and with her the cries of all the abused children of India! The children who have no voice, the children who are no one’s vote banks, the children we refuse see, hear let alone help. The children who beg on the streets, the children who are abused in orphanages, the children who are abused in their homes by those they trust most. The children who remain invisible.

Falak’s poignant story has to be heard. Maybe this little star’s life has its own meaning: to be the voice of all the suffering children of our land. How much more will it take to make us get up and scream. Are we so inured, so insensitive, so cynical, so heartless, so cold blooded, so blind.

What dark secrets does little Falak’s story hide: abuse, trafficking. Why did she land in the home of a minor who also seems to have been abused. What was the sinister game plan for this little toddler. What made it all go so terribly wrong. Questions that may never be truly answered. And even if they were what punishment will be meted out to the perpetrators. A few years in jail?

How long will we remember Falak. I guess as long as another story takes her place. One that will engage us for some time till another comes along. Switch on your TV and you will see that it has already happened: the cricket debacle is now the order of the day, then will come elections and so on. Falak will soon be forgotten by the media.

Falak deserves more than that. She cannot be made into another political issue and used to settle scores. The CEO of our city promised help. Let the report come out. Delhi Government will extend all possible support. We will do whatever is required said she!

What report! And what does whatever required means. Let me tell you what it means: it does not just mean some money for her treatment but it means life long love and care for this child who may be scarred for life in more ways than one. It means giving her a home and not throwing her in an orphanage where she will soon be abused like the little girl like her who died a few days ago. It means walking the talk all the way. If she lives, Falak may suffer permanent brain damage and that means she will join the sad rank of the mentally challenged girl child. In one of the numerous debates that aired the day Falak’s story broke, a lady did ask the question of who would adopt this child of God and take her into their home and above all heart. I would like to have said: I will but stop short of it. At my advanced age can I really give her what she deserves? Do I have the strength to be there for her 100% for times to come. No. Even if I do have the heart, I do not have enough time. Nurturing a child like her needs much more than I can give. I know it as God has already sent me a little Angel named Utpal whose life and dreams he has entrusted me with.

Falak is battling like a star all alone in a big and scary hospital. She is battling so that we can hear the voice of children who are abused and hurt every day. Her life has a meaning, a mission just like Manu’s had. No life is useless. Every one is part of a plan we have to unravel. Maybe she simply wants us to see with our hearts and take up the cudgels for all the suffering children who have no voice. Children are not vote banks hence they do not matter. I was appalled and amused when the Leno remarks got the support of UK politicos. But come to think of it they were just protecting their vote bank!

But who cares about vote banks. We are talking of a child who has been abused in the worst way possible and whose every breath urges us to hear, see and jump out of our comfort zones. Will we before it is too late for Falak and all the hurting children of India.