In Parliament last week the Minister for Health admitted that 1,74 million children under five die every year in India. I do not know how many of us reacted when the news was aired. I do not know how many of us realised the enormity of the statement. 1,74 million is no small figure! More than half of the deaths were in the first 28 days of life. The causes stated were: pneumonia, diarrhea and of course malnutrition leading to extremely low immunity. Forget the causes; the simple fact that so many children die is unacceptable in a country where according to statistics again some of the richest people live.
I urge you to stop a moment and give some thought to the above numbers. Let me put the statistics into context: the annual number of malnutrition related death in India is more than the total live births in the UK and one-third of newborns in the US. That is huge by any yardstick. 3000 children die every day of malnutrition in a country where food is thrown unabashedly at every wedding or religious feeding frenzy, and in homes; where grains rots with abandon every year for want of storage. All this should shock us out of our lethargy in the same way as corruption did a few days back, but food security is a cause the haves will never espouse. It is something too alien to them. But I ask do such stats not disturb you every time you throw food be it at home, in a party or in a restaurant? It is time it did.
As a state and a society we are guilty of 3000 murders a day! And let me remind you most of these are due to corruption in the so called social programmes heralded each year with great fanfare by the Government in power. A simple and quick look at such programmes show that most address the causes stated above. There are programmes for immunisations, early childhood nutrition, pregnant and lactating mother and of course education that has now become a constitutional right though no one seems to understand the full significance of such a right. If we did then the sight of any child begging on the street or working in a teashop should outrage and revolt us and should make us ask questions of our elected representatives. But it does not, simply because our children are safe and secure.
The Minister made his statement in parliament and so no cynic can state that the figures are cooked up, if anything they err on the low side. What disturbs me is that such scary statistics do not outrage and incense us. Recently we caught a glimpse of an outraged India that stood up against corruption. Will we one day find it in us to stand up against hunger, even if it does not affect us directly. I hope that day will dawn!
I do not want pwhy to be a tuition centre are words I have oft repeated. From the very outset we had been adept followers of Delors 4 pillars of of Education: – learning to know, to do, to live together and to be – and tried to incorporate them in our programmes. We were always conscious of the fact that education is not simple mugging of text books dutifully regurgitated at exam time and promptly forgotten thereafter. And it was our sincere endeavour to try and remain on track. We set aside time to talk to the children about larger things and make them aware of the world around them. But it was no easy task as there were many impediments along the way. The biggest one being the low level of many children who needed a lot of extra work to catch up with their class. Added to that were the periodic exams that meant extra revision time. Needless to say all extra time needed for studies was taken off time assigned to other pursuits.
In hindsight I think there was also the unexpressed reluctance of the staff to taken on new challenges. One must remember that pwhy staff is all drawn out from the local community and the product of the existing state school system. Teaching the curriculum was their comfort zone and as always they were quick to sink back into known territory. We did run several workshops – RTI, brain gym, teaching methods, civic rights, water etc – and each was attended enthusiastically by one and all. I must admit that for a few weeks post each workshop teachers did apply some of what they learnt but then sunk slowly back into their comfort zones teaching what they new best: the school curriculum! Gentle reminders and even blunt prodding did not bring much results. There were always some excuse available: the forthcoming tests or exams, the shortage of time, the need to bring students to level.
It was then that we decided to set Saturdays aside for what we called creative pursuits. Programmes were chalked out. We suggested that each centre adopt a theme for the month and all creative work be done around the said theme. It worked for some time but then again even creative work sunk into a comfort zone and children were back to drawing mountains and rising suns, the preferred or should I say only drawing subject of children in school in India. Looks grim. Not quite as we blissfully had workshops initiated by friends and volunteers where the children could let their spirit fly free. I remember the one that resulted in the lovely song I wish, that became the pwhy song. The words were written after a workshop entitled what I wish for! The children then recorded the song professionally in a studio. Then we had the letter exchange programmes with children in Germany and France and how can I forget the paintings made by the children for pantomime shows in England. But as I said these experiences were few.
A recent photography workshop once again brought its share of surprises. 8 students were selected for the same and in a matter of days turned into mean lens persons. The workshop culminated in a power point presentation applauded by all and needless to say that today they are the ones who take pictures of the project!
When we decide to celebrate Ram’s centenary project why came alive. For a few weeks studies were forgotten and everyone was busy rehearsing plays, songs and dances. We even got a dance master to come and teach the children and what a wondrous surprise this was as hidden talents slowly emerged and took centre stage. I watched the rehearsals totally dumbfounded and feeling a tad guilty and sad. This is what children should be doing not once in 10 years but regularly. The experience brought out the best in everyone: the children of course but the teachers also as they took on the role of organisers. I wonder how many new lessons were learnt.
What has been a constant in each of the above events is the passion and joy the children demonstrate every time they are faced with a new creative challenge. It is thus time we make some serious course corrections and ensure that creative and awareness raising activities become and intrinsic part of the project why syllabus. We have to shed once for all the tuition centre label that we so easily make ours. It is a foregone conclusion that such activities develop the mind and thought processes and will reflect in the children’s ability to master their school work. So as of today song, dance, debates, newspaper reading and more will be reinstated firmly in our work and no excuse will be accepted. We are not and do not want to be just a tuition centre!
For the past two weeks a silent revolution has taken place in front of our eyes culminating with a day long debate in Parliament that resulted in a victory for the people of India, the very people who are embodied in the opening sentence of our Constitution. For the first time in our independent history the will of the people was truly heard. For the first time in our independent history the faceless millions found their voice and used it. Democracy was reinterpreted and revisited as the people of India till date only seen once in five years at election booths took centre stage.
These voices were galvanised and aroused by one diminutive man whose main claim to fame was his honesty that he wears as proudly as his cap and who has come to represent the David that could slay the Goliath called corruption. Till date the silent majority suffered the stranglehold of the demon that strangulated all and robbed mercilessly. Till date these battles were fought in intellectual clubs and drawing rooms and ended in remote essays written to satisfy cerebral and not real needs. The very people who have always decried the passive behaviour of our collective mind are now busy writing more essays about the lurking dangers of the over enthusiasm whipped by Anna Hazare!
Today no one is in the mood to hear them. Today India celebrates!
But what are we celebrating. The answer is complex as many firsts happened in the last fifteen days. The obvious is the ending of a 13 day fast by a Anna and of course the resolution adopted by acclamation by our Parliament agreeing to the three points of contention till date. But that is for me just the tip of the iceberg. There is much more to celebrate.
The first step to freedom is the articulation and identification of the cause of repression in clear terms. And this is what happened last fortnight. Corruption an ailment that plagued us all but was often referred to in hushed tones within the four walls of our homes was out in the open. And what that did was bring India together. Here was a cause we could all openly espouse and agree to fight against together. The anger and outrage that we all felt and had repressed for too long had found a way to be released and addressed. The catalyst was a man who wore his honesty with pride and honour and could thus become a rallying force. For the first time India came out on the streets without fear. What we saw in every corner of the land was crowds that had not been paid or intimidated, but who came out of their own sweet will. Strange but true corruption was the great leveller, it affected one and all: the rag picker, the slum dweller, the harried housewife, the aspiring professional, the small businessman, the retired official. No one was safe from its stranglehold. It almost seemed as if we were all waiting for the right moment and it had finally dawned.
And to add fuel to the raging fire, the unbecoming attitude of the government in dealing with a man who simply wished to assert his constitutional right to protest brought to the fore another cause to embrace. It goes without saying that everyone in this land was fed up with arrogance bordering on hubris of the powers that be. Here too India was one. Be it the slum dweller whose daily brush with an arrogant official or the retired professional who needs to renew a passport, everyone had to bear the supercilious and dismissive attitude of officialdom. This reality was amply vindicated as we watched the comings and goings of the government. The impossible conditions laid out for the protest, the arrest, the empty and inane explanations proffered, the carrot and stick and condescending attitude, the arguments on form and practise, and so on. And above all the refusal to accept that the adversary was at par if not greater. We the people had never been a force to contend with. We the people were only meant to appear every five years when the powers that be shed their arrogance for a few weeks and sought a mandate renewal. We the people were those who could be cajoled by empty promises, pouches of hooch and a few coins. This time however we the people said enough is enough: no more corruption, no more arrogance. We will not fall for semantics and dialectics. So let us celebrate our freedom from fear and cynicism.
Another first that happened was the coming together of India in all its diversity. Even the cynics will have to concede that the crowds that gathered spontaneously be it in front of Tihar Jail or in the Ramlila grounds, in Mumbai, Bangalore, Chennai and umpteen other cities had one thing in common: they were all Indians. All barriers were broken be it caste, religion, gender, age or social background. The rich rubbed shoulders with the poor, the literate with the illiterate, the old with the young all shouting in unison: VandeMataram! So should we not celebrate the coming together of India as one!
For the past days we have been privy to heated debates on the supremacy of Parliament. The cudgels being of course taken up by state representatives and elitist intellectuals trying to smother the voxpopuli whose role was conveniently cut down to a single act every quinquennial. This being the definition of democracy acceptable to those in power. True one must concede that the chosen ones do also climb down from their mount Olympus a few days prior and put on a real act. I have seen with my own bewildered eyes how the chameleons shed their arrogance and almost grovel in front of their potential electors. Excuse a small aside but this was one of the things that shocked me most when I lived the first municipal elections in a slum. Posses of white clad men, their candidate in the lead, walked the street with their hands folded stopping to caress the cheek of a young child or touch the feet of an elder woman. That in their eyes sufficed to get people to elect them. The parade, for want of a better word, always heralded by the beating of drums to ensure that people come out of their homes, was finely orchestrated. An advance party always came along distributing garlands to some trusted persons with the express directive to place it on the candidate at the appropriate time. I once tried to get the candidate to stop as I wanted to apprise him of some of the problems that the people faced, but needless to say a bunch of acolytes were quick to steer him away. The experience was galling to say the least as the same people become inaccessible once elected. To the people who advocate the supremacy of Parliament and the minute role of its members vis-a-vis the people, the last days should become an eye opener. The people will not accept such a diminished role. Their vote is precious and entails a responsibility that they are now ready to assert. So let us celebrate the true meaning of democracy.
In the smiles and sloganeering of the people one could sense hope. The hope of being finally delivered from the clutches of corruption. True that people felt somewhat naively that the proposed Bill would be a panacea for all ills. Simple people felt they would be rid of greasing palms on day-today basis and they were ready to lend their voice to the cause loud and clear. Yes they were credulous but can one blame them. This seemed the only ray of hope in their otherwise dark world. The Cassandras and doubting Thomas were back to the attack pointing out the flaws but people were too charged to hear. They just wanted to see hope so can we also celebrate the revival of hope.
There has been a lot to celebrate indeed. But there is more. One of the most amazing things to me personally was the vindication of the Gandhian principles of non-violence. It was breathtaking to see so many people protest in a peaceful manner for such an extended period of time, particularly when one is used to seeing violence erupt at the drop of a hat. Critics will again say that many Gandhian principles were subverted, but would not Gandhi himself have adapted his methods to the need of the hour. So we also celebrate the power of non-violence.
As the dust settles and we slowly emerged from our euphoria, it is time to take stock of all that happened and draw the lessons needed. The most important is undoubtedly to define our roles in the fight against corruption. True one man showed us the way. It is now time we learn to walk on it.
I went to the Ramlila grounds on Tuesday to be part of the protest against corruption let me Anna Hazare. I have already blogged about my what I felt that day but there are some other aspects of the agitation that I feel need to be highlighted.
I was impressed by the general atmosphere prevailing at the protest which was for want of a better expression a celebration of India. There were people from all walks of life, students and the elderly, rich and poor, urban and rural, people of diverse faiths and origin. But that was not all. There was also a genuine outpour of the legendary generosity of our land. Free packets of water were being handed out with a smile and gentle insistence. The place was surprising clean considering that it had housed tens of thousands of people over the past days. One would have expected it to be littered with garbage but it seemed that people themselves were ensuring its maintenance as one so many picking up the litter.
At the back of the grounds was what has been called Anna’s kitchen. Food was being cooked in large vessels and been handed out free to one and all. Hot rice, dal, vegetables, poories in disposable plates. Large bins were available to ensure that no plates were thrown on the ground and surprisingly there were none! A far cry from the morning after a wedding or a religious feeding frenzy in our city. Bags of dry rations and fresh vegetables waited to be turned into the next meal. Everyone was invited. I was told that all the food had been donated by supporters.
We decided to find the donation desk to make a contribution. All the donation posts bore signs saying closed. At first we thought that the people manning them had gone to lunch. But that was not the case. The organisers had decided to stop accepting donations as they felt they had sufficient funds for the present. Chapeau Bas was all one could say. This was really a unique occurrence in our times.
All around us people were singing or shouting slogans with conviction and passion. They had come for a cause they believed in, for a man whose honesty and integrity no one could question and everyone was proving themselves worthy of their ideal. Yes it was a celebration of India, amazing India!
This picture was taken by one of our students during the recent workshop on photography held at our women centre. The picture speaks for itself: the broom a silent but eloquent reminder of the fate of girls in India.
Let us look at some statistics: India has the largest population of children as 40% of its population is under 18; one out of every six girl child does not live to see her 15th birthday; Every sixth girl child’s death is due to gender discrimination; 35 million children do not go the school, 53% of girls in the age group of 5 to 9 years are illiterate; 60% girls drop out out school before class V. The list is endless and distressing.
In spite of our best efforts we have seen girls drop out of school for a host of reasons, but one of the most shocking one is because many schools do not have toilets for girls! This is something that could be easily remedied if the State had the will to do so. The condition of government run schools in our capital is truly abysmal. Wonder where all the funds go. However that is not the only reason: girls are often made to drop out of school to take on the role of caretakers particularly in urban migrant households where both parents work. Sadly this situation will not change as children under the age of 6 are not covered by the right to education act and the state does not run free preschool facilities. So girls become the obvious and only choice to look after younger siblings. In homes the discrimination continues: girls are less likely to receive immunisation, nutrition or medical treatment compared to a male child. Moreover even if they go to school, girls never get proper support be it books or the much needed tuition that is a must as practically no teaching is done in schools. Even the illiterate have realised the worth of such schools and boys are often send to the ever mushrooming private schools. Girls however are sent to the free Government school if at all.
Let us not forget that in most cases the sole concern of parents is to get the girl married asap and it is often believed that too much education limits the choices of possible grooms. A girl needs to know how to cook, clean and maybe sow. More than that is not considered kosher. And the more educated the groom the larger the dowry. Education is thus viewed as an impediment and not an asset.
The question that comes to mind is how does one change things. Voting laws and Acts is not the answer as often these remain unknown to the beneficiaries. Gender related issues need to be addressed with patience, understanding and perseverance.
I went to the Ramlila ground yesterday to be part of the anti corruption agitation led by Anna Hazare. I had of course been watching the agitation on telly and doing my bit by spreading the message but had shied away from actually going there in person. The reasons were many: my hurting knees, my low BP that dips at its own sweet will sending me into unexpected swoons, my agoraphobia and so on. Don’t forget I am a lone wolf. Anyway all this kept me away for a whole week but a little voice kept telling me to get off my high horses and get there.
I guess the little voice had a lot to do with Kamala my mother. As I watched the crowds on the small screen, I found myself going back in time to lessons learnt at mama’s knee, lessons that were often heard and forgotten as they seemed alien to a child growing up in the lap of luxury. Yet they must have struck a chord before being filed in the recesses of my memory as they all came rushing back bringing with them a plethora of emotions. There were stories of want, of patriotism, of sacrifice, of national pride. Was not Kamala the deprived little girl who had to know the extreme humiliation of having to stoop in front of a malicious cousin to get a sweetmeat, or the child whose task was to nurse her father’s and his companions’ lacerated backs when they returned from non violent manifestations having borne the brunt of police beatings, or the young girl who was willing to live life as an old maid rather than give life to a child in a colonised land. You see she was the daughter of a freedom fighter.
I remember fondly the story she once told me of how she and her friends who had decided to emulate their elders and stage their own Satyagraha were bundled up in a truck by the police and deposited miles away from home. The children were frightened and terrified. Thankfully her father had been able to trace them and bring them home in a horse cart. And every story she told me was punctuated with the very slogans that are being heard today: Vande Mataram, Bharat Mata ki Jai! There were also stories of the innumerable hunger fasts my grandfather undertook in jail, stories of force feeding valiantly resisted by consuming red chillies so that their throats were swollen and thus they could resist such attempts. The stories were many and I listened intently more so because of the passion with which they were told. And all the stories had one leitmotiv: India’s freedom from British rule. And what is touching is that Kamala carried the same feelings into the initial years of her life as a diplomat’s wife. When she came to know that one of the guests at a dinner party was to be he British Ambassador it took all of my father’s persuasion skill to convincer her to be graceful to her guests!
The Vande Matarams and Bharat Mata ki Jai heard for the past days from every corner of the country resonated deeply in mind as a clarion call urging me to get out of the four walls of my home and lend my voice to the fight against corruption being waged at my doorstep. So yesterday I did set my fears aside and headed for Ramlila grounds. I must admit I was a tad nervous but at the same time filled with a excitement. We got to the group and promptly purchased an Anna Cap reminiscent of the ones worn by my grandfather and by my father at official functions. I donned it proudly and set out for the entry where we joined the queue shouting slogans. Needless to say I joined them enthusiastically and felt my spirits soar. I was transposed to another time.
We finally entered the grounds and though it was not filled to capacity as this was a working day, there were thousands of people around. Some had flags, others banners and yet others just stood watching the stage in the hope of getting a glimpse of their beloved Anna. He finally appeared looking frail bit his spirit soaring to infuse every one of us with renewed commitment as he shouted Vande to which the crowd roared Mataram. The atmosphere was nothing short of magic. The positive energy was palpable and infectious. Everyone exuded cheerfulness and bonhomie. People from all walks of life reached out to you with smiles and greetings. All barriers visible and invisible were forgotten at least for the time being. Everyone was united and it felt incredibly good. I was so glad I had come. I felt the spirit of Kamala right next to me reminding me that I was my mother’s daughter.
Don’t lose faith in India were the last words of a dying man almost 2o years ago. It was at a time when India was burning over the BabriMasjid issue and everything seemed dark and bleak. Yet the man would not let go and repeated his dying mantra. The man was Ram my father and the words a legacy difficult to accept and yet very real. I was being asked by the one I probably loved and respected most not to lose faith in India. Not an easy task when India was burning and no one seemed to care. Remember it was December 1992!
I often wondered which India he was referring to: the one that lived in his dreams or the one we lived in. With every passing year keeping faith in India became difficult if not impossible, more so because in those days I had not yet discovered the real India. What I saw was the India of my peers and that one was not pretty. It was empty, soulless, arrogant, glittery, vain and obsessively pursuing money. Blissfully it was when I decided to set up project why and was compelled to cross the invisible divide and embrace the other India that I had my first glimpse of an India I could believe in. It was in the slums of Delhi that I finally found the India my father carried in his heart.
The ensuing years were not easy. As I anchored myself in the India I sought, images of the other India became more and more ugly. It was the years of scams, of political arrogance, of corruption in all its shades and hues. That is when I started shutting myself from one India even if it meant becoming a recluse and being the target of the cynicism of my peers. But you see I had to keep faith in India! And the only way I knew was to shut out the one I could not stand by. True I had to make some forays into the India I shunned as therein lay the money we so needed. My brief incursions only vindicated my stand. How can I forget the bags of rubbish that so oft landed on our doorstep as donations! Or the contempt with which my appeals for help were set aside with a curt: all NGOs are corrupt! Or still the more subtler opprobrium voiced when we decided to send some slum children to an English medium boarding school.
I also watched with horror and sadness the dismissive way in which the India of the little people was treated be it the walls created to segregate slums from their upmarket neighbours or the callous destruction of homes to beautify Delhi for an international extravaganza. And as I discovered the sad reality of our land so poignantly conveyed by a set of statistics; 40 % of the world’s starvation-affected people live in India, 76% families (840 million) people do not get their daily required calories, 55 % of India’s women are malnourished, 46% of India’s children are malnourished, more than 320 million people in India are unable to manage three square meals a day and the most startling one: more than 5,000 children die every day from malnourishment. How could the other India remain silent and unmoved. At timed I found it impossible to swallow a morsel of food and still do. And the one and only cause for these terrible statistics is undoubtedly corruption.
As I watched helplessly the astronomical figures of the scams being uncovered and corruption becoming the toast of the day I could not help thinking of its poorer cousin namely the apparently tiny sums doled each day by the invisible ones to be able to survive: the weekly tithe paid by the cart owner, the vegetable vendor, the roadside cobbler and so on. They too were stifling under the same oppressor. Yes Corruption with a big C had become a two headed monster devouring everything in its way. It was this monster that gobbled the funds destined to make schools, hospitals, roads, to provide food to those in need, work to those who had none. Excellent social programmes were hijacked by greed and never fully implemented. Imagine if the simple ICDS scheme launched in 1975 had worked no Indian under the age of 36 would underweight, undernourished or not vaccinated. Isn’t that food for thought. The reality is that the poor are becoming poorer while the rich become richer.
The question was when would India awake from its cynical slumber. When would it find its lost voice.
It took a diminutive elderly soul and a piece of legislation to do the trick. It all began in April when the spirited Gandhian decided to sit on fast to defend his take on a legislation that was meant to rid India of corruption. The cause echoed in the minds of many and for the first time a different breed of people took to the streets. The powers that be were caught unawares as they sprung into damage control by playing to the gallery and inviting the Gandhian to the negotiation table. For them it was a simple delay tactic. They had their own agenda to defend and they did by casting aside the views of civil society and tabling their own legislation. The Gandhian reacted and India responded.
When Anna decided to fast again he would not be alone. India who had sad silent for too many years decided to join the agitation as the cause was one they believed in: corruption had gnawed at them mercilessly for too long and the hubris of the state was getting too much to bear. The state on the other side remained impervious to the pulse of the very people that elected them and unfurled a series of absurd reactions that made the people angrier. The first salvo was of course the favourite weapon in their arsenal: slander! Without a thought a spokesperson decided to call the Gandhian dishonest and brand him and his team as armchair fascists, overground Maoists, closet anarchists. India was outraged and the crowds swelled. As if that was not enough the state decided to act.
Anna was arrested, lodged in the same jail that housed the most corrupt, released all in one day. And as these harebrained actions were taken crowds grew angrier. India took to the streets and Anna remained firm in his resolve. People from all walks of life registered their protest. It was no more a fight for a piece of legislation but for every hurt that had been borne silently and helplessly. Housewives, professionals, students, village folk, retired people, the educated and the illiterate everyone was out to extend support. The media was there to chronicle it all. The powers that be stood exposed. Their arsenal looked strangely inadequate. The bungling lot tried to hide behind a host inane of screens but to no avail. Wonder what they would come up with next.
You may or may not agree with the Anna way. You may or may not agree with his version of the proposed bill but he has managed to stir passions never unleashed before. He has according to the New York Timesemerged as the unlikely face of an impassioned people’s movement in India, a public outpouring that has coalesced around fighting corruption but has also tapped into deeper anxieties in a society buffeted by change. He has managed to awake a slumbering India!
We all want to see the monster slain! And we also want to be rid of a government that has lost the pulse of the people. In times where media was non existent, erstwhile rulers disguised themselves as commoners and mingled with the people to gage their mood and opinion. This helped them rule better. It is sad that today when every form of media is blaring the anger of the people our rulers remain aloof and unmoved.
Anna gave us back our voice. Now it is for us to use it in the way we deem right and not let it get once again tinged with cynicism. The ball is undoubtedly in our court. There will be many followers of Antisthenes or Diogenes of Sinope will find many ways to try and deter us, but we need to remain Pollyanna like and believe that the changes we seek with such passion happen soon. There will be enough time for remedies later. And to be a reverse cynic perhaps some form of monster is needed to slay another.
This post is primarily meant to renew faith a lost faith. In the past days I have seen a new face of India, I have seen invisible barriers crossed, I have seen hope. I have seen the India one cannot and should not lose faith in.
One of the items of our recent Independence day celebration was a play on Gandhi’s salt march. The play had five British
soldiers cast in it. We needed costumes for them. We thought best to go to one of the costume rental places and asked for British soldier uniforms. The man said he would get them for us in a day or two. We were quite confident that they would be appropriate.
Imagine my surprise when I saw our four lads all dressed up on D day. They looked like the tin soldiers of my childhood. I wonder which British officer ever wore such an accoutrement! I could barely contain my smile, if not my laugh, as I saw my five boys proudly displaying their regalia. I could not for the life of me understand where this came from! Ottoman soldiers? Prussian ones with the wrong coloured hat or a very strange interpretation of the Royal Guards of Buckingham Palace. Any one’s guess!
As I said to me they looked like the little tin men of my childhood, the ones we kept in tin boxes and took out to play with. Whatever they were, on that morning they looked adorable and won many hearts! God bless them!
A few months ago an email dropped in my inbox. It was from a young girl studying in Switzerland. She wrote: I have always been inclined towards arts and humanities. I believe in social development and I try to keep up with the daily news. At the same time, I have been studying photography at school among others and it is a subject that inspires me a lot. I think it is a beautiful medium of communication. So I decided to mix these two elements for my project. I plan to organize a photography workshop in the month of July for a group of children aged 11-13 years, coming from a different socio-economic background and teach it to them as a mode of self-expression. My objective is to pass on my knowledge to these children who may not have the possibility of learning and studying this art as a way of self-expression.
Aranya had come recommended from a very dear friend and I had no hesitation in accepting her request. I must admit that at that time I was a tad skeptic, wondering how children so young would fare. But all doubts vanished when the young spirited girl landed at pwhy. The following days or should I say weeks were a pleasure to watch. Six boys and six girls ran about the project and the surroundings camera in hand clicking away. Every time I came to the centre the band of six would try and capture me one way or the other. It was a pure treat to see them at work camera in hand trying to get the best frame like true professionals. I must again admit a little bashfully that I did not quite believe in the end result thinking that the would at best get some amateur shots.
When Aranya asked whether we could include a presentation of the children’s images in our Iday celebration, I agreed almost reluctantly. So you can imagine my shock when I was treated to a preview of the presentation on a computer sitting in my three wheeler under the rain on the even of Dday. The pictures were not just professional but stunning and moving. The children had captured images of India worthy of the best photographer. They saw with their heart and that was truly heartwarming. Needless to say that the applause was overwhelming on Dday. I hope we can organise an exhibition some day when we find a sponsor!
Till then here is a selection of the photographs. Enjoy!
The definition of the word Hubris in the dictionary is the following: excessive pride, defiance of the Gods leading to nemesis. It is a state in which we can easily fall, particularly when we happen to be in a position of power. It is something I have feared and been careful to avoid specially in the last few years when I found myself heading pwhy. It would have been easy to slip up and bask in undeserved pride as miracles after miracles came our way. When pwhy began I could never have imagined the multitude of extraordinary moments that have occurred over time.
First and foremost when we began with a handful of kids and a single spoken English class I never thought in my wildest dream that we would be reaching out to over 700 children, let alone envision that we would sponsor heart surgeries and save many lives. I could not have pictured that a little boy with third degree burns would land in my life and become an intrinsic part of it. It would, you agree, not be out of place if I did feel a tad proud. But I was so petrified of seeming hubristic, that I never allowed myself that liberty and always felt that I was simply fulfilling what I been destined to do. And it all worked for the best as pwhy lived from year to year meeting all challenges with confidence and success. True we had some tough spells but help always came in the nick of time. Everything seemed so perfect that at times it seemed eerie!
Life could have continued in this tranquil manner. It did for a long time till the fateful moment when I began thinking of pwhy after me and became almost obsessed by its sustainability. In hindsight I wonder whether it was not hubris surreptitiously knocking at my back door. Till that moment I had been quite content accepting things as they happened, looking for alternatives when some obstacle came our way and never knocking at a door more than once. However the sustainability syndrome was another thing altogether. It gnawed at me day and night and I must confess still does. After many false starts what seemed a doable idea took seed in my mind: planet why a guest house with a twist. It never occurred to me that it was way out of our league.
As soon as the idea seeded in my mind, I got busy ensuring it would root and grow strong. I defended it with passion against one and all, always finding arguments to counter any stricture, and as I did planet why became more and more real, at least to me. The dialectic was comforting. I refused to look at obstacles as possible writings on the wall and simply gave up my maxim of never knocking at the door more than once. I found myself banging on doors. Some opened slightly, others wider and yet others remained shut. And yet every time one was close to despair a ray of light shone, albeit for a few instants. And that is how we managed to purchase our land, get our proposal vetted by international consultants, and even found a likely investor who promised the earth but has been ominously silent. And yet I refused to give up hoping that some light would shine on us again. I was driven. Planet Why had to see the light of day.
But then slowly better sense seeped in and I felt it was time to take stock and look at alternatives. It was decided to make 2011 a watershed year. If nothing were to happen by 31-12-11 then we would slowly lay planet why to rest and work on different alternatives and feel grateful for what we have.
So all hubris lies forgotten and as a dear friend so aptly wrote in a recent mail: Many dreams that we have take time – at times a long period – to come to fruition. I guess time is running out, and God seems to have withheld his Miracle till now. But till D-day, let’s continue to bear faith and look for other ways out. Much has been invested into realizing Planet Why but I hope you don’t feel demoralized by the current difficulties, because let’s not forget that the everyday operations of the Project is still uplifting hundreds of children out of poverty. Planet Why could well be the epitome and we pray for the day it stands in front of us, but before that day arrives we know the Project is still true to its core duty and beliefs. And for that, I think we have every reason to continue being grateful and strive on with resilience, faith and tranquility.
The show the project why children put up to celebrate Ram’s Centenary and India’s Independence was breathtaking in more ways than one. The passion of the children, the quality of the different items and the warmth of the audience made it a unique experience. The large community hall was packed and the foot tapping music and dance were appreciated by one an all. In this post I will try and share the magic of that day and invite you to enjoy it. So take your seat, relax and watch with your heart
The silent anthem performed by the special children of project why.
Bum Bum Bole performed by the primary boys of our Khader Centre.
If you are happy sing the tiny tots of Khader.
Jai Ho by our very special kids
The Khader senior boys recreate the magic of a song from Lagan
National Integration project why style
Vande mataram by the project why girls.
Chak de India, or should I say Chak de Project Why
If journalism is the first rough draft of history, journalists need to make sure that in the press of events, goodness doesn’t go unchronicled writes a journalist in an article in the Independence issue of a recent leading magazine. The issue is aptly entitled the good news of India. It was a breath of fresh air after all the grim issues that highlighted only the bad news. And it seems that more than one magazine decided it was time to share the good news as another leading one decided to shelve the politicians and big wigs and devote its Iday issue on highlighting the trials and tribulations of invisible Indians. Kudos to both of them. It is time this happened as we have been for far too long stifled by ‘bad’ news aka scams, terror, murders and more of the same.
Good news, it is said, does not get the aspired TRP rates and yet when we find a story of hope tucked away in an inside page, or the end of a news bulletin it is almost like the breath of fresh air we need to survive. It is time someone listened and chronicled it, if not for us then at least for history.
Some years back I got a mail from an unknown person. He was keen on knowing more about our work as he wanted to write about it. He was not a journo but the creator of a website called Good News India and his mission was to scout across India to find what he aptly called News from India : of positive action, steely endeavour and quiet triumphs ~ news that is little known. The site was a plethora of stories about Indians who make a difference. Way back in 2003 he wrote about Ana Hazare the very person India is celebrating today. Perhaps he knew intuitively that Ana would one day lead India against corruption. I am proud to say that project why was also one of the good stories.
We need to celebrate the little people, the ones that remain hidden and unseen. They are the soul of any nation, the ones that keep it alive and vibrant. On Independence day we too celebrated our very own: the special children. On that day they got sparkling gold medals to honour them. It is a sad that our society has never learn to appreciate and celebrate difference. Special children may not be quite like us, or so we would want to believe, but if you learn to see with your heart, they are far better human beings than us. They truly know how to celebrate difference as they accept us unconditionally and allow us to enter their world without reserve. They are always ready to shower us with wholehearted love. And yet they remain invisible, hidden by their families and loved ones, shunned by schools and rebuffed by potential employers. We try to bring a little balm to their hearts and light to their dark existences. But on I Day we decided to bring them all center stage and give them a medal just for being who they are: the very best! Needless to say their eyes were filled with joy and pride and we hope the medals will be displayed in their homes as a gentle reminder of their existence.
The invisible Indians referred to in the magazine are the very ones we pass by and do not see, as we do not look with our hearts. And yet they are a part and parcel of our lives as they more than anyone else make our existence better. I am talking about the one who does not bat an eye lid and gets into your drain to unclog it or the tailor who works hard at finishing your favourite designer’s latest outfit that you will wear at the next do, and what about the innumerable construction workers who enabled your dream home to be completed? have you ever spared a thought for them.
I have my set of little people who I never fail to acknowledge whenever I see them. Come to think about it how much does a smile or a hello cost? There is my roadside tailor who has fixed so many of my clothes, the cobbler who repairs a broken heel in a jiffy, the vegetable vendor who sits late into the night and ensured you get the lemon needed for you sundowner. The list goes on: my sun in law’s favourite roadside barber, the chai wallah who has been there for decades and knows us all, the ironing lady who ensures that all of us wear well pressed clothes, the little flower man who brings the puja (prayer) flowers every morning notwithstanding the weather, the garbage man who lands every morning with his cart to your rid you of your garbage, the kabadiwallah who takes away your old newspapers and empty bottles and even pays you for them. And what about your electrician, your plumber, your garner. Imagine life without them. No pretty! Yet how many of us know their names and have bothered to find out about their lives. And yet they have lives, lives that perhaps are not amazing enough to make headlines, but still lives that deserve to be heard and chronicled as they are also part of history.
I remember reading a collection of books in my youth. It was a French collection named La vie quotidien du temps des… (Daily life in the times of…) and it could be the Romans, the Middle Ages, the Ancient Egypt and so on. It made fascinating reading because unlike history books it documented the lives of ordinary people. I have tried in my blog to record some such stories as I have had the privilege in the past decade to live close to such invisible people and learnt to love and respect them. I need to write more!
Today let me just say Chapeau Bas to all the invisible people and a big thank you for being there for us.
Yesterday we celebrated Ram’s centenary and India’s Independence Day. It was a a wonderful and somewhat poignant show that brought together many India’s in one small hall. The children of course were the main stars. There was song and dance and even two plays in English written, directed and performed by our children and staff. The audience was fabulous and applauded every effort with fervour. I watched almost mesmerised. At times I felt a knot in my throat and my eyes were moist more often than I imagined.
As the children performed act after act I was filled with a deep sense of responsibility. All the children: those who sang and danced and those who watched their pals and applauded depended on me to protect their morrows. True I was not infallible but what drove me was my unfailing belief in the sad reality that each of these tender souls had been let down by one and all. Everyone of them carried the potential to become the very best but was hampered by their reality – social background, economic status and so on – and by the reality of our times – pathetic state of schools, staggering cost of good education, denial of rights and so forth-. And though we did not pretend to give them their rightful due, we at least could offer a ray of hope and a possibility for them to achieve something, if not everything.
The option of pulling down the shutter was not open to us, no matter what obstacle came our way. This is the personal message I got from yesterday’s show. And the most poignant one was the silent anthem performed by very special children doomed to a hopeless life were we to go.
Today is your 100th birthday. Happy birthday wherever you are! Somehow I know that you are very close to me as I can fell your spirit right here with me and the smile the the picture that sits on my desk seems strangely alive. It almost seems as if you will walk out of the frame any moment and sit by me. A soft rain is falling and memories of days gone by fill my mind. Memories are strange beings as they can travel through time and space faster than light offering one a wonderful and thrilling journey. As I write these words I find myself being a little girl and a grown and ageing woman at the same time. Quite an experience!
But this letter is not meant to recall our tender and precious moments together. No. The reason I write is to tell you how we have decided to celebrate your centenary. Tatu you gave me the gift of life and that is what I want to celebrate this blessed day. When M asked me whether I was planning to have a puja for you I laughed. Though you were deeply spiritual I somewhat felt that a grim set of rituals was not the way to honour someone who lived life king size, to borrow a line from the advertising world! I had to come up with a befitting way of marking your 100th birthday. And I knew just how. It would not be I, but the children of project why who would mark this day in their own inimitable style.
In a few hours form now a bunch of happy children will sing and dance to their heart’s content just for you. They will celebrate India in song and movement as you share a birthday with this land you so loved and were never willing to give up on. Even in its darkest hour, when mosques were threatened to be destroyed your words were ones of hope and belief as you repeated almost obsessively lying on your death bed: Don’t lose faith in India. I never did because you taught me where to find the real India: in its little people. And it is the children of these very little people who will honour you today.
When you left me on that cold winter morning I was lost and remained so for many years. I tried to drown my sorrow in more ways than one but it was only when I decided to reach out to those in need that I found my way again. I have never looked back and though I miss you each and every day, it does not hurt anymore as I know you walk by me in each step I take, giving me the strength to continue my journey on the road less travelled.
I need a favour today Tatu. The last then years have been smooth sailing. Every road block or challenge was met with courage and eventual success. Sometimes it was scary as one felt favoured beyond expectation. Miracles came our way and I have a strange feeling that you were at the giving end. But in the past few months with age weighing heavy I have been worried about the morrows of pwhy. I have tried to the best of my ability to elaborate plans and ways to see pwhy live beyond me but they have all fallen short. I need you to show me the way. Is pwhy destined to carry on or will it slowly wind itself up without hurting the people that have come to depend on it. I know it is I who should be showering you with gifts today, but allow me to reverse the equation and ask for one today.
During your life your were always there to answer my questions and doubts. Will you do that once more for me?
Tomorrow, Ram would have been 100 years old. Ram was many things, a respected jurist, a seasoned diplomat, a well versed scholar, a bonvivant, a fine gourmet, a wine aficionado, a caring and humane soul, a loving husband, a tender grandfather, but to me he was simply Tatu, my papa.
I came into his life when he was well passed his debonair youth and hence the time we spend together was somewhat truncated. Yet he made up for the loss of time by showering me with abundant and sometime stifling love and by packing what time we had with abundant and thrilling experiences. Was I not the little girl who was taken to dine at Maxim’s in a tête a tête when I was barely five! Yes Ram taught me many things: from absolute surrender to a greater force, to an unwavering faith in the destiny of India; from the delights of life king size to the undiluted joy of sharing a humble meal, from erudite books of diverse culture to the soothing lilt of a bhojpuri lullaby.
Life with him had been a thrilling coaster ride of intense sensations and experiences laced with lessons in humility and humanity. When he left almost two decades ago it was left to me to put all I had learnt from him to good use and try and craft something he would have been proud of. The challenge was not easy but had to be met. I must admit it took some time and a lot of false starts. The obvious things to do was to write a book and I did try but when the pages were written and reread, they paled into insignificance when compared to the force they were meant to represent. They were simply cast away in the bottom of a drawer waiting to be resurrected some day. This was not the way to go.
Yet deep in my heart I knew that Tatu’s legacy was far greater than what was bequeathed in tangible ways. All he had taught me in overt and covert ways were not meant to remain embedded in my mind and memory. That would be almost insulting. Every word he had uttered had to have a greater meaning. I spent many hours sifting through all he had said over the years and trying to find the quasi Delphic answers. And they did come. How could I have forgotten his dying words murmured to a friend in my presence when India was burning over the temple/mosque issue: Have faith in India he repeated incessantly. I understood that what needed to be done had to have a larger meaning. But how could I ever achieve it? It would take some time for the puzzle to be unravelled. And it did when I remembered the answer he had given me when I had asked as a child: where do I find God. He simply said: in the eyes of the poorest, most deprived child. Project why was born at least in my heart.
Tomorrow it is the project why children who will celebrate Ram’s centenary. For the past month they have been practising with all their hearts. There will be song and dance and even a play based on Kamala’s life that has been written by the staff and children as the yellowed pages were indeed resuscitated and turned into a book where Ram and Kamala’s lives are rightly embedded in a child’s story where they truly belong.
Yesterday we took Radha to Doc P. For the past weeks she had been coming to school sporadically. The reason given each time was that she was unwell. Sometimes we were told it was a fever, at other times a cough, a stomach upset or just that she was in pain. The mother was quick to add that she had got her medication. We knew it was from the local chemist or at best the local quack. When she did make it to school, she seemed tired and a far cry from her normal self. Enough was enough and we finally took her to Dr P, our very own wonder medicine man.
Even the best miracle conjurer cannot find a cure for Radha’s wasting bones. Her autoimmune disease is slowing gnawing her and we watch helplessly. The sores on her leg caused by the bone being sharp and thin and causing the skin to split cannot heal. Dr P recommended some antiseptic lotion. Her cough was not and infection but due to the insalubrious air she breathes in her home which is a hole tucked away between factories spewing poison. The good doctor gave her lots of supplements and vitamins and a mild pain killer to ease the pain that is now here to stay. Radha was all smiles, somehow the dose of TLC did wonders.
I however lost mine (smile I mean). I knew what awaited this darling child. Every time she felt too sick to come to pwhy she would remain in her dark hole breathing fumes. At best she would sit in the scorching sun or biting cold on a cart next to the food cart her mum runs. She would bear her pain stoically as she always does. And we would watch helpless and lost. Never was the need of planet why felt more acutely than at this moment. It is for her and others like her who suffer in dignified silence that planet why was conceived. A place where little Radha could breathe huge gulps of fresh air, sit in the sun surrounded by trees and flowers, laugh and giggle to her hearts delight and reclaim her lost childhood.
As I write these words am filled withe extreme sadness. Never had the planet why dream seemed so remote and distant. It seems as if all our efforts have come to naught. The miracle we hoped and prayed for never happened and little Radha will spend many more nights in her dark hole.
Over the past years we have had many volunteers from the world over. Each has been special in his/her own way and left precious memories. Some however have done more! They simply walk into our hearts. One such soul is Jon. He landed in our lives in late March and it was as if we had known him all our lives. His endearing ways won us over in no time. True he did have a raw first week courtesy some unavoidable circumstances, but those blew away once he moved to my house and for the days to come, nothing was the same as everything was touched by the magic of Jon West or should I say Best!
In his introductory mail Jon had stated he would like to stay for at least 1 month although I am flexible on dates and length of stay. The month turned into almost six. Jon did not take long to chose his place at pwhy. He decided to work with the special children and it was mutual love at first sight. Jon Bhaiya was adopted by one and all in no time. It was as if an old friend had returned home.
For the past 5 months Jon has been intrinsic part of the pwhy special class: be it the morning exercises, the classroom activities, the dancing sessions or simply the giggling ones. On the rare days he has been away, often nursing a bout of Delhi belly, the children never failed to ask why their Bhaiya had not turned up. I dread to even think about what will happen when he leaves next week.
There is also another side of Jon Bhaiya, one I have had the privilege to discover over time and that is his humane and sensitive nature. We have shared many special moments be it on our daily auto rickshaw ride to pwhy in the mornings or over a cup of tea in the evenings. I often found myself sharing my worries and angst or simply life thoughts. He not only gave a patient hearing to the ramblings of an old biddy but often helped me resolve my apprehensions and find my way.
Project why has been and is a very lonely journey. Loneliness is oft the price you have to pay to be on the top. You need put up a brave face, have a ready smile at almost all times, and find the required answer each time a question comes your way. And though you manage a mean show day after day, you too need to sometimes hop off the spinning wheel and recharge your used and overused batteries. That is when people like Jon are God sent!
I am sure many of you remember the epic film of the late fifties aptly named Mother India and the stunning poster that depicted the leading lady ploughing her land. The film was a symbol of the newly independent India and of the brave and righteous Indian woman. We have all seen the film and been touched by its story but it belonged to a distant past or so we thought. Yet 55 years later in a village in Vidharbha a farmer is tilling his land using his sons instead of bullocks. The news was aired a couple of days ago and I for one found it difficult to watch the images and had to turn my eyes away. I was filled with horror, extreme sadness and profound shame. This could not be happening and yet it was. And this was not all. Even after the story was highlighted by a local newspaper there was no relief as their appeal for a pair of bullocks was turned as they were considered to be above the poverty line and hence not eligible for the said scheme. All they got was free power to operate the well they had dug with their own hands. The family was considered above the poverty line because they owned 8 acres of land. Never mind if they had scant more! And theirs is not the only case.
What does one say! I am speechless just as I was when I read the Planning Commission’s aberrational definition of the poor as one who spent less than 15Rs a day. And that is not the only scary statistic. What about the one that states that a child does of malnutrition every 8.7 minutes or the one recently published in a leading magazine that states makes known that 46% of the malnourished children of the world live in India. This article pertains to the Food Security Bill that is sadly being watered down by the Government. Why am I not surprised. Such bills are made not to help anyone but to line more pockets. Children die while grain rots and bureaucrat and politician quibble over the definition of the word poor. That is the sad reality in 21st century India.
And what is sadder is that we all watch helpless and even unmoved. We still waste food, even throw food and when solicited for help by some humanitarian organisation are quick to retort that all organisations are dubious and suspicious. And the saddest part is that it is not only the uber rich who are profligate . The new poor, those who have arrived and now live in urban slums, emulate us unabashedly. For me it has been a losing battle over a decade to try and explain that food should not be wasted. In villages one can still give it to animals, in cities it is simply thrown in the garbage or even on the street. The most blatant example being the aftermath of religious feeding frenzies and wasteful weddings. And still we the so called educated and informed remain dry eyed. We do read about children dying, food rotting, people being used as bullocks; we see food being wasted, children begging at every street corner, beggars rummaging the garbage heap from a scrap of food but are too jaded to make connections and let alone take action. So why should our politicians. Are they not a reflection of who we are?
I just finished reading Indian Summer by Alex Von Tunzelmann, a book that retraces the last days of the British Raj and the advent of our Independence. What caught my attention was the humane nature of erstwhile leaders who could not bear to see any suffering and who felt compelled to reach out and act. Where have all such leaders gone? Today everyone seems inured to misery, suffering and more.
And that everyone includes me. Is it sufficient to feel horror, sadness, shame and write a blog from the comfort of my home?
In Parliament last week the Minister for Health admitted that 1,74 million children under five die every year in India. I do not know how many of us reacted when the news was aired. I do not know how many of us realised the enormity of the statement. 1,74 million is no small figure! More than half of the deaths were in the first 28 days of life. The causes stated were: pneumonia, diarrhea and of course malnutrition leading to extremely low immunity. Forget the causes; the simple fact that so many children die is unacceptable in a country where according to statistics again some of the richest people live.
