S wanted a Blackberry Playbook for his birthday. Now S is not a young teenager but a well established person with a great job. D his wife decided to grant him his wish and buy the said object. But then S changed his mind and decided to donate that money to educate 4 kids at pwhy! Wow! S and D always manage to take my breath away. So the Playbook mutated into something intangible and yet so precious. I am humbled!
The curious and the cynic often want to know how pwhy is funded. This makes me smile as the answers I have are not the ones expected. Pwhy is not funded by the state of by hefty funding organisations. It is funded by spurned Playbooks, people walking rather than taking a car, garage sales and bake sales, someone crafting jewelery that is then sold, auction of children’s paintings, couples giving up their wedding gifts or children their birthday ones, people running marathons. The list is endless and each penny laced with love and compassion. And thus each penny becomes precious and sacred and translates into ace report cards, successful exams, life saving surgery and above all reclaimed smiles. And thus flows project why….
For the past few days the house has been strangely silent. What I mean is that one does not hear the screeching sound of cartoons on TV, something that was till date a constant when Utpal was home. He spent all his waking hours glued to the idiot box, lost in his own world.
As I had written earlier, I had been very worried about his behaviour and even sought medical help. Two weeks back he was put on medication and I waited with bated breath for the dreaded side effects and the expected results. The side effects were few – a little sleepiness and slight tremors – but the results have been so say the least stupendous. Not only has our little fellow calmed down and gone back to his old endearing ways, but the child that was once riveted to the television now spends most of his time creating things. His best till now is his computer. It is made out of a sweet box, cardboard, paper, paint, and even has a mouse that blinks light: a small remote controlled plane! This computer has changed my life and brought back a smile that had been mislaid. Utpal who had locked himself in a dark world has come into the sunshine and no one is happier than I.
Kal Mandir is Utpal’s name for the Kalkaji temple. It is a name he came up with when he was 3 and somehow it never changed. He loves going there and would go everyday if he could. His companion for these sorties is Radhey our three wheeler driver, someone he has known all his life! Radhey is the one who drove him to the hospital on the fateful night he fell into a boiling cauldron. KalMandir is undoubtedly his favourite place.
Sometimes he does go all the way to the temple itself and visits the Deity but what Kal Mandi means to Utpal is the fun rides that he loves. Till last week Kal Mandir was simply a name to me. Popples had often asked me to come with him but to my silly mind the Kalkaji Temple was an overcrowded place that I simply shunned. However the little boy’s entreaties finally bore results and last week I too went to Kal Mandir and loved it. I wish I had taken the trip earlier.
The experience is difficult to describe as it is a medley of sensations but I will give it a go. It was about 11am, a hot and humid day and I was dreading the experience but had to keep my promise to little Utpal. We drove in our three wheeler and entered the parking made for cars but to my utter surprised we were greeted with smiles and hellos. I thought we would be stopped as is always the case when you venture in a poor man’s vehicle into parkings but here Utpal and his conveyance seemed to be VIPs! I was a little lost but a little hand firmly took mine and pulled me along. We walked through an alley with shops on either sides: eateries, shops that sold prayer ware, toy stalls, even a photographer’s den where you could take your pictures with zany backdrops. The place was filled with incredible energy and fervour. On the way we walked past devotees walking towards the sancto sanctorum some on foot, others crawling or rolling, others even somersaulting. Strangely none of this seemed out of place or crazy. It just seemed normal as everything was tinted with an overpowering spirituality that made it acceptable.
We soon reached what can at best be called rides but is a far cry from anything you can imagine. Six or even rides fight for space in a tiny enclosure. The floor is mud and dust. A few plastic sheets cover the area protecting you as best they can from the heat or rain. Every ride has a wooden pole where the switches are placed and a maze of electric wires criss crosses the area at a little over head hight. A few bulbs light the place giving it a festive air. An elderly lady sits at rickety table at the entrance under the lone fan. She owns the place and that is where you purchase tickets @ 10 Rs a ride. But as I said Utpal is a VIP there and he headed straight for the first ride under the benevolent smile of the owner lady. I could see how much he loved the place. It could confidently compete with the best amusement park in the world. As it was still early and the staff was scarce, Radhey our driver and Utpal’s long time pal manned the switches. When Utpal had enough of one he simply said Bas and the ride was stopped. I too was VIP of the day as the kind lady left her chair under the fan for me. It was wonderful watching Utpal have the time of his life.
I must admit that I did recoil in horror at the sight of things at first but then somehow not only got reconciled to what I saw but I must admit quite taken in. It was a happy place in more ways then one. The amusement park, let us call it that, is strategically located on the way to the Temple Deity and thus children accompanying their parents manage to convince the later to stop on the way out after all religious obligations are fulfilled and parents often do as the rides cost very little. At any time of the day your hear whoops of joy and laughter as children and even adults spin and rock to their heart’s content while the kind lady owner tries as best she can to keep track of the number of rides everyone enjoys. The place defies every safety rule, even the most lenient, but I can vouch for the safety as Utpal has been an ardent visitor for years now. This little space is where children from the other side of then fence can reclaim for a few moments their right to be children. All in all a visit to this temple is far more than a religious outing. And Kalkaji temple being one of the preferred religious pilgrimage sees people from all walks of life and from all parts of the land. It is somewhat a family outing for all to enjoy with everything on offer: varied food, drinks and even rides.
For Utpal too it is a pilgrimage of sorts. Something he has known all through his disturbed life, a place that has never changed even if all else has. It is his security blanket and comfort place an no matter what a visit there is always welcome and is guaranteed to bring a smile on his face. I was so glad I did finally get over my silly reluctance and accompany him. I must confess I have been there more than once in the past few days.
A visit to Kal Mandir is like being in a time warp. For a few moments you are a tad disoriented as nothing reminds you of the world outside the parking. With my short hair and city gear I looked like an alien but barring a few beggars who sought my attention, no one gave a second look. You were just accepted as you were. A pleasant change from reality. And as you walked the road leading to the Temple you passed rickety structures replete with sounds and smells that reminded you of a village fair. It was exhilarating to say the least. The drums and chants that greeted you transported you into another plane. The fervour was infectious and for an instant you forgot all your woes. What brought people to this place was their faith and you were touched by the atmosphere. This was real India at its best.
This morning I was handed out the detailed results of our class XII and X students. In the right hand column the teacher had put in remarks. Some students were school toppers, other class toppers, yet others maths topper. Marks ranged in the 90s and 80s. There were some who had just passed but the teacher had written that these were very weak students who had managed to clear their examination: a feat in its own way. Vivek had secured 99% in maths and Shilpa, Jatin, Anita and Rohit were all toppers. The same story was repeated in class X with a good number of As with as many as 5 toppers again. It was a ah ha moment for pwhy. But was it really.
A news item last week had dampened my joy in more ways than one. You now needed an aggregate of 100% to get admission in B (Com) Hons in one of Delhi University’s prime institution. Absurd and inane! Yet the Principal of the same institution defended this decision: We get the best students from across the country and getting 100% in the aggregate of your best performance in four subjects is no longer impossible in Board examinations. Never mind if in some States toppers secure marks in the nineties. In a nutshell this means that if a child has secured a respectable 80 or 85%, (s)he may not get admission in a good college. Let me also add that Delhi University colleges are affordable and thus an option for all students, irrespective of their social background. All doors had been banged in their faces.
Of course, for the past few years there has been a proliferation of private institutions with fees in 6 figures! Not an option for the slum kid, son of vegetable vendor or ironing man who has managed to clear his Boards with what was once called a first division. They will have to either get admitted in an evening course, a correspondence course or apply through the Open University. It almost seems as if higher education has been sectioned into classes: one for the uber smart, another for the uber rich and yet another for the poor. I was told just yesterday by a young upmarket kid that some of the private universities will take a weak student for a higher fee aptly dubbed donation. The other option of course for the affluent is to go abroad, another door that is closed to our children.
When we hear of 100% as a cut off mark for a favoured course, even we the almost incurable optimists are left dumbfounded. Even with our best efforts we know that our children cannot make the cut and that because they run the race with a heavy handicap: poverty. Many of our kids cannot afford books and thus rely on badly drafted guides. Many cannot afford extra tuitions. All do not have savvy parents or resources at home. They often do not even have place to study at home. How can you when you live in a tin box that you share with many, when a younger sibling may tear your book or a drunk father simply destroy it in a fit of rage. And yet children like Vivek or Shilpa beat all odds and come out winners. But their victory is not good enough to open the door of a first class education. They will always be second best.
Now second best is available all the way. You can secure a degree or even an MBA or other professional course. Two of our staff have taken that road. You register with an institute and are given course material. A look at it is enough to make you either roar with laughter or scream in horror. Booklets badly printed on cheap paper boast of titles like globalisation, education, and give pathetic ready made answers to possible questions. These are then mugged and regurgitated at the examination. And you manage to secure enough marks to pass as remember you can pass with a mere 33%! When you have duly sat for all the examinations you are given a degree and become a graduate. Sadly there are many such graduates. I do not need to spell out their worth.
There is something terribly wrong in our system of education and it is time the powers that be addressed the problem and took corrective measures, or else the so called Right to Education will become a poor joke played on innocent children.
His name is Yuvi. He is the latest kid on the block. He joined our special section last month. Yuvi is a 4 year old who looks 8! He is locked in his own world, a world for which we have no key. No one quite knows yet what his condition is as it is difficult if not impossible to begin an assessment.
Yuvi is a big child with an endearing face and easy ways. He ambles around in class, often heading for the exit door but not quite stepping out. He sometime moans and often laughs but no one knows why. He is truly locked in his world and seems like not wanting anyone entering it.
Yuvi is a strong child yet a placid one. Though he does not as yet participate in any activities, you can sit him down and make him do morning exercises. In a manner of speech as he just sits limp and you are the one who is meant to push and tug at his limbs and follow the class. He likes putting everything in his mouth, even your toes if you are not watchful! He responds to his name but will not follow any instruction. He can lie for hours on his stomach and do nothing, or so it seems to us aliens to his world. At break time he may chew on some wafers or biscuits. He then resumes his ambling and wandering till it is time to go home.
Slowly we will have to learn his ways, to gently knock at his locked door and hope he allows us entry. We will have to learn his ways before attempting to teach him ours, to unravel the puzzle gently, one piece at a time. So Yuvi can we enter your world.
Man proposes, God disposes goes the saying. Never have these words been as true as today and I am so say the least totally lost. I can only pray as hard as possible that God disposes kindly!
Many of you know Popples. Some have met him and others have heard about him or read about him. Popples landed in our lives in 2003. He was at death’s door having suffered terrible burns and though many gave up on him, we did not and nursed him back to health. Man proposed and God agreed as he was soon back on his chubby feet and a little bundle of pure joy. He walked into many hearts and people the world over reached out to him. Some time later we discovered that his mom was an alkie and decided to help her by checking her into rehab. Man proposed again and God nodded in agreement. What to do with the child though. A boarding school was the answer and man proposed again and God agreed enthusiastically. All was well. We sat back and watched our performance smugly. Lost in our hubris we started making lofty plans: Popples would go to school and then university. The world was at his feet and mom would be given a job and a place to stay. We were on cloud nine. Man had proposed.. we simply forgot God.
Popples was doing well in school. His grades were good, his reports better. Everyone loved him at school and we thought that the next 11 years were well on course. Mom on the other hand was not doing well and refused our road map altogether. She was diagnosed as bipolar and treated but to no avail. She soon went back to her old ways. The bottle was too big an adversary and the only child she cared for. We went into damage control, knocked at the doors of justice and got Popple’s legal guardianship. Mom just disappeared. The child started hurting as he was missing mom and soon his grades fell a little and his mood got sombre. We were not unduly worried and tried to assuage his pain as best we could. Man proposed as best he could, God was watching. Things went worse and Popples became aggressive and sometimes difficult. The question no one wanted to mouth had to be asked: could he have inherited his mom’s ailment? Could he be bipolar… Man did not dare propose, God needed to be petitioned.
Visits to the psychologist followed but did not bring much result and then the inevitable: a visit to the child psychiatrist. This was done last week and the news was both good and bad. The good news: it did not look like the child was bipolar. The bad: he seemed to have SMD ( Severe Mood Dysregulation) and that would require long term medication. My world stopped for an instant. All the plans and dreams seemed to fall apart and the new ones were too scary to fathom. Would he be alright was the only question in one’s mind. Man did not want to propose anymore. God had to intervene and set things right. Popples had to come out of this as his whole life depended on his well being. Why did this child have to suffer so much. Third degree burns, a severely dysfunctional family, an AWOL mom and now SMD.
We were geared for the normal mishaps that happen to a child: a scarped knee, an open chin, a dog bite, a broken bone, even falling grades but this was way out of our league. Man did not dare propose any more. Now it was left to God and God alone.
Ina few hours from now Popples will meet the doctor and his treatment will be chalked out. I urge all of you to pray for this child. His life is at stake and mine too.
I stop all to write this blog. We have our own Breaking News! Believe it or not our very own Sanjay is walking the ramp for the Paris Fashion Week. The designer is…. you will have to wait for June 26th to know that! I am so proud of him and moved to tears.
I remember Sanjay as a young boy barely fourteen or so, almost a decade ago. In those days we held classes for the Lohar camp in an open park and Sanjay and his pals you use to hand around, at the periphery, not quite decided to join the class, and yet drawn by the sight of the young volunteers that use to teach. I of course use to try and get the young boys’ attention and urge them to join classes. Many did not but Sanjay did and I must confess today that I was attracted by his incredible looks even at a very young age. I guess I must have been the first to suggest that he become a model in Europe were dark looks are in and as I use to say to him in jest: you can then earn a lot of money for pwhy!
Even I who normally believes in big dreams did not ever think that a decade later Sanjay would walk the ramp in Paris. Yet he is and it is huge day for all of us at pwhy. And even though I am sort of inured to miracles after 10 years of project why, this one is humongous even by my standards. A boy born on the road side, destined to beat the iron, first becomes a teacher and the an international model. Wow! I am speechless.
June 26 2011 will be a very special day for all of us at pwhy, one that proves beyond any doubt that anything is possible if the Gods are on your side.
One always tends to highlight the achievements of the pwhy kids. One talks of their school results, their Board results, the jobs they get, their successes and so on. This has almost become a norm as every year and in all our centres children do us proud in more ways than one. What we tend to forget is the fact that none of this would be possible without our incredible band of teachers! It is they, and they alone who make all the small and big miracles happen.
It is time I paid tribute where it is truly due: the terrific staff that holds the fort and holds it so well.
Let us begin at the top: the two souls who run the two arms of project why with utmost efficiency and like a clock work orange have been with us for almost a decade. One of them was barely sixteen when she joined our wagon as an unpaid volunteer who use to come and run a small medical post that we opened for two half hours a day. She then graduated to distributing nutrition and that is when I discovered her inborn managerial talent. She learned at the speed of light and slowly but surely carved her place in project why. Today she runs her part of the show single handedly. Over the years she carefully selected her team, hired and fired with the needed aplomb. I have never seen her buckle under any circumstance, she always conjures a better solution. When she joined she was what you call a school drop out, not because of lack of aptitude but because she was beaten mercilessly and her mom decided that she should not go back. But she is not one who gives up. While working with us she completed her class X, XII and is now sitting for her BA final exams. What is amazing is that she never took a day off. You may have guessed, I am talking of Rani.
Rani is aptly seconded by a vibrant team of teachers. Some have been with us for many years, others have joined more recently. Each and everyone of them is committed and diligent. Come to think of it most of them were not destined to be teachers. Many were simple housewives whose education had been truncated by an early arranged marriage. Others were young people who had finished their studies in some remote place and come to the city to seek greener pastures. They learned on the job and boy they learned well. I can only say Chapeau bas to all of them.
The other arm of project why, namely the women centre was created from scratch by a young man who joined us a a teacher but soon emerged as social activist at heart, someone who strangely echoed my way of thinking: almost a kindred spirit. He soon graduated from his role as a humanities teacher to being the one I turned to in moment of crises. When we decided to set up the women centre as a case of force majeure, it was he I turned to. The result is there for all to see: a vibrant centre catering to more than 300 souls. And here again there is a superb team that runs the show. Well done Dharmendra.
The true measure of the success of team project why is my redundancy. Quite frankly project why does not need me to run. And though my team will vouch for the contrary, I can recognise the writing on the wall: I am really de trop! My only utility is as a fund raiser. That is the only thing my team has not mastered in spite of my best efforts. In hindsight I should be happy as otherwise I would have been completely superfluous. That is not quite the truth as I am aware of my shortcomings and of the fact that I am not eternal and for project why to run beyond me, my team will have to master the art of fund gathering. Maybe that is what needs to be done.
If planet why does see the light of day, and that would be my fund raising master stroke, my real swansong. I know my team will be able to run the show and carry on the work. If that does not happen then they will have to explore new ways. Deep in my heart, I know that many of them will not let project die wither and die.
My little grandson left last week after spending nine months with us. An eerie silence pervades the house making it uncanny. It is almost as if its soul had suddenly gone missing.
For the last eight months the house had been commandeered by a little bundle of energy and joy. Everything moved around him and was tuned to his needs and demands. Even the old biddy had adjusted her ways to his schedule and my work day for the past months looked a little strange. The house itself had lost its erstwhile pristine look. Toys lay strewn in every nook and corner, the drive and garden were requisitioned by brightly coloured cars and cycles of all sizes. We had to learn to live around all these alien articles. But I am not complaining far from that! We all loved the new arrangements.
For the last eight months a new vocabulary became ours as we followed a little boy’s forays into mastering a new language. The air conditioner was christened as thanda machine or cold machine, and Namaste became Manaste and stayed so. When any task was completed be it a meal or a painting session a loud fini was heard and no force on earth could challenge that. We simply adopted the new lexicon, adding new words as they were mouthed by a little lad. The months flew at an incredible speed and the day of parting dawned. Never were Lamartine the french romantic poet’s words more true: one person missing and all life goes away. Even if the missing one is knee high to a grasshopper.
We are slowly learning to live without little Agastya. It means filling up time that hangs heavy, adjusting our ears to eerie silence, getting used once again to an immaculate house. Somehow when he was around one had learnt to complete all our work in the time slots when he slept or was away at pwhy. I must admit that we all managed pretty well. True some things were never quite done but it did not matter. Today we have to learn once again to fill our time with what once was ample but seems so deficient. Time to revive what was put on hold, easier said than done as one seems to have forgotten what filled the days before Agastya.
Holiday homework! A bane for both parents and children. I thought I had graduated to the no holiday homework status but not quite as I am now parent to young Utpal who has reached class IV. Spending summers chiding children to get on with their task and then having to spend hours with paper and glue was never my idea of fun. But that is exactly what I am doing this summer. The two typed sheet that spells out all the work to be completed sits on my desk. Lists of what is needed have been made and several trips to local stationery shops have ensured that we have all that is needed.
The homework is daunting. Daily pages of handwriting from both English and Hindi newspapers, essays and grammar charts, tables and sums, models and art work, the list is endless and I am at a loss as the little chap has another definition of holiday all together: playing, watching TV, going out and eating! An unbelievable time is spent in coaxing and negotiating. Every day a small amount is done after a battle royal. We are getting there at a snail’s pace and immense wear tear on Ma’amji’s nerves. Maybe this is the plight of every parent.
Not quite as was revealed in an article in a leading weekly. Believe it or not you can now get your homework outsourced if you are willing to pay the price. Children do not spend time on creating models and projects: they take a trip to NaiSadak and buy the home assignment, or go for a package deal: 4500 Rs is a total homework package. Reading the article made me uncomfortable. This approach to me is cheating, or should one say cheating with the blessing of your parents. Taking professional help definitely helped my children get top marks admits a mother quite guilelessly making one shudder. If I was the teacher I would give higher marks to a clumsy project that is undoubtedly the work of a 9 year old then to a perfectly executed one that is undoubtedly again the work of a professional adult! But it seems that in school today that is not the practice.
One could argue about the ethicality of those in the homework business. But it is simply a question of demand and supply. It seems that there are enough clients to make the business lucrative. Yet one is compelled to ask whether one is teaching the children to take the easy way out, a lesson they will continue to follow and one that can have disastrous consequences. A first lesson in corruption, speaks volumes for the kind of society we have become.
I agree that the holiday home work is tedious and irksome. I also agree that if you have planned to travel during the holidays completing the home work is close to impossible. But does it mean you need to cheat. Wouldn’t a simple letter the school be sufficient to explain unfinished homework? To my mind the only people who would need assistance to complete the holiday homework would be the brave underprivileged parents who tighten their belt till it hurts in order to send their progeny to a ‘good’ school. But how can they pay the money required? To complete the homework of our boarding school kids, we have a assigned a teacher whose sole task is to help the children finish their work at no cost of course!
For Utpal it is good old Maa’mji and her rusted knowledge. Thank God for Google! So the next days will be filled with cutting and pasting and making charts and models. Somehow I am beginning to look forward to it and if all is not done then tant pis, one has to remember that holidays are meant to be fun and that is what is important.
As I drove in my proverbial three wheeler to the market next door yesterday morning, I knew something was wrong though at first I did not quite know what. It took me a few seconds to realise that the streets were strangely empty.. something was missing. Then it struck me: all the small business persons were missing. Let me explain. On the short less than 500 meters run to my local market we pass by a street cobbler, a street tailor, a street barber, a street tea stall, a vegetable and fruit vendor. Yesterday they were all gone! As we reached the market I saw a posse of people, some cops and a truck where stuff was being loaded. What hit was the eerie silence that greeted me, as if the sound track of a film had been cut off. As I alighted from the scooter and started to walk towards the market I heard someone say in a whisper: komittee aaiye hai! The committee has come. In a flash I understood the script. This was a descent by the municipal authorities aimed at ridding our city of illegal businesses! I looked again and realised that what was being loaded on the menacing truck was the entire belongings of the little tea-cum-lunch stall that had thrived under a banyan tree for as long as I can remember.
This stall catered to all the workers and passers by in search of a cup of tea or a warm meal at a reasonable price. It had always been a comforting sight with its smiling owner doling out platefuls to waiting customers. The food was fresh, the place clean. No one seemed to mind its existence. But someone did: the local authorities and their illogical sanitising drives. I thought the Commonwealth games were over and life back to its old ways. But that was not so. The predators were back with a vengeance! I had forgotten our city’s preferred mission: get rid of the poor. Thank God someone had warned some of these people, that explained why barber, cobbler and vegetable vendor had gone AWOL.
I would like to ask the powers that be a simple question: how do they expect over half the population to live if they deny them their right to be small entrepreneurs particularly as now you have to earn less than 20Rs a day to be considered poor and have access to social welfare. Do read this article that gives the new Indian Fortune List @< 20 rs a day. It is an eye opener.
But let us get back to our small entrepreneurs who courtesy the authorities lost a day or more of earnings. The city is replete with such people. They assess the need of the hour and provide the service with efficiency. They cater to one and all and are not the prerogative of the poor. They are your water vendors, juice sellers, vegetable sellers, cobblers, tailors etc. They provide a meal to those who serve you and believe you me they are mean business minds as they gage the need of the hour with clock work precision. In winter they sell you peanuts, in summer cooling drinks, during festivals they bring you exactly what you need. Others cater to your small daily requirements: a broken shoe or a garment that needs to be altered. Wonder where one would go with a broken heel if the road side cobbler was not on call?
Now let us look at the other side of the story. The people we are talking about and who seem to disturb the powers that be are human beings tryings to find a way to survive. They have families who depend on them. They have dreams for their loved ones: education for their children, medicines for their elders and so on and though the Planning Commission thinks that you can live on 2o Rs a day, the reality is quite different. Most of the street vendors leave their homes and come to cities to look for a better life. They soon realise that they will not find jobs and have to create their own. Their common sense guides them and they identify possible avenues. Why not make samosas and sell them at the street corner, or walk the lanes peddling what a household would need. Come to gali no 3 where our centre is located at any time of the day and you will see a host of street peddlers selling an amazing array of things: brooms, plastic ware, clothes, bangles, pickles and more. The task is not easy but it keeps the pot boiling. At the top of the street stands a cluster of food vendors doling out hot meals or cups of tea or the famous bread/omelet and at any time of the day they have clients. They are there in the scorching heat, the freezing cold or the pouring rain. They never miss a day. I too have often stopped for a cup of tea or a plate of hot snacks and never regretted it. There is a also a very old fruit vendor who hobbles on his bandaged feet and sets up his cart every morning. Maybe this small endeavour restores his dignity in his son’s home. I often buy fruit from him.
If the powers that be have their way then I wonder where people will go for that reinvigorating break. Experience tells us that they will all be back. Some money will exchange pockets. One must not forget that each of these vendors pays a monthly tithe to local officials: the cops, the municipal agent and so on and no one is quite ready to lose their bounty. Corruption rules. And everyone knows that these small entrepreneurs are the lifeline of the city. I wish ways were found to give these unique small entrepreneurs their rightful place and accept them as a legitimate members of society.
Sunday was party time. A wedding in the extended family meant all were welcome. A good way to show our volunteers what an Indian wedding was all about! They were to say the least speechless and this was in no way an upmarket bash! Among the guest list two little boys from different worlds bonded by the illogical love of an old biddy. The biddy is yours truly, the boys young Utpal and tiny Agastya. After a long drive through parts of Delhi I had never laid eyes on we reached the venue, a wedding garden garishly decorated and brightly lit. The rains of the day also meant that the grass was wet and the carpets soaked. Much to the delight of my two heroes who enjoyed the water squishing under their shoes.
We were amongst the first to arrive and had the place to ourselves. The boys ran free stopping only to gorge themselves on the yummy snacks. At one corner stood the notorious DJ and soon dance music was blaring from the huge speakers. That is when my little boys made a beeline for the dance floor and started dancing. They did not stop till it was time to leave! They danced and danced, the little one trying to copy the bigger one. I am so glad someone filmed them!
I must admit I did not take time to watch them that evening but I have looked at the one minute clip over and over again and it has brought smiles to my lips and joy to my heart. These two little boys come from such different world. Utpal has a past even adults would find difficult to carry and Agastya my grandson came into our world with the proverbial golden spoon in his mouth. Both walked into my heart and taught me the meaning of pure unadulterated love, the kind you give without expecting anything in return, the kind that fills you with joy, hope and trust. They took to each other immediately, Utpal the caring big bro to rapidly growing Agastya. Agastya who lives thousand of miles away has never missed a PTM when in town. The two boys revel in each other’s company, the little one following the bigger one at each step. The sight of them fills me with happiness and lights up my darkest hour. How blessed I am to have these two little souls in my rapidly dwindling life.
In four days my grandson will leave after eight magical months. I know there will be a huge hole in my heart but I also know that another little boy from another world will be there to fill the void till he returns.
Living on borrowed time without a thought for tomorrow wrote John Lennon. I wish I could sing the same tune! But tomorrow bears heavy on me. And though I too like all mortals am living on borrowed time all my thoughts are riveted on tomorrow.
Perhaps I too could have happily sung the words had I not one day decided to take the long road home, the one that touches other lives and other dreams. I did and today I am in custody of too many morrows that need to be moored before my time is up.
Why did I decide to save a hopelessly scalded child, or give a new lease of life to a broken heart? Why did I chose to repair a pair of hands maimed by fire or give a handful of children born in abject poverty the chance of a lifetime? These questions can keep begging for plausible answers but the reality will not change. These children have fragile tomorrows too dependent on mine that need to be secured. And the questions do not end as every step I took in the last decade had someones hope fastened to it.
Then I was spirited and brave, having even forgotten that I lived on borrowed time. Today as the clock ticks mercilessly I find myself troubled if not distressed. How will I be able to meet my commitments and move on peacefully. Some time back everything was upbeat. It seemed we had a solution in the form of planet why the panacea for all ills! And it almost seemed that all would fall in place. Had we not succeeded in the impossible task of securing a piece of land beating all odds? Now we only had to find the funds to build. But the fates conspired against us and we hit a low when markets tumbled and everyone felt insecure and shaky. Things looked up again for a bit and we held our breath in anticipation of a miracle. The expected miracle has still not happened though we still wait. Our other efforts to secure the needed numbers did not quite take off though we are still looking for options. But as I said we are on borrowed time and time is running short.
When 2011 dawned, we decided that this would be the do or die year fro planet why. If nothing happened by 31/12/11 then we would quietly lay planet why to rest and seek other ways. Almost half the year has slipped by with nothing forthcoming. The wise would accept the writing on the wall but I still want to hold on to the planet why dream. It is only planet why that would secure all the dreams we hold in custody. Any other option would necessitate our truncating them.
Today I can only pray for a miracle and hope that the time left is sufficient to see it happen.
Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted wrote Aldous Huxley. Over the past years I have learnt how true this is! And how it sometimes hurts. I guess in spite of my years of being in the doing good business, I have not been able to shed my human failings. But let me put all this into context.
Two days back the boarding school kids were back from school with their endearing smiles and large doses of holiday homework. Daily writing from the newspaper, charts of roman numerals, English grammar charts, crafts and science projects and what not. A handful for even one like me. Wonder why schools give so much work! Holidays are no more holidays. As I said it is bad enough for educated parents but how do illiterate parents handle this. I am of course talking of our seven little kids. So the holiday homework becomes another mission project why. A teacher has been assigned to handle just this and the children would have to come to pwhy at least for half a day. Everything was planned and ready to go.
The next morning Vicky’s mom came to in to inform us that they were off to the village for 2 months. When we told her about the homework she seemed unconcerned and a tad annoyed. She was unwilling to understand that there was a need to get the homework done and refused to listen. Reluctantly we had to get out the big guns and threaten to withdraw Vicky from the school. Ultimately the father got involved and understood the situation and the village trip was postponed post homework. The problem was solved but not quite for me as it once again brought up the nagging issue of gratitude, one that I am loath addressing but which nevertheless bothers me. I guess I am still human and not selfless enough not to expect a modicum of gratitude. I still have a long was to go, I presume.
I must admit that the lack of gratitude I have experienced over the last ten years has been troubling and even incomprehensible. I always thought, erroneously I guess, that people should be thankful for any help proffered. But that is not the case at all. It almost seems that if you give than more is expected and if the more does not happen then you become the villain of the piece. And this happens all the time. People do have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted to borrow Huxley’s words. So if you want to carry on, you need to change, they will not.
So you embark on the mission of trying to find excuses that will make situations more palatable even if they seem paltry: poor people have had such a raw deal; they have hardly seen good; they have always been in want and hence are always in need, do not know better and so on. But that is not the way to go. What is needed I guess is the ability to think like Rousseau and say:Gratitude is a duty which ought to be paid, but which none have a right to expect.
The one lot that has perfected the art of being grateful is undoubtedly our band of special children. Just walk into their class and they greet you with such warmth that it warms the cockles of your heart and turns the darkest moment into pure light. They do not expect anything in return. Their eyes are filled with love they are yearning to give and should you peer into them, there is no looking back, you will be touched by their magic. It is a unique experience that needs to be experienced.
On the other hand we mere mortals still expect gratitude and hurt if it is not forthcoming. Maybe the special kids have a lot to teach us and maybe it is time I walked the talk.
The auto rickshaws are supposed to go on strike today. This means pwhy will bear a deserted look as many of our children – the tiny and special ones – are fetched from their slum homes in such vehicles. The strike they say is indefinite whatever that means. The reason: the government’s insistence that all autos install a Global Positioning System by tomorrow or face its ire! The cost of the system to be borne by them: a whopping 7000 Rs installation and 600 Rs a month maintenance.
I too was once among those who ranted and raved about the behaviour of auto drivers till I was forced to enter their world. You see many of our kids are children of auto drivers and we at pwhy use them as a sole means of transportation. So I am well qualified to write this apologia.
Most of Delhi’s auto drivers come from other states having left their habitat of origin for economic reasons. Many after devastating floods or quakes. They come to the big city and manage against many odds to get their driving licenses and are ready to join the fleet. Now in Delhi you either own your vehicle or drive one on rent. In the later case you need to pay a hefty daily sum to the owner who are often hard core businessmen. You pay for the fuel, the minor repairs and take home what remains. This means that if you earn 1000 rs on a good day, you take home a mere 400. In case you own your scooter you have bought it on credit from wily creditors who charge a hefty rate of interest and work out some inane monthly installment that you more often than not are unable to pay – an illness in the family, the child’s school fees etc -. The cunning creditor then reworks your dues and your are landed with a higher installment. Sometimes you even borrow at a whopping 10% a month to pay your installment and have not one but two creditors a month. Owning your vehicle can take years if you are lucky and the creditor does not impound your vehicle.
Auto drivers have families to support and these families have urban dreams. School for the children, a TV for the house and so on, so life is never easy. But you carry on. There are no social benefits, no insurances you are on your own. Life is a struggle and the urban dream slowly turns sour. So when you are slapped with an additional 7000 Rs and 600 Rs a month you see red. It is not that you do not want the GPS installed, you do not know how you will meet your month ends. Like all people in the city you are not living but surviving.
One can of course also argue for or against the installation of a GPS system. The first thing that comes to mind is the safety of such a system in an open vehicle often parked on streets at night. Tongues are also wagging and it is being said that the company that provides these systems is owned by the relative of a high placed politician. Could be true as this is often an insidious form of corruption we are all too familiar with.
I do not know what the outcome of the strike will be. Probably not good for the auto drivers who will ultimately be forced into submission as is always the case. I also do not know what the day hold for us at pwhy as we too depend on autos to survive. I am bracing myself for a hard day.
It was mother’s day on Sunday in the anglo saxon world, it will be mother’s day in France on May 28th. I wonder why we need a special day to honour mothers, I remember mine everyday though she left this world 20 years ago. She made me who I am today. Not only did she gift me life but nurtured it carefully and lovingly at every step. She taught me every little thing needed to bloom and grow. She healed each little scratch and hurt and ensured that the scars would vanish too. She assuaged every blow that came my way and soothed the pain till it disappeared.
Though she smothered me with love, she also made sure I learn all the lessons needed. She could be firm and even merciless when need be. I remember one such incident. I must have been about 6 or 7. I had developed the bad habit of piling my plate with food and then leaving half of it. Mama had grown up in want and could not bear food being wasted. She first tried to reason with me but when it did not work she knew she had to pull out the big guns. One day after I had once again left lots of food in my plate she instructed the staff to put the plate in the refrigerator. It was to be given to me at the next meal cold and congealed. Stubborn as I was I refused to eat it. She did not relent. I got nothing and the plate went back into the fridge awaiting the next meal. This game continued for 2 days, by the end of it I was so hungry that I devoured the plate as if it was manna from the Gods. It is a lesson I have never forgotten, and even know after five decades I never leave food in my plate. It is only much later that I came to know that my parents had not eaten during those two days. Made the lesson even more precious and poignant.
Life carried on and so did the lessons, each as powerful and as valuable. And as I grew older from child to adolescent and then adult she was always there, allowing me to write and play my own script, but ever present like a prompter in the wings of the stage of my life, ready to intervene whenever I faltered. I carried on safe in the knowledge that she was there and nothing could befall me. But the Fates intervened and she left this world two decades ago. I was shattered.
I picked up the pieces of my life as best I could, memories of her helping me to carry on. I did not know that she would still stun me with her incredible and selfless love. Many years after her death I was trying to cope with many things and was deeply hurt and angry. As always at such times I resorted to some serious spring cleaning as this always calms me down. As I was clearing old boxes I discovered a yellowed diary. It was a diary my mother had written a few months before her death and was an account of her day to day life, of her thoughts, of her dilemmas and reminiscences. In hindsight it was also an example of the power of a mother’s intuition as every entry seemed to echo some of my own angst and somehow heal it. Years before the idea of pwhy had even entered my head she had known what life held for me.
I reproduce the entry verbatim
I write this story for Anu to read.
There was a young beautiful girl; she got married and had children and spent all her time looking after her babies and her husband. Children were happy. The house was well run. Everything was almost picture perfect.
Then the children grew up. They did not need their mother. They resented her interference. Husband was busy in his work. The house ran beautifully. Time weighed heavy on her hands. She was miserable and tried joined a ladies’ club and playing cards. But it seemed too artificial. She was unhappy and her health started failing her. Something was amiss. She felt useless and unwanted.
One day an old school friend came to see her and she broke down and shared her despair. Her friend listened and promised to help.
A few days later she came and told her: I have a job for you, poorly paid but you will like it. It was a job to teach poor kids. She began in earnest. The children were lovely, the called her maam and to her immediately.
Soon all her problems vanished: she was wanted, loved, respected and healed.
How had she known… I wonder but she did, almost to a T!
Shorty after writing these words she had a cerebral accident and was never the same again. This was her last coherent message to me. Every day as I walk into pwhy I am reminded of this. I do not need a mother’s day to honour Kamala. I do it every day.
578 is the maximum you can spend in a month to be considered poor by the Government and benefit from social benefits and subsidies. That is 20 rs a day! and that is if you live in a city. In a village the amount is 15 a day. Thus spoke the Planning Commission. The commission told the Supreme Court on Tuesday that a city dweller cannot be termed poor if his average monthly spends exceed Rs 31 on rent and conveyance, Rs 18 on education, Rs 25 on medicines or Rs 36.5 on vegetables. So if you spend more than 20 Rs day you are not poor! So according to the Government a mere 25.7% of the urban Indians need food, shelter and social benefits. Anyone spending more than this will be denied subsidized food, accommodation, pensions and medical treatment targeted at the Below Poverty Line population.This is shocking and ludicrous.
We work with the urban poor and have been doing so for the past decade. A hovel in a slum cost nothing less then 1000 rs a month. That is a hole with a tin roof and rickety walls. Now according to above stated statistics a family of five to be considered poor can only spend 31×5 or 155 Rs a month on rent. At that price you will not even find a hole in the ground! As for 36.5 rupees a month on vegetable or just over a rupee a day, I wonder what one would eat! Then why such strange and unrealistic figures. For one it helps claim that poverty in India is getting lower it also helps reduce the spending on social programmes.
But how long can we all play the I see no evil game? True we can boast of having some of the richest people in the world, people who can spend zillions on building a house or who flaunt their riches till it becomes galling and vulgar, but can we honestly deny that a child still dies of malnutrition every 8.7 minutes! How can a self respecting Government turn a blind eye to the stark reality that surrounds us all. And how can we, as supposedly self respecting citizens play along.
What is happening? We have an education system where a mere 33% gives you a certificate. This is apparently done to enhance the literacy figures. Now we have a laughable figure to define the poverty line. This is again apparently done to show that we are not so poor. It is all a game of manipulating figures. No one wants to address the problems and solve them. The rich will get richer and the poor poorer and no one seems to care.
S wanted a Blackberry Playbook for his birthday. Now S is not a young teenager but a well established person with a great job. D his wife decided to grant him his wish and buy the said object. But then S changed his mind and decided to donate that money to educate 4 kids at pwhy! Wow! S and D always manage to take my breath away. So the Playbook mutated into something intangible and yet so precious. I am humbled!
