I received an email informing me about a new initiative: the joy of giving week! The mail said: The “Joy of Giving Week” is planned for Sept 27-Oct 3, 2009 as a national movement that aims to engage more than two crore Indians in different “acts of giving” -money, time, resources and skills. The week aims to engage every Indian citizen in “giving back” to society in a way that s/he chooses. From a billionaire writing a large cheque to a poor villager sharing 1 out of his 3 rotis with someone less fortunate, the idea is to create a “festival of philanthropy” that can, over the years, become a part of the Indian ethos, with the Week being celebrated every year covering Gandhi Jayanti. Wow what a great enterprise and how one wishes it works. Actually it should as it has all the ingredients for success: stars, celebrities, media campaigns and more. The email solicited one to spread the message… and let us do just that. The details of the campaign are available on the link given above.
What I want to do is to extol the joy of giving and share with you some of the very gentle ways in which people have reached out to help project why. I have been in the business of soliciting and panhandling for a decade now hoping against hope to ignite the flame of giving in individuals, corporates and others. That it seems to have worked till now is vindicated in the fact that we have been in existence for almost 10 years. The price one has had to pay is another story waiting to be told. You can find glimpses on it in blogs written in times of despair: be it about the art of giving or the way to do so. If my blogs were ever to be published, they could be happily titled: the saga of giving!
We too initiated our joy of giving week/month year in the form of the one-rupee-a-day initiative and encountered many a storm. Somehow our joy of giving pitch did not quite take off the way we would have wanted. And yet over the past years we have been privy to some of the most beautiful and generous ways of giving that anyone could imagine: the efforts of a very special young lady who refuses to give up on us and has the knack of lifting my spirits when they drop well below zero, the spirit of an incredible woman who puts on her running shoes to ensure that pwhy children keep smiling, the initiative of young business school students who come each year and spread their brand of love, the effort of a young volunteer to make sure that the life of a little scalded child is not wasted, and the many others miracles that drop our way with obsessive regularity urging one not to give up! The tiny efforts of huge hearts that make us believe that all is not lost, even when everything urges you to think otherwise.
There is joy in giving, but it requires you to make a huge effort: that of looking deep into the eyes of a little beggar child knowing that you run the risk of getting lost forever. One does not need to run festivals of philanthropy. Philanthropy lies dormant in each one of us and needs to be awakened and often it happens when you least expect it.
For the past three weeks Project why has again be touched by the magic of the SARI Kids. These are a bunch of young students from an ivy league business school in France. They come each year and spread their own brand of love to the children of project why for a whole month.
Sophie, Daphne, Justine, Yves, Ted and Simon landed in Delhi on a Tuesday morning and were all set to start their work the very same day. This time we were a little better organised and had made plans for them before their arrival. Two of the four would go to the women centre and live there, and the remaining four would work in our different centres. What never ceases to amaze him with these kids is the ease with which they slip into the role assigned to them. As if it was something they had done all their lives. Never mind the heat, the language barrier, the cultural differences they are here to conquer everything with their hearts.
But that is not all, this unique bunch of kids had spent the whole year raising funds for us. We were tickled to learn that Simon had even made chicken tikkas and mango lassi at the many sales they organised. Armed with their bounty of love they set out to work. This year it is Okhla, the creche and the prep class that are the chosen destinations. Nothing is too forbidding. Never mind the heat, the flies, the torrential rain or the spicy food, these kids mean business.
Within no time at all they have comfortably set into a pattern. Every week the duo that sets out for the women centre changes. Those who go to Okhla set out with the teachers and travel by bus to the centre. Soon bonds are created with the children and the staff and smiles and giggles abound. Plans are made. The bigger children will be taken to an outing this time to the planetarium. The smaller ones will go to a park.
But that is not all. Sophie the President of the association tells us that they would like to buy us things we may need. More plans are made. The women centre decide to spent the money of extending their class by making a new shed on the terrace. Other centres want books, toys, mats, plastic stools a cornucopia of things that would make everyone happy. So it’s shopping time and we are again touched by the generosity of these very unique youngsters.
As I watch them go about their chosen tasks I cannot but wonder at what makes these kids from well to do homes and privileged lands take a whole month off their holidays to come and spread joy and love to a bunch of slum children in India? They do not have to do it, they chose to do so. Just a look at them is enough to know that they do so with their heart braving all the challenges that slum India throws at them each day. And as I watch them I wonder why youngsters of privileged India do not walk the same road. If that did happen things could be so different.
In less than a week the SARI kids will leave us and go their way. They will leave in our hearts an indelible mark and the comforting feeling that all is still well in our world.
Last Friday the special section spent the day making rakhis as Raksha Bandhan is being celebrated next week. Threads, glue, sparkles, coloured papers, paint, brushes and scissors were set up and everyone set to work.
There was a palpable excitement in the air as the rakhis were to be sold and a big treat bought from the sale proceeds. It was touching to see everyone toil over his or her rakhi, sticking sparkles or painting flowers as they decorated their rakhis. Little Radha forgot the plaster on her foot as she set out to make a stunning rakhi. Some worked in pairs, others alone. Sometimes the teachers would help but somehow everyone knew that they had to make their rakhis unique. And they truly were: special threads of love woven by very special children.
I had to share this picture. It is my fleeting moment of glory as Dear Popples still sits proudly amongst giants valiantly battling for an elusive yet coveted prize. I do not know whether Dear P will be a David but the fact that it got here is already praiseworthy. Pardon my audacity as I sing my own praise and allow me just for this short instant to blow my own bugle.
Dear P was written because I wanted to share the story of how a little boy could tranform so many lives. It was written because I wanted all to know that miracles happen and they happen without much ado. All you need is to look with your heart. Dear P was written to tell all who would hear that no life is too hopeless to be saved, and that it is within each one of us to reach out and help another.
I do hope this fleeting moment of glory results in many of you picking up Dear P and reading it and you will discover the magic of life in its purest form.
I would like to share with you the preface of the book:
There is a time in life when you feel a strange emptiness, as if all that you had done or experienced till then has come to a close. It may happen in an instant, often after a tragic event, or it may seep in slowly, in bits and pieces, each leaving you a little disoriented, a tad empty till you are faced with a huge vacuum that threatens to devour you.
When you come to realise that you have travelled as much as you possibly could, felt every emotion from pure rapture to abject misery, done more than one would have expected, lost many battles and won a few and lived your life to its fullest, setting impossible goals that you have met with a measure of success, played the diverse roles scripted for you with a fair amount of kudos and your share of catcalls, it is time to stop and set out on a new journey.
A yet unformulated and hence unanswered question springs in your mind: what is the true meaning of life and how best does one live it? It is time to seek life’s bare bones and to extract its essence. And what comes about is steeped in simple truths that transcend the barriers of space and time.
In my effort to share these, I struggled with many options but each fell short in some manner or the other till I stumbled upon the idea of addressing them to a little child who acted as a catalyst in my life.
We often shy from revealing our bare self when our interlocutor is someone who has the skills and ability to react and hence sit in judgment. At those times truth gets clouded; we find it necessary to add ‘meat’ so as to make ourselves more likeable, more erudite and in doing so the raw nature of what we need to say gets lost forever and what remains is a sated life philosophy, propounded by one too many.
When you take the decision to travel inwards, to lands yet unknown and unexplored, you are surprised to stumble on a world replete with simple elemental realities and, when you craft them together you are faced with a wondrous wisdom, the wisdom of twilight years when you are through with explaining, emulating, fighting, bending backwards, proving the exact opposite of what truly is. That is when you are ready to fall in love for the last time: with life itself.
Dear Popples, is the sum and substance of my life, the quest for twilight wisdom: a simple love story.
Remember Nandini? The young girl with a hole in our heart, a hole that could not be fixed because she was too old. The one who wants to be a doctor? The brave little girl was in town for a check up and dropped by project why to see us. She is now in class VIII and doing well in spite of her heart condition.
Nandini is your matter of fact girl, one who can talk about her medical condition without fear or emotion. She told us that her blood pressure was low and that she was given some new medication that she had to take for a year till she came back for her next check up. She barely talked about her health as if it was of no consequence. She showed me all her school reports and once again I was impressed by her performance and by the quality of education imparted in a small town in much maligned Bihar. She had also brought her bills and receipts as we had promised to help her complete her schooling. I was again impressed her efficiency.
Nandini is the kind of child you want to help. Her quiet determination and will to succeed is touching. It is almost as if she felt that time is too short for useless banter and niceties. There is a task at hand: that of making adream come true, the dream of a child with a hole in her heart who wants to be doctor!
Dear Popples has been nominated for the Golden Quill awards were the words that greeted me yesterday morning when I woke up and found an SMS from my editor. I must be dreaming was my first reaction. But it was no dream. or was it just that: a dream come true, one that I needed to take time to savour. I must confess that I spent the day on cloud nine.
Dear Popples was written at a time when I was facing a dilemma and somewhat hurting. I needed to once again believe in all that was good and beautiful. And what better way to do it than to share the story of a little boy whose laugh made a half centenarian smile again, a little boy who whips up miracles in a trice and makes even ugly things look attractive. A real life story that makes you believe that life is worth living no matter how bad it may seem.
When Dear Popples was published I was frightened and shaky, but soon reactions and reviews started pouring in and I was touched and humbled. The book had touched others just as Popples had touched me. I had written it as an ode to hope and it had touched a chord in many. I was fulfilled. To see it today standing proudly among other books written by known authors is a matter of joy and pride. It proves that no matter how cynical our world looks, it still has place for simple stories that extol old fashion values.
For me it is little Popples and his friend Godji brewing yet another miracle.
In Valencia a little town in Spain live three wonderful people: Andy, Irene and Mike. Andy and Irene are old friends. They came some time back and spent a few days at pwhy and helped us build a brand new floor for our Okhla project! I guess they got touched by what I call the magic of project why as form that day onwards they have always been there for us. Running a race or sending regular mails filled with words of support and hope, Irene and Andy have taken us to heir hearts. A few days back Irene wrote tehse simple words: I’ve just read your post on the web site – surviving on promises. Every time I visit the PWhy site, I wish I was rich and could help you more, but I’m not so I just continue to do what I can.
And they did just that: convinced their good friend Mike who runs the sale where Irene and Andy run the book stall to support project why! This morning when I opened my inbox there was a warm mail that simply said: We had a wonderful time spreading the Project Why message this morning. One of our neighbours has promised to circulate details to everybody in her email address book, and another has donated four boxes of books, CDs etc for our August stall, so as you can see, PWhy is reaching out into the Valencian community.
Whenever I am down and out and wonder how pwhy will survive, there always comes what I call a message from God. Irene’s mail was just that: a blessed missive reminding me that I cannot give up as pwhy is not just another organisation, it is one that has been woven with threads of love and hope by people who feel for it and want it to live. True the road may sometimes look difficult but it is the one less travelled, the one I have and will always walk as it is filled with exciting surprises and wonderful people like Irene, Andy and Mike.
Rinky is one of our oldest students. This beautiful and extremely talented hearing impaired girl is one of a kind. She is a fully trained beautician and works part time in a local beauty parlour. While with us she also took sewing classes and tailoring classes.
For some time now she has been asking us to give her a sewing machine so that she can supplement her earnings by stitching clothes for others. Last week a dear friend presented her with a brand new machine and Rinky was on cloud nine. Her dream had come true!
In our land, sadly, hearing impaired children are treated as handicapped and often cannot accede to any formal education or training. Yet if given a chance they surpass themselves and even others. We saw the same spark inSaheeda who sadly left us for a better world and little Pooja will also follow the same path. With just a little help and oodles of love these children of a lesser God amaze everyone. You just have to believe in them and help them grow new wings.
Elise and Catherine, two of our summer volunteers, decided to make a fruit salad with the junior secondary girls in lieu of the normal English afternoon class.
The first step was to go and purchase the fruits from the local market. The idea was to buy at least one of each kind and thus to learn all the fruit names. For many girls it was the first time they saw a kiwi, a peach or a bunch of grapes. Once the fruit bought it was time to come back to class and get started. Each step was a new lesson: in colour, texture, aroma, a real treat for all the five senses. Then out came the knives and a new set of vocabulary as they peeled, pared, cored, sliced and diced. Each moment was filled with fun and laughter the biggest one being handling the pineapple. As juiced flowed and pits were cast away the excitement grew by the minute.
Soon the salad bowl was full and it was time to taste but not before another lesson this one in geography as the origin of each fruit was reviewed and maps were gleaned. A simple fun activity like making a fruit salad had become a real interactive lesson that every one enjoyed and loved.
The shocking, repulsive, abhorrent incident that happened in Patna recently has left me speechless and numb. I do not know whether to be angry, sad or bewildered. A woman is lured away from her home with the promise of a job. When she discovers that she has been duped and is going to be abused she tries to run away. However she is caught, molested in public, stripped and humiliated for over an hour while hundreds watch and even join in the game. The so called law enforcers a.k.a the police watch as mute spectators, one of them even joining the predators.
I cannot even begin to imagine what the poor woman felt as she bore the humiliation and outrage. Only one of her tormentors has been arrested, the others still run scot-free. No one stepped in to stop the ignominy. Everyone standing there simply watched the show with glee. The entire incident was caught on camera. Wonder why the camera men did not reach out to help her.
Nothing, simply nothing can condone this outrage. Even if the woman was the worst offender possible she did not deserve this treatment. We are supposed to live in a society where laws prevail but for that hour it seemed that all was simply forgotten as predators took the stage and played to the gallery that stood as silent spectators. I wonder why no one wondered how they would feel if they woman in question was one of their own: a sister, a daughter or a wife!
I could go on writing pages about how I feel today or simply limit my words and ask: Is it worth being born a woman in a land where women can be worshiped as an image but never respected in real life?
…it has not been considered as eligible due mainly to the fact it can be assimilated to a guest house were the words chosen by an MNC to convey their inability to fund our sustainability project a.k.a planet why. We had approached this particular organisation because they promote green and sustainable energy and planet why is first and foremost a green building with negligible carbon emissions.
It is time to explain a few things.
Planet why is certainly a guest house, but it is a guest house with a difference. The much maligned guest house forms only a part planet why which is above all a safe haven for lost forgotten souls like Manu and for those who like little Radha have become a burden to their families. It is a place where they can live and die with dignity, cared for and tended to with love and compassion. The guest house has a dual role: one is to enable us to earn the funds we need to carry on our work and the second is to give to our children of a lesser God a platform where they can be useful by taking on the plethora of small tasks any guest house entails: gardening, kitchen work, housekeeping etc. For how would they live with dignity if they did not feel useful.
It is after much thinking and many false starts that we zeroed on the idea of setting up a guest house as means to sustain ALL our activities. I know it may sound preposterous to many as the word guest house reeks of business and commercial enterprise a far cry from charity and CSR! But I urge you to once again look at the planet why guest house with your heart. I hope and pray it is a huge commercial success when it does come to be! Because every penny earned by it will go in securing the morrows of thousands of children and ensure that project why does not die a natural death, one that would be intrinsically linked to that of its founder.
The much maligned guest house is pwhy’s road to freedom: freedom from the fragile and tedious mode of financing it has known till now: the famous virtual begging bowl! True that the figures look daunting: planet why will need the equivalent of what is needed to run project why for 7 years and that is certainly huge but once it is in existence then pwhy can arry on its present activities and much more without any outside help.
Planet why is a sound proposal, a healthy social enterprise that CSR programmes should look at. Maybe we need to package it in a different way to make it palatable. Maybe we should find a new name for the guest house? I do not know. All I know is that we need another miracle to come our way.
Remember little Radha, the elf with brittle bone disease, the one who even appeared on national TV and who twirls like a dervish? The one we love so much and fear for? Well thanks to a kind supporter and friend Radha was examined yesterday by a top orthopedic surgeon and a paediatric surgeon in one of the swankiest hospital of our city.
In the early evening Radha set out with her teacher Shamika and Tiphanie an occupational therapist from France. The little child was frightened and awestruck as she entered the portals of what would have looked to her like a fairy land. She held on to her teacher and did not utter a word. Soon they were in the examining room and the doctors got to work. The child was petrified but did not move or fuss. The examination was soon over and the doctors gave their verdict: Radha would need rodding surgery, a complex series of operations that would straighten her curved bones and perhaps reduce the frequency of her fractures and maybe get her to walk. The decision proclaimed the doctors would be the mother’s. We knew it would have to be ours.
Rodding surgery in any osteogenis imperfecta case is not a cure but simply stabilizes the bones and may improve the quality of life of the patient. A perusal of any article on OI shows that what the child needs is to be handled with care. I wonder how that is possible when you live in a hole in a slum! What goes by the name of home is a hornet’s nest where even the most basic task is fraught with dangers. It is no wonder that Radha has in her short life had more than 50 fractures! Were she to undergo a series of complex surgeries there is no way she could live in this home. She would need safer moorings.
Do we or don’t we. We are faced with an existential question. In her present situation little Radha’s leads as normal a life as possible: she eats, sleeps, plays with her siblings, even looks after the younger ones. She comes to pwhy where she learns, dances, plays and even fights with her classmates. She is handled with as much care as possible. Sometimes a false movement or a forgotten object results in a snapped bone, a trip to the government hospital and the ensuing cast, but Radha is a pro at that by now. In the present situation her bones are deteriorating. In the past month she has lost the use of one of her arms as her bones are slowly bending. In the present situation she may lose the use of the other and then become unable to feed herself or even write. Would the operation solve that. Not quite as the doctors are only talking of her leg bones. How many surgeries would one need to rectify all her problems.
Rodding surgery is complex and lengthy. Her post op care would above all need a clean and hygienic environment where she can heal her bones as the risk of infection is huge. Surgery would mean long absence from all that is familiar to little Radha: her home, her family, her school, her friends. It would entail pain and loneliness for yet unknown results. But one thing is sure: she would never be cured.
Do we or don’t we. Even with surgery Radha will never have a normal life, the kind a girl from a family like hers can aspire for: a marriage and a family of her own. She may be able to get some education, and learn some skill but in a society like ours where does it get her. She would always need to be handled with care and thus need someone to do so.
Doctors give their opinions without assessing the whole situation. They simply see the ailment and the best medical treatment available. But we have to have the courage and grit to view the situation as a whole and see how best to act. At this moment I am unable to decide what to do. I hope the God of lesser beings will once again guide my steps.
During the course of the debate on education that brought Hillary Clinton and actor Amir Khan on a platform a young volunteer stated that she had been trying to teach five children under a tree, but that the kids’ parents would rather they begged or sold trinkets on trains. This was a touching and yet very real question.
Some time back I had asked my staff to ensure that all pwhy children of school going age should be enrolled in school. Parents had to be convinced and in case they did not agree, the child was not to be accepted in our programme. I was soon to learn that it was yet another silly diktat issued without truly assessing the reality of the situation. There is a bunch of girls well in their pre teens who attend our classes and yet do not go to school. The reason is that their mothers work in the morning and need these girls to man the home and tend to their younger siblings. In the afternoon the moms are back at home and the children can come an attend classes at pwhy and thus educate themselves. Needless to say I immediately reversed the diktat and told the teachers not only to accept them in class but to give them special attention. Some of these girls are exceptionally bright and it occurred to me that if they could not been mainstreamed they could perhaps do their schooling through the open school. Something we need to look at.
There are many instances when children are kept away from school not to be put to work and earn money but to enable mothers to work and this is a reality that all law makers and educationists should keep in mind. And if we were to go a step further, parents who send their children to beg or sell trinkets as was the case with the young volunteer, here too it is a matter of survival. The few rupees brought by the child go a long way in keeping the fires burning. In a country as large as ours and where millions live in poverty any law has to be sensitive to the situation on the ground. In pwhy classes we allow girls to bring their baby siblings to class as if we did not, the child would not be allowed to come. The situation is critical in urban slums where often both parents need to work and the only way they can do so is if the elder child is left at home to tend to the smaller ones. And in our society it is the girl child who is sacrificed.
There were two back to back discussions on education on national TV yesterday evening. One was a recording of the Hillary Clinton Aamir Khan event at St Xavier’s Mumbai, and the other was a live debate with the new education minister and a handful of educationists, NGO reps, students and parents. I sat riveted for two hours as for the first time much of what I have been harping about was being debated. It was music to the ears. For the first time people were talking of school education and the need to give every child quality learning. Many new ideas were mooted. The grade system in preference to the incomprehensible and unjust percentile system, choice rather than marks to decide what stream a child would enter, introduction of vocational subjects and more.
Though the two debates were very different they touched on many common concerns one of them being quality of teachers. Both forums accepted that teaching had to be given more social acceptance. In today’s world you became a teacher because you were unable to become something else. Both forums felt that this was a skewed view and needed to be redressed and many possible solutions were mooted. One person even talked of setting up an Indian Education Service on the lines of the Indian Administrative Service, something I have been suggesting for a long time. It was wonderful to hear the idea mooted on national TV in front of decision makers!
The debates continued touching on many valid points aiming at ensuring that every child gets the opportunity to achieve his or her potential: inclusive education, caring teachers, quality education etc. Many questions were asked and answered and yet something was missing. Each time one touched on the subject of giving quality education to ALL children, answers remained vague and one could even sense an air of unease. You see only one half of India was represented, the other was absent. Solutions proffered to this disturbing questions seemed more like hand outs, the zeal to reform and redress was strangely absent. Once again one fell on the value of programmes like the SarvaShikshaAbhyan, or in other words a parallel system as one needed to respect the society of schools! To a question from a young girl on how to teach English to poor kids, as it was her ability to speak English that had got her to be present in this distinguished forum, the answer was to try and excel in one’s own language. It seemed as if English, the real even field leveller was only for the chosen few.
I would have liked at least one person to talk of the common neighborhood school.To me it would be the panacea to all the ills that plague our education system. A common school where children of both Indias could learn and grow together taught by the best talent available: a pipe dream maybe, but one that I will hold on to till I breathe my last.
Parkour is a discipline that appeared first in France, more similar to a martial art than to a sport, focused on moving from one point to another as smoothly, efficiently and as quickly as possible using the abilities of the human body. It is built on the philosophical premise that any obstacle, physical or mental, can be surpassed . This is the wikipedia defenition or what parkour is! I guess in every one’s mind it entails physically and mentally fit human beings. Not quite so. Our special children partook in parkours thanks to Marie and Tiphanie two occupational therapists from France. It really did not matter whether you could walk or not, hear or not, think or not this brand of parkour was for everyone.
A stick between two chairs, a ball on a bench, two hoola hoops, a bucket and some stools were all that was needed to create our very own set ofparkours. Everyone completed his or her parkour, even Manu who has not been wanting to move much since his terrible illness. It was truly touching to see children crawl under or jump over things, throw balls or simply reach out to an object. The outside world had suddenly entered the four walls of our special class. Things that till that very instant were normally denied to those like our special kids became part of their little universe. It was overwhelming and I could not suppress the tears of joy that flowed unabashedly. Every child surpassed his or her physical and mental ability and came out a winner. Thank you Marie and Tiphanie for this very special moment.
You can share some of these very special moments here.
With you, for you, always is the motto of the police of our city. Each time I see these words slapped on the side of a vehicle or on a larger than life poster I instinctively recoil. Nothing could be more untrue and the last encounter you would want to have is with the police. Somehow stepping into a police station is an experience one would not wish for anyone. It is the last place you will get help or justice.
It is with extreme sadness that I read about the young girl who had committed suicide because the police failed to act against those who regularly eve teased her. Instead of getting the justice she sought from the protectors of law, the family was subjected to harassment and intimidation. It was too much for the young girl who decided to end her life. The reason for which the police behaved in this manner was that the eve teasers belonged to some well connected political family! The police is not meant for the poor, the helpless, the downtrodden or simply the innocent.
It is sad that the police in our country still behaves as a force created by the coloniser to beat the colonised to submission. It is just that the colonisers have assumed a new avatar: that of the unscrupulous politician or the moneyed men. And no matter how many nice soundings mottoes they invent, the essence remains the same. Once you don the uniform you are given the liberty to act as you please.
We too have had our encounters with the police and each has been distasteful and vile. If we need to repair any of our centres, before we can lay the first brick the beat officer is at our door his palm extended for blood money and no matter how hard we try to appeal to his better side, it is all in vain: once you wear the uniform you lose your better side forever. If we try and go to the police station to seek some assistance, we are viewed with such suspicion that we beat a simple retreat. And how can I ever forget the case of a young woman taken in by the police because a piece of jewellery had disappeared from the house she worked in? The jewellery was found and the information given to the police station but the poor young woman was gang raped by the posse on duty. Th next day an officer did take the men to task and the woman was offered monetary compensation but that one night changed her forever and scarred her mind. She today suffers from deep psychoses.
The poor girl who committed suicide last week must have suffered extreme humiliation and known that her life too was scarred forever. She simply decided to take it away and she did. And no one could do anything to help her, specially not those who profess to be with you, for you, always!
It must seem as though you are surviving on promises wrote a friend I had sought support from. It seems like another message from up there. There seem to have been quite a few in the past days. Propitious or ominous only time will tell. I would rather believe the former.
Times are tough for all and yet promises abound each time you reach out to someone for help. Another friend asked candidly how we survived the first years hoping that maybe we could find some forgotten ideas. My mind wanders back to those days. It was easy then as I had an inheritance to dip in. But no inheritance is big enough to fulfill all the dreams you have and the pot of gold disappeared quicker than one would have thought. And then came the panhandling years that are still very much alive. Yes, pwhy has lived, thrived and survived on the generosity of those one reached out to. And even if you did not always get what you sought, words of encouragement and promises always abounded to ensure you did not give up. And then a miracle big or small came your way and you were out of the woods for some time at least.
Along the way and after many false starts we crafted our sustainability dream, planet why! We had hoped to see it happen by 2010 but recession made it take a back seat and the years of soliciting got a new lease of life. Have we really survived on promises? I guess so as promises uplift your sagging spirits and give you the strength to carry on. Promises of help, promises of support, promises of assistance. But I guess what makes us truly survive are the unvoiced and tacit promises I made to myself: that of giving Manu a home till he breathed his last; the promise to see Utpal conquer his morrows. There is a plethora of such promises I have made to myself each time a child walks into my life and my heart. And yes it is those promises that make me go on, even when times are dark and scary.
Don’t despair! Something will come along, and not just because it has to but because no one will let anything happen to the Project wrote a friend in a mail that dropped my way this morning. Did she sense that I was terribly troubled, or was this a message from the heaven’s above, I do not know. But the warm words felt like balm on a hurting heart! Wonder who the no one is; maybe my friend the God of Lesser beings who has always been there for us.
It is true that I am worried: our sponsor a child programme is just not taking off the way I would have liked it to and compassion seems to have gone AWOL in this times of recession. Each day we get our share of blows big and small and can only take them standing and not dare move. Many may wonder why one does not close shop or at least cut costs. The question is valid and deserves a proper answer. One cannot close shop because too many morrows depend on us: whether it is those of the little and bigger children in school who risk the danger of dropping out were we to shut our doors or the motley crew of special souls who can only claim their right to laugh or smile within the four walls of their project why class. In all we are talking of 800 morrows, no mean number you will agree. One cannot close shop because Manu and Anjali would be on the streets as they have no family but pwhy.
As for cutting costs believe you me we have tried our very best. Our classrooms are jam packed, our teaching staff is minimal and our administration the leanest possible. Moreover we cannot move out of the flat where Manu and Anjali live because no one is willing to rent their premises to house lost souls like them. The only thing we have managed to do is make maximum use of the space available and hence the rooms in the foster care house 4 classes during the day. So the only option available to us is to try and reinvent our ways of seeking help and hone our ability to make people see with their hearts. Something will come along is what I have to believe. So help me God!
I received an email informing me about a new initiative: the joy of giving week! The mail said: The “Joy of Giving Week” is planned for Sept 27-Oct 3, 2009 as a national movement that aims to engage more than two crore Indians in different “acts of giving” -money, time, resources and skills. The week aims to engage every Indian citizen in “giving back” to society in a way that s/he chooses. From a billionaire writing a large cheque to a poor villager sharing 1 out of his 3 rotis with someone less fortunate, the idea is to create a “festival of philanthropy” that can, over the years, become a part of the Indian ethos, with the Week being celebrated every year covering Gandhi Jayanti. Wow what a great enterprise and how one wishes it works. Actually it should as it has all the ingredients for success: stars, celebrities, media campaigns and more. The email solicited one to spread the message… and let us do just that. The details of the campaign are available on the link given above.
. The price one has had to pay is another story waiting to be told. You can find glimpses on it in blogs written in times of despair: be it about the art of giving or the way to do so. If my blogs were ever to be published, they could be happily titled: the saga of giving!
