It stands forlorn on a table. It had been bought with much hope and expectation to celebrate an event many of us had prayed for: the departure of a little boy to another land with brand new parents. But that was not to be as once again the life of a child got irremediably caught in the web of adult egos.
Let me tell you the story of a little boy now 4, who landed in our lives when he was just two weeks old. Born out of wedlock to parents of different faith he faced a grim future in a land where such children are branded for life. We thought that perhaps he would have a better morrow were he to be adopted and taken away to another land where labels and branding do not matter. Everything seemed to be working in the right direction as suitable parents were found and all seemed to be on track. The legal process was initiated and the doting parents-to-be made umpteen visits to India to shower love on the little boy.
We watched him grow, cut his first tooth, utter his first word, take his first step as he was a student of our creche. When the parents-to-be were in town, he slept in my home and was smothered with affection and gifts. Then what went wrong? Everything! The legal case took longer than expected and the child changed from a cuddly baby to a little boy with his own character and temperament. And by the time the case finally concluded in favour of the adoptive parents, a lot had changed. The parents had adopted another baby in their own land. And our little boy still needed a passport to leave his birth land and join his new family.
All of us believed that obtaining a passport was just a matter of time. But to our utter dismay we soon found that there was still a lot of red tape to be faced and egos to be appeased. The adoption agency refused to give the required clearance in spite of a court order. And as is always the case, no one was willing to give anything in writing. The would be parents lost interest and the little boy’s future was again in jeopardy. The celebration was not to be and the champagne bottle stood unopened, a grim reminder of a battle sadly lost.
In hindsight it is maybe all for the best. Next year we hope to be able to send the little boy to boarding school, thus ensuring that he gets what is needed to change his life for the better: a sound education. Perhaps it was the God of lesser beings operating in his own inimitable way! But one wonders how many children have their lives truncated because of inexplicable bureaucratic procedures and imbroglios.
Does recession makes you less compassionate is an interesting article by Ed and Deb Shapiro. I urge you to read it. The authors make a brilliant analysis of the state of affluence versus the state of poverty. And they conclude by saying: if we relate to the recession with fear, then it will close us down further. If we relate to difficulties with an open heart, then we will enter into a culture of greater sharing and compassion. Our economy is built on greed and a fear of scarcity. But we can transcend this by reaching out to each other in acts of fearless kindness and caring.
For the last decade I have been actively engaged in the charity bizMess and quite frankly I have seen more fear than open hearts. When I began my journey almost exactly 11 years ago, I was a real greenhorn. I felt that it would be easy to ask people around for tiny amounts, the kind that would not make an iota of difference in their lives. Yet it was the richer ones who were the hardest to convince.
The authors of the article refer to what they call the wounds of wealth. These are burdens of expectations, isolation, unhealthy family dynamics and crisis of identity and all these make them more remote and less accessible. On the flip side according to the authors, when one has nothing one is not fearful of being taken advantage of and willing to share the little one has. This is evident in the way a poor man opens his home to you and shares the little he has. Compassion according to the authors comes from a feeling that we are not isolated:We can take off our armor and allow ourselves to be touched and to feel the undefended heart.
I would truly like to believe this to be true. Though till date we have seen the contrary: people backing out of their tiny commitments for fear of losing all. I wish we could in some way ignite compassion in them and have them reach out to those in need. And this not for purely selfish reasons but because the world looks better when you look at it with an open heart.
Going going gone are the proverbial words that mark the end of any auction. The latest auction on the block is that of medical seats. It happens for the time being in Bangalore but God only knows how long it will take to start happening elsewhere. So it does not matter how hard you study, how well you do in school, what you need is a lot of money in the bank if you want to one day be a doctor! Now if that is the case should surprised at the astronomical fees we are asked to pay for a minor throat ache!
I was appalled when my doctor told me that one of his peers asked for 500 rs in case you called him up on the phone to ask for some advise. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have called Dr P not just for myself or my family but for pwhy children and sought precious advise. But then if you need to pay huge amounts for a medical seat then I guess the man was justified. Well not quite so as he was of Dr P’s age, and in those days you paid a mere 125 Rs a month as tuition fee in a state run medical college where you got admission on merit. Dr P felt that at least his vintage should not stoop so low!
Where are we going. There I was just a week back jumping with joy at the wonderful results my kids had got me. What good is Vivek’s 97%. His family has barely enough to make ends meet. In our days a first division (a paltry 60% and plus) got you to a good college. The the equation changed and you need 90% and more to secure the coveted seat. Now it seems the equation has changed 90% and plus + a hefty back balance = a college of your choice.
Now you may ask what happens to those who are unable to meet these new requirements, those who still get old times marks. Well they can aspire to studying abroad, something that was not an option in our times. Many countries have opened their portals to the ever increasing number of Indian students who now often leave their homeland after school. True money is required but sometimes it is easier to get a seat in Australia then in India. Loans or simply liquidating assets allows many students to go and study in other lands. But all is not glitter and gold there as we have seen lately. In Australia lately students from India have been subjected to brutal racial attacks. In all probability, the matter will be resolved at least for now but it is something we cannot wish away.
My first encounter with racism was when I was around 12 or 13. It was in a newly independent Algeria. I had gone to the local grocery shop to buy some tomatoes. A young boy of my age was serving customers. He gave me a kilo of tomatoes but over half of them were rotten. When i brought this to his attention he looked at me with anger and said: If you are not happy, go back to your home! I have never forgotten this incident. At that time I was angry and humiliated, today I understand what the child meant. Anyone outsider was a potential danger that could take away what was rightfully his.
I do not want to end this post on a gloomy or fatalistic note. There are lessons to be learnt and the first one is that of looking at our education system with honesty and candor and seeing what ails it. One of the first comment of our new Minister of Education was to say that he wished to invite Ivy League colleges to India so that students could get the best at affordable prices. I wish he had also stated that he would look into state run schools and ensure that they become the best option available to all. We have to put an end to the caste system that exists in education and ensure that every child in India gets access to the best available. Yes I am again making a pitch for the common school. Is anyone listening or should I rather say who will bell the cat?
Got a mail from my dear friend Xiong. He was a volunteer with us two years back but then, slowly, became a dear friend, someone whose advise and ideas I respect and try to follow: a sounding board for a lot of what we do and often I find myself listening to him and implementing his suggestions. In his latest mail Xiong informed me that he was joining our sponsorship programme. I guess that he more than anyone else read in between the lines all that was left unsaid.
Now the sponsorship programme allows you to select a class and Xiong in his inimitable gentle style simply wrote: If I had to choose a class I would like to be updated on news about the secondary section because I seldom read about them much on your blog, and also because I’m somehow more emotionally attuned to teenagers.
Touche! He was right. I seldom write about the secondary kids, at most when they bring back laurels that add to our already heavy wreath. Are they not the ones who have year after a year for almost a decade passed every single examinations they sat for. It was time to make amends and also to do some soul searching. Why were they the ones one rarely wrote about?
The answer was simple. They were the good child in the project why family. The one you take for granted, the one who never steps out of line and always does what you expect it to. And hence the one you overlook as you wit in front of your screen to share your trials and tribulations. But today I will write about them as I should have long ago.
Our senior secondary section is a bunch of about 100 teenagers from class IX to XII. They are under the care of their Naresh Sir, the very young man who took on the challenge nine years ago of ensuring that those everyone called gutter snipe, would shine and excel. And for the last almost a decade he has been doing just that. The secondary section is located in an airy room on top of our computer class. Every time we go and visit the class, we find them sitting with their heads buried in their note books. They barely look up,as they wish you the time of the day and you just tiptoe away from fear of disturbing them.
Unlike other classes they have few demands: a book now and again, money to make photocopies and once a year just before the final examinations, a plea for an outing to the movies. Then when the results are out they drop by to thank you with the customary box of sweets and a proud smile on their happy faces!
Then they are ready to take on the big world with confidence and poise, and we watch them leave the nest with pride and clouded eyes.
After a long time I decided to spend a day, or let us say most of a day at the women centre. I just could not imagine that barely two years ago this place did not exist. What strikes you as you walk into the big yellow gate after having knocked at it and have someone open it for you, is a feeling of comfort and ease. It is a happy place where everyone seems to be comfortable and busy. Of course you do get your share of good whatever time of the day, but nothing more. Everyone just carries on with their task.
After a few minutes spent in the tiny office under the stairs, I decide to take a walk around the place. On the ground floor the sewing class is in full swing. A handful of ladies and young girls are busy with the chore given by the watchful teacher. No one looks up at you as they risk making a mistake. In the creche everyone is busy colouring and though you geat a big Good morning Maa’m, no one really looks up at you. The next door is closed. It is the beauty class and today is exam day. The subject bridal make up. The model one of our volunteers. They are not to be disturbed.
On the roof classes are going on but the holiday mood is palpable. Children are playing games or posing for the camera, something they all love doing. But there are some serious classes too and what never ceases to amaze me even after 9 years, is the way these exceptional kids can concentrate in spite of all the noise and hullabaloo around them.
As we walk back to the ground floor, the sewing class had ended and in the vacated place the little creche kids are having their dance session. Beaming smiles are all you need to know that all is well at the Kamala centre.
The results of class XII and X are out. All the 36 project why children have passed with flying colours. Amit topped his school with 815 and Vivek got a whopping 97% in his class X. I am elated and terribly proud. Anyone would be I guess, but allow me to share where we come from.
In the winter of 2001, we only ran a few spoken English classes . One day, two class X boys came with welt on their arms. They had been severely beaten for no apparent reason. The hurt and humiliation they felt was unbearable and we decided to go and talk to the principal of their school. We had by that time got ourselves a copy of a High Court order that made corporal punishment prohibited by law.
We marched into the school and asked to see the Principal. We were met by a teacher who looked forbidding and who strutted about a stick in hand. We were taken to a huge room that looked straight out of a Dickens novel. Behind a large desk sat a small man. We were asked to take a seat. The man kept leering us in stony silence. I cleared my throat and began my diatribe. The man was thoroughly uninterested in what I was saying. After a while he called for the boys in question. They entered the room, almost cringing and stood in a corner their heads bowed. The man who was actually the principal of the school looked at them with utmost contempt and said to us: Are these the boys you are talking about. They are guttersnipe. They will never succeed in anything. Mark my words they will fail their exam. The boys looked totally devastated; their body language said it all.
We were speechless. This was not at all going like we wanted it to. On the spur of the moment I looked at the boys with a beaming smile and said: Ok boys, do we take a challenge and prove your principal wrong. I know you will pass your examination. The immediate change in the body language of the boys was mind blowing and heart warming. They nodded their heads and smiled. The principal was taken aback but said nothing. Emboldened I added: we will all pass this examination Sir!
That is how our secondary programme began, on a roadside, in the early hours of winter mornings. But we did win our challenge and all our boys passed their class X. Today most of them are gainfully employed and doing well. And since that day each and every year our students have cleared their Board examinations without fail!
When I see Vivek or Amit’s marks my heart swells with joy. I am again taken back to a day many years ago when I marched into another school to ask why were the students only taught part of the curriculum, I was simply told that as they needed 40% to pass, there was no need to teach them the entire curriculum! Thank heaven things have changed since, but when I see my kids pass their exams each year I remember our beginnings and feel we have really come a long way. At times like these I do give myself a pat in the back !
On the way to the doctor’s Utpal and Meher came visiting. They are both extraordinary kids with incredible spirits. Meher is undergoing plastic surgery and looks like an adorable ET and Utpal is as always a true hero.
Looking at them my mind went back to the day Utpal had first landed in my life. He was a bonny almost one year old that his mom use to bathe in the open in front of the door of my old office at exactly the time I use to walk in. I had taken to pat his wet head and ask the same question every morning: when are you sending him to our creche? I never knew then that his journey to our creche located just a door away would have to go through a baptism by fire. And yet had not that happened Utpal may just have been a rowdy little boy in a government school who perhaps came to a pwhy centre in the mornings. But that was not to be. A terrible accident ensured his life would change forever and Popples as I call him is today in class II in a nice boarding school.
Little Meher has her tryst with fire in a remote Bihar village almost three years ago. She was badly maimed and would have carried on like that were it not for a on the spot decision of her father to join his brother in Delhi. The brother’s rented hovel happened to be nest to our women centre and it was there that I met her one fine morning. The rest his history. She touched many lives and they decided to sponsor her reconstructive surgery. Today she looks like an ET because of the expanders in her scalp which will ensure that most of her scars disappear and her hand has already been repaired. She too will one day join Utpal in boarding school.Today they are both living at the women centre and though they sometimes fight, they are true soul mates.
I wonder what would have happened to both these children had they not sustained third degree burns. Strange are His ways, but then can we complain?
Maaza a gaya – What fun I am having – are the words that Manu pronounced in the middle of Flore’s farewell party. Flore has been a long term volunteer who spent nine months with the special section.
On Saturday she threw a big farewell party for all her special kids. There was music, exciting eats – chocolate filled pancakes and lots of sweets and cold drinks – and lots of games. Flore had brought presents for each and every child. Some got games and books, others lunch boxes and toys, the bigger girls got perfume and clothes and Manu got a monthly ration of his favourite cookies.
Everyone danced with abandon; even those who could not walk. Manu did a perfect rendition of a head banger while sitting in a corner and Radha and Nanhe danced in Shamika’s and Flore’s arms. Preeti did a perfect rendition of the Macarena even though she cannot walk. And Shalini who had got a pair of ghungroos (bells for her feet) regaled us all with her version of Kathak.
When it was time to play games, every one was game and you could see Preeti running on her hands and even winning! For a few hours everything that was sad and ugly was forgotten. I even think that for those precious moments little Radha forgot that she would perhaps have to spend another night on the roadside.
When it was time for the party to be over, one could feel a subtle change of mood. Everyone was trying to be brave but it was no easy task when the friend you were losing was as precious as Flore. Was she was not the one who had spent innumerable hours with every single child in the special section and was she not the one whose stamp was marked on every nook and corner of the newly painted classroom, particularly the clouds on the ceiling that made each one of us dream every time one looked up.
Flore is not your regular nineteen year old. She has wisdom and compassion way beyond her years and had a hart as big as the world and more. So no matter how brave you tried to be there was no way you could hold your tears when it was time to say goodbye.
You can share some moments of this very special farewell party.
Little Radha is quietly completing her work. Looking at her you would think that all is well in her little world, or at least as well as can be. Yet Radha spent the night on the footpath. The reason: her little home was raised to the ground by the local authorities. The reason again: it was an illegal construction though her family had to pay 400 rs a month and more. And yet it was the only shelter her family had. It was the only protection from the sun or the rains that they had and the place where Radha can keep her brittle bones safe
True that by any standards the so called house was not fit for any consumption but in a city that has forsaken its poor it was the home the little family had carefully crafted. Radha and her family are one of the millions of voiceless, faceless families that come to the big city looking for a better life. The tragic loss of the father made this little family even more vulnerable. The family had spent the last two nights on the footpath. The mother spends the days desperately looking for a room to rent within her tiny budget.
I am not one to defend illegal structures. But I would like someone to help me understand how legality or the lack of it is defined. Most of the so called illegal dwellings of Delhi have postal addresses and their inmates have voter identity cards and ration cards. The most blatant example is that of the Lohars or iron smith gypsies that have been living on the pavement for three generations now! Their homes are destroyed time and again but then rebuild the next day after paying the right bribe. Over the years illegal structures have acquired a covert legality. Then one fine day, because of some upcoming fancy sports extravaganza or some court judgement that took forever to be pronounced the structures become illegal notwithstanding civic documents or empty promises. It is time to raise them all and the authorities do that with impunity.
Not far from where we are there were some more structures raised to the ground. Two of them were small food carts. I guess this was done in accordance to a supreme court order banning food vendors. This is the beginning of the end of a lifeline, one that will spell disaster in a city that is already witnessing a rising crime graph.
Manu is back in class and he is back with his long lost smile. For all of us at pwhy it is a huge miracle. For many months we feared for his life though we kept a brave face. His body had almost given up as he suffered multi organ failure: his liver and kidneys had almost packed up with the potent TB medication and we were at a complete loss.
His frail and emaciated body was devastated but his spirit held on, and held on strong. It refused to give up no matter what. He just lived on and slowly began to heal proving beyond doubt that mind is stronger than the body.
He still cannot walk on his own but when we told him that he could come to class he was thrilled and accepted to be carried down two flight of stairs in spite of the pain. He spent the whole day in class with his long lost friends who were thrilled to see him.
When he felt a little tired he simply lay on Prabin’s lap to rest for a while and then was all set to carry on his activities of the day. It was nothing short of a miracle and I could only watch him with clouded eyes and a huge knot in my throat. What a journey it had been for this saintly soul who had suffered the worst ignominies in his life and yet who accepted it all with dignity and grace. A blessed soul whose life touched each and every child of project why and above all me. I feel humbled and in awe.
Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it wrote the Sufi poet Rumi. These words were sent to me in answer of the sponsorship appeal I recently put out on the world wide web!
I sat a long time wondering what the hidden message could be as normally one would have expected people to convey their support and in due course become sponsors. And then slowly it dawned on me. What my friend meant was basically not to give up but to try and find all the obstructions I had within myself that were stopping me from doing what I needed to.
No economic crisis or loss of funders should ever be allowed to come in the way of the future of my 800 kids. I just had find all the obstacles and remove them. What I had in custody was the smiles, hope and morrows of almost a thousand voiceless kids. I did not have the right or luxury to give up. And if I looked hard what I sought was not impossible: a hundred sponsors who would hold my hand and help me achieve what I had set out to do!
As I sat this morning wondering what today’s post would be in the light of what one is going through, my mind wandered back to an old post I knew I had written some years back when I was desperately trying to pitch and defend my erstwhile and forgotten one-rupee-a-day programme. Today I find myself coming full circle as I try to make a case for our new sponsorship programme. I fished it out of the wood work! It was simply entitled:
One rupee a day and planet India revisited
one-rupee-a-day was an intuitive thought that had come to my mind way back in 1998 when project why was a tiny embryo… it seemed to be such a perfect solution.. was not India rich in mumbers.. and a rupee was something easily spared..
like all intuitive thoughts it got pushed back in the face of raised eyebrows, puzzled looks and amused smiles.. copious advise about the ways of goodBiz was proffered: donations, funding organisations, fund raising extravaganza, charity sales and much else.. and the greenhorn that iI was had no option than to take the well trodden path.. somewhat ill at ease I must admit.. to my mind this did not gel with what I had stood for and certainly not with India..
the one-rupee-day kept coming back with obsessive regularity… but I paid all the dues to the goodBiz world, and did the rounds of all that was suggested, and to be honest many options worked and pushed project why into a comfort zone bringing success, kudos, praise and even recognition..
but the goodBiz had its own hidden rules, one of them being its fleeting nature.. come on ms.B no one does this forever, you must change with times and adapt to the flavour of the day.. now that was not acceptable.. education is life long and not transitory and one does not leave people midway, one empowers them to carry on… and the solutions offered did not work..
reality hit us as we were pushed out of our comfort zone, more than once and each time the one rupee leit motiv sprung back to life. It seemed to have all the answers to problems. If education was perennial then the funding option we sought had to be one that any Indian could participate in and any Indian could steer..
So if we stand by what we set out to do: establish a model that can reach every child and be steered by its own, then all resources have to come from within. Five years of goodBizMessing had finally taught us that we needed to go all out and make the one-rupee-option a success, beating all odds..
But nothing would have prepared us for what was to ensue: a new discovery of India which no one could have imagined.
We launched a multi-pronged appeal to a wide audience: netizens, people from all walks of life through brochures, personal meetings, telephone calls.. and with the replies and reactions a new map of India came alive.
Indians living away from their mother land, be it students or professionals, reacted with overwhelming spontaneity and unadulterated love for their motherland. Individual responses and collective efforts saw the light and bore fruit at breathtaking speed.. needless to say most of them had never seen project why… There was profuse support from unknwon people across India, more so from the southern and western states… the community and weaker sections of society did come forward with suggestions and contributions..
We started feeling elated… come on India numbered one billion hearts, now finding 4000 should be easy..
But it was not so as we were to realise once again.. the cynics appeared with their unbelievable tales.. India’s capital once again took the lead of this tragic Act of the play.. what amazed us the most was the fact that people who had seen project why did not find it in them to write a cheque for 360 rs.. let alone get us contributions from friends.. everything possible was said to deter us, the trophy going to an upmarket restaurant owner who felt that adding one rupee to a bill may lead him to a litigation ten years hence..
Does one give up… the answer is No.. the cynicism is so deep that it has to be set right… if the goodBiz is in such a mess then why should a child in need of help pay the price… it is for us to reinvent ourselves and wipe out misconceptions..
As I look at this new map of India, where the common denominator is its heart and ability to feel compassion for the other, I see boundaries extending way beyond its geographical entity… and if the little hearts are few within its own land then somewhere someone has gone wrong..
The one-rupee-a-day has to work… to set matters right and the last shred of doubt I had was wiped away this morning as I flipped through a magazine which had an article on the children dying of malnutrition in Maharashtra with a photograph of a baby whose ribs you could count but whose eyes still help hope..
No you do not give up on planet India..
Yes we have come full circle today as we seek 100 sponsors from the world over.
I should be jumping with joy. All our class XII students have passed their examinations and this for the 8th year running. But before I could get down and savour the good news a mail dropped in my inbox informing me that one of our main donors would not be able to meet their monthly commitment for they next 4 months.
It was a huge blow and I am completely shattered. How would we manage as without that particular donation there was no way we could survive.
If I were running a business I could have locked the door and lost the key while I licked my wounds in some remote corner. But when you run a show like project why you do not have the luxury to do that. Which door do I lock and who do I send home. The little ones who come every day and spend a few hours reclaiming a lost childhood; the special ones whose only few hours of dignity are those they spend with us. Do I send my primary kids back and live with the guilt of knowing that some of them would drop out of school and become child labour; and what about the secondary kids who have just done me proud! And the foster care kids whose home is project why!
No, I cannot send anyone home or shut any door. Were I to do so, I would never be bale to look at myself in the eye. I will have to snap out of my gloom and muster all the courage I can to reinvent myself . I will need to get out of the comfort zone I had sunk in and retrieve my dusty begging bowl and beg till it hurts.
I had always been weary of big donors. They tend to make you complacent and make you forget the true essence of the work you sought to do. Running an organisation like pwhy is fist and foremost a lesson in humility. And to remain humble you need to remember that your work depends on the compassion and empathy of others. It is a one to one equation. If you forget that you risk losing everything. I wish my one rupee a day programme had worked, or rather that I had given that programme my all.
But it is never too late. We have launched a sponsorship programme that we hoe many will join. It has to be a success; 800 little smiles depend on it! So help me God!
As I climbed up the stairs to my office I peeped into the creche. I was taken aback at the number of kids present. It seemed far more crowded than usual. I waved everyone a cheery hello and moved on. I was a little angry as I had time and again told the staff not to admit too many kids in a class.
Upon reaching my office I called my programme in charge and asked her why there were so many kids in the creche. She simply told me that this was only for the summer months. Apparently the parents of many of our regular creche children had pleaded with us to accept some siblings for the duration of the holidays. The reason: their homes were very hot and the older siblings had nowhere to go. All my anger fizzled out. I knew hat they were talking about: tiny windowless rooms with tin roofs that turned into ovens under the scorching sun. I had nothing left to say, anything was better than that.
The pwhy classroom is not five star. But it is large, has fans and even an inverter that ensures that fans runs even during outages. Their is coll drinking water and often if the kids are dirty or too hot, the staff gives them a cool bath. Many of the homes do not have water in summer.
When the heat is on, life is not easy for anyone but in slums it turns into a nightmare. At least at pwhy, the children can beat the summer, albeit for a few hours!
Our little foster care kids are home for their summer break. I went to fetch them at the boarding school and before we could leave I was given the grand tour!
This is my classroom said one, while the other tugged at my shirt with a come to my classroom. We went to each classroom and collected every one’s summer home work. Then I was taken to the hostel and everyone showed their little bed. The bigger boys who share a room even showed us how they slept! The excitement was palpable, the smiles larger than life and you could see that all the kids loved their school. The ride back home was replete with stories. What was high on the agenda was the picnic at the amusement park and the water rides and the yummy ice cream.
I listened to my little slumpups and took in every word they said. It was intoxicating as it vindicated everything one had faced and fought for. Looking at them and listening to their happy babble made me realise that we were truly on track.
The three children in this picture are siblings. They have just joined our crèche. They all hail from Nepal and have recently come to Delhi. When I fist saw them I asked why the elder ones had been admitted to the early education programme. They seemed far too old for it and should have been enrolled in a proper school.
The answer was simple and poignant. The children did not speak or understand Hindi. They only spoke Nepali. There was no way they could attend any school. What my staff proposed was to slowly teach them Hindi and then perhaps a year or two down the lone get them admitted to a proper school in class II. They felt that in the crèche, even though they were bigger than the rest of the kids, they would be able to slowly grasp and learn a new language. I simply agreed.
The plight of children who migrate from other parts of India or as is the case here from another country altogether, is often tragic. The parents often flee their homes for economic reasons – a flood, a dry spell, a natural disaster – and come to a strange city. The father does manage to get a job and the rest of the family has to learn to cope in new surroundings. Older children are the ones who suffer the most as they cannot integrate any school and are often left to their own devices. They are rarely accepted by other children and often become the butt of ridicule. They thus grow up lonely and rejected. No one really cares about their future.
The three kids in the picture may be able to break free and integrate a school, make new friends and build their tomorrows, but what about the thousands and more who will never get a proper chance and will have to learn to survive on their own. Some will join the ranks of child labour and be seen washing dishes at a tea shop or cleaning other people’s homes. Others may fall prey to predators. Such is the plight of children who migrate with their families to big cities.
I have been watching with amused horror tinged with extreme sadness the poll games being played with alacrity over the past few days. These are being reported by all media channels for all to see. It is an almost foregone conclusion that no one party will emerge as a winner in election 2009. It is also a sure thing that the government will be a coalition of many parties.
The poll games I refer to are the permutations and combinations that are being worked out even before the first vote is out of the ballot box. For the past few days we have been witnessing umpteen debates and discussions by the top brains of the media and political pundits about the probable possibilities. The games go like this: if XYZ gets so many votes then it could ally with ABC and so on. What is alarming is that there seems to be no importance attached to values of any kind. Left can ally with right, secular with communal, friend with foe. It does not matter. What matters is who will sit on the coveted chair. The games get subtler as everyone wants his or her pound of flesh. If XYZ helps me bring the state government down, then I will support them, or they can have my support if they give me a coveted post.
Ideologies do not matter. There is no room for loyalty. Anyone can become friend or foe in the span of a second. Manifestos are forgotten and so are promises. No one cares about the fact that millions are without water, or schools, or health care or food. All is forgotten when playing poll games. The cat will be out of the bag in a few hours and we can expect furious rounds of poll games till the dust settles and rather till the moment the coveted chair is finally conquered.
Sponsoring a child is quite a favourite with NGOs the world over. Large ads in all shades of media soliciting you to become a sponsor are more than abundant. For a few pennies, you are told, you can change the life of a child. I do not know why but I never warmed up to the idea. In days when I was myself a donor, I never sponsored a child. I preferred giving to organisations that I felt were doing good work. I cannot say why, but sponsoring a child was almost anathema.
Years went by and I found myself on the other side of the fence. I was the one needing donors. My bête noire remained and we never went the sponsorship way. I was even vindicated when I visited an orphanage and saw sponsored kids with their Superhero school bags almost ostracised by their peers who only had dull cloth bags. Whenever anyone suggested we go the sponsorship way, I resisted vehemently proffering a litany of reasons against the very thought.
Never say never is a maxim that is always proved true and is not necessity the mother of all inventions? And above all are not the morrows of my children far more important than any quirk of mine? When our little foster care kids were left high and dry by a potential benefactor, the only road we could walk was the sponsorship one. And then when we were recently faced with a huge hole in our budget and had to face the aftermath of recession, the sponsorship issue came up again. Many felt that this was an option that would endure all economic mishaps.
After much deliberations and thought we decided to launch a sponsorship programme, whereby we requested donors to sponsor not one specific child, but children within a group. For a fixed amount of money you would sponsor one special child, or two crèche children or 4 school going children. We at pwhy, would have a blog that would keep the sponsor abreast with everything that was going on. The programme was launched recently and we are still waiting to see whether it would bring the fruits expected. I pray it does.
For me personally it has been another milestone. I look at it as yet another test thrown my way by the God of Lesser Beings to see how far I would go to protect the smiles I hold in custody.
It stands forlorn on a table. It had been bought with much hope and expectation to celebrate an event many of us had prayed for: the departure of a little boy to another land with brand new parents. But that was not to be as once again the life of a child got irremediably caught in the web of adult egos.
