I will be celebrating my birthday soon. Birthdays have become for me the time of the year when I take stock as honestly as I can of the years gone by and try and make some resolutions for times to come. It is also when, in the dead of night, I blow on virtual candles and make my birthday wishes.
What a year it has been. At this very moment last year I was gnawing at my nails and wondering how we would come up with the missing numbers to ensure we did not lose our dream. And we did. Just as we managed each time we were in dire straits as small miracles did come our way. Then there were the four little kids and their dreams and those too got saved. There were anxious moments but each one had a happy ending. One again the year was one when one was simply busy being grateful.
Pwhy grew in strength and more friends from the world over joined our beautiful network making one believe that all was well in spite of times of recession and crashes. On the personal front I was given the most beautiful gift I could have ever asked for: a lovely grandson who brought joy and hope into our lives and made me greedy for more.
I wonder what I will wish for when I blow those candles. I guess it would be to see:
The scars on this beautiful face will soon be things of the past. Today a 10 am, little Meher will be admitted in s swanky hospital under the care of a top plastic surgeon and tomorrow will begin a series of complex procedures all aiming at rebuilding her scalded face and her maimed hands. To me she has always been beautiful and I feel in love with her indomitable spirit the moment I lay my eyes on her. It was also when I hurriedly mouthed a prayer to my friend the God of Lesser Beings seeking a miracle.
As always he heard my plea and the rest his history. He sent his messenger: Nina a warm hearted volunteer who crusaded for Meher with rare passion. A beautiful complex network was set in motion, and soon the miracle became reality. Meher is on her way to recovery. Once again, just as he had a few years ago, the God of lesser beings had decided to set things right. If all goes well little Meher will next year join the band of pwhy kids in boarding school.
When I sought a miracle for Meher, it did not stop at getting her reconstructive surgery as that alone would not secure her future. To me what was more important than her face was her hands as they held the key to her morrows. If Meher was to break the circle of poverty in which she was born, she had to be given a sound education and for that she had to regain the use of her hands. Armed with a good education the world could and would be hers. Without that she would simply follow in the footsteps of her mother and probably be married off as soon as feasible.
I have always been weary of half hearted attempts at helping others. I have always felt that often these are done for all the wrong reasons. Reaching out to another is a complex and delicate operation. Often it can do more harm than good if one is not careful. If you cannot go all the way then it of often better and wiser to leave things as they are, rather than create ripples that can go out of hand. It is undoubtedly very gratifying and uplifting to reach out to someone in need, but before handing out the help sought one has to look at the long term implications and see whether one has the strength to go all the way.
Ghar jana hai – I want to go home – are three words that I heat twice yesterday. Simple words that could have been said innocuously by anyone. But in this case these three anodyne, words took on a whole new meaning as they were mouthed by what one may call homeless souls.
The first one to whisper these words was a little seven year old a.k.a Utpal. He is home for his end of school year break. Home in this case is our women centre. Since its inception in October 2007 it has been the place where little Utpal has come each holiday. Sometimes his mom is there, and sometimes not as has been the case the last three times he came. She is once again in rehab. But the tiny rooms of the women centre are replete with things that make a place home be it the heap of toys, many broken, the cupboards filled with clothes – his and his mommy’s – the little shrine where mom prays not to forget the TV and all the favourite programmes. It is also where each one tries to make sure that mom is not missed each time the little boy lands for a few days. Kind Roshni aunty who makes all the special treats, or the 3 bhaiyyas – Rajesh, Ashish and Parth who spend the night with him in turns. And of course home is where all the little pals wait for the prodigal pal!
Yesterday I took Utpal for the mandatory shopping spree. We had to buy new shoes, new clothes and a host of things that the school wanted. Once the shopping done, I decided to bring him to my home so that he could meet my little grandson and spend some time with us. Now a two month baby is not really what interests a 7 year old. After the cookies and the cold drink and then lunch, everyone settled down for an afternoon nap. The house was silent and the little boy did not quite know what to do. A while later he came to me and whispered in my year: I want to go home.
I must confess that at first I felt a little peeved. Was this not home too? And was there not a time when this was the place this very little boy pined for? But then I realised that a lot of water had flowed and that rather than feel vexed I should be elated as one of the things I most wanted for this little boy was to give him a real home, and never mind if mommy was not there all the time, the women centre was his real home. A few phone calls later, Utpal was set to leave. I hugged him tight and he whispered into my years: come to my home tomorrow. The house felt strangely empty for a while…
Later in the day Shamika and Rani came back from the hospital where Manu is fighting for his life. Upon my enquiring how he was they said that he looked better and kept repeating to them: ghar jana hai.-I want to go home. The same words again but murmured this time but one whose home for years had been the street. The one for whom I had conjured a dream and fulfilled it. For Manu home was not where he spent almost 4 decades, but the little flat he had lived in for barely a year, the one he shared with his friends and roomies. The ones he missed as he lay in a lonely hospital ward. I decided to do everything possible to ensure that he returns home as soon as possible.
Two lost souls were pinning for what they called home. Homes we had crafted with love and care in the hope that they would assuage the years of pain and hurt and make up for all the lost years. Today three tiny words proved that we had succeeded. The remnant of sadness at not having a little boy spend more time with me lifted and was replaced by a feeling of joy and contentment. I too was home.
Ward no 10, bed no 27 is where Manu sleeps today. It is not what I had wished for him when I first set eyes on him in May 2000 and threw myself a seemingly impossible challenge: to give to this street soul a home with a warm bed and a family. I guess it is at that precise moment that planet why was seeded and perhaps immediately forgotten as the task at hand seemed daunting. Manu was a street beggar, caked in dirt, with a mane of tangled hair, and a wild temperament that made him almost unapproachable.
We had to take things one day at a time. Tame him at first, just as the little prince had tamed the fox. Learn his ways and decipher his moods. We did just that and to do it had to settle roots in the very street he roamed. Thus began pwhy.
The first days were difficult as he used to hobble away each time we tried to get close, or let out a heart rendering yell that stopped us in our tracks. But then we realised that he too was beginning to learn our ways and would find him waiting for us or hobbling towards us as he saw our car approaching. As I look back on those days I am filled with an incredible and yet indescribable feeling of warmth and love. My mind is flooded with feel good memories that I had forgotten. There are so many of them that come rushing, each filled with hope and tenderness. I remember the first meal that I shared with Manu. We had got him some warm rotis and dal and sat him on a stool in front of our little classroom, his meal placed on another stool. He picked up his plate and balanced it on his knees and then patted the now empty stool and gestured me to sit on it. He then broke a piece of roti and dipped it in the daland held it out for me. I took it and ate it oblivious of the glares of those around me who saw the dirt of Manu’s hands. I only saw love. That was perhaps the very instant when I was taught the true meaning of the fox’s secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. Yes I realise today, as Manu is fighting for his life, that he was the one who taught me to look with my heart.
There are many special moments in the nine years that we have known Manu. Many huge moments like the first time Manuate with a spoon or the first time he picked up a pencil and drew a picture (it still sits on my wall). I remember his fist ride in a car when we went to the jam session for special children and the first dance I had with Manu. I was amazed at how well he danced. I remember his first pedicure with Shalini rubbing his feet with a pumice stone and he making funny faces and sounds. I recall with pride and satisfaction the first mealManu had in his own home after spending a night in his warm bed. And that is not all, this child of the streets who had spent the best part of his life as a beggar, turned into a perfect host as if he was to the manor born!
There are so many memories as Manu is intrinsically linked to pwhy, our very first student and the one who made it all possible.
Many may never believe that one such as Manu holds the destiny and dreams of many in custody. And yet if it was not for Manupwhy would not have seen the light of day. It is because he came into my life and taught me to look with my heart that the rest happened: be it the child salvaged from the flames who now runs in the sun, or the fifteen little mended hearts, or the hundreds of children who pass their examinations every year.
Everyone lands on this planet with a purpose and a role to play. Even one who may seem hopeless and woebegone. Every child of God has a destiny to fulfill. And Manu is a true child of God.
Ward no 10, bed no 27 is where he sleeps tonight. I had dreamt that he would be the first inmate of planet why that I wanted to be his home. Will the God of Lesser Beings grant me my dream just as he has granted the dreams of all those who have been touched by Manu’s smile.
For those of you who do not know Manu, here are some glimpses of him
When Manu spent his first night in his own bed in our foster care after sharing a hot meal with his roommates, I felt I had reached home after a journey that had taken almost a decade. Had I not fulfilled the silent promise I had made to myself the day I had set eyes on him as he rummaged garbage heaps for food and let out heart wrenching cries: to see him one day sleep in a clean and warm bed.
Manu took to his new life like a fish to water. The young man who had spent the better part of his life roaming streets seemed simply to the manor born. For the past year we watched with gratitude and also a tinge of satisfaction the little motley crew of the foster care get along with their day-to-day life. Nothing could have prepared us for what was lurking around the corner.
A few weeks back Manu got sick. It looked like a simple viral fever and we took him to the doctor. The fever persisted. Slowly Manu began losing weight and we were terribly worried. Last week he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. His liver and kidneys severely impaired, his haemoglobin down to 6.2. We were shattered and at a complete loss, unable to comprehend how it all happened.
We did swing into action and Manu is now under constant medical supervision but it is all touch and go. And yet I will not despair. Manu has an incredible spirit and is a survivor. I know he will fight and we will be by his side. And I want to believe that the God of Lesser Beings will once again work his magic.
Manu is so intrinsically linked to pwhy that one cannot think of one without the other. For the last ten years his smile has been the one to greet me, sometimes with a flick of his hand, at others with a hug. Even when he has been in a bad mood, I have always got my smile, even if it was a lopsided one. He was always there for me. I must admit I took his presence for granted: the proverbial good luck charm.
It is only when news of his illness reached me that I realised how much Manu meant to me. Much more than the one we got off the street and cared for, he was the one who pulled me out of my gloom and gave me a reason to carry on. When I fist met him I was rudderless and looking for an anchor. The loss of my parents had left a huge gaping hole in my spirit and for many years nothing had been able to fill it. It was when I first lay eyes on him that I found a reason to fight for. Manu had to be given his dignity back and to do so pwhy had to happen. But what Manu gave me was something I have never acknowledged till this instant and I am not talking of the kudos that have come our way. No Manu was the mirror to my own soul, the one who gave me the courage to look at myself with honesty and candor. The one who showed me what I was capable of and gave me the determination to walk the road less traveled. I could not have become who I am today if I had not met Manu.
So as I sit writing these words I realise that it is not Manu who we saved, but it was Manu who saved me. Today I reach out to all the Gods that exist and beseech them to heal Manu and bring him back to health. He is a true child of God and God cannot forsake one who has never done any wrong.
Some months ago our dear friend Sabrina shared a project she had in mind. She wanted to write a song and record it with the pwhy children. What was special about the song was that she wanted the lyrics to be written by the children and based on their dreams and wishes. It seemed wonderful but I must admit I was little nervous. Sabrina and Chris came in February. There were workshops and rehearsals, and even a recording in a studio. They left with images and sound tapes and leaving me even more anxious. This morning I got a mail and a link to the song. I was simply floored.
The song is beautiful but what is touching are the lyrics, yes the ones based on the dreams of my children. So what do they dream of you may ask? Simple things: flowers and trees, no fighting but peace, schools and universities, play grounds with a swing and clean water, to be a dancer or simply to read, new shoes, a doll and a gift for their mom!
Take a minute and listen to the song. Look at the beaming faces and the trusting eyes and ask yourself a simple question: are these children asking for anything more than what should be rightfully theirs? Are these simple wishes not something we could and should make theirs?
Once upon a time in a big city a little boy was born. His parents belonged to different faiths and both had their own families that they could not or did not want to leave. They both also had a little boy eachfrom marriages they had not really wanted. They met, fell in love and as is often the case gave life to a child they could not really tend to or care for. Like many others the little boy was brought into the world for all the wrong reasons. No one ever thought of a life map for him or cared about his future. He was just two weeks old when he landed quite inadvertently into the arms of a bunch of people and crawled into their hearts. They decided to build him a future, one that would be safe and secure.
He learnt to smile, to hold his head, to sit up and to crawl under the watchful eyes of caring strangers. As the story of his life enfolded, the hopelessness of his existence became a stark reality. In a land where the right labels were mandatory his were lopsided and flawed. He had no caste, nor creed. He did not even have a proper father. The caretakers who had taken on the challenge of crafting him a solid morrow felt that perhaps his chances would be better if he could fly to another land with new parents.
Luck seemed to be with him as a seemingly kind couple reached out to him. The tedious process of what is called adoption was set in motion. As adults began playing the complex game of adoption, the little boy’s life was filled with joy and hope. Wonderful gifts, smart clothes, outings to fancy places and scrumptious treats cames his way. He turned one, and then two and three. His life was almost picture perfect and he enjoyed it oblivious of the drama being played. Yes there were a few days spent in ugly buildings called courts but the new mama and papa were always there to buy him an extra treat.
Then one day everyone seemed to be jumping with joy as the big people had decided that he could be adopted and even the grim court seemed happy that day. Everyone thought that it was only a matter of days, perhaps weeks and the little boy would fly away. But then a phone call and news that another little boy had been found for the couple in their own land and the new papa and mama had to fly away to complete another adoption game. But they promised to come back for the little boy. Months went by, and then a whole year. The little boy was four. He still showed off his now faded tshirt and said it was his other mama that gave it to him. The paper work seemed endless and the wait unending. The new papa and mama stopped calling and then one day a call informed his real mama that they were giving up and did not want the little boy anymore. They did not even want to be part of his life at all. The game had ended and the little boy had lost! All he had left were a few faded and hazy pictures, some broken toys and some hazy memories of the mama and papa who spoke in a funny way.
This is not a story. The little boy exists and is in our creche. We are all stunned by the news. We can understand that sometimes administrations and laws are callous and complex and do not go he way we would like them to. But what has really shocked us and hurt us is the fact that the people who once wanted this child and were willing to give him the world and more did not want to have anything to do with him.
I am not normally in favour of adoption. In this case I relented as the little boy’s situation was terrible and that he would have to live with too many shadows in a society that could be cruel to children with his kind of past. Somehow it felt right to have him grow in a land where he could run his race without handicaps. I had been concerned about the complexity of the legal battle and scared of its outcome. I had even suggested to the adoptive parents that were things not to go the right way, they should at least ensure that the child gets a sound education as that could be his key to freedom. I had feared that perhaps things would not turn our way but never had I imagined that the very people who had once wanted him with passion would not only turn away but leave the child high and dry. How can anyone be so callous or heartless. I guess the God of lesser beings saw through them and decided to make a course correction in time.
The little boy will next year join the five little pwhy children in boarding school. Till then he will remain under our care, safe, secure and truly loved.
No adult should ever be allowed to play with a child’s life. This is the worse case of child abuse!
Where will it all end are the words that came to my mind as I watched the two little slumdog kids walk the ramp for a famous designer duo. I had just recovered from the news that the same children would now be used by the ruling party to campaign for them!
Let us stop a moment and gather our thoughts. We are just about recovering from the dastardly news about a father raping his two daughters to better his business prospect and the sad but of indubitable reality that child abuse is a stark reality and as supposedly concerned citizens and sensitive human beings we are outraged. Now as the same supposedly concerned citizens and sensitive human beings what should our reaction be in the face of kids walking ramps and raising slogans? Many have reacted to the news and rightly so. One such comment is: my fear is that these kids would be taken advantage of, & then thrown away when they won’t be needed any longer! This world can be really brutal! This probably sums it all up.
Are we not witnessing an insidious forms of child abuse, one that is so well packaged that it becomes acceptable and even laudable. The designer in question said making the young kids walk the ramp was an endeavour to bridge the gap between the glamorous and theunglamorous, the rich and the poor. The politicians too have their answers ready to be lobbed at the right time. Stop! I am ready to throw up! Enough is enough.
I guess I have acquired the right to voice my opinion. For the past 10 years now I have been trying to bridge the gap between the rich and the poor. For the past ten years I have toiled to get the glamorous to reach out to the unglamorous. And for the past ten years I have banged my head against impregnable walls. True I did not have any glamour to barter: no Oscar winning movie or acclaimed achievement. I simply had innumerable slumpups with incredible potential. I simply had many simple scripts that would help them realise their dreams. The most ambitious one was to give a handful of these kids a real future: a sound and upmarket education. What I got when I asked for help was a harsh rap on my knuckles: one was not supposed to dare disturb the existing social pattern. We did and today four little kids have begun their journey to glory and we are really proud of it.
But coming back to ramps and election campaigns, what we seem to be witnessing is another kind of child abuse, and my heart goes out to these two little slum kids who are being used and abused to perpetrate selfish agendas. If anyone, be it the glam designers or the famed politicians, truly held their interest at heart, the children should have been quietly sent to a good school and not flaunted like circus animals. If mileage had to be sought, then it could have been done in a discreet manner, after the children where happily settled and on their way to fulfilling their destiny.
It kind of trails off after the holidays. We would love to keep the issue in the front of everyone and that child abuse happens all year long. Abuse doesn’t take a holiday, doesn’t take a day off, and we can’t either. (Jane Donovan)
The it referred to in the quote is child abuse.
It was in the news again yesterday in abundance: a father raping his daughter for 9 years with the tacit consent of the mother because a voodoo man told him to do so, a bunch of caretakers raping their visually and hearing impaired and mentally challenged wards, an thousands of miles a way another father simply getting 15 years of prison for the heinous crime committed against his won child. One again we were treated or should I say subjected to an array of debates of discussions about a range of issues. The whole drama seemed stale and played out, something we had heard over and over again each time a crime of this kind was perpetrated. Remember the Ghaziabad Girls?
We were the whistle blowers then. Sadly nothing much happened: the tormentor, a so called holy man walks free (he is on bail) and the little girls live in different poorly run homes lonely and lost. Every effort we made to try and see them to give them some much needed healing failed as we knocked helplessly on the heartless door of an insensitive administration.
Child abuse does not take a day off, it simply continues to cast its shadow for the length of many lifetimes. And we watch mute and helpless for reasons that are nothing short of unacceptable. Just like the mother of the young girl too scared to go against her husband or too mesmerised by the so called holy men who lurk at every corner looking for prey. Or simply because we feel unconcerned.
Abused children, specially challenged ones, are not vote banks and hence not interesting to our law makers and protectors. The stories makes good TRPs and award material. We all feel outraged for the day till some new story takes over and we forget the abused children. We hang our heads in shame, but is that enough. Is there not something more we need to do.
In my last post I wrote that every Every new born child is a message from God that he has not lost faith in man. Perhaps it is more than that. The innocent and trustful eyes of the child urge us to look deep within ourselves and find the courage and determination to be worthy of the man God has not lost faith in.
Every new born child is a message from God that he has not lost faith in man wrote Tagore. The quote was sent to me by a dear friend upon the birth of AgastyaNoor. I guess even the cynics would admit this, particularly when you look deep into the eyes of a young life. At that moment not a thought is given to what is to come. All you see and feel is the joy of a new life and the incredible feeling that all has to be right. And perhaps what Tagore says is true: it is a message from God, only we humans fail to understand it.
I have been blessed in more ways than one. Over the last 10 years I have witnessed many messages compelling me to believe that even if things looked dark and bleak and even hopeless, God had never lost faith in man. In my book Dear PopplesI wrote about the big picture, the one that was always bright and beautiful and near perfect but that we humans were unable to see fully as it extended beyond space and time. Being only able to see bits of it we hang on to the dark parches and hold them as true. Yes I have been blessed in more ways than one as I have been able to see glimpses of that perfect creation time and again: in the little boy who should have died but is today alive and kicking and ready for class II, in the four little children who should have joined the ranks of child labour but are soon going to walk into the portals of a boarding school, in Manu who does not wander the streets and rummage through dustbins but sleeps in a warm bed.
The list is endless and the big pictures enfolds itself in front of my eyes one with almost obsessive regularity. I see it in the reports cards held proudly by those who were once failures, in the first sound uttered by one who never spoke, or the faltering step taken by one who never walked, in the spirited gait and beaming smiles of pwhy teachers who were once only considered good enough to clean homes… actually in each and everyone of what is now known as the pwhy family: a motley crew of young and old who should have lived in the shadows but have reclaimed their place in the sun.
Seems huge and it is undoubtedly. And yet when I look back at the years one by I realise how absurdly simple it is and well within the reach of anyone willing to keep their eyes wide open and see with their heart. The big picture is there withing the reach of each and every one of us. It waits to be discovered and savoured. One simply has to be willing to look beyond today and believe in tomorrow as God has not and will never lose faith in man.
I saw my grandchild for the first time yesterday. I was such a huge moment that it took me more than twenty four hours to process it and be able to write about it. As I held the little bundle of joy and delved into his luminous grey eyes I felt a sense of indescribable joy and wonder. It was a breathtaking moment.
In the last 24 hours my life seems to have changed for ever. Does holding the child of your own child catapult you into another realm of life, freeing you in some way of bonds hitherto in existence? Do yo somehow acquire a new status and thus need to redefine the meaning of your own life? Does it compel you to stop and review your own life and above all evaluate it? So many questions needing answers that I know I will have to seek some time later.
But as I looked deep into his eyes I knew that the little bundle of joy had brought with him a bag of miracles for his granny. This may sound dotty and over the top but I held on to my belief. And the miracles came…. An email dropped by the very next day informing us that a kind lady from Germany had agreed to sponsor the education of our three little foster care boys giving me the miracle I had prayed for. It was such a huge moment and I was left speechless. I simply went to look at little Agastya Noor and saw him smiling in his sleep. They say in India that when children smile in their sleep, they are in deep conversation with God. I silently mouthed a word of gratitude and tiptoed away. This simple email had put to an end to many a sleepless night. The news was welcomed by joyful exclamations: amazing said one, while the other quipped holy moly! These were friends who had for the past months now toiled to make things happen. It was indeed time to celebrate and to be grateful!
A short while later another mail dropped by this one from an extraordinary young lady who had spent a short week with us and left promising to help project why. Harriet is not your usual young teenager she is one a kind. Not only did she organise a bake sale for pwhy and write about us in the local newspaper, but managed to get her school to raise funds for us and they did at their commemoration and mufti day! Harriet wrote to inform us that they had collected more than they had anticipated. This was a true miracle for me as it validated and proved what I always held as true: if you learn to see with your heart miracles come your way. This is a tried and tested formula, believe me!
The miracle for me is not the money collected or promised. It is far more than that. It is the comforting proof that compassion still exists, that there are people young and old who can still look with their hearts and reach out to others, it is the conviction that dreams do come true if you hold on to them tight and miracles come your way if you simply believe in them. I guess this is what little Agastya wanted to tell his grandmom.
My mind wandered back to a beautiful quote by Deepak Chopra: Miracles happen every day. Not just in remote country villages or at holy sites halfway across the globe, but here, in our own lives.
Never say never is a maxim I should have by now learnt to accept and follow. Once again I find myself in a situation where I have to get off my high horses and humbly accept what I haughtily rejected till date. But necessity is the mother of all inventions and faced with rapidly dwindling bank balances and a shrinking donor base one has to meekly accept to eat the humble pie. I must admit that what makes this possible is the magnitude of what is at risk.
To understand what I am trying to say one needs to go back several years, to the times when pwhy was still in its infancy and one was looking for possible ways to secure it and see it grow. One of the avenues suggested was to seek sponsorships for individual children as that was tested ground and one that had proved very successful. Never said I, as to me it had always seemed a rather condescending approach and one that led to marginalise children: the sponsored one versus the one without a sponsor. I stood my ground and must admit met with reasonable success as we managed to go and grow my way for almost a decade.
I have always been aware of the fragility of our funding model and have never stopped looking and thinking of better ways. Our one rupee a day programme failed to take off for reasons that I still cannot fathom. To me it seamed absurdly simple and eminently doable. And yet it did not work. I guess the amount sought was too small and did not give the donor the fillip it sought. Planet why us definitely the panacea of all ills, but comes a huge price and will take a long time to come by. In the mean time a family of almost a 1000 now has to be sustained in the times of recession.
I have been vociferously claiming that the crises we face is not an economic one but a moral one. I have been clamouring that was was needed was to find ways of reinstating values like compassion and empathy as I feel that it would go a long way in redefining our lives. Time to walk the talk even it it means giving up long held views. To survive today we too need to reinvent ourselves and what takes precedence is the lives and dreams of the children of pwhy and not some highfalutin idea one had once held. So I find myself extolling the sponsorship avenue: yes you heard right I am seeking sponsors for our children to enable us to carry on. True that we have had to modify the approach to our reality: we are not asking for a sponsor per child but for people accept to sponsor either one child with disability or two creche children or again 4 primary or secondary kids. We would provide information about the group selected to all sponsors.
Wow.. I have come a log way. What still irks me a little is the fact that whereas this approach seems to find takers, the one rupee programme which to me was easier on the pocket never really took off. I guess that the reason for this is that the later was too impersonal and did not give the donor the high that accompanies any act of charity!
Beggars cannot be choosers; one had to respect market forces; all is fair in love and war… There are many things I can say to myself to assuage ruffled feathers and yet the moral of the story is that one has to learn never to say never again.
A pair of glasses, a pocket watch, a bowl and wooden slippers went under the hammer, amidst high drama ,for a whopping 1.8 million US dollars. I have been watching with sadness interspersed with bouts of anger the dramatics enfolding in front of my eyes since the day news about the imminent auction of Mahatma Gandhi’s personal belongings broke. A land, that has not only forgotten the true meaning of his message but seems to revel in perpetrating the exact opposite, suddenly wants to lay claim to the legacy. Outrage is expressed at every corner, more so as the country is soon to face an election. Every political party wants to be politically correct! Even if it means resorting to untruths!
How hollow and pitiful we all look. I wish we could for once at least, be honest and truthful – qualities extolled by Bapu – and look at ourselves with candor. Here we are voicing horror at seeing Bapu’s personal belongings been sold in public but have ever respected any of his teachings. Have we kept his real legacy alive? Just yesterday two dalits were hacked to death for offering prayers in a temple and a city woke up to hate posters against minority religions. One may ask if we are worthy of Gandhi’s legacy. Nothing around us seems in sync with what he taught, defended and died for. We are still the land where little girls get killed before they are born, where a child may lose her fingers for a handful of spinach, a land where religion, education, spirituality and even Gandhi are being commercialised to the hilt. So one may ask if we are worthy of Gandhi’s at all.
One can go on merrily listing all that makes us the antithesis of what Gandhi stood for: we are the land where children have had to wait for half a century for education to become a constitutional right while a bill to raise salaries of parliamentarians is cleared in a trice. Need I say more. We build walls to keep our own away and do not feel revolted when a little beggar girl knocks at the window of our car or feel outraged at any attempt to disturb social equations.
I wish the hullabaloo about Gandhi’s memorabilia will make us look deeper at the values this remarkable man stood for. That we remember promises made but then forgotten, that we try and revive compassion and empathy, the very reasons for which a man decided almost a century ago to shed his wants and only live by his needs. Will the wooden slippers bought at an astronomical price remind us of the millions of little feet that still walk without shoes? Sadly I do not think that will happen, soon the news of Gandhi’s legacy will be overtaken by some other and our minute memory will fail us one again!
I myself discovered Gandhi rather late in life. For the better part of my life he remained a romantic notion painted by a passionate mom. It was only lately that I understood his true message: to look for alternatives to any situation till you overcome and win. That is what I have tried to do since and I must admit that the formula works. It is a simple one and can be resumed in Bapu’s own words: First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.
Shashikant topped his school in the class X pre-boards. He was awarded a prize by the Delhi Government and received it yesterday. Shashikant has been a student of project why for some time and we always knew that he would do us proud one day.
A shy and reserved boy, Shashikant has always been very serious about his studies. He is your proverbial slumdog as he lives in a tiny hovel in the Govindpiri slums. His father is a bus driver and his mom a simple housewife. But unlike other families, his parents did not have many children. They perhaps knew that the future of their progeny lay in giving them a sound education. Shashikant has only one sibling.
Shashikant and many other students of the pwhy secondary programme have been performing extremely well in the past years. Recently one of our class XI boys got 99% in maths and many often top their respective schools each time there is a test of an examination. Wonder why? Well the recipe for success is simple and yet foolproof. Take a bunch of children from deprived homes and add a committed, passionate and dedicated teacher from a similar background whose only obsession in life is to ensure that his students shine, keep the two together in a classroom for a few hours a day and a few years and voila the topper is ready. We have tested this recipe for many years now and have never been disappointed. The secondary Sir – aka Naresh – is one of his kind!
And to say that it all began on a road side almost ten years ago. What a journey it has been! Why then is my joy filed with a tinge of sadness. Perhaps because we at project why can at best taken a 100 or so kids at a given time. What about the millions who will never get a chance at proving who they are or what they are capable of, those who will never enter the portal of a school or will simply quietly and unobtrusively drop our along the way because someone has hijacked the promises made to them.
pwhy @ 1K is no arcane formula or cryptic code. It is simply the result of the latest headcount of the project why family. Amazing is it not?
It is the time of the year when one has to begin thinking of annual reports and balance sheets, and thus the time of the year when one asks for recent demographics and statistics. And to my utter astonishment they added up to a little under 1K. Yes the project family now has almost a thousand members. Wow! It has taken less than a decade to reach te magic figure.
What takes my breath away is that it all happened quietly and without much ado. One child after the other, one centre after the other, one dream after the other. True there were obstacles and challenges, some even mind boggling but they pale in front of the achievements and successes.
Allow me to give you a glimpse of the pwhy family at this very moment. As I write these words, there are children sitting for their dreaded board examinations, others preparing for their end year tests. There are little ones about to leave the prep class and live their first day in a big school and there are women about to complete their courses and begin their journey as earning members of their family. A bunch of special children are putting the last touches on the wall painting they have created in their classroom with the help of their volunteer pal Flore and tiny tots are on the verge of performing their first French song courtesy Caroline. And keeping them all safe and secure in a motley crew of teachers whose common denominator is their commitment and passion for the work they do. And all this adds up to the 1k souls under the pwhy umbrella!
We humans love having an escape route at all times. It allows us to get out of situations that could become uncomfortable, or leaves us the option of changing pour minds without feeling shamefaced. Such escape routes are often vague and poorly defined notions and yet they do the trick when used.
The latest one is recession. Today everything is being validated by the simple use of the word recession. Even those who do not quite know what it means manage to hurl the word at your face in sometimes quite ludicrous ways. I am not in anyway suggesting that things are tickety-boo and that all is well around us. Far from that.
My heart goes out to those who have got pink slips and those living with the fear of losing their jobs. I understand the despair of those who gambled on the stock markets and lost. I feel the pain of those unable to pay their mortgages and who live with the fear of seeing themselves without a roof on their heads. These are real situations. What I am referring to is the unreal ones where people use recession as a possible escape route for the future; when people bluntly tell you that they may not be able to meet their paltry commitments in the future because of recession. What irks me no end is the general attitude of gloom that we all sink in rather than try and analyse why things turned from bad to worse, why we did not see it coming, and above all whether we are responsible for them in anyway. No we simply seem to be grateful for having found a way to explain our own inadequacies.
I was horrified when some time back I heard a young couple take a huge loan to go on holiday to some exotic destination. Both had landed themselves grossly overpaid jobs and though they were still on probation but the hubris was such, that they felt secure and safe. I would have thought that the collapse of things would have got us to soul search and redefine our lives rather than hold our heads and mumble the word recession ad nauseum. I would also have liked to hope that the situation we all find ourselves in would have made us look at life through different glasses and retrieve the lost values that withstand the test of times for the crisis we face is a moral one.
If we think about it, what is it that sends us chasing impossible dreams: a feeling of emptiness that we need to fill. For the past decades we have been trying to fill it with material things and our greed was such that we did not see the writing on the wall and the debt trap we were getting caught in. When the house of cards came tumbling down we were again faced with a huge void.
It is time to fill this void and this time to do it wisely. Perhaps it is time to assess what our needs are and ensure that we do not confuse them with our wants. And then if there is still a huge hole we need to fill, let us try and fill it with the right things, the ones that withstand all storms. I am not pontificating. There was a time when I too sought escape routes and material pursuits to fill the gaping holes of my life. I was lucky to stop in time as I stumbled upon one who did not have the luxury to dream of wants or needs but simply held on to life: Manu. The rest is history. I had found the road to my grail and the way to fill all the holes in my life. I did not need any more escape routes.
So life in the times of recession means holding on to the dreams of many souls and ensure that they do not die.
“You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she’ll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she’s left.
Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she’d want:
smile, open your eyes, love and go on.” David Harkins
We just heard about the passing away of our dear friend Mylene Chossat. We are stunned beyond words. Mylene was life itself and to think that she is no more is difficult to believe, let alone accept. Memories of her rush to my shocked mind. I remember the day she first came, impeccably dressed and said in her gentle voice that she wanted to help us. In those days we were housed in a small jhuggi that you reached after weaving your way across overflowing drains and mud paths and I wondered how this beautiful and well groomed lady in her high heels would survive the ordeal. But nothing could stop or deter this extraordinary lady.
At that time we had just begun our creche and she being a specialist in the field decided that she would help us set it up. And boy she did! She adopted us and became our dear Mylene Ma’am. For the next four years, she came regularly and took on the task of setting up our timetable, teaching the staff new activities and helping us face every crisis. She established incredible bonds with our creche staff. Language was no barrier. One talked with the heart. And when she was leaving she invited the creche staff to tea to her home. It was mind boggling to see the bunch of slum ladies in their best clothes sharing blueberry cheese cake with their friend Mylene. Everyone was to the manor born and all differences had been cast away, at least for that precious afternoon.
I could go in writing volumes about the wonderful moments we shared with her. But, I will simply ask you to look at the picture above as it shows truly the woman we admired and loved. I know that from the heavens above she must be happy to see that Kiran and Utpal are now in big schools and little Manoj has finally learnt to walk.
Yes we we cherish her memory that lives on in each of the children touched by her and smile, open our eyes, love and go on. That is what she would have wanted us to do.
If I can change one life, it would have been worth it is something I often say when asked about pwhy! I must admit that over the last 9 years we have managed to change many. Be it turning a failure into a topper, or fixing holes in broken hearts. I must confess that in most cases the realisation that we had achieved something was in hindsight, when one sat writing reports or reviewing times gone by.
I must again thank a little boy for having allowed me to experience one of the greatest moments of my life. Let me tell you how it happened.
Yesterday was the day when we had decided to take Babli to her new school. Everything was fixed and one of our staff was to accompany the little girl. On the eve of D day, I decided to call little Utpal in school and ask him if he wanted something. I was not breaking any rules as Mondays are when when one can call him. After the normal hellos and how are yous I asked my question. After a few seconds he said biscuits and chips and then in his tiny voice he added: tum bhiajao (you also come). It was enough to get the old biddy to change all plans. Calls were made and plans altered. Ma’am had decided to accompany Babli to school.
On the scheduled morning we sat in my home waiting for the car to come. Babli sat quietly on a small chair and as I looked at her little determined face I suddenly realised that I was witnessing a stupendous moment: the transformation of a life. Nothing short of a miracle. Babli should not have been sitting here at all. Just a couple of years ago she was barely able to breathe, her little heart in need of serious repairs. And even after the much needed operation, she should have been at best in a government school and coming to pwhy like all little girls, in the afternoon. But that was not to be. We found her one day manning her father’s cart, and the sight of this bright child sitting on top of a cart selling tobacco was blood curdling. We set out on a damage control mission but it fell short of what we truly wanted for this child. And yet at that moment we were helpless as we had no options. Is that when I sent a prayer to the God of lesser beings? Maybe I did. I do not really know.
Babli went back to her municipal school, one where in her own words, teachers do not comeand if they do turn up they do not teach. We continued looking for better options but nothing was forthcoming. I must confess that we felt desolate and a tad helpless at seeing this bright child waste away in front of our eyes but there was nothing we could do. We did not know that the God of lesser beings was at work, setting the stage for the miracle to come. Time went by, we were busy in our little lives and forgot about Babli. Fabulous things were happening: a potential donor had entered our lives and we were busy dreaming grand dreams. Actually we were counting our chickens before the eggs were hatched. Our dreams came tumbling down but not before another prop was set for Babli’s tomorrow. The foster care programme that was thrust upon was an indubitable reality and as we set out looking for kids, the first name that came to our minds was that of Babli. The rest is history. Babli took to her new life at our tiny centre like a fish to water and one year down the line she is ready to take a giant leap into the future. The script that had looked awry many a times was now revealed and the miracle that took 3 years in the making was now there for all to see. This was no celluloid tale or Kodak moment. This tiny slumGirl was ready to take on the world and become a millionaire in her own way. As I said earlier it was truly a phenomenal moment and I was privileged enough to witness it thanks to the pleading of a little boy.
Every step of that incredible journey from my kitchen to the little bed in a dorm was picture perfect and moving. Babli sat in dignified silence throughout the journey, only answering when talked to. She was lost in her thoughts and I would have given up my life to be privy to them but I simply kept silent. We reached school and again Babli waited patiently while we completed the formalities. By then it was 12pm and refreshment time. As we walked towards the hostel, a little hand caught hold of mine: it was Utpal. Babli was his old pal and soon they set off to stand in line to get their two bananas. Babli’s journey had begun and Utpal was there to guide her. We were already detrop!
After handing over Babli to the hostel staff, it was time to say bye bye. I mouthed the required: take care of yourself and listen to your teachers etc but it was really not needed. A simple look at Babli”s face was enough to know that this little woman of substance knew more than anything one else that she held the reins of her destiny in her own hands and she was not one to let go till she reached the end of the race.
I will be celebrating my birthday soon. Birthdays have become for me the time of the year when I take stock as honestly as I can of the years gone by and try and make some resolutions for times to come. It is also when, in the dead of night, I blow on virtual candles and make my birthday wishes.
