by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 29, 2008 | Uncategorized
Yesterday was a special day. After almost six months little Utpal was to see his mom again. The day before I had asked Utpal whether he wanted to see his mom dance and act as the inmates of thecentre were putting up a new year show. Utpal’s eyes light up with joy and I was treated to his mischievious lopsided smile I so love. Mom dancing that was something he could not miss.
I felt a lump in my throat as I remembered all the false start mother and child reunions Utpal had gone through. Would this finally be the right one? Would Utpal’s mom come back to us healed and ready to face life? Easier said than done as she is deeply disturbed and needs a lot of healing and care. Would I ever be able to fulfill the promise I made to little Utpal: that of giving him back a mom!
The battle we have waged for many years has been quite uneven. Little Utpal has played by the rule and never made a false move. He settled in his boarding school without batting an eyelid. made friends, brought report cards filled withs stars, performed on stage, learnt to skate, and even began to play the piano. And each holiday he settled with ease in whatever place we sent him to be it a rehab centre or our women centre, with or without mom. As I have always said, he was is a true survivor.
So it is with a spring in his walk that he took off yesterday to see mom dance. He came back happy and full of stories: mom danced well said he as he proudly showed me the little clip on the camera, and then went on to show me the little paper windmill that his mom had made in her craft class adding with pride: you keep it, it is for you. Needless to say it now sits on my work desk next to his Xmas card and little cars.
Soon it will be time for mom to come home. I do not know what will happen but I do beseech the God of Lesser Souls to make this the final home coming. A little boy with huge eyes and an unwavering spirit deserves to have his mom back.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 26, 2008 | Uncategorized
This picture was taken yesterday. Our class X boys busy studying on the roadside in the morning sun. They often do that as their classroom, or what goes by that name, is very cold. But somehow the picture took me back to the day it had all begun. I still remember the way a vile school principal contemptuously told me that the likes of our students were simply gutter snipe and could never clear their Boards. The challenge was taken and for want of a classroom, classes began in the road side just a few meters away from where this picture was taken. In those days we did not have chairs or stools, a simple mat sufficed and cups of tea kept the chill away.
What we lacked resources was amply made up by the passion, commitment and zeal we all displayed. I remember coming almost every morning and sitting close to the boys, hoping against hope that that my presence would make up for all that was missing. Time was short as we had just under two months to achieve was seemed impossible: ensure that all our 10 boys cleared their Xth Boards. And they did!
Since that day every year a new batch of students has repeated the feat and I must confess a little sheepishly though, that now one has almost taken this for granted. As time passed and the project grew one had to take on new responsibilities and meet new challenges and many small miracles just went passed unnoticed.
Another picture did take me recently on a journey down memory lane, but this own was different. It brought back the almost palpable energy, vitality and spirit of what pwhy truly was: the passion to take on any challenge that comes our way, even it seems impossible and even if all screams to the contrary. I guess that is what we are all about and will strive to always be.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 25, 2008 | Uncategorized
When the terrible attacks on Mumbai occurred almost exactly a month ago, we like many the world over, watched in helpless horror. We mourned the senseless deaths of innocent people. We searched for elusive answers to the disturbing whys. And as is always the case in life we settled back in our ways and life took its momentarily suspended course. Mumbai somehow seemed very remote and we felt too small to have any role to play. But that was not to be. A wondrous moment was in the making.
A few days back a mail dropped in my inbox. A friend of a person whose life had tragically ended on that terrible Wednesday wanted to provide a small meal to pwhy kids in memory of her departed friend. So on Xmas eve, she along with her friend’s family, came to pwhy laden with boxes of yummy snacks and a bag of shining apples. I am convinced that the kids knew that the moment was almost hallowed. Their beautiful smiles and endearing eyes managed to convey what they could not word. And for those few magical instants time stood still and all that is ugly and sad was forgotten as one watched these little souls open their boxes or bite into their apples.
It was a blessed moment. One of hope and healing. One that urged us to look beyond the obvious and seek real solutions, one that compelled us to see that there were millions of little souls who still believed that a better tomorrow was possible even if the only evidence they had was the sweetness of their first whole apple.
It was a touching moment as I watched the brave little family who in spite of the terrible loss they were still coming to terms with, found it in their heart to come and bring a smile on faces who were still learning to smile.
It was a beautiful moment that proved that no matter how small or inconsequential one may feel, each one of us had the ability to reach out to another and craft something special.
I felt simply blessed.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 24, 2008 | Uncategorized
I am going to be outrageous today as I dare to hope that the proposed school fee hike in public schools may just be a tiny first step to the cherished dream of a common neighborhood school. Let me try and explain what I mean.
That education has become a commercial venture is sad but true. And this is across India as I learnt first hand just a few days ago. Gita who works is our home has a young daughter who lives in Calcutta with her mother. Gita nad her husband who works in the Gulf have just one dream: to give the best education possible t their only child. The child is not ready for school and for the past weeks the family has been filling forms and going through the tedious and onerous admission procedures. They have dutifully bought forms at 500 rs a piece ans completed them. They were shocked when a school told them that they had to produce the mother as she needed to be interviewed. They tried in vain to explain the situation. The nightmare is far from over and I just hope the little girl will get into a good school.
It is the word good that gets my goat!
Over the years certain schools have acquired the label good! Slowly and surreptitiously an insidious caste system evolved in what was meant to be an even playing ground, and slowly and surreptitiously the hallmark of good schools became the size of their fees, and not the quality of teachers or other such parameters. For a good school in Delhi you have to pay in thousands and more. And now with the dreaded rise the costs will become simply mind boggling. And as a parent said : we might have to pull out our children from expensive school to a cheaper one.
During the recent election campaign a politician aptly commented: Having a house in the city is beyond the reach of the middle class. If the fees of children are increased, then schools will go out of the reach of the middle class and only the children of the rich people will get education. Education is the fundamental right of children. This of course was uttered to gain political mileage but it seems to be the way things are going. Schools will soon become out of reach of the middle class and the likes of Gita and her husband who toil day and night to try and ensure their child gets the best.
Rather than the cheaper school can we not start talking of the common neighborhood school run by the state. Or is it is too infradig to think of sending your middle class child to such schools? How long will it take to some to terms with a reality that is staring us in the face. Is it not time to demand that state run schools be made into good schools, and redefine the word good once in for all!
As long as good is defined in germs of the size of fee paid, there is scant hope. Education is not better if imparted in fancy buildings. The best lessons can be learnt under a tree! By making education a commercial activity one is hijacking one’s own future. If good education is allowed to percolate to the lowest level, it will usher a better society for all. This is something we seem to have forgotten.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 23, 2008 | Uncategorized
Meher came into our lives just a few months ago. Her story is nothing short of tragic and yet her
joie de vivre is infectious. From the time she walked into the women centre she adopted us all.
Though officially enrolled in the creche, Meher has become part and parcel of the centre where she practically lives. Her booming voice, her incredible self confidence, her larger than life smile and endearing ways make you forget the scars on her face or her maimed hands.
True that some may find her a tad spoilt, but what the heck, she deserves every bit of pampering and overindulging to make up for all that was taken away from her on the fateful night when a cheap mosquito net caught fire and scarred her for life when she was barely a few months old.
Meher has an incredible spirit. In spite of her tiny age she wants to live life to its fullest. She seems strangely aware of the fact that she is not like others and is probably conscious of the fact that people look at her with a mix of pity and even horror and yet she is not one to hide behind anything. She faces you head on and ensures that you look at her and acknowledge her existence. And once you do she treats you to her breathtaking smile that almost washes away all her scars. Her message seems simple: look at me, I also exist.
Meher is probably an extreme example but over the past decade I have seen this spirit in almost every child that has come the pwhy way. They all bear scars though for most of them these are invisible: scars of humiliation at the hands of uncaring parents, scars of indignity meted by brutish teachers, scars of embarrassment at their poverty, their disability and so on. The list is endless.
And yet, when given a chance even the tiniest one, these children, no matter their age, want to tell you just like Meher: look at me, I exist. They do it in subtle ways: a good report card, a lesson well learnt or sometimes simply a hesitant smile and a hand held out. And if you respond then there is no stopping them.
There are millions of such children, waiting in the wings for someone to simply tell them : I see you and know you exist!
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 23, 2008 | fostercare, manu
I am really livid! i was hoping that my mellowed mood of the day before would have lasted me this festive season and gently pushed me into the next year but that was not to be.
This morning a worried Prabin, the house master of our foster care programme walked into my office and informed me about a late night knock that came to disturb the peace of our little haven: a posse of uniformed men who romped in noisily as apparently they had been told that we were running a lucrative guest house!
A very lucrative guest house indeed where the permanent residents are 7 lost souls, given up by all and who pays us in smiles, stars on their copy books or a pile of neatly folded clothes. A very lucrative guest house indeed where the most unlikely roomies learn not only to live together but to respect and care for each other; where a half orphaned boy climbs on a chair to help his disabled roomie comb his hair! A very lucrative guest house indeed where simple meals of rice and dal are shared amidst laughter and chiding, where the TV runs for only an hour and all huddle in one room at night to keep electricity bills lows. I think it is time to redefine the word lucrative!
What makes me livid is the fact that someone found it necessary to go an complain to the authorities. What makes me livid is that everyone on the street knows what we do and yet the cops reached our door. What makes me livid is that over and over again we are bothered by uncaring and heartless authorities, even ten long years d won the line.
What makes me sad is that even ten years down the line, in a country where every one knows what the other is doing, one cannot carry the simple work one is doing in peace. If you want to repair the roof of your crumbling building, before you have even knocked off the first brick, a swarm of uniforms descend upon you with their hands lasciviously held out. If someone kind souls form faraway lands make the effort to a simple gift to the children a cryptic sign language greets you as you again wonder where you went wrong.
I wonder when the prowling predators will knock. I wonder if they were able to see the reality as they pussyfooted across our little home or were they too blinded by their greed. I do not know why I feel desecrated. The peaceful life we had crafted with so much effort and love in spite of the innumerable problems we had faced stands violated. The dream to give Manu a warm bed, or to secure Champa’s morrows or to give four desperate children hope now lies exposed.
And as is always the case in such moments, we find ourselves compelled to wonder where we went wrong.
I am incensed and terribly sad.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 21, 2008 | fostercare, manu
As I was browsing the innumerable pictures that sit on my computer, I came across this one, taken a few weeks ago by a friend who had dropped by. I guess she must have snapped the shot as she was leaving and the children and staff waved her farewell from the rooftop. I do not how, but I had missed this one till today.
I looked at the picture for a long time and somehow it set the mood for some muted musings, something that had not happened for a long time as one seemed always hijacked by some crises or the other. The silhouettes of the kids etched across an almost pristine blue sky seem to echo to the T the mood I find myself in as the year draws to a end.
It has been an eventful year to say the least. From our terrible struggle to salvage our land, to the continuous one to keep project why and its new avatars alive one had been on one’s toes, not having even a moment to take a back seat and simply enjoy the incredible happenings that have dotted the year.
I do not know how and when the women centre grew from a tiny handful of 5o kids to almost 300. I did not have time to pour over the regular reports the foster care kids brought home and count the stars they proudly displayed. I barely had time to dance with the special kids or play with the tiny ones. Like the proverbial character in the song of sixpence, I just seemed to have spent the year in my counting house simply trying to ensure that each day flowed in to the other. Days flew by, each with its tiny miracle that went unnoticed, at least by me. Children quietly moved from one class to the next, two batches of women got their tailoring certificates, our hearing impaired girls got their hearing aids and heard their first sound, Manu took his first bath without help, and 7 super kids learnt the art of inclusive living. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. If I were to list all the marvels that dotted the year gone by, I would need to write a book.
I had not realised it till this very moment but the year gone by was one that saw the realisation of long cherished dreams: the one that was conjured silently almost a decade back when I first lay eyes on Manu and dreamt of a soft bed for him, or the one barely evoked by a teenage girl. And it was not just the fulfillment of personal dreams but also of those barely mouthed by desperate souls, be it the sightless woman whose husband’s life was at stake, or the little boy whose mother was in danger.
It has been an incredible and blessed year. And I am glad the picture that had passed me by came to the fore today as it allowed me to remember all I had to be grateful for. Sure the sun will rise again, and the muted silhouettes will become sharp and distinct reminding me of the struggle that lies ahead, but today I just want to revel in my muted musings.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 19, 2008 | fostercare, manu
Yesterday our four little foster care kids celebrated their first annual day in their little prep school. While the three older ones were dancing, little Aditya was an elephant in a Panchatantra tale. Babli, Nikhil, Vicky and Aditya are incredible kids. For the past 8 months they have been living with their very special pals Manu, Champa and Anjali. And they all are truly a terrific seven!
A year back they lived dreary lives and barely knew each other. In a few months they will take their first step in brand new world when they join little Utpal in his boarding school where a a whole new world await them.
These four kids have done us proud. They have secured excellent marks in their terminal examinations and have truly walked the talk! Yesterday, as I watched them get ready for their big show my heart filled with pride. How little it took to change the world of a child. Their willingness to accept new ways and excel in them is truly touching. They seem to know intuitively that what is happening to them is special.
My thoughts go back to the days when the whole programme had been put in question as support we thought we had secured was withdrawn without an explanation. I remember the sleepless nights I spent wondering how to salvage the programme at least for these four kids. I recall the reactions I got from those I approached for help. To many, giving quality education to slum children was anathema. And yet I could not send back these kids to their homes; I could not take back dreams that their parents had conjured.
Thank God, there were friends who felt the way I did and soon a wonderful network was created to try and help these children. Asha Seattle and Asha Canada have adopted this project and others have promised to help.
One must remember that this is a long haul. The children have to be able to complete their education that they are just beginning. It is also a long term commitment and one does not know what awaits us. It is not simply a matter of funds, for the next decade or so these children will depend on us at every step. One will have to be there at each PTM, smooth bruised egos , laud every achievement, chide when needed and heal every hurt. We too embark on a new journey, one we know will be filled with wonderful moments but also challenging ones.
My mind again travels back to the time where I first laid eyes on each of them. The day Babli told me herself that she needed an operation but that the family did not have the money. And then long after the operation the terrible day when I found out that Babli had stopped going to school. My mind also goes back to the very first time little Aditya walked into our lives a lost child with his huge eyes filled with questions. or the day we first moment I saw Vicky in the arms of his mother as we visited his family? Children whose dreams had been put on hold by seemingly insurmountable circumstance. And yet the god of lesser beings had his own plan. One that took many twists and turns but ultimately brought these children together under one roof and salvaged all dreams just as he had done for little Utpal.
In a few months these children will fly to another coop. We will miss them but for them it is the only way to go.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 16, 2008 | Uncategorized
5000 crores! A mind boggling figure! I do not even know how many zeroes it has and yet this is what private schools in India make by simply selling nursery school admission forms and this is no loose statistic but the result of a survey made by the ASSOCHAM Social Development Foundation (ASDF).
It is again that time of the year when public and upmarket schools open their hallowed doors to new entrants: the little nursery babies. For the past year or more I have watched with growing horror the plight of parents and their tiny wards as they set off to fulfill all the modalities required to get admission in a good school. The drama seems to be endless and with its share of unexpected twists and turns. Just as you feel that things may just have fallen in place, a new bombshell hits you. After innumerable court orders, commission decisions and more of the same, the (ill)famed point system seemed to have been the chosen mode, but as some autonomy was left to each school, we were lights years away from the promised fair, transparent, etc process.
The shocker was indeed the recent survey and the mind boggling revelation: in Delhi alone good public schools are likely to earn revenues by selling prospectus to an extent of Rs.5,000 crore. Some school charge 1000 rs for their prospectus and the average a parent spends on buying prospectuses is 5000 rs. There is no guaranteed admission and one has not even begun talking about the fees, admission charges and donations asked.
Education is the new lucrative business on the block.
Yesterday a metro channel aired a call in programme on nursery admissions. Two guests were invited: one a upmarket school principal and the other an ASSOCHAM rep. Many harrowed parents called in, each asking candid questions or sharing some of their angst. The guests did not quite answer the proffered queries but debated their own viewpoints. While one defended the case of the public schools the other pleaded for some regulatory system. Needless to say the debate was heated and got nowhere.
All this is terribly troubling particularly in a scenario where humbler parents are wanting a better education for their children and where state run schools seem to be growing from bad to worse by the day. I cannot forget the plight of little Kiran’s admission.
It is a strange situation. The children of India have acquired their supposed right to education after almost half of century of independence, and yet the bill is still on its slow way to implementation. The feeble voices raised in favour of a quality neighbourhood common school are loudly being shut down by interested lobbies: those of the public schools as yo will all agree it is all about money, honey!
In the midst of all this, little children are being forgotten. It almost seems like everyone is conspiring to keep the majority of children away from the so called good schools. And that is another matter of debate: who decides which school is good?
One had no choice but to agree that in spite of recession and tumbling markets children still need to be educated and hence education becomes a lucrative option. Every business house seems to have its own school and new public schools are being opened everywhere. On the other hand government schools which have prime locations and ample land seem to be deteriorating by the day making us believe that the lobbies are working well. Education is truly the new business on the block.
Who will bell the cat? No one I guess and yet the idea of a good common school has to be mooted and accepted. Perhaps not for the ones who can afford the mind boggling costs but for the many who feel they have acquired the right to give their children a better education. Getting your child into a good school should be easy and affordable, not the mortifying experience it seems to have become.
A good common school where teachers are selected through and IAS like competition and given sterling work conditions, children who can walk to a school that does not look like a 7* extravaganza, but an even playing ground that reflects the unity in diversity that India is. An impossible dream? Maybe, but dreams do come true sometimes.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 16, 2008 | Uncategorized
We have our library! And like everything else at pwhy it is a happy and even funky one. For me this is a very special moment. Many do not know, but when it all began, almost a decade ago, I had dreamt of pwhy being a space where children could come and be children for at least a little part of their day. A place where they could read, play, laugh and just be kids. That was before I had come face to face with the realities that surrounded us: the poor state of schools, the need to arrest drop out rates and so on. So the dream was shelved and our journey as a education support programme began.
But dreams never leave you once you have conjured them and somehow forces are silently at work to conspire to make them happen. Almost a year ago a mail from someone I did not know then dropped by. Another soul thousands of miles away had a similar dream: to bring thousands of books to children in India. Six months ago the books did land. We began a small library in the women centre, an instant success with the children! But most of the books lay quietly in cartons waiting for the right moment for want of space.
Then a small gift made the impossible possible. We decided to knock down our old jhuggi and build our library and children centre. And uncanny but true it would be in the very space where it all began, the place where our very first spoken English class was held. To crown it all this was when three graffiti artistes from France offered to decorate some part of pwhy: it was to be the library.
As I write these words the books are still in cartons and the paint still fresh but a few weeks from now the library will open and children of the area will have a place where they can come and reclaim their childhood.
The library is the realisation of a long cherished dream. It could not have happened without our friends from the omprakash foundation – Willy, Gordon, Lily – and our graffiti artist friends – Miguel, Martin and Ken. Bless them all
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 15, 2008 | manu
Last week the world celebrated the 60th anniversary of the signing of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. On that day the Alliance Francaise had a special celebration. Three graffiti artists from France made live paintings while musicians performed. Pwhy was invited and we had set up an information table and made a power point presentation that was looped through most of the evening bringing the smiles of the pwhy children to warm the chilly evening.
I had to make a speech and while writing it I had to do two things: read the Human Rights Declaration again and then link it to our work. While doing so I realised how privileged we were as most of our rights were protected all the time, something we were barely aware of and simply took for granted. To us human rights was what we defended from the comfort of an armchair or at a cocktail party when some terrible violation had taken place in some remote part of the country or the world. We were simply oblivious to the fact that we belonged to the chosen few whose rights were protected by birth.
As I perused the list of articles I realised that many of the rights we took for granted, were actually violated for many around us though we remained comfortably oblivious to the fact. I sat a long time wondering what I would say in my speech and realised that in hindsight pwhy had somehow been a journey of restoring violated human rights. It all began with Manu. Had he not been subjected to the violation of each and every one of his human right? And even today, 8 years down the line though we may have helped restore some of his rights we have not been able to give him back his right of being a citizen of a country as all our efforts have been in vain. A classic catch 22 situation.
There have been many cases where our efforts has helped restore some usurped or hijacked human right often quite unwittingly and yet there are moments when even our inured minds are jolted beyond words. Recently a visit to little Radha’s home shook us out the complacent attitude we seemed to have adopted. The picture you see is that of her house ( the one on the left of the picture is hers). One her mother has to pay 4oo rs a month for over and above the three meals a day she has to provide to her landlord. The house could best be described as a kennel! Made of bricks and mud with a paltry tin roofing this minute dwelling was home to two adults and four children. It is was where they slept, ate, cooked, played, laughed, cried in a word: lived. Is is where little Radha sheltered her brittle bones. No wonder she broke them with clockwork regularity.
Today it lies locked as the family has gone to the village to perform the last rites of the father. When they come back they would have to resume their pathetic survival in this flimsy space. If all goes well this will not be the case as we hope to be able to give the little family shelter in our women’s centre.
But across our city replete with its sparkling malls and sprawling homes there are many such hovels where people live, people that make our lives a little easier. When I hear the constant references in speeches made by those who rule this city to making Delhi a world class city for the famed forthcoming sports extravaganza, my blood curdles. Can one even consider making the city a better place if there are people living in such conditions. And what is worst is that many such dwellers have voters ID cards! Hence they are not as invisible as one would like to think. It is just that in our country one does not visit the homes of those who work for us. Maybe one should begin to.
No one can be allowed by any self respecting society to live in a space where you cannot even stand. Please look at this picture again
Could you live here?
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 13, 2008 | Uncategorized
“He had asked me for new clothes on Eid that I couldn’t provide him. He got angry and left,” admitted the lone surviving terrorist’s father in a recent interview aired on all channels. We all heard this interview and most of us would have felt satisfaction of finally getting proof of the nationality of the young man.
However the words had a different impact on me. My mind went back to an incident I had forgotten, one that occurred in early pwhy days. At that time we had a bunch of secondary students known for their rowdy ways. They were often beaten at school and also at home. They were the ones everyone had decided to brand as bad and yet they were in their teens. As school for boys only ran in the afternoons, they spent their mornings loitering on the street and often ogling at girls. One even was known to have a girl friend, a cardinal sin!
One day I decided to have a chat with hem and called them to my office. They came with sheepish smiles on their face wondering why I had called them. We spent a long time chatting and as they shared their dreams I realised that they were just little boys looking for someone to rach out to them and care for them. They told me that they wanted to own a cell phone (in those days these were rare) and branded jeans. They also wanted to impress girls (like any 15 yesr old) and had been told that girls liked boys with good bodies ad as someone had told them that drinking beer would help them get just that so they drank beer whenever they could.
I was touched by their candid confessions and regular teenage dreams that were just like those of a other kid their age, only they did not have the means to fulfill them. The went on to tell me how their classmate (son of a local politico) had all the things they wanted and how they envied him. One of them even confessed that they had been approached by a political party who wanted them to join the party. They would be given a card and then if they were in trouble of any kind the part would bail them out. And so it went on, dreams and ways to fulfill them and the line between right and wrong so tenuous that it became almost invisible. And the reason that would perhaps make them cross it was simply a set of new clothes!
As I sat remembering those boys, my mind wet back to another forgotten incident: a wall broken in Cupid’s name and my tryst with the leader of the pack that proved how adults use tender and disheartened minds to fulfill their vile agendas.
And yet all these boys need is someone to reach out to them and guide them. Otherwise who knows what they may land up doing for a set of new clothes.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 9, 2008 | Uncategorized
The little children in the picture are busy aping their teachers. Move and shake your hands has been a regular part of the morning wake up routine followed by the pwhy creche for many years now. It is a fun activity that the children enjoy a lot and probably forget as they move along the road of life. I just hope that they never remember it in their lives. Wonder why?
About two weeks ago I received a mail from our friends in France informing me that they has sent a cargo for the children: warm clothes, shoes, toys, and books. Was it not Xmas time. The cargo had been uplifted by an airline free of cost as the things were meant for charitable purposes. Most of the clothes, shoes etc were used though in prim condition. The cargo arrived and then began what I can only term as a ordeal I would never want to live again not simply because of the harrowing experience itself but because I still want to keep alive certain illusions I have about the land that is mine.
I had thought that the cargo would be released in a day or two and that we would have to pay a reasonable amount as charges, duty etc. The cargo was released after 12 days, a whopping 41 K (most as demurrage charges that I beleive we may get back) and extreme wear and tear on nerves. I must confess that I was not the one who was on the battleground. A kind friend who had been working within the aviation sector and who knew people at the airport offered to do it for us.
What followed the simple call informing us of the arrival was a film noir worthy of the best director. The protagonists were our spirited lady and a jaded cargo agent suggested to her by friends at the airport and a posse of villains in all sizes and hues. The villains in question belonged to the custom department, bureaucrats of diverse importance who may we not forget get their salaries from our hard earned money. A complex low life drama enfolded. To get the cargo released one had to conquer each villain and get the coveted booty: a signature! A true obstacle race as in spite of the stipulated timing of 11 to 4, most of them were on leave, not on their seat, out to lunch or too busy to talk or so we thought. My friend wondered why each one of them passed in front of her looking bothered and waving their hands just like the kids in the picture.
For some time my friend thought that the person in question was too busy or harassed. Ultimately it is the cargo agent who broke the code: the waving of hands signified the amount of facilitation money (not to use bribe) that was needed get to the next stage of the race. Two hands waved meant 10 000Rs! Nothing would be done other wise. That was the unwritten and unbreakable code. It goes without saying that we did not pay any bribe but it took us 12 days to get the cargo out, 12 days of having to listen to despicable and humiliating comments about NGOs and they all being thieves and crooks, 12 days of running from pillar to post and knocking at impregnable doors. In the end we got our way but by then the demurrage charges had mounted. We ultimately got our cargo released and are now appealing to get the demurrage waived.
What is sad is that this happened at the same time as India was supposedly coming together in the hope of changing things, when anger against politicians was being voiced by one and all, when it seemed that perhaps, just perhaps we would see better days. But this small and insignificant incident that was enfolding in the remote corner of the airport of our capital city proved beyond doubt that change was as elusive as ever, that the rot had set in so deep that it would take not one, but countless miracles to stem out. What saddened me most as my friend recounted the events was that there seemed no way out of the quagmire. Honesty, compassion, righteousness were not only passe and defunct, but held in contempt and derided. That the lessons we so assiduously tried to teach our children would not help them in life, if things were to remain as they were.
Where did we go from here? How did we change things? Candlelight vigils and passionate speeches could not be the answer as they could only be heard and understood by people with a soul. How did you deal with those who had sold theirs? Would we then simply have to tell our children not to forget how to move and shake their hands.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 7, 2008 | Uncategorized
I have been rapped on my knuckles many a times during from the day I decided to give up the comfort and ease of being an armchair activist of sorts and cross the line. One after the other I saw all my lofty ideas not only put to test but demolished by the realities that stared me in the face. And each time one had to reinvent oneself as the challenge had to be met. Somehow this seems to have been the pwhy story.
But never was the lesson harder than this time. As the country still battled the aftermath of 26/11, though without being cynical it seems to have taken the back burner on the prime time news being replaced by political drama of all hues, a little family in Delhi was struck by its own terror: the death of a father.
As I said in my last posts we were shocked by the incident and set about making the right moves: dole out the money urgently needed to allow the family to perform all the complex rituals and imagine – i say imagine – a road map for the young widow. We knew that the family had survived by selling tobacco and other ware in front of their home. So we felt that we would help the young mom continue doing just that. It seemed doable or so we thought.
Yesterday we went to visit the little family as Radha had been asking for her teachers. What we saw shocked us beyond words: Radha and her family live in a what can at best be called a box made of brick and mud with a tin roof. The place is sunk in and the roof too low to allow you to stand. The landlord lives in the next space and charges not only 400 rs a month but also his three meals. In that hole lived six people 2 adults and 4 children including little Radha and her brittle bones. The hovel is situated on the road in the midst of an unhealthy industrial area replete with fumes, waste an drunk men. Radha’s mom’s chilling words made us realise the stark reality: till yesterday she said I had bangles on my arms and sindoor on my forehead, today I have lost that and my back is naked! There was no way this young woman could survive let alone work and bring her children up in this place. She would be torn to pieces and devoured by lurking predators.
Our easy road map came crashing as we stared at what I would simply call social terrorism: the insidious beat that lurks and lies in wait for the right moment to attack. As long as her husband was alive and even moribund, she was safe, today she was in extreme danger. She had to be protected and sheltered. Her tin roof on a roadside was too flimsy to shield her, her little family and Radha’s brittle bones.
Such is the plight of innumerable families in India’s capital city, a stone’s throw from our comfortable lives. What is it that allows anyone to sink into such despair? How long will it take for 10 year old Meera to turn into price prey? Where are the powers to be, the social programmes, the aam admi‘s government? And how can we continue to allow this to happen? India has supposedly woken up to the threat of terrorism, but what about this kind of invisible and subtle terrorism that gnaws at the lives of millions each and every day? And please do not spring karma and other such theories at me, what about our conscience?
We will get Radha’s family out of the dark but what about all the others? Is it not time that we the so called educated, privileged and articulate people woke up. There will be no 26/11 to bring social terrorism to the fore, we simply have to learn to open our eyes!
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 5, 2008 | Uncategorized
Radha’s mother came to the project this morning. She looked the epitome of despair. Even the most hardened soul could not have remained dry eyed. She clutched her last born, an eight month old baby that looked barely three. In spite of the chilly morning neither she nor her tiny son had a warm cloth to protect them. She had no time to sit in mourning though it was just yesterday that her husband’s mortal remains had been consigned to the fire. She had come to ask help to enable her to go to her village and perform the elaborate and ruinous rituals that would ensure that she would not be spurned by her clan.
Yes Radha’s young mom did not have the luxury to sit in a corner and weep her incredible and irreparable loss. Her pain was etched on her gentle face and the tears kept rolling as she recounted her tale. A husband consumed by TB and alcohol, four children to bring up one being little Radha and her brittle bones and nothing but a small cart that doled out cups of teas and some food to help her not only survive but live.
In spite of her abject misery I could sense a quiet determination, a yet hazy but eminently doable life plan, one that perhaps could see her and her children through. This simple and illiterate woman had somehow come of age. Motherhood was at stake and she was determined not to give up. True she had come seeking help but somehow there was a dignity in her demeanour, a courage that needed to be saluted particularly as she was a woman nothing had prepared for the life she would now have to live.
We cannot even begin to imagine the magnitude of Radha’s mom’s despair as it is beyond imagination. She never had much but till yesterday she had the misplaced and yet indispensable security that a husband, no matter how worthless, provides a woman in India. Today she had been deprived of even that. She would have to battle every foe alone.
We will do whatever we can to see that she picks up the pieces of her shattered life and weaves a new one, one that can sustain her little family and bring back smiles to the faces of her young children. And yet we know that young Mira, her elder daughter barely 10 will soon become the little mother as Radha’s mom takes on the role of the head of the family.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 5, 2008 | Uncategorized
Sometimes I am at a complete loss in trying to understand the ways of the God of Lesser Beings . Little Radha has been absent from class for a while as she had once again broken her leg. We were expecting her back as was usually the case. She simply loves pwhy and let us not forget she still dreams of walking one day. But this time the God of Lesser Beings had other plans for her.
Her plaster did come off and she was ready to come back but then a false move by her sister and her brittle bone broke again. Her father was planning to take her to the hospital the next day but that was not happen. That night her father fell ill and died on the way to the hospital: a victim of hooch and life itself.
Radha’s father had lost his job some time back. His health did not allow him to get another one so he sold tea and some eats from a stall in front of his tiny home. The family of 6 barely survived. Radha’s mom is illiterate. They have no source of income, no land in the village, simply nothing. An uncle performed the last rites of the father as Radha’s only brother is still a babe in arms. Now they need to perform the burdensome rituals in the village that will cost an arm and a leg: noblesse oblige!
What will their future be? I cannot even begin to imagine what awaits them and am at a complete loss to see how we can help them. I simply know that we have to. Is the God of Lesser beings listening?
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 3, 2008 | Uncategorized
This morning I got a lovely mail for Harriet. She is the young girl who had spent a few days with us at project why and promised to help us when she got back to her school in London. Some time later she wrote again saying that she was planning a Xmas sale at her school the proceeds of which would come to us.
Harriet is a very special person, one that truly walks the talk. The sale was held and she informed me that a whopping 50 Pounds had been collected. It may seem a tiny sum to many, but to us at pwhy it is more precious than the largest donation we get, as it is one that is laced with love, compassion and tenderness. We fell humbled.
Harriet also had one more surprise for us: her very first article in a local newspaper simply entitled A Ray of Hope in the New Delhi Slums. It is a very touching article on project why as seen by a young girl from a privileged country.
Harriet’s mail brought joy and healing at at time when we are truly in need of it. India is still trying to make sense of the terrible week gone by. Thousands are on the street trying to find an answer to questions that seem hopeless. There is talk of war and aggression. Anger is tempered with helplessness and people seem terribly lost. In the midst of all this madness, this simple gesture from a young girl is the message we all needed to hear. It does not take much to reach out another, to help change a life or to bring a smile on a face that had forgotten to smile.
Thank you Harriet.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 3, 2008 | Uncategorized
Bernard Ray gently left this world today after a long illness. He died peacefully. Who is Bernard Ray and why am I writing this post today?
The answer to these questions are simple. He is what we hope every human being aspires to be. In simpler terms he is Xavier’s dad and Xavier is undoubtedly the cornerstone of pwhy.
When Xavier decided to set up Enfances Indiennes as an organisation to support pwhy, Bernard was its very first member. He somehow knew that in spite of difficult moments it would not only happen but grow and thrive. 700 children today vindicate his belief!
I am reminded of St Exupery words when he wrote: To be a man is … to be responsible. It is to feel shame at the sight of what seems to be unmerited misery. It is to take pride in a victory won by one’s comrades. It is to feel, when setting one’s stone, that one is contributing to the building of the world. He was just that kind of man.
A few years back he came to project why and spent many hours with us. We were all touched by his warmth and kindness. What we did not know at that time was that his short transit via planet why was his unobtrusive way to bless all of us and to leave a little of his magic in our hearts.
Yesterday he left this world for a new one, a better one, one that is filled with light and love. We will miss him but somehow I know he will be there for the family his son made his own: in the soft ray of sun that warms a cold morning, in the cloud that gives respite from the scorching sun, in the first drop a rain that quenches the parched earth and the whiff of wind that gently blows on our face to remind us that we are protected.
Today we do not mourn him but celebrate a life well lived and again say with St Exupery: he who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.
