by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 3, 2008 | Uncategorized
The latest addition to the ever growing dowry of a slum brides is believe it or not a washing machine. Even the humblest of families are ensuring that every girl reaches her new home armed with a washing machine. Often, as was the case in a recent wedding I attended, the machine is too big for the jhuggi in which it will have to find place. More often than not such homes have no bathroom, let alone a water point to feed the machine. Yet it faithfully accompanies every bride. It lies for some time in its packaging at the entrance of the home, for all to see and I guess the bride’s family gets the required brownie points. Then after herculean efforts and some astute maneuvers its is dragged within the home and placed in a corner often hogging space that could be put to far better use. It may just lie thus for a long time and things are piled on it. Then perhaps one day it will be taken out of its dusty packaging and with more maneuvering inaugurated by dragging some hosepipe after having been plugged to an illegal power connection.
The washing machine is a symbol of urban success . It has replaced the now jaded TV and motorbike. No one bothers to think of all that is needed to get the machine going: water, electricity and above all space.
We have never owned a washing machine. For over twenty years Lakshiamma and her husband have come faithfully every day to wash our clothes. The thousand rupees or so they get every month feeds their family. It is true that sometimes the clothes are not quite as clean as one would like, or sometimes in heir hurry they soak a coloured cloth with the others and thus a white shirt gets some pink stains but what the heck. It is lovely to hear their voices as they babble to each other in Tamil. They are one of the thousands who leave their home to make a life for themselves and brighten ours.
In a world where water and electricity are getting scarcer by the day, they are true green warriors. For nothing in the world would I buy a washing machine! And yet I find it quasi impossible to explain this to my slum friends. I guess it will take a long time to teach them to walk to the next block rather than use their new bike. Let us not forget they have just acquired urban dreams.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 3, 2008 | Uncategorized
My family is very poor and I dropped out of primary school revealed the lone arrested perpetrator of the attack on Mumbai. The words sent a chill down my spine. For the last decade we at pwhy have been striving to ensure that such children do not drop our of school and do not become easy fodder to lurking predators. Our efforts may look herculean to us but are just a drop in the ocean. Delhi alone has hundred of thousands of children who still drop out of school.
Everyone is today trying to find ways and means of ensuring that what happened last week in India’s financial capital never occurs again. Suggestions of all sorts are being held forth and many are indeed worthy. I am no politician, nor strategist, neither am I part of any intellectual group of think tank. I am a simple citizen who has for the past few years been trying to answer a simple question – why do children drop out of school – and find simple solutions. I can say with pride that for the last almost ten years every child we have reached out to had not dropped out of school. True that what we do is a tiny drop in a huge ocean but nevertheless we did what we could within our very limited resources and we did it without government or institutional help.
Let me assure you that this post is not meant to be one that extols our work. Far from that. It is a very humble plea to all those who today are looking for solutions to also take into account an important factor that often gets forgotten. To perpetrate terror predators need vulnerable minds that can be manipulated and brain washed. One must think of drying that source once for all and one can only do that if children are given a proper education an equal opportunities. I admit that this is not the solution everyone is hankering one. It is not the one that makes you feel immediately safe: an AK 47 to answer an AK 47. Nevertheless it is one we have to consider and moreover it is one everyone can contribute to and participate in.
During the past few years I have often been told quite bluntly by those I approach for help: why give quality education to the poor! The answer is obvious if we chose to see it.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Dec 1, 2008 | Uncategorized
More than ever today I remember the lyrics of Jimmy Cliff’s song:
Remake the worldWith love and happinessRemake the worldPut your conscience in the testRemake the worldNorth, south, east and westRemake the worldGotta prove that are the best..
The terrible week that has just gone by has perhaps – and I say perhaps – woken India from the ataxic and catatonic state it had allowed itself to sink in for reasons better left unsaid. The people are angry. There is a permeable sense of outrage. Everyone seems to want something done. Some want extreme measures, others seek softer solutions but everyone wants to see some action.
The picture you see was taken last week, probably when most of us were glued to our TV screens trying to make sense of what was enfolding in front of our eyes. These are the children of our Sanjay Colony primary centre. Most of them belong to migrant families and they are from all caste and creed. Even their teachers are a motley crew: one from what we call the lowest caste and the other a gypsy whereas the third is from a educated home. That afternoon was geography class and hence time to play with the big inflatable globe. For me the picture was portentous of a message. It was time to remake the world, if not for us, at least for these children as they trusted us implicitly. One just could not let them down.
And the world cannot be remade by apportioning blame to some outside foe: be they those that rule us or those that follow a different faith. To truly remake the world we need to look deep into ourselves and see were we have gone wrong. How have we allowed the world to be what it is today. People are on the streets, each one expressing his or her anguish. For the first time politicians are being riled. Suddenly people have found their lost voice. But for how long is the question begging to be asked.
The little kids hugging the world are looking for answers long owed to them. Will we have the courage to remake the world?
by Anuradha Bakshi | Nov 30, 2008 | Uncategorized
What gives us and the media the right to question politicians for their divisive politics, when deep inside we are as divided and prejudiced. And so we shall get what we deserve. These very pertinent words were part of a note on Facebook.
The aftermath of the Mumbai attacks has set many of us thinking or so would we like to believe. TV shows are roping in distinguished personae to debate and dissect the events of the past three terrible days and suggest measures to ensure that such horror is never revisited. Politician bashing is the call of the day and everyone is engaging in it unabashedly. A popular TV show was aired yesterday and though I only caught the end twenty minutes my, blood ran cold. (for those who want to view it it is available here). The audience was made of a gathering of eminent personalities and an audience of educated people, some of whom had survived what is now known as 26/11.
There was understandable anger and unbridled passion. But what shocked me beyond words was the ease with which our own prejudices and divisive attitudes emerged at the slightest provocation. What appalled me was the casualness with which some identified the enemy and even suggested we carpet bomb them. I am comforted that some reacted to these and put an end to the dangerous direction things were taking. What saddened me was the fact that this was all being done by the intelligentsia of our country. Deep inside we are divided and prejudiced.
I would like to share two stories. One of a young child of 6 maybe 7. It happened many years ago. The child father’s was actively involved in some UN negotiations and for many days the discussion in the home had been about the crucial votes needed to push some resolution through. The fate of the resolution lay in the way Japan would vote. While the parents discussed the the matter with passion every evening, the child sat listening. On the fateful day Japan voted against the resolution and the motion was defeated. A few days later was the child’s birthday and as she sat with her mom making a list of the children to be invited, she declared that she would not invite her two Japanese friends. her mother was perplexed as they were the child’s best friends of the moment. The child’s answer was simple: their papa voted against my papa, they are enemies now ! Luckily the child’s mom was a wise woman and she sat her child down and put the incident in the right perspective and needless to say the Japanese girls came to the party and remained best friends for a long time. The child was me. I had forgotten this incident that happened almost half a century ago. It sprung back to my mind yesterday as I listened to the hate that seemed to colour the words of many speakers.
The other story I would like to share is one of a simple family that was somehow both Hindu and Muslim. I reproduce it here though it was published some time back in GoodnewsIndia.
(Dr S D Sharma, now 80, is in retirement. He reminisces about a ‘brother’ who went away to Pakistan but stayed in touch till he died.)
‘I grew up in Kanpur, where my father was a doctor. Ours was a large family, and my mother was known for her strict ways with children. We were nevertheless, a merry band of 10 children—siblings and cousins– that lived in the rambling house. Mummy, as we all called her, showered us with love, but could be a real tyrant if we did not study. For her it was imperative that we do well in school, as she intuitively knew that learning was the key to the greater things in life. And what was even more remarkable was that she had the same view for both boys and girls.
One of my father’s good friends was a Muslim trader. We knew him as Khalid Chacha. He was an imposing man, with a long beard and we were always in awe of him. One day, Khalid Chacha came, holding the hand of a young boy, maybe 10 years old.
That is when I first met Umar. Umar was Khalid Chacha’s son, and was, as we learnt later, a naughty boy who hated studies. My father and Khalid Chacha had decided that only Mummy could get him to study, so Umar would come and live with us, in our home.
Umar turned out to be a lovely boy and he became my best friend. He lived with us for over 10 years, till he passed his BA. Initially it was hard to get him to study, but later it was Umar who decided that he preferred living with us, even though he had to work hard at his books.
In 1947, Umar’s family left for Pakistan. We were bewildered, hurt, sad and also a little bit angry at their decision to leave. But we did not know the power of love. We all thought we would never see him again.
Umar Bhai died in Rawalpindi in 1990. Each and every year till then, political conditions and regulations permitting, Umar made his ‘pilgrimage’ to India. As the rules demanded, he had to fill in the names of people he would visit. And the names would be those of my family, all Hindu names. This surprised the authorities so much that once they asked him why he came every year to meet Hindus.
His answer was the simple: ‘They are the only family I have’. ‘The heart has its reasons that reason cannot understand,’ said a French poet. Well Umar Bhai proved it in a remarkable way.’
(Dr Sharma now lives a quiet retired life in Delhi. He wonders what became of Umar’s children. Do Hindu and Muslim children grow up in the same household now? Or has the Partition put paid to all that?)
Why tell these stories today. Perhaps because the first one shows how easily a young mind can be influenced and how important it is to set things right before they are too deep seated to be removed and the second one simply illustrates how not so long people of different faith lived together in this very country and respected each other without hate or prejudice. This would lead us to ask why things changed and who was responsible. I will not delve into the matter as I know that each one of us know the answers. We have just let ourselves be swayed like the little girl and did not have anyone to put things in the right perspective.
Th real healing and ensuing solutions will only come after deep and honest introspection and a genuine effort to rid ourselves of our prejudices and intolerance.
The picture I have chosen is that of a child who transcended the labels of his birth and origins to try and make his own place in the sun: little Utpal.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Nov 28, 2008 | Uncategorized
Sixteen years ago, on this very day my father breathed his last. Each year this day I remember him. If not of him, there may not have been project why as he is the one who instilled in me the passion and compassion needed to steer such a venture.
Each year this day I remember him, yet each day I see him live in the hope and smiles of the little eyes that greet me as I walk into my office. For Ram was all about hope and belief.
Is dying words to one of his dearest friend were: have faith in India.
As I remember him today war rages in Mumbai, hundreds of innocent souls have died and the lives of many have been irreversibly transformed by the today’s foe: terrorism. Yet as I remember him , dying words refuse to pale; on the contrary they seem louder than ever.
All screams to the contrary: the prevalent terror attack, the empty and flawed babble of the powers that be, the hate filled reactions of the so called educated, the insidious feeling of hope lost and more of the same. And yet as I remember the one that gave me life, I am filled with renewed commitment to the cause I defend. I am convinced that somehow the tiny effort that goes by the name of project why is a step in the right direction, that of hope.
Nothing can destroy the spirit of a nation. Nothing should be allowed to do so. And the spirit lives in the humblest of souls, the ones we chose to ignore. For the past three days everyone – I mean every one who could afford to do so – was glued to TV screens watching operation Mumbai. But there were millions who went about their lives without a fuss. They did so with the rare dignity and courage that often goes unnoticed. And yet they represent the India one needs to have faith in, the backbone that allows each one of us to stand, the ones we have not only forsaken but betrayed.
I did send messages inquiring about the well being of the few friends I have in Mumbai. This is what one of them wrote back:
We all went out for dinner last night to Taj Land’s End in Bandra. Everyone else I called refused to go out. The hotel was stunned to hear us ask for reservation. When we went there – the police cordon started 50 meters outside the hotel. and they said – the hotel was closed…none of the restaurants were open. We called the restaurant – they confirmed our booking..then we were asked to leave our car at the police cordon and walk. when we went to the restaurant we learnt – we were the first customers at any taj restaurant since the attack.we popped champagne. and we toasted Taj. for staying open for business after all the mayhem, and despite having no customers and of course we toasted Bombay. Even if it was one family out on the streets of Mumbai – we were there and no terrorist or army or police or calamity can keep us down!
Today I remember Ram and today I have faith in India!
by Anuradha Bakshi | Nov 27, 2008 | Uncategorized
I went to sleep on Tuesday in a world that seemed well, barring the normal hitches and glitches that one has come to accept as part of the deal of living in today’s day and age: a school girl crushed under a bus, traffic snarls leading to incidents of road rage, noisy election drama replete with empty promises… one could have said all is well in the kingdom of…
Morning dawned and I went about my usual chores. I settled in front of my computer to take on another day. A few minutes later a skype call from my daughter living in London shook me out of my comfort bubble: Mumbai was under attack and this was not your isolated crude bomb that blasts in some innocuous area and kills a handful of innocent souls, but a coordinated attack that would seem more real in reel life! Swanky hotels, gun battles, hostages, indiscriminate firing, encounters, chases on high seas, assaults and all that makes a good pot boiler script. It went on through the night, the day and the night again and was for real: Mumbai, India’s commercial capital was under attack!
While the battle raged on, and Mumbai smoldered in more ways than one, a bunch of children in perhaps one of the most deprived slum of India’s capital city were busy watching a street magician as he conjured one act after the other. These were children from all faith, caste or creed linked by one simple reality: poverty. Like all children they have dreams and like all children they dream big, still unaware of the harsh fact that dreams come at a price they may never be able to pay. Like the magician they can still conjure their dreams, fuelled by what they see around them on or the screen of the small TV that is the pride of every slum home.
They will one day grow up, and most of them will accept reality and learn to survive; some may drown their broken dreams in easily available hooch, others may vent their frustration on their loved ones. But as I look at these children I wonder how many will be tempted to take the wrong turn and seek quick gratification by resorting to petty crime and how many will fall prey to predators seeking young minds and bodies to perpetrate their heinous agendas.
The pictures of the young men responsible for the horror in Mumbai are chilling. They are of your regular kid next door, the branded jean and tshirt. The kind you would smile at. And yet they are the ones willing to lay their lives on the block for the cause they espouse.
How many of my kids could turn to this if no one was there to guide them, soothe them, mentor them and above all ensure that they get some of their hijacked childhood back. The plight of the slum kid is no bed of roses: beaten at home, caned at school, riled by his peers, rejected by others, sometimes hungry for food, for love, for understanding he lives a lonely life and sees his dreams crash one after the other. How hurt and humiliated do you have to become to cross the line. I do not know, but the fact is that some if not many do.
Once again we are faced with the question that needs to be asked but that no one is quite willing to, let alone answer. Who is responsible?
Some of the terrorists will be caught. They may even be tried and punished. But are they the true perpetrators? And come to think about it who are the real culprits: the predators lurking with their indoctrination spiel or a fractured society where dreams of some can never be fulfilled, where hate and animosity are easily ignited and stoked?
Disturbing questions that nevertheless demand urgent and honest answers.
