Some astonishing statistics have been in the news lately. Let us start with the 1 crore (100 million) dais for a politician’s daughter’s wedding. Most of the money was spent on flowers imported from faraway lands. What happened to flowers grown in the country? And come to think about it was just a one night stand. The flowers withered the next day and must have simply be swept away. Not to mention the outrageous use of official machinery courtesy you and I. And all this while his party is busy polishing its tarnished image by highlighting its concern for the common man.

But that is not all. What was a bigger shocker to me, though it may not be to others was the cover story of a prestigious weekly entitled: where’s the party tonight? The article is about the new partying habits of urban Indians, the rich of course.  I urge you to read it.Your grandchild turns eight, you bring snow to hot sweltering Chennai. The tag 20 million rupees. Your husband is busy and you are bored, you catch hold of a few friends and take off for some exotic location thousands of miles away. Every thing is good for a celebration and nothing too expensive. Millions to fly international stars, 30 million for a party, 50 000 for a bottle of sparkly. And wedding can now cost two thousand million dollars! Birthday cakes all the way from Paris@ 300 000 Rupees! Mind boggling? Outrageous? Galling? I am speechless.

Please do not think this post is a case of grapes are sour. I do not grudge anyone for spending what they earn honestly. That is your right. I only ask a simple question: where is your conscience as most of the people who are indulging in partying as if it was the last day on earth, rarely reach out to the less privileged. I am sure these people leave their ivory towers and golden gates and even if the windows of their luxury cars are heavily tinted and their eyes shielded by luxury sun shades they see the reality around them. At every red light some child must be tapping at their window; along their speedy travel they must be coming across building sites where malnourished women carry unbearable loads on their heads; and how can they not go by the innumerable shanty towns that exist every where being the only habitat the poor have. Does these not make them stop and think? Does it not disturb them?

In spite of having spent the last 12 years of my life reaching out to the less privileged in every which way possible, my heart still bleeds each time I see a little child holding his hand out. A few days back at  the Nehru Place red light a beautiful little child with light eyes and a heart warming smile came to me. She must have been 6 or 7. In her arms was a tiny baby perhaps a couple of months old. The little girl held out her hand with a smile. Sadly I had no toffees of biscuits in my bag. By then an older child who knows me told her that I never give money. The little girl simply went to the roadside and sat on the curb hugging the baby and smothering it with kisses. I had tears in my eyes. I wanted to whisk the girl and the baby away from this terrible reality but knew it was hopeless. The light turned green and we drove away.

The image of the two children stayed with me throughout the day and a big part of the night. My helplessness vis-a-vis their plight was tormenting. My mind travelled back to the first few days after the creation of the Trust and the very first thought/idea that came into my mind: the beggar children. Way before project why as you all know it when our dream was to try and find a way out of children begging. Our simple but naive idea was to get people of our city to hand out biscuits instead of coins to every beggar knocking at their car window. What was truly troubling was not the beggar children who were quite happy with their biscuit, but the attitude of the likes of you and me who could not see the core issue and how they could help.

After 12 years of having doors banged at my face when I dared seek help for the poor, I am still shocked at the widening gap between the two Indias separated by invisible yet impregnable walls. If the people who spent with alacrity and impunity spared a tiny amount for the less privileged every time they went on a spree, what a difference it would make. Spend. It is your right. You have earned the money but spend with a conscience.

How does one get people to look with their hearts. The pride in the eyes of a child when she hands you an A report card after years of failing is worth any party you can host; the fast steps of one who could not walk or the first coherent word of one who could not speak is worth more than the crores you can ever spend, particularly if these miracles happened because you were there!

Guys I sometimes need a dose of project why for want of a better expression! This happens particularly when I am down or worried and these days I have been both. 2012 is nearing its end and we have not been able to find the money needed to build planet why, which is in no way a delusion of grandeur, but  an essential means to keeping project why alive and kicking even after my last hurrah. Though it began as a dream it did transform into a sound business model that would have kept the morrows of many children secure. I had hoped 2012 would bring the miracle we needed but it seems almost chimerical. I must confess I had not delved on this for a long time, but it all came back when my Finance Director called me to inform me that funds were getting desperately low. Bam, the old story was back on track. Shortage of funds and need to conjure new tricks. Easily said than done. There was a time when I would have taken the bull by its horns and jumped in the fray: hundreds of emails would have been sent at the speed of light, calls made and voila the challenge would have been met. But today the fingers are slow, the mind exhausted and the bones creak. What was once easy-peasy now looks like an herculean task. I saw myself sinking in a new kind of despair. Questions I had never asked myself surged to the fore: had I not done enough? Was it all worth it? Was it not time to slowly wind up? How could I do it over and over again.

The blues has taken over and though I knew that ultimately I would pick myself up: exhausted mind, creaking bones and slow fingers, it would not be easy. But the heavens had something else in store. When I woke up and wound my way to my computer as I do every morning in the early dawn, I found a a data stick on my keyboard. I opened it and it was a series of pictures taken by Jon over the last month. I began to look at them one after the other and found myself grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Wow! How wonderful to see all these children smiling and being happy. There it was my needed dose of project why! My heart filled with pride and tears of joy started prickling my eyes. This is what 12 years of toil had achieved and there was no way I was given up creaking bones or no. My spirit lifted and I knew there was only one way to go. 

When I first dreamt of project why, in the days when I was still a green horn and did not know the reality, I conjured a lovely and enabling space where slum children could come and spend time after (or before school as even after 65 years of freedom our capital city has not been able to build sufficient schools for its children and thus the same building runs 2 shifts a day) school. I envisioned a place where there would be some tutors to ‘help’ with the homework and loads of fun and creative activities. Board games, paint and colours, musical instruments, computers and whatever else a growing child and fancies. In hindsight I was a little like Marie Antoinette when she was told about the people not having bread and quipped: Let them eat cake! (Though it is said that it was another princess who uttered these words). You may wonder why I am using this simile. Well the bread and cake of French royalty are   akin to the studies and extra curricular activities of Indian underprivileged children. How could I offer them extra curricular knowledge when they were no way near getting to terms with their basic studies.

The lovely enabling space had to be sacrificed and replaced by a down to earth school support one. So Project Why became what it is! Creativity was quietly laid to rest or so I thought.

A few days ago an organisation contacted us. Their aim was to promote art and institute an Art programme in pwhy. They asked me to write a proposal in which I was to highlight all the artistic pursuits we had undertaken till date. My first answer was almost a loud None but I held myself back and promised to get them what they needed asap. Time to put the thinking cap on and revisit the recesses of my ageing memory. Quite frankly I was not expecting to find much creative activity. When I think of pwhy I see a multitude of little heads bent over books and looking extremely serious. But then    I had to get over this image and delve deeper. It just took a little time and wonders of wonders a found a real treasure trove. How could I have forgotten the three Annual Days we wad in the first three years of our existence. They were a mine of creativity from the unusual decor made with bits and pieces as we was as always short on funds to the terrific performances.

There were dances choreographed by our staff often inspired by evergreen Bollywood but executed to perfection. There were action songs by the tiny tots in an English taught to them by our Ugandan volunteer Stone and sung with great aplomb in an accent that was almost impossible to fathom where circle sounded like socko! And what about the plays written by the older children with the help of the teachers and touching on issues that disturbed them or felt important to them: importance of education for girls, alcoholism and its effects on families and dowry and bride burning. The play had even got a scene where the young bride was burnt. It took a lot of persuasion to made them change the ending and have the young bride saved by her sister-in-law! Talk of creativity! It was there in ample measure. Oops and how can I forget the piece de resistance of one our Annual days. It was a Bollywood dance but three of our senior boys and had been choreographed by the local Michael Jackson, a young man who had christened himself Michael in hommage to his favourite star.

In our shows every one performed and the most touching item was the one presented by our special children often an action song where all the class was on stage. Sometimes a kid or teacher wanted to sing solo and sometimes it was not quite in tune, but who cared, they were ours and deserved a big hand.

But the the project grew and spread out in different locations. Annual Days were given up as they were a drain on our meagre resources. Stage performances had to be abandoned. But creative activities were insidiously present though not center stage. In each of our locations however all festivals were celebrated and children put up small performances in their class space: dances, folk songs and even little plays. There were two plays in English performed by our Okhla kids and our Khader kids. They may not have been the best but they were unique as they had all been written and produced in-house and were loudly applauded.

My memory is on over drive now and long forgotten things surge from everywhere: the lovely friendship bands the children made with the help of some  volunteers and what about the candles and diyas made by the special children Diwali after Diwali? Are they not creative pursuits? And how can I forget the liters and kilos of paint and paper that have been diligently turned into works of art week after week in each class during drawing hour. True it took a long time to graduate from the mountain/river/sun/tree syndrome that seems to be the preferred theme of all Indian kids but we got some stunning paintings along the way. Should have kept them. And what about the brown paper gift bags with a child’s drawing pasted on it that we made one Xmas. They too were one of a kind.

Oh and I just remembered the lovely hand shaped Xmas decoration made by our special children and hung on their tree. A true treasure.

Our kids have made papier mache masks, terracota objects, bead jewels, finger and vegetable printing, face painting, murals and much more. The special children do face painting once a week and the results are really something!  The Khader children even painted pictures of two fairy tales for a Pantomime in Bedford (UK) and have made many drawings that were used for greeting cards. We have had a dance teacher come and work with the children. Praveen a young student from our Khader centre expressed his desire to learn singing and is now attending regular singing classes sponsored by a friend.

We have also held drawing competitions of specific themes, one of them being pollution. The results were truly impressive.

And that is not all. Some children of Khader and Okhla participated in photo workshops and mastered the art perfectly. They gave us some stunning pictures. I am sure that if I had time to scroll the tens of thousands of pictures I have, I would find more examples of the creative ventures of project why. It is simply that they got forgotten and ignored in the face of the dreaded exams and ensuing studies. We are truly all stars!

A few months back I got a mail from two globe trotters from France. They were passing through Delhi and wanted to spend two weeks at project why. To use Charlotte’s words: we want to bring our smiles and share our time and do something for your children. Charlotte and Matthieu landed at project why promised smiles in place and a host of ideas one of them being to make  a film where the pwhy kids will be the stars. The song they chose was Imagine, John Lennon’s moving Imagine. They also had plans to teach English and hold craft workshops with the small children. Ambitious? Read on.

They set to work in the most professional manner getting the words of the song photocopied. The idea was to teach one phrase of the song to different classes and put it all together. They had no idea what awaited them. It just took a day for them to realise that it would be a very uphill task keeping in mind the pronunciation of the kids, their poor singing ability and their self-consciousness in front of a camera and the shortage of time. It was soon decided that craft workshops and English classes would have to be abandoned. The film was a real handful. The first two days or so were spent in ‘auditioning’ and working of the ‘script’! But then disaster struck. Charlotte was diagnosed with dengue. We all thought Imagine would remain a dream. Not at all. Charlotte, a real trouper, proved a mettle. The show would go on! In between blood tests, visits to the doctor, bouts of fever, the bane of rashes and drops in energy, she directed the show from the wings – in this case a bedroom in my home-. Matthieu followed instructions to the T and thankfully dear old Jon’s  brilliant camera skills came to the rescue. After innumerable  takes and retakes – the maximum being mine – and so much footage as to saturate the computer’s hard disk, the film was completed in time.

I have not seen Oh My God, the recent movie about something that touches all of us: religion! I believe  it shows us how from God lover we have become God fearing and how religion has become a business. I think most of realise this or am I being too optimist?

For the past 2 days, thousands and thousands from all walk of life are fervently washing feet of nine  little girls to mark the end of Durga puja. This is done as a mark of respect of the Goddess the symbol of the purest creative force. There are many interpretations of this ritual but one thing is certain: young girls are meant to be the image of the Goddess. So  they worshipped, venerated, idolized just for the few minutes of a ritual whose meaning everyone had forgotten. Come the said morning and in every Hindu home pressure cookers whistle, potatoes are peeled and cooked into a spicy dish and sweet halwa is eagerly stirred in large woks, flat breads are rolled and deep fried. The food is then served in nine containers and money or gifts as is the fashion now – pencil cases, lunch boxes, hair clips – are added.The feast for the Goddess(es) is ready. Every family has ‘booked’ their goddesses of the day – children of neighbours in slums and shanties, children of those who work for you and so on. The little girls are sat in a row, their feet are washed by all members of the family, then they are given the food and the gifts. Often little girls are seen going from home to home collecting their bounty of the day. It is not every day that girls are feted in India! No wonder project why classes are quasi empty on these days.

The status of women has known many mutations in India. From having equal status to men in ancient India their history has been eventful. It sad to learn that according to a recent study by Reuters India is the “fourth most dangerous country” in the world for women today. And though the are supposed to enjoy equal right to men the reality is different. In a male dominated society women suffer immensely. So is not hypocritical to worship little girls and the next moment forget that they are the image of the Goddess you venerate with so much false piety.

I for one do not wash feet of little girls once a year. I would rather continue in silence the work I do where I worship them in my own way every day by giving them what they need to fight for the rights so many of us have usurped.

To the idiosyncratic remark that stated that 90% of rapes are consensual, there was the added one that rapes are a conspiracy against the ruling party. I cannot begin to imagine where all this will end. But what is reality is that rapes are continuing unabashedly. Yesterday a 50 year old was gang raped by 4 men. For a person of the female sex is do not matter what age you are: 15 months or 50, you still run the risk of being raped. And that is not all, the 62 year old rapist of the 13 year old child is now being shielded by his community by offering the victim’s family money. 35K is the price of innocence.

There is seems to be no justice for the innocent victims. Instead of immediate and punitive actions against the perpetrators, one what sees is shielding the rapist, finding ludicrous explanations ( consensual rape, eating chowmein), blaming the victim (the way she dresses, she drinks, she goes out at night etc) and so on. Everyone is on a single mission: protect the perpetrator! It is time to stop this nonsense. But how? That is the question.

What all the above shows is that in the mind of the law makers, protectors and enforcers rape is a trivial crime where the victim is a much if not more to blame than the perp.

When a little girl is born she has the same rights as her male counterparts. She has the right to live, to laugh, to play, to grow, to study, to work. She has the right to be loved, respected, cared for and protected. She has the right to dream about her morrows and to see them become reality. Sadly in India all these rights are usurped in the name of false honour, false morality and social mores made by a male dominated society. Her life is controlled by a series of males: her father, her brother, her husband and even her sons. She has not much say in anything. Is she steps out of the line drawn by these male relatives she is reigned in and even branded. Her dreams remain dreams shared with no one.

When she hurts or is hurt by anyone, she is far too often held responsible and ordered to step back in line. The extreme instance is rape where the first accusation falls on her: why did she step out, why did she wear ‘revealing’ clothes, why did she stay out late etc. She seems to be the custodian not only of her family’s honour but of the honour of the entire world.

Trivialising rape is the highest insult to women. It is time this stopped!