A date with DISHA

On Tuesday I accompanied the ever-friendly DISHA team for a stroll down Tadiwala Road. Last time I’d joined them for a walk was in early August, immediately following the severe rains. Unlike then - when we were all wading knee-deep in fetid water - this time the sun was shining and the skies were clear.

As part of the HIV / AIDS Awareness Programme, DISHA organises regular exhibitions for the local community. Along with the usual poster display and a couple of short talks, the clincher is the audio-visual presentation. The generous gift of a projector has really helped DISHA to pack in the crowds. Particularly for Tuesday’s show as the room we used was only about three metres square.

I’d come along to help set up, since last time around there had been a few problems getting the projector working with the laptop. In the end the problem was relatively straightforward to resolve, although I did receive a few choice electric shocks from the equipment. In the spirit of make-do-and-mend, Avinash handed me a pair of rubber flip-flops and I was able to continue in relative safety… if not total peace of mind.

There were a couple of 20-minute films on show during each screening. The first was in cartoon form, with the second a more traditional documentary. Both covered sexual health, potential sources of HIV transmission, getting a blood test and so on. The first screening was for men and boys, with second exclusively for women and girls. Naturally I was banished for the second show and joined the DISHA team outside for a cup of tea.

I’d taken my digital camera along and managed to get some great photographs - unfortunately, you won’t be seeing them here. When transferring them to the PC I somehow managed to delete the lot. What with the electric shocks and now this I’ve not been having much luck with technology recently. I think I’ll stick to flip-flops.

My time spent at DGS

I joined DGS about two years ago. I had just finished school and had joined junior college and as a result had a lot of free time on my hands. The first few days were spent in learning how to work the computer which insisted on just not working most of the time. It took some time to build up my confidence as there were a number of things that scared me- faulty computers and printers, deadlines, cheques that would appear out of nowhere and the worst one: I couldn’t speak marathi which most of the staff converse in.Two years later, I still can’t speak marathi, but I make myself understood. We still have a problem with computers now and then but I’ve learnt to handle them pretty calmly without messing it up. I enjoy spending time at DGS which has become a home away from home. From filing work (ugh!!) and annual reports to Sudesh begging me to eat something, it’s been a great experience.

I can’t even begin to think of all the things that DGS has done for me. Thanks to their Commonwealth Youth Exchange Programme I got a chance to go to the UK. I got to make a bunch of new friends both here and abroad. My self confidence has increased and most of all I feel like I can make a difference however small it may be. Thank you Deep Griha. I hope I can give back atleast half of what you’ve given me.

-Cheryl Chakranarayan
Aadhar Kendra Volunteer

A 'tubelight' of hope

Here's something Makarand wrote about two months ago...

Yesterday was a good day for me…. After a long time I saw something encouraging…. I have shared my pain and anguish with you…. Now is time to share something positive….

I walked into an NGO (Yerala Projects Society) office and found some women industriously doing something… they were preparing tube light ballasts……..(for the uninitiated, ballasts are those ugly boxes that sit on the middle of the tube light fixture…. Of course the new ballasts are electronic and much sleeker…) The wonderful thing about the set up was that the women were involved in a variety of tasks…. One was using a tension machine for winding copper wire….. some were attaching wires to the ballast… some were soldering the components on to PCBs…….some were assembling the ballasts – the PCBs in their plastic sheaths…. One was involved in testing and quality control of every PCB that was soldered…..

‘A common sight in any industrial unit’ you will say……. read on…….. all of these women were semi literate….. 4^th standard in school does not really qualify as education anyway… one was illiterate…. She was the one doing the QC!!!! These women had been trained intensively by the NGO…. All the women could do all the functions…… they did every thing by rotation….The women were not only manufacturing these ballasts, they had gotten started on the whole tube light assembly… The next foray was into small emergency lights……. The NGO has established a complete chain……

1. components are sourced in Mumbai and Delhi,
2. the PVC covers were made to design by a local manufacturer (the dies had been cut by the technical man in the NGO)
3. the ballasts were being marketed to tube light assembly manufacturers.
4. The tube light assemblies themselves were being marketed in Pune and Mumbai… at very competitive rates…

In spite of paying fair and just wages to the women, the NGO is showing a surplus… 25 women work in the unit …. They are unable to cope up with the orders that are flowing in!!! This has been on for 8 months now and the unit is definitely a ‘going concern’.

Now the kicker…….. all these women are HIV positive!!!!! They have contracted the disease from their wayward spouses……. Most of them are in the 25-35 year category………. To look at them and their children (who tag along) is gut wrenching….. knowing that death at an early age is certain… and yet fighting it out with dignity……. That’s great…. This effort that they are involved in has brought new life in them… their position in the family has improved……. They still live and eat separately but at least the abuse has lessened…. They have established a good camaraderie amongst themselves……. The work and the act of coming together for a few hours is a psychological booster……..

This experience has resulted in learning for me…… the key one being that there is no need to constrain ones thinking while making choices for trades that one can teach women from rural and tribal areas….. women can adapt and adopt newer skills…. One needs patience, vision and lots of hard work in establishing the backward and forward linkages…. Never again will I say ‘let us look at imparting Income Generation skills that are not ‘alien’ to women’…. There is nothing alien…. Our vision is narrow……..

I leave you with words from Tagore….

Said the setting sun,
“Now who will do the rest ?”
Offered the small lamp,
“I will do my best”………..

Makarand Sahasrabuddhe

If you wish to get in touch with Makarand directly, you can e-mail him at msdsrs[at]vsnl.com (replace the [at] in the e-mail address with @. I've obfuscated the e-mail address to prevent it from getting harvested by spammers' programs.)

On the road

Very often when I’m out and about in an autorickshaw, we’ll pull up at a busy junction. Perhaps a few hawkers will appear, selling rickshaw tariff cards (very handy) or small toys or dusters or laundry baskets. Often there’ll be a beggar or two, asking for a few rupees. Usually this will be a child – probably under 10 years of age – or young mother holding a babe in arms. Invariably they’re pretty filthy. This is unsurprising. Spending all day out on Pune’s roads will leave you covered in a layer of grime from all the fumes, smog and general air pollution, which is terrible.

In several places around the city there are ‘Pollution Watch’ signboards. I’m not quite sure what the prominent number refers to, but whatever it is the ‘Permissible Respirable Limit’ is supposed to be 50. Rarely is the recorded figure much less, and very often it clocks in at over 100. And what the sign hints at is always confirmed by the throat and lungs – you can feel it even on a short journey. I don’t have a set theory about giving money to beggars. If I feel like it then I do, if I don’t then I don’t. I’m definitely in favour of giving funds to organisations that work with the homeless. I don’t subscribe to the theory that giving money directly is always a bad idea. Except perhaps in this case.

From a health point of view, I can think of very few things that are worse that breathing in toxic fumes all day. The stuff is poison. It’s bad enough for adults, but for babies and small children it’s even worse. Respiratory problems are just the start. There’s significantly increased risk of brain damage, and you can easily see the toll the pollution takes on eyes, hair and skin.

I’ve heard it said that the women and children involved in this activity are part of organised gangs and are sent out to work the roadsides. Perhaps – I have no evidence either way. But not knowing how to actively discourage the practice, I just keep my change in my wallet. I don’t feel good about it, but if I thought for a second that handing over a few rupees would get them off the roads quicker then I’d do it. Sadly I just don’t think this is the case. So in the meantime, let’s be thankful for DGS, CYDA and any other organisations working to make a difference.

The Chaos Within

As Hans is away for the next six weeks, 'The Chaos Within' will resume from the first week of November

Slumming India

I’ve been enjoying an interesting book recently: ‘Slumming India’ by Gita Dewan Verma. Perhaps ‘enjoying’ is the wrong word. It’s not exactly a barrel of laughs. The book is about India’s cities and the ever-multiplying thousands of slums that exist within them.

As it happens, Hans has made off with my copy but since I’m holding several of his books hostage in return I’m sure I’ll get it back eventually.

Gita makes many thought provoking points during the book. Why have so many cities been allowed (or even encouraged?) to get to this state? She suggests that the slumming of India’s cities is a wholly preventable phenomenon, if only there was the will to tackle the problem head-on. Essentially, she challenges the (almost universally accepted) paradigm that slums are inevitable. As the blurb puts it, “The real problem… is not the pervasive urban squalor that offends us all, but rather the moral and intellectual bankruptcy that sustains it.”

Often, slum politics focuses on the ‘Right to Remain’. This is the right for slum residents not to have their dwellings bulldozed when somebody has their eye on the land that they’re occupying. Slums are frequently categorised with varying degrees of ‘legitimacy’, usually based on how long they have been in existence. One of the strongest points Gita makes is this: is the so-called ‘Right to Remain’ really much of a right at all? She says that this ‘right’, and the other popular fix – resettlement – aren’t worth much. How about proper settlement in the first place, decent minimum standards and defined legal entitlements? Someone who has a ration card stating that they’ve lived in such-and-such a slum since 1975 possibly deserves more than just a temporary reprieve from the bulldozer.

Deep Griha Society is not a political organisation. The slums exist; therefore DGS exists. It serves members of the local community. Gita rightly points out that many NGOs could not exist without poverty and some may have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. That’s not the case here – I bet everyone would be delighted if there was no need for DGS to operate. Sadly, thirty years in, the need is as great as ever.

The Smallest Thing

In India it’s the smallest thing that can get to you.

A rickshaw driver taking you the long way to your destination to get a few more rupees, getting caught in a monsoon rain without an umbrella…twice, mail getting lost, photos being ruined by the people you pay to develop them, students being late for class and then wanting to leave early, finding out that your salwar kameez has been tailored wrong when you bring it back home. These little things build up until they are one big thing that makes you want to hide under you’re covers and not come out for a long while.

But in India it’s the smallest thing that can get to you.

A student’s pleased face at learning something new, a stranger giving a friendly smile in the street for no reason, being given an unasked for cup of chai, a student telling you ‘Your teaching is very nice!’, a mob of little children charging at you yelling ‘Auntie!’ at the tops of their lungs.

One of these little things can make everything else just fade away.

Catriona McDougall

Center for Youth Development Activities

A couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to visit another NGO in Pune. Anil, one of my university coursemates, took me to visit the Centre for Youth Development Activities (CYDA), where he works as a volunteer. As their name suggests, CYDA mainly works with youth to create a “conductive environment for the development of young people coming from any cast or creed.”

They run a whole range of projects, mainly under the Youth4Change banner. They train young people, social workers and activists about issues of growing up, HIV / AIDS, goal setting, peer pressure, careers and so on. In the aftermath of the recent flooding in Maharahstra, CYDA worked alongside DGS and other organisations to provide relief to those affected. Through the Pune4Change programme, they also focus on Pune’s homeless. CYDA volunteers carried out a city-wide survey and they estimate that there are approximately 10,000 homeless people on Pune’s streets. That’s homeless as in homeless – this figure does not include slum dwellers or those with temporary hutments. Instead, the homeless can be seen taking shelter under tarpaulins and plastic sheeting by the side of the road, all year round, in all kinds of weather. The Government largely neglects Pune’s homeless, except to move them on now and again. Since the vast majority are not registered to vote, the politicians don’t see them as potential vote banks and prefer to ignore the issue. Pune4Change are working with the goal of allowing Pune’s homeless to live in dignity.

I was interviewed by a newspaper last Wednesday, for a feature about foreigners involved in social work in Pune. Regular readers may remember Natasha’s experiences the last time the papers came to call. Hopefully things will be better this time – the last thing we need is another puff piece about ‘helpless Indians’ being helped by noble foreigners, when there are so many locally run, locally staffed organisations in India that work hard to make a difference. I was asked if I knew any other students involved in volunteering. Of course, I replied. They’re all Indian. The journalist wasn’t interested – after all, dedicated Indians getting involved in social work doesn’t make for much of a story. I disagree.

Please visit www.cydaindia.org

A “Link” to the world

As you may already know, Deep Griha has been receiving volunteers since 1981, who help out at different projects around Pune and at City of Child. A main provider for volunteers is a small, Scottish (Dundee based) Gap Year organisation known as “Link Overseas Exchange” which has been sending out volunteers around the world for some time.

Link Overseas Exchange began approximately 15 years ago with the aim of providing an invaluable “Link” for volunteers to experience a culture different than their own and to help people less well off. Over the years, Link has sent out more than 300 people, with the aim of keeping the volunteers to a minimum – only 60 a year. This allows for a very high degree of overseas support and the ability to treat every volunteer as an individual.

At the moment Link sends volunteers to three countries – India, China and Sri Lanka – although they have sent volunteers to other countries in the past such as Nepal. Next year they plan to send volunteers to Romania, which sounds like an incredible placement.

After I left school I could not decide what I wanted to do for my future. Beforehand I decided to take a Gap Year to decide what direct I was going to turn in life, and soon after I decided I would travel and see the world. I decided this because I have an inner thirst to travel induced at an early age thanks to my parents (and several other deep, meaningful reasons that I might include in a future blog!)

I eventually chose Link after sifting through a long list of money-making organisations and arriving at one located just a few miles from where I live, one I never even knew existed! Eventually I went down to an information day and was completely taken aback by the organisation. I instantly knew this was for me, because Link seemed to exist for all the right reasons. They seemed to want to help volunteers and other less well off countries, while maintaining strong links with the people they employ. They had the character of a small organisation but the professionalism of a large organisation. I eventually chose them – while they chose me – and I have never looked back and here I am today.

Roy Walker

The Chaos Within - A Flame

I lost another client – a child, a baby. He turned one on the 15th of August. India’s Independence Day.

This will be Thursday’s post, but I lost my client today, Saturday, not two hours ago. I sit now in the sterile atrium of Inlaks & Bhudrani hospital waiting for the family to pick up the little dead body that would fit into a travel pillowcase. The chair is moulded plastic. Uncomfortable. It reinforces our transience. It is not meant to hold us for long. It makes our backs ache and our butts numb, always moving us on. But some spend hours and hours and hours in chairs like these, in hospitals not too different, waiting for life to begin, to continue, to end.

For the little boy who just emptied himself to death – he died of chronic diarrhoea, a common cause of death in India for HIV+ babies under 18 months - life has only grief left. The grief of a mother, siblings, family, and people like us, caught up and affected. I visited the family’s home with Avinash to inform them of the boy’s death. The grandmother’s grief-ridden wails filled the narrow alley. They filled us. They still echo faintly… and not so faintly. It is dark outside now. The darkness creeps insidiously into this brightly lit atrium.

It is growing dark inside us. ‘Send not to ask for whom the bell tolls…’ The metaphysical poet’s words have often been used, Meditation XVII is crudely cello-taped on to the DISHA office door, and, yes, again, death has diminished us, it robs a glimmer of the light inside us. It cruelly extinguishes a flame. The candles inside us need to be lit again. (Some will ever remain unlit. Those flames will not dance again.)

The name Jyoti is derived from the Hindi word for flame. Jyoti is my client with the shattered thigh and defiant smile. Yes, another defiant smile. Smiles have to be defiant here. We have to defy circumstance. We have to defy choices made and decisions taken. We have to defy eyes that watch and tongues that wag. Sometimes, we have to defy the gods, or more accurately, the gods that the god men preach. And life, maybe the greatest paradox is that life itself must be defied, if life is to live in and through us.

These hard plastic chairs make for confusing thoughts… or is it intuitive clarity that confuses our everyday confusion?

Saved. The answer will have to wait. Here comes the family to pick up Jyoti’s son…

That was Saturday. The baby’s ashes have been carried by water and wind to places we cannot go… yet. Some would say that the child is part of life again. He is. He lives in Jyoti’s eyes. The candle has not been lit, and maybe it never will be again. But he does remain with her… how do I know? I just do. It is one of those things that you do not speculate about, or question, you just know. It’s that simple.

Her smile struggled to smile, but it was there when I met her two days later. I thought that her smile would have run away to cry, to grieve, to be lost for a while. Maybe it did… maybe it had just got back. It was still defiant. It needs to be. The days ahead will not be easy for Jyoti. She is an advanced stage III. She is frail. She knows that years will not be decades.

Fuck! I am being optimistic. Without antiretroviral therapy ‘years’ sounds hollow. Bleak!

Courage, determination, strength, character, all these are words. Clichéd and tired. What I saw in Jyoti’s eyes as I said goodbye (we sent her to City of Child) has no name. How I felt as I walked away has no name either. It doesn’t need one. It helps me breathe. It makes me smile.

‘Bleak’ or should that be 'death' juxtaposed against ‘smile’ – it is our reality.

A candle in my innermost place has fluttered back to life.

Food: the other “F” word

Food. The other “F” word. Pasta, pizza, ice cream, rice, chocolate, curry, steak, burgers, frogs legs, cous cous, chicken, haggis, caviar, kangaroo, squid, hedgehog, shark, crocodile, emu and a Scottish delicacy: deep fried Mars Bar (a chocolate bar)… I could continue. Just the thought of all those culinary delights makes my mouth water (apart from the frogs legs, Mars Bars and hedgehog!) It is very strange that something so fundamental to our human survival could be so disgusting yet so appetising, so plentiful yet so scarce, so cheap yet so unaffordable, so strange yet so normal, so healthy yet so quadruple-coronary-heart-bypass-inducing.

I apologise – a few weeks eating relatively basic (but very good – don’t get me wrong) food consisting mostly of rice allows me to appreciate my Western indulgence even more. I seem to remember one of the first things that stuck in my mind was the food here in India – which was a cultural shock of its own.

I must admit that, having tried many of the strange things on this planet, nothing could have prepared me for the sheer difference and variety of food in India. I am struggling to adjust my palette to the spice and the textures of the food over here but once I do I imagine I would enjoy this amazing food even more.
One difference between the food in India and Westernised food is the health associated with it. While some of the food may be relatively simple, it is so much healthier than a greasy hamburger from a fast-food restaurant or a foodstuff packed with industrial Government-permitted chemicals. After six months in India I would imagine my health would improve drastically – for example I would feel less tired during the day and my moods would improve generally.

So as I’m writing this and having munched through a pile of sugared sweets from a local store, I can’t help but look forward to six months of the unusual and delicious foods of India. The fact that I will become ill once or twice is all worth it and just a minor setback to all the varied, tasty and colourful foods over here.

-Roy Walker

My First Four Weeks

I’ve been in India for nearly four weeks! I can’t believe how quickly I’ve settled in. The first few days I was overwhelmed by the changes from Scotland and I thought I’d never get used to seeing elephants, camels and cows walking amongst the traffic but now if I don’t see one I think it’s odd!

One thing I didn’t need any time to get used to was rickshaw driving! Rickshaws are little tin cans mounted on three wheels that are powered by a motorbike engine and are driven by the craziest men I have ever met. They endanger your life more times than you can count and then try to over-charge you for it! If you’re an adrenalin junkie and love haggling (like me!) then you’ll love it!

A pleasant surprise for me was finding wonderful chai- Indian tea! Back home I am not a tea or coffee drinker…and I was going to India of all places, home of the tealeaf! My Mum was terrified I’d offend someone by refusing their tea, not bloody likely! I’m more likely to annoy them with my badgering for another cup full! Many discussions and debates have been held about what chai tastes like. We have come to the conclusion that it is very scrummy, tastes of cinnamon, sugar and liquefied chocolate digestive biscuits. You need to drink it and then you’ll understand that last part!

I should probably stop rambling and actually talk about what I’m working on here! I am working on an English teaching programme that was started by previous volunteers. What it involves is planning lessons that will (hopefully) help the staff improve their spoken and written English. I go to the Ramtekedi and Bibiwadi Centres to teach the staff while Lindsay (a fellow Scottish Link volunteer) teaches at Tadiwala.

I came out here thinking I would be teaching kids so to find I would be teaching adults was very scary and daunting! Especially as I am only 17 years old and freshly chucked out of high school! But it’s been very easy to settle into as everyone has been so nice and welcoming and all of them are very eager to learn, which makes my job so much easier!

Yesterday (5/9/05) was a nice surprise because it was Teachers’ Day in India! So I received a lovely rose from my students (even though I’ve only been a teacher for 3 weeks!).

Hopefully the next 5 months will be as enjoyable as these past four weeks!

-Catriona McDougall

Enjoy the moment

A little boy Saddam Pathan. His father, Aman is an alcoholic. Aman runs a fruit stall, but does not do so regularly because of his addiction. His mother, Zahera tries to work as a maid servant, but very often is not allowed to go to work because Aman does not like it. His older brother, Abdul is 17 and works as a painter, has ended up becoming the sole bread earner for the family. His sister, Shehnai is 15. He has two other sisters who are married and live with their husbands. Saddam is studying in the 4th standard at Deep Griha Society’s Juvenile Guidance Programme for school drop-outs. He stopped going to school 2 years ago, after having passed his 3rd standard. He is constantly being counseled to study, but his teachers say that the environment in his house is not very conducive to education.......And mind you, I have just been giving a broad picture. I haven't even begun describing the day-to-day hardships that this 12 year old has to go through. At this young age Saddam is expected to work at the fruit stall and the money is used by Aman to consume alcohol. Saddam also does a few household chores at home to give his mother a helping hand.

This is what life has been for Saddam.... Would you believe that the happy little boy at the top of the human pyramid in the picture is the person whose situation I just described? Saddam is engaged in one of the festivities celebrating the birth of Lord Krishna (a Hindu deity - yes Saddam is a Muslim). This festivity, called 'dahi handi' (curds filled earthen pot) involves building a human pyramid to reach and break the 'dahi handi' for the prize money. This is all while people around are throwing water at you, tickling you, trying to break your concentration so that you can't make it. The people in the pyramid also dance between tries to form a successful pyramid. You should have seen Saddam in action the other day, dancing away to the latest Bollywood tunes (for at least a couple of hours), falling down and getting up again, egging his friends to enjoy falling down as much as he was and dance with him.

This is what amazes me... people whose routine lifestyle is so full of adversities, can still enjoy a moment so fully without the least bit of self-consciousness or inhibition.

Maybe I am speaking for myself, or maybe I am speaking for the average person out there, to even imagine myself in Saddam's situation is hard for me to gulp down. Let alone, living in the dull four-walls-and-a-ceiling, an excuse for a house that merely manages to shade the four people living in it, and calling it home. I would have cursed the place, cursed the surroundings, cursed the people who got me there, cursed the system. I am not saying Saddam doesn’t complain about anything in his life. But, he surely manages to do one thing that I wouldn't have been able to do had I been in his situation, enjoy the moment. I am not saying Saddam has understood or accepted the philosophy of 'being content with what one has'. But he sure is living it when he gets the chance.

I have been associated with Deep Griha as a volunteer for the last four years. While I have learnt and improved on a lot many things at Deep Griha - people skills, managerial skills, organizational skills - I have learnt a lot more about life and its niceties from these little girls and boys. It is amazing what a school drop-out, a counseled-to-at-least-finish-primary-school, a child from an illiterate family background can teach an educated person....or...would it be more amazing if this same person would have never been in the situation that he is in or if he was not an illiterate anymore.....

The (Un)Civil Society

Another one from Makarand -

Dusk…. Any village in India……….Any day of the year……… One enters with the headlights of the jeep on…. droves of women get up from the roadside as the light hits them… they try to hide their face and gather up their clothing at the same time… our arrival was untimely… they are simply performing their bodily functions… they have no option, no privacy whatsoever… the darkness is their friend and our lights steal that away from them….

A middle sized village had elections to the grampanchayat. The winner apparently has incurred expenses of around 2-3 lac rupees. Most of it has been on alcohol and chicken…. This was reinforced with muscle power on the voting day… His opponent has done the same… he had shallower pockets…lesser muscle….he lost… where will the ‘winner’ recover his ‘investment’ from? Only the very naïvé need ask…………

A young dalit woman is raped by a drunk landlord in the village. This happens in broad daylight… he is ‘assisted’ in this by the local school head teacher! People can hear the woman scream… they are powerless to intervene… ‘her fate’ they say… what is her fault? She was a dalit, a woman at that… of no consequence whatsoever in the power dynamics in the village…. The landlord was drunk with power and alcohol……..she just had the misfortune of being there………..

These are stories that almost anyone who has exposure to rural India is aware of…. The first story… I have seen it myself… all of us have… the second and third were related to me by leaders of Non Governmental Organizations (NGOs) who had seen / heard these things happen in the villages they were working in….. Mind you, they were not doing so with relish. There was some element of anguish, even anger in their voices…there was also some helplessness…. They were also probably trying to outdo each other in their stories of ‘how difficult it is to work in rural India’ Naturally their stories begged a question…….many questions….. I asked them... shamelessly…. What have you done about it? Why did you not intervene, even if it were only after the event?

The answers were rather simple…….. you see my organization gets funds for working on watershed development said the leader with the rigged grampanchayat elections story…….. I work on child rights said the one with the rape story…….. The bottom line was that their projects did not allow them to intervene…….. so sad… but ‘kya karega?’… we don’t have the mandate ……….

This is not uncommon…. All of you must have seen it… experienced it…….

The discussion was very disturbing, to say the least… Why are all of us in the social development sector so tied down into ‘projects’ ‘areas’ and ‘issues’? Why do we identify ourselves as ‘gender expert’, ‘education expert’ ‘agriculture expert’ etc? Is underdevelopment and disempowerment so compartmentalized? Why do we wear blinkers? Are the poor in need of education of their children alone? Do their wives, sisters and daughter not deserve a life of dignity? A life free from rape? Is it not the duty of every social development actor to do something about this injustice? Are we going to wait for 10 NGOs working in different ‘sectors’ to come into all the poor areas and address ten issues facing people? If we do that, when are we going to ensure a life with dignity for all the poor and the underprivileged?

I think that it is time for all of us to wake up and face the reality……. Sorry……..I forgot that all of us with any experience in the social development sector have a divine understanding of reality of the poor…….So let us forget the knowing part………….. what we need to do is wake up from our ostrich like situation and DO something about it………

If one puts ones mind to it, it is not difficult at all….All we need to do is to broaden our thinking…… Let us accept the reality that the poor who need help in educating their children also need work, health services, livelihoods, protection of their legal rights…….. let us not look at the issues in a compartmentalized manner.. these divisions are artificial and exist only in our minds…… for the sufferer it is one and the same… let us empower our field workers to look at the issues in the village holistically……. How long are we going to instruct her to ‘mobilize women into self help groups and ask them to save’ and turn a blind eye to the fact that this same woman gets beaten up each day by her husband? It is the same woman who has little to eat……… How long are we going to design and implement watersheds in the name of the poor…. Watersheds that primarily help those with land.. can we afford to ignore the fact that the landlords are the one who oppress the poor…… deny them their basic rights?

Our work is dependent on the aid that we receive….. funding agency priorities are well defined and discreet……. They will not support any activity beyond their mandate…… We want to undertake ‘integrated’ development but the aid agencies to support this do not exist in numbers large enough……. I can almost hear these cries of outrage and protest from members of CSOs who are reading this………

My solution to this is simple…….. let us stop accepting this… why should aid agency priorities, often decided far away from grassroots realities, dictate what we should be doing? Let us lobby individually and collectively with the aid agencies and ask them NOT to tie our hands…….. let us be clear…… aid agency mandates can exist and make a difference only so long as we accept it without demur… it is not the case of NGOs needing aid agencies…….. the aid agencies too need NGOs to channel their funds……. Without one the other cannot exist…… In fact an NGO can continue its work by raising funds from the public or by undertaking some income generating activity…… aid agencies will wither away without NGOs taking money………

This lobbying is a long term solution….. we can do a lot in the short term… Can we not just keep our eyes and the widows to our mind open? Do we always need financial aid to do something? If our field worker is talking to the poor about livelihood options, can (s)he also not talk about violence against women? Can (s)he also not talk about sending children to school? Can (s)he also not talk about people coming together and demanding their right to health services from the government? Can (s)he not talk of the need for better governance? If our field worker is not knowledgeable about these issues, can we not support her? Can we not build her capacities? Can we not unblock her mind?

I am reminded of an incident narrated to me by a senior officer in the government…….. that has stuck in my mind……. Almost like the talisman of Gandhiji… It seems that in his younger days the officer was faced with the need to take harsh action against a local thug…… that would have been dangerous to him personally……. He thought about it long and hard and took action nevertheless…….. his logic was simple…. ‘If I had not done it, it would be tantamount to allowing injustice to prevail…. Once injustice takes up residence and dignity is stripped away nothing else can make a home in that place. All that I attempted to do would be for naught’

Let us face up to the fact that the ultimate aim of all social empowerment processes must be a life of justice… a life of dignity………

Makarand Sahasrabuddhe

If you wish to get in touch with Makarand directly, you can
e-mail him at msdsrs[at]vsnl.com (replace the [at] in the e-mail address with @. I've obfuscated the e-mail address to prevent it from getting harvested by spammers' programs.)

Opportunity Missed

It is always better to help someone immediately before it is too late.

Walking through the market today,
I heard a scuffled cry,
The cry of a little beggar boy,
With thirst whose mouth was dry.

On one hand my heart was telling me,
To help this boy in some way,
But my mind poisoned by selfishness,
From this deed lead me astray.

As I walked along I felt eaten up,
By the feeling they call as guilt,
My head sank low all out of shame,
Like flowers that begin to wilt.

Deciding that I should do something,
To see to the boy's well being,
I ran to the where the boy had been,
But Alas! he was nowhere seen.

Abhay Anil Bhalerao

Never a dull moment

Regular readers of the blog will be keeping an eye on Roy’s frequent updates from City of Child, which are posted online whenever his handwritten dispatches arrive from Kasurdi. I’ll try and avoid duplication, but I thought I’d talk about the fun I had when I paid the place a visit earlier this year.

Actually, it was my second visit. I’d first turned up the week before with a busload of fellow volunteers (local and international) who’d been corralled into helping out with a spot of gardening. The weeds had flourished over the winter and it was high time for a blitz – so blitz it we did. Shovels, picks and bare hands were used to clear the banks and verges. A crack unit was dispatched to clear the playground. Meanwhile, the little terrors resident at City of Child stood by and closely watched our handiwork, offering the odd suggestion here and there and helpfully letting us know if we’d missed a bit. Bless them.

After a break for lunch and the traditional CoC song and dance performance it was time to return to Pune. On the journey home Hans asked me if I’d like to go back for a few days, along with fellow volunteers Lizzie and Vreny. Why not? A chance to retreat to the countryside and an opportunity to get to see City of Child in action. And to get to know the kids of course.

When we turned up a few days later it was hot, but the air was considerably cleaner than Pune City and the absence of traffic noise was welcome. The children were already off at school in the village, so we had a little time to relax and settle in. Then, deciding to make ourselves useful, Lizzie and I set about reconstructing the dry-stone wall whilst Vreny went to help out in the kitchen. I think she made the wiser choice given the conditions.

Before long with kids were returning from school and we joined in a few games. I’m pretty hopeless at cricket but when you’re umpire-batsman it’s easy to make sure you’re not dismissed to easily… Later on I had a crack at kabaddi – I formed a one-man team but was eventually brought down by the combined efforts of half-a-dozen pint sized opponents.

We stayed for just three days, but had a tremendous time. In the morning we’d walk some of the younger ones up to school, sometimes picking up a couple of village kids on the way. Then we’d pass the time with a bit of landscaping, or clear out a store cupboard or fuss around the kitchen. I had a crack at making chapattis but my revolutionary triangular design was frowned upon by the maushis and I was swiftly hustled away with an ominous wave of the rolling pin.

You learn new skills every day at DGS.

The Chaos Within - Beautiful People

This last week has been a week of beautiful people. There has been ugliness too. Mirror-shattering ugliness. But, the beautiful people have made it ok in their own beautiful people way… like they always do.

Neville and Errol work for Sahara.

What is Sahara? Burnt sands, side-winding snakes, mirages?

It is an organisation based in Delhi that runs care homes across India for those who have no one and nowhere. Their Pune care home almost closed down earlier this year. They had forgotten to care, to touch, to hold the dying. Neville, a director at Sahara, with greying medusan locks, wiry frame and dark lips that sucked on short stubby cigarettes, sent Errol, his leather pants, and three other beautiful people, Babloo amongst them, to remind Pune of what they had forgotten.

Errol loved Usha. He called her his sweetheart. She loved him. It was easy. He is special. His team is special. They cup their gloved hands to catch the blood – HIV wasting disease does that. I watched as lips looked like they came loose and flowed into Babloo’s waiting hands. I watched the mess of blood smile through the pain.
They cup their naked beings to catch hope and peace. HIV erodes those too.

I had been warned. Do not send your clients to Sahara. It is finished. They have lost their way. Little voices murmured in my ear, little voices that belonged to Lata and Maya, my HIV+ counsellor and care supervisor. (Two of the most beautiful people alive. They are two of my dancing stars… and the stars dance in their eyes.)

“Sir, there is a team coming from Delhi. Sahara is where we should send our clients.”

I trust Lata and Maya. (I have been told that I trust them too much. You can never trust too much. Similarly, how does one trust a little? You either trust or you don’t trust. To quantify trust is nonsense. If you can, then you can quantify pregnancy… you can quantify being HIV+…) We sent them Usha, Sanjay and his wife, Mala. The week Usha died I visited Sahara to thank them for all they did for her. Right down to expertly mummifying her broken body. Errol’s electric blue fishnet t-shirt, gold eyebrow piercing and mobile phone hanging from his belt in a holster like a six-gun of old, startled me. His team’s commitment humbled me. They have no beds, no recreation, no privacy. They are always on call.

Ex-drug addicts all - needles and abbesses and life scarred their frail bodies and their tired eyes. Their smiles were unapologetic and defiant.

“We were treated like bloody dirt by some doctors. Today, with no medical degrees we do what doctors never dare to do, we touch people that doctors look upon with revulsion.”

Errol is eloquent. English is his mother tongue. He speaks a smattering of Hindi, and Tamil, the language of his hometown Madras, is alien. When I met with Errol and Neville, there was a Keith there too, with a glorious mullet and concerned eyes and Venkat, their finance officer with a big grin under his big moustache. We laughed, smoked, planned. We looked to the future - Sahara and DISHA - a future of caring for the forgotten, the nowhere men and women.

The song by the Beatles has resonance with me… still.

The nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody…

I’ve felt like this in my darker moments – which are few. Futility oppresses me and takes me to a place that I would not let me go. It is the beautiful people that bring me back. It is the beautiful people that force me to look at life, to smell it, to touch it, to listen to its rhythm.

It is the beautiful people that remind me that life is a dance. My own mantra, that so often forsakes me… no, I forsake my mantra. It is the dancing stars that remind me. They awaken me again and again to the Dionysian chaos of life, the rhythm. They make me bite; life stains my teeth, my tongue…life’s delectable juice trickles down my chin. It tastes real.

That night at the Shisha café, Errol, drunk and lost in the music swayed to Lennon’s Imagine. (Neville had shared my concern of burnout. Errol must be protected from himself.) I watched him as he drifted away, eyes closed, smiling. What this most beautiful of men imagined I would never know, but his journey thus far had taken courage, strength not of his own – his claim, not mine. And I suspect that he knew, like I do, that for the path ahead, which will often grow dark, more courage still, will be our light.

And so we dance, we dance with those we care for until they dance no more. And still we dance - for them, always for them… but also for us. We have to, we must, it renews us. We are born again.

The dance is joyful, it is full of wonder at life, and it pulsates with the reality of pain, of suffering. Beautiful people like Errol do not deny the pain or the suffering, they embrace it, they overcome it… with the knowledge that it will return, again and again. But here’s what’s wonderful, the joy will return too.

Beautiful people don’t just imagine. They know, they live, they dance…