Notes from the Good Shepherd Orphanage, Uttarakhand.

Soon I want to start a childcare, an orphanage, a school or some kind of a mix of the three for the underprivileged children. Toward this, I visited this 60+ year old orphanage in Uttarakhand and worked there as a volunteer to understand how such institutions are run. Here are some notes from my visit.

The Hug

Morning Hugs

Each morning after breakfast at 6:30 am, children grab their bags and leave for school which is a couple of hundred meters within the mission complex. Clifton, in his early-thirties, who co-runs the mission and the school (along with his father and Eugene, his partner), hugs every child before they walk towards the school, including his own. It’s akin to what we do when we drop our children at the bus stop. Every child looks for warmth and the kids at the mission get it through this morning ritual. Towards my third day, many children come and hug me as well. And one of this guy, Raymond, holds my hand and makes me walk up to the school. On the way, we exchange notes and concur that school is boring. To indulge further, I offer to play soccer in the evening and he asks if I know how to play the sport. I reassure him that I coached Messi. A slightly elder girl walking ahead of us looks back and gives me a ‘stop kidding’ smile. When I press further, I realise that I am not been taken seriously by anyone, including the eight-year-old who holds my hand. At the school gate, he hugs me again. As I see him go, I wonder how rarely I go to drop Mishti down to her bus stop.

RS, the Rockstar

Rick Shipway, The Rockstar

Rick Shipway, Clifton’s father, is called Grandpa by most children. He knows everything from making school desks to fixing a tractor engine. His ingenuity includes plumbing, handling electrical units, farming, carpentry and masonry. I spent one of these days painting school desks for nursery children. At the workshop Grandpa used his tools to bend the rods and weld them which was then passed on to us to paint. Later at the carpenter shed, plywood was fixed on to the desks. Under his supervision, six of us created a couple of dozen desks, in a day from scratch at the cost of approximately of Rs. 1500 per desk.

On most days I work as his apprentice. Imagine his frustration working with someone as clumsy as me. Spread across 73 acres of land, the mission has a couple of buses, a couple of tractors, an orphanage that houses 75 plus kids in different units basis their age and gender, staff quarters, a kitchen, a couple of bio gas units, a swimming pool, a cow shed with a few dozen cows and a full-fledged school where 800 children study.  Something or the other needs fixing all the time and Grandpa is always available. He starts before eight, so much to my chagrin, and goes on until dark. He must be saving the mission thousands every month and lots of time simply by being available whenever anything needs fixing. While the mission provides for everything, his bank account has Rs. 33 and he draws no salary. 

Every child has a story 

A good girl cutting nails of a naughty boy

“How long have you been married?”, asks this guy. 

I say, “15 years”. 

Pause. 

“Congratulations!”, he calmly responds. 

From where I am sitting, I can’t see his face. I don’t know if that was sarcastic. But the timing makes me laugh out loud. He comes over and checks if I know any movie stars. My answer disappoints him. Then he shares how he wants to be in the army but may not get through owing to his height. He is nineteen and helps Grandpa at the workshop. He was not brought here, but left at the gate by some lady, when he was 3 days old. Last year he became desperate to find out his real parents. The mission keeps records of every child brought but though his was sketchy, through some investigation, they found out that the woman who dropped the child that night lived in a village four hours from the mission. The search team traced the maternal grandfather who was happy to see him and hugged and accepted him. The woman, who now serves as a principal of a small government school in the same village, is married with children. She did not show up.  Our teenager was shattered. For being abandoned twice.

Then there is this other girl who was sexually abused by her step-father and brought to the mission. For years the trauma resided in her. She did not allow anyone to even touch her. Then there was this nine year old boy who stole to keep himself alive and was found on the streets and brought to he mission. In the first few days he was amazed that he could eat as much as he wanted. And there were three meals a day!

Each child has a story, often heart breaking, that I had only seen in the movies. And there are 75 of them. The caretakers, the other children and the trees and forests nearby bring out a balmy effect. 

Everyone gets better here. They start smiling. Living. They will cheer you up with their innocent talks and dead pan humour. They are happy and free.

Re-calibrating the lines

Ice-cream party

Think about your bike or car mechanic on the side of the road. His clothes and hands are greasy. Skin has tanned working under the sun. His t-shirt, which seems borrowed, sticks to his back as he sweats profusely. Suddenly he says, “I think the choke has to be changed and the silencer cleaned. It will take a couple of hours” in decent English accent.

Cut to scene two.

Imagine you taking a walk at a park close to your house and slum children are playing soccer. Suddenly the ball comes towards you and one of the kids says, “Uncle, can you please pass on the ball?” Again in good English.

I don’t know about you but I would be stumped. English is only for us, people who wear good clothes come from decent backgrounds and live in decent housing societies.

We, the privileged.

Learning to play Risk, a board game

It’s not for slum dwellers or the mechanics or the drivers. And definitely not for orphans and their caretakers as they dress simply, work at the farms or the kitchen or at the workshop.

Now consider my reaction during the first few days of my stay where everyone spoke to me in decent English –kids, maids, drivers what have you. Some children spoke better than ours. Change them to flashy clothes and better setting and you would not be able to make out the difference between our kind and theirs. The mission has re-calibrated the lines. English is for the under-privileged.

Reflections

Reflections

The aazan wafting from a distance melded into the quiet. I am sitting at the NHPC canal and hearing the silence within and its dissonance. Paint bolts on my arms and the muscle pain after a hard day’s work provoke indignation. But after a while, the isolation reflects and I am able to discover my role in the larger scheme of things.

I am here to observe and learn.

I learn that though the canteen turns into a church every Sunday, the objective is to impart values and not religion. That though most children are skinny and diffident, they are healthy and most importantly happy. That love is welcomed but commiseration not. That though Clifton never held a high position in a formal organisation, he is one of the most sensible and intelligent person I met in years, with a great EQ and IQ balance. That though the mission has little trouble getting funds, its office bearers have practically nothing in their bank accounts. That though the mission was started by an American and is run by Australians (and Eugene), it is Indian in all respects. That though there are not many great success stories of children making it big in their lives, almost all of them, who passed out from here, are living a decent livelihood. That though I may not agree to some of their ways, at the centre of whatever they do is the child. That though the mission may not be perfect, but tell me how many of our families are?

During my days of volunteering, I worked at the workshop, painted school desks, moved bricks and tin sheets for the school. I also played with children and helped them with their homework and offered some career advice to the grownups. I could barely sleep in the initial days and caught fever in between. But some day I may possibly go back again.

Simply for the warm hugs. 

At work

The school and the mission

The Wait

I pressed the send button and waited. First for it to deliver, then for him to read and finally his response. But there was none. For days. Then weeks. 

First I thought it was one of those games we played with each other without calling the rules. Those got formed on the way. Just like kids play gully cricket. This was who blinked first game. He may be calling it something else. One of the (again unsaid) rules was we didn't discuss these games or their rules and often appeared to be oblivious to them. But both of us knew when the game was on. 

This time however the game lasted longer than ever. Quite a caustic paradox was the fact that while real life games became more and more engaging (even if tiring) as they became longer, ours was waning in enthusiasm. While in a real life game the patrons were on the edge of their seats with excitement as the outcome could go either ways, in our case I don't even know if he was still on his seat playing. Had he left while I waited?

All our life, the only thing that we constantly do besides breathing is... wait. While the lover waits for her to come, the householder waits for her guests to leave. While the patient waits to get out, the expectant waits to get in. Night waits for sleep and the mornings for the cognizance, the snow for the sun and the parched for the rains. The tourist waits to get out while the commuter waits to get in, the mother waits to feed the son while the father waits for the daughter to return. 

I think of this old Doordarshan serial called Intezaar (The Wait). Every episode of the serial opened with a song that had beautiful lines on waiting. The hungry waits for food, the thief for the opportunity, the downcast for love and the despondent for God. Or so it goes. 

I wonder why people wait for the expected? Why is it that while waiting for the inevitable is acceptable, that for the fortuitous is considered ludicrous? What if I stopped waiting? 

I dismiss the thought immediately. After all, he was the realistic one and I a dreamer. It's just been a few weeks. And people have spent a lifetime waiting. Ghalib said so.

Why are chaddi baniyan brands obsessed with Bollywood hunks?

There is something about mass chaddi baniyan brands. All of them are owned by Agarwal Marwari families. All of them hail from Kolkata. And all of them use Bollywood hunks to promote their mass brands. I am talking about Rupa, Lux, Dollar and Amul.

Rupa, owned by the Agarwala family, uses Ranvir Singh to promote its flagship Frontline brand and Hrithik for Macroman. Lux, owned by the Todi family, earlier used Sunny Deol and now uses Varun Dhawan. Dollar, owned by the Gupta family, is promoted by Akshay Kumar. Amul Macho, owned by the Sekseria family, has recently signed Tiger Shroff. They were earlier using Saif Ali Khan.

Now tell me a Bollywood hunk not in the above list and willing to go bare? Actually there is none. Else my guess is Amul Macho may not have gone for Tiger. While the star has a good body, he seems to be a misfit when the brand that we are trying to sell is “Macho”.  Siddharth Malhotra and Shahid are hunks all right but I doubt they will go bare for chaddi baniyan brands. Ranbir Kapoor and Arjun Kapoor will not look good in vests. So here is our Bollywood industry, with so many studs, not able to keep up with the demand of this category.

While one may think that other categories are as competitive, you might be surprised to know that even in a super competitive, full of celebrity endorsed, mobile handset market, top A listers such as Deepika, Priyanka and Alia are not endorsing any brands at the moment!

Be it a brand extension, new product range or the marketing strategy of hiring hunky celebs, the competition is brutal amongst these Marwaris. Hence, everything is closely watched, fiercely guarded and yet shamelessly plagiarized.

All these brands cater to middle India males and popular hunks makes sense as brand ambassadors. However I wonder if a good story line showcased Priyanka wearing a ganjee saying Ye andar ki baat hai! The TG may not object I reckon. Don’t know about the Marwaris though!

Social

I ask for a table for two. I know I am alone but I also know that they won’t take me seriously if I say so. Who comes to Social alone? The question itself is paradoxical. Why am I here anyways? Why did I choose Social? What was I expecting? Deepika to turn up? Knowing well that she won’t; can’t. But a dreamer is allowed such delusions.

The moment I enter this place, I fall in love with it. The Social of the Hauz Khas Village Delhi is in a dilapidated building with a laid-back ambiance. I would have loved it even if were a library. But I couldn’t have had a drink in a library. The server gives me a table which is in between two bigger tables. On my left are three girls making animated conversations and on my right, are two couples digging into their mobile phones. I pity the couples. Here I am, alone, imagining a conversation with Deepika and there they are lost in their digital world, ignoring their companions.

I settle down and some members from the adjacent groups give me a look smilingly. I try to find unread messages on my phone till my drink arrives. There are none. But I keep gaping at it. Am not interested in having a conversation. Am not interested in returning that impassive air-hostess like smile. Am not interested in just looking back and acknowledging their presence. I just want to be alone. Feel alone. And the mobile helps.

One thing I like about mobile phones is their ability to make you look busy when you are not. They can make you look busy when you are not interested in making a conversation like in a train or some common waiting room or for that matter in a bar, just like now. They can make you look busy at a party or at a business event where nobody knows you. They can make you look busy when you want to avoid a fight. These are the times when you read that message for the eighth time and continue looking busy. Luckily my drink arrives and bails me out.

I happen to get a place where Ranveer (Ved) and Deepika (Tara) converse in the film Tamasha. The same spot! The scene recreates itself in front of my eyes and I drift. I think of Ved who is trying to reclaim his authentic self. I quite liked the movie. Its relatable. I know so many people like Ved. I meet them when they are taking a break or when they are alone or with someone they can connect with. They laugh heartily, express articulately and voice opinions and share outrage. And then I see them at their workplace or at their home and I see different people. They will barely make eye contact and will have a closed body language. Ved is everyone who has built a fortress around himself. He lives in a shell and doesn’t come out in an environment that is hostile to his impulse.  

As I think about all this, I get restless. The soothing ambiance becomes exasperating. I sense the fellow drinkers staring at me. Lots of questions gaggle me like eager cocker spaniels. How do we react when we are challenged by love? What do we do when our marriage needs more of us that we are used to sharing? How do we respond when we have children and we discover that we have inadequate energy and skills to cope? And quitting jobs, moving homes, deciding to choose a new role at work?

Do we feel vulnerable and not in control? Are we blaming the choices or are we accepting them? Are we thinking of reversing them, just like Ved did in the film?

P.S - Do you know Ved? 

Tough Job

All eyes were on him. It was Rajan's first day at work. While most of the day was spent idling around, and he was instructed on how to go about his duties, there was some unease in his demeanour as his confidence dried up. He had messed up.

It was Pammi's  bday. Manpreet, Supreet, Jagjeet, Gurdeep, Rajdeep, Sukhi and Happy, her entire clan including her son, daughter in law, grandsons and granddaughters were around her. Pammis favorite were Rajdeep and Jagjeet. She hoped he would give it to Rajdeep. But he instead gave it to Manpreet. Pammi winced.

One of the toughest jobs in this planet besides crab fishing in Alaska or being a UN negotiator is that of a restaurant server. All eyes are on you, the dish and the serving spoon. Everyone on the table is judging you by how much is served and on which plate. If you serve more you cant take it back. If you serve less you will be asked to give more and there may not be enough left for everyone. This is still manageable when what you serve is just based on quantity. Like for example dal makhani. But when it is chicken handi, besides the quantity the quality of what is served becomes equally important. Some pieces are preferred over others. The server has to make up his mind who gets the legs. There are only two. And Rajan had lost one to Manpreet.

All eyes were on him as he moved around the table with the dish that had only one leg piece among other not so important ones. Two patrons, both kids, waited to be served. Pammi initially hesitated. But then she had to take control. She announced, "Jagjeet nu leg piece de". But who was Jagjeet? The boy to his right or the girl on his left? Under tremendous pressure, he did what was commonsensical. He gave the leg to the boy. 

Damn these waiters... muttered Pammi. For a change this Punjabi family's doyen loved the daughters more than their sons.

Damn these Punjabis and their unisex names... muttered Rajan.

Hinduism doesn’t need cover

I read a disturbing article on the 18^th of October 2015 in Hindustan Times titled Hindutva Warriors. It talked about Hindu fundamentalist groups that are operating across UP and Bihar who promise to take up arms to ‘save Hindutva’.  Hindu Swabhiman, Hindu Kranti Dal, Hindu Shakti Dal, Hindu Yuva Vahini are groups that act as a ‘nuclei for mobilising communal activities’ and have been developed by RSS and VHP.

While I am a Hindu by birth, I am irreligious. I always believed that religion was akin to hypocrisy but lets leave that topic for another day. One thing that I like about Hinduism is that it is a very liberal.  Not visiting temples on a certain day of week, not wearing clothes of a certain kind and holidaying during Diwali does not attract scorn from fellow Hindus or a threat to be ostracised.  But increasingly, I am wary of the fundamentalists. And our penchant to be non-tolerant including some of my well educated friends. I don’t know whether we are a progressive society when we want to scrap Section 377 or we are regressive when we lynch people for eating beef!

Prerna, a single, lives in a one bedroom flat in Shivaji Park, Mumbai. While she is a devout, she wants to move out of her place as she cannot stand the overzealous activities of the Shiv Sena dominated area. She argues that being religious is one thing while being fanatical to the extent of bordering communal is another. According to her, the hyper mood during festivities of Hindus in her area makes her feel unsafe. She wants to move out.

From the middle of the 16^th century to the middle of the 20^th century, India has been ruled by Muslims and Catholics. Before, during and after this period, India was a predominantly, is a predominantly and continues to be a predominantly Hindu nation. I fail to understand that if those who ruled India for hundreds of years were unable to threat Hinduism, how can things change now?

Hinduism is the world’s oldest religion in practice. Any political party or communal group that believes that this religion needs them as its saviour are either way too naïve or have not understood its potency and depth. 

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