The NGO: The Kids

In our group we have Babita, Bidesi, Vijay, Gangsham, Raman, Chandni, and Bobby. I will get some photos soon, to paint a better picture of the kids and the slum itself.

Babita is the daughter of a local shopkeeper and is a shockingly fast learner, and the only one in the group who already knew how to effectively write hindi in the English alphabet. She is the most artistic of the group.

            Bidesi is the tallest of the lot and extremely friendly. He likes to hold my hand when we walk around the town and apparently wants to be a police officer when he grows up. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing; If he were to be the theoretical officer who does the best he can to keep crime and corruption off the street then joy to the world; but the more likely scenario is that he, the young and playful child, will eventually be tempted by the corruption that seems to have tainted all members of the Haryana Police Force. The seductive power of money to those without is something to behold, but ironically miniscule next to the power it holds on those who do.

            Vijay is the ‘Hero’ of the group, the best batsman at cricket and the most outgoing of the group. I can already see him as the future ‘Jock’ of the neighborhood, if his father’s burly forearms have anything to say about it.

            Raman is the kid who I worry about the most. He is a nice guy, but he has a slyness about him, an almost crooked look in his eye. Time will tell.

            Next up is charismatic Gangsham, who I initially thought was Vijay’s brother. He is quieter than his counterpart but just as athletically inclined, but with more of an artistic side. Always with a smile on his face does he traverse the harrowing tenements of his neighborhood.

            Chandni is a friendly little girl with a smile as wide as the british channel who always arrives underdressed to combat the surprisingly fearsome cold we’re all weathering over here. Perhaps her family doesn’t own a spare sweater but she always shows up, shivering and smiling in one of her tiny dresses.

            Finally is Bobby. He arrived later than the others and upon entering the classroom went straight to the back, his eyes on the floor the entire time. After a few failed attempts to write his name in English, his eyes began to well up with tears. We found out from him later that his mother left the slum for her Gaon (Village; It’s a common practice for migrant workers here to annually head back to their ancestral village with saved money for their family). Mr. Mishra quelled the boys tears by promising to get him on the phone with his mother in the following days. The saddest child, you can see the insecurity written on his face.

NGO: First Day

                 The slums themselves aren’t what I originally pictured them to be in my mind. As an American, the word slum conjures up images of rundown shacks, stacked and stuck in an endless disorganized conglomerate of tents and makeshift huts. While yes, groups of these ‘huts’ could be found clustered within the slum, built mainly of things that could be found discarded or used in construction sites like metal sheeting and wood. Being that these people don’t have a Target or Ikea to go to, and that necessity comes before aesthetics, uniformity was a foreign trait to ramshackle housing like them. A sheet of metal from here, tied together with to another sheet from there using rope from over there, all of it coming together to create great quilts of slum tenements.
                 The slum itself actually had more substance and development within it than I previously expected. We entered from the main road between a couple of small plain buildings to what appeared to be a large network of low rent buildings whose construction clearly went without the obstruction of petty things like rules, or regulations. None of these buildings leapt beyond two to three stories but it was a clear to me within the car zigzagging below that even within this lower level of society there were obvious different class levels. The men and women living atop the shoddily constructed buildings sported cheap clothing it was at least in decent condition, free of any rips or tears. They were also groomed to a certain extent, with clean shaven faces crowned by many a bowl cut. However the mark of the slum was still upon them and it was obvious where they came from. They looked down from their balconies at us, as our cars swam through the crowd of the lower level of the slums. Almost every man was a bicycle rickshaw, and nearly every woman a maid. The men wore dirty and torn clothing, and the women thin sarees.
                 The school is constructed of orange adobe-like material and stands as one of the taller buildings in the neighborhood. Stretching to a few stories it is still however small. I’ll be sure to take some photos next time we come along.
    It was our first day, and Mr. Mishra explained to us that after a short session with our groups, we were going to head over to the nearby lot where the locals play cricket (or bat-ball as they call it). Sheen and I met our group of kids and ushered them inside a small room, which we were told, for the most of the day had no electricity. The first thing we did was have them line up, and have them each try and write their names in both English and Hindi on the tiny blackboard we were given. Some of the kids were unable to reach the blackboard, about half of them had no knowledge of the English alphabet, and two had no idea how to spell in either language.

One child, Bobby, showed up late to the class and darted towards the back of the room with his eyes on the floor. He cautiously approached the black board when his turn to write his name eventually came. As the chalk met the blackboard, he froze, and stood staring past the blackboard with empty eyes. I could sense something was wrong even before the tears started to fall. Bobby began crying, and immediately Mr. Mishra entered the classroom and spirited him outside from the inquisitive eyes of the class. I joined Mr. Mishra beside bobby to try and understand what happened and if it had been something on our part. Mr Misha explained that his mother has left for their village, and that he sorely misses her. In her absence he is responsible for all of her duties like cooking and cleaning, and for the most part lives alone as his father is rarely around. After soothing him down Mr. Mishra promised to get him on the phone with his mother.

For the rest of the day we played cricket with an instructor of indian descent from Luxembourg. He showed the kids proper cricket techniques and made them laugh. It was interesting to see how in the young children there were no lines drawn about male and female sport, that the girls were just as eager and focused on the game as the boys were and were in some cases more fierce players.

At the end of the day, we said goodbye to all of the kids who seemed sad to have us leave. We told them we would be back next sunday but for some reason I felt like they didn’t believe us. I wonder why.

The NGO

Slum Children, Informal Education, and Me.

           

Over a month ago a handful of students were given the opportunity to begin volunteer work at an NGO involving an informal education for children living in construction slums. With College awaiting me hungrily around the corner I leapt at the chance, admittedly more for the credits than for the humanitarian aspect.

The head of the NGO, Mr. Mitra arrived slightly late (as is customary around here) for his meeting with us. As we all awaited his arrival impatiently around the wide conference room table, I started thinking about the true gravity of the opportunity I have been presented: The chance to change something.

The youth of India is proliferating into a river, a current with the power to carve away and mold the earth. We, as a small group of students, have been given the opportunity to direct this river, to remove the barricades and let it spill forth. Behind this Dam of social and economic misfortune a tidal wave lays dormant, a great untapped pool of energy and mana.

When Mr. Mitra finally graced us with his presence, the first thing I noticed about him beyond the curly hair and frames, was the analytical look in his eye. It quickly became clear that he wasn’t welcoming us with open arms and begging us to help these underprivileged children, that we had to prove ourselves worthy and wholeheartedly willing to participate in this program. After asking our names, a little about each of us, and cracking a few jokes, his face suddenly glazed over with stern concentration. Boldly and clearly he asked each of us,

“Why do you want to do this?”

That question was echoed by another, in my mind.

Why do I want to do this?

Every student before me said without exception that they wanted to do this because they had all of these resources and all of this knowledge to help these kids out. Then it dawned on me how arrogant and naïve it was to say that. To say something like that is to imply that these children themselves have nothing to offer, that it would be a one way transference of knowledge.

“So William, why do you want to do this?”

I thought for a few moments, trying to foresee what would face me in the slums and I realized that these kids, they can teach me.

“Because it would be a mutual learning experience. I’m not going to say that I’m going to teach them because that’s not what should happen, nor what I want to happen. I would like to volunteer, Sir, because I would like to interact with these kids. These kids know things and have experienced much more than I have, and are likely much more mature than I am in many ways. I have something to offer, and so do they.”

            Mr. Mitra nodded his head and said that’s exactly what he had in mind, and that he has high hopes for us.