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Brand new baby Radha

by Cindy Ryan (with Aarti Kalro) (photos by Aarti Kalro)

Maya’s howling, healthy, full-term baby girl, born in a cramped, low-ceilinged home the size of a small bathroom in North America arrived not in a hospital as we had hoped, but in her home with the help of neighbours. Prem, Suman and Nandini have a new sister named Radha. The news of Radha’s birth was given to us by Aarti Kalro who, along with Jaita Guha, has been helping Maya keep her appointments with the Foundation for Mother and Child Health. Dr. Rupal and her excellent caring team were responsible for giving Maya the much-needed advice to keep her healthy during her pregnancy and give hope to all of us that she would have a healthy child.

Just before I left Saki Naka, I helped Maya register at a municipal hospital with the thin shred of hope that she would manage to give birth there when the time came. While municipal hospitals are in need of scrubbing and staff with more time to give, giving birth in one is possibly cleaner and safer than giving birth in a slum home. A hospital birth ensures the baby will have paperwork, a leg up on the system of becoming a bonafide person in India.We can only speculate as to why Maya gave birth at home. Her husband may have been at work when Maya’s labour started and Maya may not have had time to make it to the hospital or she decided she wanted to give birth at home. Radha was born without benefit of doctors, nurses or bureaucracy, as well as being a girl, all a possible recipe for poverty in the mired caste system. What she does have is a loving mother, a father who seems to be excited by her birth and two sisters and a brother who have managed to live through malnutrition and stunted growth to become healthy, active, very smart children. Given a chance in India’s complex social system they could live a fruitful life. Maya is about 25 years old and is a strong, yet physically very tiny woman who is able to stand up for her children and herself and do what’s best in very difficult living conditions. Since Radha’s birth about  6 weeks ago, Maya’s family has chosen to move from Saki Naka to a different community in Mumbai where they will have some help from her husband Pramod’s relatives and a larger room to live in. For that we are all grateful. DWP will continue to assist Maya’s children and support the family with much help from Aarti and Jaita.

Below, in Aarti’s words, are her thoughts on Maya and her involvement with the family.

Maya. 

More than words I am overcome with emotion when I think of Maya.  
While many who don’t know her, might make the assumption that she is shy and a victim of her circumstances, I think differently.  
Maya has been a positive influence in my life. Rather than me giving her anything she has given me a lot. Maybe (it’s my hope) that we give each other strength. I know that Maya has become more brave now that she has DWP’s support. In return, she is an inspiration for me and a reminder that your circumstances do not dictate your happiness.  With her perennial smile, and her innocence, she lifts my spirits when I feel low. 

The last nine months have been exciting and also fraught with worry. Maya calmly left it to us, accepting help and suggestions with full faith. We all hoped at DWP that Mayas pregnancy would go smoothly and the baby be born in a hospital with a birth certificate. We tried. It was not to be so. The baby was born at home with the help of the neighbour . However the baby is healthy and that is most important.  She has an aura of calmness about her and beautiful curious wide eyes like her older sister Nandini. Will she be mischievous like Prem ? Or bubbly like Nandini ? Will she be blatantly truthful like Suman? I don’t know.. She will be loved without doubt.. By 5 wonderful people-her family-and then many more. While she may not grow up with the chances that a lot of us are fortunate to have, I know that she will grow up into a loving individual and have a vibrant life.I hope we can give her a chance to study and a chance to dream. 

Aarti was given the honour of naming the baby which required her to think passionately about what she hopes for this new life. Below is her reason for choosing the name Radha.

Radha was Lord Krishna’s advisor and friend. He was in love with her but she was married. However they are always depicted together, and some say she was even more important than Lord Krishna himself. She is also supposed to be the original goddess of Shakti ( power/energy ).

It is a beautiful name and just has a loving feeling , and softness to it…   Aarti.

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It’s finally here!!!

After 3 years of work which included assistance from numerous people who donated their time to taste test recipes, offer editing expertise and the time-consuming work of designing the book, (huge thanks to Nicole Sims (Coley Sims Creative) who donated hours and hours and hours…) Kerosene Curry has arrived. The book’s journey began in the slum community of Saki Naka, Mumbai nearly three years ago. My mother (Cindy Ryan) spent a very hot and cramped couple of months inside tin shacks huddled over kerosene burners in the lane ways of the community madly trying to decipher the hindi/marathi language using hand gestures as she penned the women’s recipes. The women, who come from all parts of India to attempt a better life in Mumbai, were  humbled, excited and proud to show off their traditional styles of cooking passed down through generations. Leaving Mumbai with a small book filled with wrinkled pages of notes and hundreds of photographs she arrived back home. Three years later, which included multiple trips straddling India and Canada, the crumpled note book has morphed into a beautifully designed book with the women’s stories, recipes and photos of the community they call home. This book has been the ultimate labour of love and we are so excited to bring their recipes to life for all of you.

The women of Girls Can Be (also from the Saki Naka community) spent hours sewing reversible aprons made from 100% cotton sheeting to be sold as a compliment to the cookbook or alone. The colourful, bold patterned sheeting is used in slum homes as bedding and can be seen drying in the sun on bamboo poles, hung on wire lines on the backs of tin huts, and used as curtains in ragged doorways offering colour and pattern to bleak surroundings.

DWP’s new partnership with Lost + Found Cafe in Vancouver has given DWP a new home base here in Canada where you can purchase your very own copy of Kerosene Curry! All proceeds from the sale of the book go to the Dirty Wall Project.

Kerosene Curry Cookbook: $29  

Reversible Apron: $20 

Combination Kerosene Curry cookbook + reversible apron $45 (shipping/handling $5 per book/per apron (within Canada)/ $9 (USA)/ International rates differ depending on country.

To purchase a copy of the book please email: dirtywallproject@gmail.com or call Lost +Found Cafe 604-559-7444 (Vancouver)

Below is the story of how this book came about…

June 2010,  Mumbai, India

My eyes water. It may be from the heap of onions, freshly sliced, sitting on a plate nearby, or it may be from the smoke of burning garbage, or the sweat dripping from my forehead into my eyes, or it may be the kerosene burner, throwing invisible fumes into the small, windowless room.

I wear a scarf to wipe my eyes and my forehead. I wipe my hands on my pants, so that the pen doesn’t slip out of my fingers, and the paper I am writing on stays dry. It is humid, hot and stifling in the tiny dwellings in the slum. I have been invited into their homes to watch and learn how to make amazing, simple, Indian food.

Once the women wake the children, put away the sleeping mat, sweep out their tiny homes, and clear the puddles and garbage away from their doors, we walk to the shops. There is some excitement in deciding what to cook. We shop together at the markets, but I pay for everything. This allows the women to cook recipes they wouldn’t be able to afford, and to make enough to feed their families for a few days, with ingredients left over. I am excited about their menus each day, eager to make sense of the complex flavours, and  learn the methods for making delicious curries, chapati, and sweet treats.

The Saki Naka slum community is home to women from all over India. The food they cook reflects their heritage in the spices they use, the methods they use, and the type of food they covet. Goats were slaughtered in front of me, chickens necks were sliced and their feathers were expertly and quickly removed, fish were grabbed by the gills from a bucket of murky water, slapped on a large, grimy stump, heads were removed, and the scales were scraped with a dull knife. All this bloody carnage was plopped in plastic bags, tied tight, and dropped into the women’s shopping bags, but not before the flies had had their feast on the raw meat. Vegetable vendors line the uneven streets with piles of expertly arranged produce to seduce the crowds of shoppers. We buy bitter gourd, tiny eggplant, lots of onion, bags of garlic, and bunches of cilantro. The tomatoes are plump and juicy and thrown into another plastic bag with some green chilis. I am the subject of much conversation. I can tell by the hundreds of eyes who are staring at the only westerner in these parts. The stares melt into grins and a nod of the head and sometimes a lilting “hello”.

The cooking and the prepping takes place on the floor. Indian women handle food with delicate gestures,  slow chopping, and gentle stirring. The food is not attacked, it is seduced into simmering broths of heady, spicy aromas. Debris from slicing, grating and pounding is scraped by hand off the floor, and put into a container to be disposed of later. Knives are basic. All the prepped ingredients are put into little containers to be used as necessary in the preparation of a meal. Dishes are washed and rinsed under a tap in the corner of the room where they also bathe. They take care to wash all meats and vegetables before using, and  expertly guide children, with their muddly feet,  around the sliced and diced ingredients laying in dishes on the floor. Children are offered tastes in tiny, metal dishes and relish the flavours. Torn pages from newspapers drink the leftover oil from deep fried morsels. Nothing is wasted in the slum. Everything is repurposed.

I watch from my cross-legged position in a corner of the room and write furiously in my notebook,  making notes about approximate quantities (they don’t measure), cooking times, and trying to decipher what they are telling me. They speak Marathi. Sign language is necessary. I am startled when all the homes have an electric grinder to make the masala paste and grind spices. This is their most coveted cooking tool and the their only appliance. As the food bubbles in hammered aluminum pots with plates for lids, the women wipe away the mess on the floor and bring out a wide stainless steel tray with 3″ sides. Flour is sifted in to the tray, water is added bit by bit and their strong, bony hands deftly knead the flour and water mixture into a smooth, elastic dough. Balls of dough are pinched off the large piece, rolled into balls, dipped in flour, flattened into small disks, rolled out, folded, floured, rolled, flipped and finally laid to rest on a pan, pre-heated on the kerosene burner. There is more flipping, and pressing of the dough to make cloud like puffs of air within the layers of dough. Of all the food I have watched the women prepare, the chapati is revered and each woman treats the dough slightly differently, some oil the dough while cooking, some splash it with water. It is eaten everyday and it is necessary for a cook to master the process.

When the food is cooked and ready to eat, all the cooking pots are moved under the tap to be washed later and a fabric or a woven plastic mat is laid out on the floor for seating. Water is poured, perhaps a mango drink is offered. Kane and Ashley are called from their work and the three of us eat, cross-legged on the floor, all eyes watching us.  The hospitality is gracious and sincere. Guests eat first, the family eats later, despite our protestations. Neighbours come by to see how we like the food, children lurk in doorways, and we pepper Ashley with questions about the food, the women and their families, their situations and where they came from. The stories are as varied as the women, and though they all have different financial situations from dire poverty to ownership of a slum home, they live in a community of people bound by a caste system with few opportunities to swim against the tide of poverty.

It has been an enriching experience. I will take with me their lessons on generosity, neighbours helping neighbours, giving when there is nothing to give, and the sincere attitude these women had when trying to teach the foreigner in their midst how to cook on one burner, without measuring, crouched in living spaces not much bigger than a western bathroom.

Though they have yet to dress me in a saree, but have intentions to, I have learned how to say “enough, no more”, in Marathi. “Bus, bus!!” I moan, as they try to feed me another plateful of food.

The Dirty Wall Project will be producing a cookbook of these recipes, with the women’s stories, and photographs of their families, themselves, and their homes. The cookbook will be for sale, with 100% of the proceeds used to make many lives more comfortable in india.

Sincerely,

Cindy Ryan

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DWP has a new home right here in downtown Vancouver ..

Last Monday we opened the doors to my newest project the “Lost + Found Cafe”.

We are located in Gastown/DTES on 33 West Hastings St. We took over the old (1906) Chelsea Inn’s ground floor space which has lay vacant for the better part of the last decade in middle of October. Over the last 3 months we have completely restored and transformed the old space into what is now the new home of Lost + Found.  The space is huge and the front restaurant space is nearly 2400 sq ft, plus we have a 500 sq ft meeting space in the back that we plan on renting out for meetings or donating to charity/non profit groups that need a space to meet.

We want to create a space that brings the world to Vancouver both through art, philanthropy and great food. The food at Lost + Found is simple and fresh and all made in house daily. Every morning we bake fresh dough (my grandmother’s recipe) and turn it into cinnamon buns, sandwiches and an array of baked goods. Our cookies, brownies, dessert bars are made fresh every morning and go great with our fair-trade, locally roasted coffee from Republica Roasters in Fort Langley. We also do house salads, Spinach Quinoa and Lentil, Thai Noodle and our Roasted Vegetable with Garam Masala. You can also create your own salad with over 20 ingredients coupled with our home made dressings; Lime Cilantro, Honey Ginger, Herb Vinaigrette and Creamy Lemon Feta.

The space itself is warm, relaxed and well travelled. We have hundreds of travel books, magazines and there is always world documentaries playing on our 8 ft projector wall in the back of the space. Our charity section is filled with products from India, Uganda, South Africa , Mexico and Cambodia all sourced from women’s groups, charities and NGO’s. The proceeds from these items go directly to the Dirty Wall Project Foundation. The money raised will benefit our current projects and families in India and give us the opportunity to begin helping locally right here in the downtown East side. With such a large space we want to start by giving other charities currently working in the area a venue to raise funds and awareness by holding events at Lost + Found. We will also be hosting for profit events ranging from photography exhibitions and music nights a couple times a month. The back half of the space will be a forever changing gallery for local artists to showcase their talent.

Travel is an essential part of everyone’s life whether it be backpacking through Peru, a beach vacation in Hawaii, volunteering in Africa or simply day dreaming of getting away. It is something we all think about and the trips you go on stay with you forever.  But it is rarely the things your are supposed to see  that stick with you. Like seeing the Taj Mahal or visiting the Empire State building. It is always the days when you are “lost” in a foreign place and you stumble across something amazing and unplanned. It is those days that years later you speak of with fond memories of that day you “found’ that great place off the beaten track.

At Lost + Found we want to give people a chance to come in, have great food and a chance to pick up a book or have a chat and day dream about somewhere they’ve always wanted to go or reminisce about that trip they took.

I look forward to catching up with DWP supporters and friends here in Canada and am excited about our  new beginning for DWP locally.

Cheers,

Kane

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Lost-Found-Cafe/368797173218618

33 west Hastings st/ 604 559 – 7444

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The ladder shakes as I reach the top, I steady myself and turn around. I look down through the top of the window where the brown paper has started to come undone and watch people as they walk by. I remember three months ago my bike leaning against the window, face pressed against the dirty glass looking into the space for the first time. My memory flashes forward and I see myself weaving through downtown traffic on my bicycle, a roll of brown paper tucked under my arm, a personal loan, and a rolled up copy of the lease jammed into my front pocket.

It has been two months since I have written a post about DWP and our newest project but things have been anything but quiet. Ten weeks ago, my parents, Salomeh and I walked into the 100 year old building on Vancouver’s downtown east side armed with a tool box and energy. Since then the floors have been ripped up, walls built, puttied and painted, equipment purchased and the kitchen built.  Perched on top of the ladder I look out at the space that will become the ” Lost + Found Cafe”. Four years ago I combined my love of travel and photography into a way to give back to the communities who had welcomed me and DWP was born. Now with the help of my family and Salomeh we are combining my love of travel, photography and social work and adding great food and atmosphere to the mix plus a great space for fundraisers and events. DWP will have a permanent home in the new space. Products sourced from women’s collectives and independent NGO’s have been purchased from South Africa, Cambodia, Uganda, India and Mexico giving funds directly to the people who make them and in turn providing DWP with retail products to sell which will generate funds for DWP projects both in India and Canada. Although the website and Facebook pages have been quiet, India and the communities we support have been steadily in our minds. With the help of Jaita and Aarti we have been able to monitor Maya’s pregnancy from afar. Maya has passed her suspected due date but is relatively healthy. She is nervous but resilient and we all anxious for the arrival of the newest addition to her family.  We speak often to Ranjana, Usha, Indu, Shashi and the girls of GCB.

Over the last month DWP supporters have not gone quiet and donations have continued to flow in despite my relative absence from the website. The continued support has been amazing and I can’t wait to show all of you what the DWP team has created in a 100 year old vacant space in what is dubbed the poorest neighbourhood in Canada.

On behalf of all us we wish you all a Merry Christmas and see you in the New Year…

 

Cheers,

Kane

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The glass door swings open to a wet Vancouver morning as a man and his girlfriend step out of the way to let me by. Outside, fresh rain streaks my dirty face. Head down I clutch my new purchase and slowly bang it against my hand. My right hand is covered in a thick banding of masking tape acting as a impromptu bandage over cuts and fresh blisters from the morning’s work. My clothing is ripped and dirty from tearing up flooring. I look up and see a group of  hipsters quickly part as they see me coming. I realize how this may look, bloody hands, dirty clothes and clutching a large crowbar walking through one of Canada’s poorest streets and I can’t help but smile. I open the metal gate and slip through the open door. Before me is my newest project…

I have found myself saying that “something needs to change” for the past year but for the longest time had no idea what that “something” was. DWP is an amazing adventure but it has taken a toll on me (health) and my personal bank account and I had to figure out a way to top up both in order for it to continue. When I started DWP I vowed to keep it administration fee free with a pledge to have 100% of the donations going to those who need it. To manage this I return to Canada every 6 months to find short term work to keep myself fed and clothed. I have found interesting employment and been given opportunities from generous employers who value what I do in India, allowing me to work for short periods before I head back to India. However, this isn’t a good, sustainable long term solution for me or DWP if I run out of energy and funds for myself. I often find myself telling others that “change is good” and three months ago I realized that it was time to take my own advice.

I come from a long line of entrepreneurs including my beloved parents. After years of saying to my father that I wasn’t interested in running their restaurant they sold the last of their places a few years ago and joined me in India. When I returned to Vancouver from Mumbai in August, riding the sky train into Vancouver, sitting beside my dad, I told him that I’m ready to start a business here in Vancouver. This venture required a personal loan and my commitment to a lease.

Days after my arrival home, my girlfriend (Salomeh) and I began to walk around downtown Vancouver peering in to empty storefronts and looking for the “perfect” place while my parents began to scour East Van, Commercial Drive and Main St. for a space. Phone call after phone call ensued and my heart skipped a beat as I realized just how expensive a proposition this was going to be. As the agents stated the rent over the phone I day- dreamed in rupees and Indian prices. As I got over the initial shock of Vancouver’s pricey retail rental market I began to realize that downtown may not be an actual option. I rode my bike to East Van following up leads sniffed out by my parents and found a nice corner space in a good area.  Standing in the space I started to visualize the new place and the nervous excitement came flooding back. The next morning was spent at City Hall and after a couple of hours I found out that the space could never be zoned correctly and my day dreams of lax Indian bylaws and crooked officials filled my head once again.

Although it had only been a few weeks of looking for space to lease, I was feeling frustrated. Somewhere in Vancouver was the perfect place, but where? A week prior, while phoning an agent about another space, she mentioned that she had a large space in Gastown in the Downtown East Side that I should check out. I cycled to the address she had given me on East Hastings St., Vancouver’s most infamous stretch of road. Wiping the window with my sleeve I peered into the cavernous dark space. My initial reaction was that the space was too big and probably way too much work and money. But after three weeks of looking, that space kept finding its way into my mind and once again Salomeh and I found ourselves peering through the window.  Salomeh put out my fears of taking on the large space and the phone call was made to the realtor.

I have been back in Vancouver for just over 60 days and for the past month I have been working on creating my first ever “for profit” business. There has been a few weeks of negotiations, proposals, lease amendments, meetings with lawyers and countless hours on the phone berating my dad with endless questions. Stage One of many is now over and the creating of the actual business has begun, which is extremely exciting.

This beautiful new space will give DWP its first real home here in Canada and give it a chance to gain a new group of donors and friends here in Vancouver. It is not by mistake but by good fortune that DWP and I have landed back in Vancouver and have set up shop in the Downtown East Side. After 3 years of work in India where 1/3 of the world’s poor reside, DWP’s new home is right smack in the middle of Canada’s poorest postal code. It is my hope that while continuing to support our friends and families in India that we can also begin to work closer to home and start a new chapter of helping locally as well.

I will be putting up sneak peaks of what I am up to leading up to the reveal of this new chapter for me and for DWP. Stay tuned….

Change is good..

Cheers,

Kane Ryan

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Written by Cindy Ryan

Maya is so tiny. Still under 80 pounds and she is six months pregnant with her fourth child. But there has been progress (She has gained almost 20 lbs in the last 7 weeks) and the sustained hope that with four women watching over her she will deliver a healthy child from a healthy body.

For a poor woman in Mumbai to deliver a baby in hospital and receive a modicum of care, she must register with a municipal hospital. This will ensure her baby has a record of birth, the first step in being counted. Maya, in her early twenties, and already a mother to three children, is one of millions of poor women, pregnant, malnourished and frail who must rely on inadequate maternity care at a municipal hospital or remain at home foregoing any prenatal care.

Maya’s home is a tiny cement box just off the lane way, near the bridge where the traffic flows day and night and the bad kids from the slum gather to lounge, spit, and pass time. Standing in her home I have to be mindful of the fan just above my head. Maya turned it off and giggled as she rummaged through the plastic bags hanging on nails, looking for her past medical records. Her husband, Pramod, sat slumped against the wall, sleepy from a night of work at a powder coating company. He made a comment in Hindi to Maya and her eyes glossed over with tears and her face became tight. Reluctantly, Maya left her home with me to go to a municipal hospital to register and get the first check-up for her pregnancy. Once in a rickshaw, Maya let the tears flow and I anxiously asked Indu, who was accompanying us, to ask what was upsetting her. Maya told Indu that her husband told her she was to return home within two hours or she should not come back. Hoping this was just a sleep-deprived man talking nonsense, we continued on our journey to the hospital.

We arrived at the hospital and took our place in a line-up outside in a cement courtyard to wait over an hour for a clerk to open a window to process maternity patients for one hour only. There were at least 80 women in front of us, and soon, over 100 women behind us.  Maya perched on a ledge wet with spongy green moss while Indu and I kept our place in the line. The women waited, tolerant and patient. The hems of their sari’s wafted in strong breezes, fluttering and falling with each gust of wind that suddenly came and went. There were burka-clad women chatting in tight groups and women sitting cross-legged on the ground continuously wrapping the end of their sari’s over their heads for shade.  A few husbands littered the crowd. I was envious for Maya that some of these women had husbands by their sides.  When the rain started, the chatter became more animated, and the wait became more frustrating.

Once inside the hospital, Maya was separated from Indu and me, and made her way upstairs to sit in rows of a few hundred pregnant women for her turn to be weighed, measured, have her blood tested, talk to a doctor, and then return downstairs for a tetanus shot and supplements which, in Maya’s case they were out of. This was a four hour process. Indu and I took turns sneaking up the stairway to peer in at the waiting women, trying to spot Maya in the crowd, trying to determine when it would be her turn. The public area of the hospital has two benches for hundreds of people coming and going, waiting and worrying. We eyed the benches, waiting for a turn to sit if only for a few minutes.

Municipal hospitals are for the poor and are run by the government. The services provided are barely adequate and anyone who could afford to go elsewhere would not enter this place. The interior of this hospital had moldy, smeared walls and large rooms with numerous beds and no privacy. Rusted iron tables sat beside sagging iron beds covered with dirty pink pieces of rubber laid over stained sheets. The staff seem burdened and sluggish. The cleaners mopped lazily over large swaths of floor, moving dirt around in concentric circles.

For the poor, the alternative to having their baby in a municipal hospital is to have a home birth. Maya, who is from Nepal, had her first daughter, Suman who is now six, in a field in a remote village where she lived.  Her second child, Prem, now four years old, came suddenly while Maya was in her home. Her third child, Nandini, was born in a hospital in Mumbai, just over a year ago. Maya and the many poor, pregnant women like her, need much more care than what a municipal hospital can provide. Thankfully, Mumbai has a Foundation for Mother and Child Health clinic (www.fmch-india.org) which provide mothers free information on nutrition, health care, hygiene, as well as necessary supplements and personal attention from Dr. Rupal Dalal and her team of social workers and nutritionists. When we first took Maya and her children to Dr. Rupal a few months ago, she weighed 70 pounds at four months pregnant. Suman and Nandini were malnourished and Prem had calcium deficiencies. Watching Dr. Rupal handle her caseload of women and children is inspiring. A pediatrician and a mother, Dr. Rupal is devoted and dedicated to their care. She requires the women to be pro-active with the health of their children and themselves and to visit the clinic on a regular basis. It is a struggle to keep these women, many of whom are illiterate and abused by husbands, to maintain the regimen Dr. Rupal and her team aim for, but the success stories, of which there are many, are worth the fight. Months ago, we took a family of six kids to Dr. Rupal, all of them malnourished, and they are now healthy, active and energetic.

Since our departure from Mumbai in August, we have enlisted the help of two wonderful women (Jaita Guhu and Aarti Kalro) who had volunteered with DWP in the Saki Naka community, to ensure that Maya and her family continue to get the care they need to become healthy. Jaita and Aarti have kept Maya and her children on task with supplements, hospital visits and visits to the Foundation for Mother and Child Health. This is no small favour. Maya can’t manage any of these trips on her own and her husband has so far not accompanied her, so Jaita and Aarti must take hours out of their day to ferry her back and forth through the thick of Mumbai traffic to ensure she gets to the clinic and the hospital. Because Maya can’t read, they must also help her to understand instructions for medication and supplements. Her health and the health of her children count on them.

Aarti and Jaita report that both Nandini and Prem are now healthy and Suman is progressing, but not quite there yet. Maya is now almost 90 pounds at 6 months pregnant, but still needs more nutrient rich food in her diet. Dr. Rupal gave Maya some food bars containing essential nutrients as well as some health bars for the children. She has instructed Maya to include eggs three times a week in all their diets. Aarti is suggesting that she take Maya to register at a municipal hospital much closer to the community which will make it easier to get to when the time comes for Maya to give birth.

With the expert care, and loving attention that Maya and her children are receiving from all of these selfless women, we are hopeful that she delivers a healthy baby while improving her own fragile health. The problem Maya and most poor women in India face is the lack of knowledge regarding basic nutrition and the lack of quantity and quality of food they can afford. One out of every three malnourished children in the world live in India. Many kids in the slum live on glucose based biscuits, sugary tea, watery dal and white rice. As Dr. Rupal has pointed out to me, malnourished kids have stunted growth, lower IQ’s, and higher rates of infectious diseases. Cramped living conditions, open sewers, and not boiling drinking water leaves them at risk for constant illnesses. The Foundation for Mother and Child Health (FMCH) is taking the necessary steps to educate those who come to their clinics. Kane and I met with Dottie Wagle, the Chairperson of the India Branch of FMCH. In our short meeting we understood how determined she is to continue this initiative in other areas in Mumbai, making this amazing, free service for the poor accessible to more communities throughout Mumbai.

We are hoping that Maya and her young family can be the example of what quality care, education and a community of caring women can do for the poor, the illiterate and the abused. Maya is becoming less shy and more capable and is already showing signs of a take-charge attitude to her children’s health-care. This is progress. We had a chance to talk to Maya, Suman and Prem on the phone while they were with Jaita a few days ago. Though the conversation is limited to the little Hindi we could understand, it was great to hear Suman’s raspy voice and Prem’s constant chatter. And sweet Maya was as happy to hear our voices as we were to hear hers.

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I felt a light tap on my shoulder. My eyes blinked open slowly, my mouth was dry and I stared up at the woman. She told me to put away my tray table and prepare for landing. Rubbing sleep from my eyes I opened my window shade and looked outside. Harsh sunlight filled the cabin and when my eyes adjusted I saw beautiful Vancouver materialize in stunning greens and blues just outside the little square window.  I’m home.

The last couple of weeks in Mumbai went by in a blur. The end of every working trip in India is difficult, but this one seemed even harder. As families learned of my departure, more problems became apparent, and individuals and families came forth looking for help, knowing this may be their last chance for months. In the remaining two weeks of this trip, DWP focused heavily on finishing off the last of our school sponsor cases while meeting the individual medical needs of several families, including Usha, our kindergarten teacher, and our dear friend Maya and her children.

DWP paid for Usha to receive physiotherapy on a daily basis for two weeks at Seven Hills hospital, hoping to alleviate her back pain and get to the root of her back problem. Sonograms, an MRI, and meetings with several doctors and surgeons all pointed to the same thing; rest. This is not an option for a poor single mother living in Mumbai who desperately needs to keep working to feed and house her two teenage children. While these daily treatments started to ease her pain, I bundled up my mattress from my apartment, along with pillows and a chettai, (Indian sleeping mat) stuffed it into a rickshaw and surprised Usha at her home one evening. We unrolled the thick mattress and laid it out on her cracked cement floor. Usha, who is in her early 40′s, quickly exclaimed that tonight would be the first night in her life that she would get to sleep on a mattress. We chatted over chai and discussed her family. DWP paid the final amount owing on her medical bills, the tuition fees for her very bright daughter and her son’s school tuition for the year, in full. Her back is better but will never fully heal unless she takes rest for months on end. While DWP could not solve her back problem we have been able to make her life a little easier and she can be assured that her children will get the education they deserve.

While I focused on Usha and DWP sponsor cases, my mom spent her days with Maya (Cindy will be writing a full post about her work with Maya) monitoring her and her children’s health daily, all the while becoming a surrogate mother to every wandering child in the community.  My mother and I would often be separated for hours throughout the day. When I arrived back to the community I would simply ask the first child I saw where she was? A grubby little hand would point me in a direction down the pipeline and soon I would see a huddle of laughing children hanging off my mother, sweat rolling down her brow and a smile from ear to ear.

With less than a week left in Mumbai I started to really think about the next year and what that means for both DWP and me. The past year in Saki Naka has been incredibly difficult and emotional for many reasons. This thought consumed my mind daily as I watched children run along the pipeline; children I have watched grow and change over the last three and a bit years. I know I need to move on eventually, but this place feels like home. Reflecting on the legacy that DWP supporters have left for this community is a way to cope. Besides paying for medical care, tuitions, teacher’s salaries, and individual school sponsorships, DWP has funded the addition of the second floor of the school which is used every day for kindergarten classes, art classes and dance classes as well as community drop in space.DWP paid local community members to clear tangles of weeds, bags of their own garbage, thick tree roots and broken glass from an area used as a dumping ground. The final result of their efforts is a large, clean space to play, run, hold events, and a place to sit outside of their cramped homes. It is called the ‘new’ garden, a scruffier version of the garden space that Janvi Trust created at the other end of the slum. A year ago, funds from DWP were used to renovate a small room beside the school that, until recently, we used as the Girls Can Be centre. We are hoping that this beautiful, light, clean space will continue to be used as a women’s centre, or a much needed health clinic targeting nutrition and basic hygiene, stemming the tide of malnutrition and illness. These large projects will endure and continue to enhance the quality of life in this slum community.

Two days before we left, we visited Ashwini once more at the girls’ home where she now lives. We met with Sister Annie to let her know I will be leaving and they asked how long until I return. It took me a second to answer and then I told them that I’m not sure yet but it will be awhile this time. Priyanka, who DWP hires to tutor Ashwini, as well as other students at the home, needs to be paid monthly. I organized her entire years salary in cash and gave it to Sister Annie so she will be able to pay Priyanka. One more thing done. We hugged Ashwini and said our goodbyes. Ashwini is a major success story and every time I visit the home I smile to myself at what a wonderful life she has now because of these caring, compassionate Sisters. DWP has set aside 100,000 Rupees ($2000 CDN) in a separate DWP account that I will hold until Ashwini turns 18 in four years and is eligible to leave the home. Our hope is that this money will help Ashwini get on her feet and start her adult life. I can’t wait for the day…

My eyes blinked open, weary from a terrible, sleepless night. It was well before 7 a.m., but I felt anxious. The night before, my mom and I cleaned and organized the apartment that has been DWP’s home base for the past 2 years. I entered the bathroom and looked down at the little blue bucket that has been my shower and watched as the tap slowly filled it. My reflection in the mirror looked weary. I have lost too much weight over the last year, dark circles and bags show prominently around my eyes. I let the the last bucket of water wash over my face and wondered what my last day in the community will bring. Somber, but ready to face the day, we marched down the six flights of stairs and into the chaotic morning rush of Marol and headed to the community. My mother and I hate goodbyes and over the last week we had said too many. Today would be worse.

We had ordered 6 massive pots of vegetable biryani (veg rice) and raita (yogurt/curd) to be delivered to the school by 10 a.m. The rice arrived just after 11a.m. and with the help of a few strong boys we moved the heavy pots into the GCB centre. Covered in sweat, I picked up the first pot and moved it upstairs to the kindergarten class. Usha, Priyanka and my mother organized the children and began to serve the meal. Soon 80 kids sat cross legged, covered in rice. We had four more huge pots of rice to deliver yet and with my mom’s help I was able to get the massive and heavy pot onto my shoulder. I walked down the lane way over broken railway ties, garbage, mud and open sewers, towards the Nepali section of the community and set up in the new garden on a makeshift platform. Behind me, 6 year old Dinesh carried a ten pound pot full of raita on his head, while my mother balanced his 4 year old sister Noorsaba in her arms and Suman and Prem chased after her. When I peeled back the tinfoil on the pot, the spicy aromatic smell curled in the morning air and children climbed the platform to get a better look. Slowly people emerged from their tin huts sending their childen to see what Kane Sir was up to. I motioned for them to bring bowls. After the first few bowls were heaped  with rice and raita, people started to come in droves. Dinesh, and my mother and I filled whatever container they brought us, small or big. In thirty minutes the pot was empty and we returned for another load walking to a different part of the community. We repeated this 4 more times until we had served well over 3oo meals to 4 different sections of the community. My shoulder was sore, Dinesh’s head was hurting, my mom’s hips hurt from carrying Noorsaba, and our arms were tired. We retreated back to Ranjana’s home where she treated the rag tag team to chai and a home cooked meal. We have known Ranjana’s family for the past 3 years and they have never needed our help in any significant way. Her tiny home has always been a refuge for me and for my mother and we consider her a  good friend.

Leaning against the pale yellow wall, staring into our empty cups we wanted to linger in Ranjana’s home, but we knew that we still had so much to do at the apartment. We called Maya to the GCB room and I gave her a mobile phone and explained to her that Jaita and Aarti (wonderful volunteers/friends from Mumbai) would be in charge of helping her during her pregnancy. She looked confused and I slowly began to tell her that we have to leave and we might not be back for awhile. Her eyes welled up with tears and Suman hid her face in her mom’s sari. Ranjana joined us in the room and we all hugged . We cling to the thought of seeing them all again in the future.

We kept lingering but knew that it had to end and we grabbed our stuff and walked single file out of the room. We gathered outside in the light rain. Other families noticed the tears and goodbyes and wished us well. Saying good bye to families in the slum sometimes means we will never see them again. It is heart wrenching for us.

With heavy hearts, we reached home and climbed the six flights of stairs to our apartment. The GCB ladies were inside waiting for us and had been given strict instructions to take anything and everything they needed or wanted from my apartment. We opened the door and the girls giggled; they needed encouraging to take stuff. In the next six hours, the 5 women had completely stripped the apartment, leaving little left except the fixtures and the landlord’s furniture. The hotplate, bed, mattresses, plates, cutlery, shelving, bedding and anything else they could unscrew or carry was piled into the living room awaiting help from their brothers. The women were paid up to date, plus a bonus. After more tearful goodbyes, my mom and I were left sitting in a nearly empty apartment.

I began to pack my own belongings, filling my 12 year old backpack with 3 years worth of memories. Dirty socks, ripped jeans, shorts with splashes of every colour of paint I have ever used while working in the community, worn out shirts, and crumpled children’s drawings filled my bag. Our dear friend, Jaita, arrived just after 9 p.m. to hang out and say goodbye. Shashi brought her brother back and they dismantled the bed, anxious to take it home. Shashi exclaimed that the whole family would use the double bed. Just before 11 p.m. my bag was packed and my passport was tucked into my front pocket. My mom was flying out the next morning and stayed behind with Shashi while Jaita accompanied me to the airport.

The short rickshaw ride to the airport seemed even quicker than normal. After a quick goodbye to Jaita, I watched her rickshaw pull away from the curb. All around me the airport hummed with activity. People milled in crowds, bags were shifted and security guards yelled in Hinglish. I stood silently for a moment in the humid air and thought about my arrival to Mumbai three years before. I was naive and scared, but excited and eager to start helping someone, somewhere. Three years later, with generous funding from DWP supporters, we have helped thousands of people in little ways and some big ways, in India and especially Mumbai. DWP has accomplished more than I ever imagined and I’m not finished yet.

Thirty-one hours of travel over, I disembarked in Vancouver and was met by my smiling father. We caught the Skytrain, my dirty backpack sat wedged between us, and I had the same feeling I felt three years ago when I landed in Mumbai. Everything is about to change and I’m scared and more than a little naive as to how I’m going to manage. For the first time in 12 years of travel, I’m touching down on Canadian soil without a return ticket to anywhere. I’m ready for a change.

DWP is undergoing some changes, I have some new ideas and some interesting projects in the works so stay tuned…

Sincerely,

Kane Ryan

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* Photographs were taken by DWP (Cindy and Kane Ryan). This was DWP’s first time shooting a wedding. 

(Interested in having DWP shoot your wedding or special event, contact dirtywallproject@gmail.com)

Life is Beautiful

Though rather short for an Indian celebration of marriage, (one day compared to the usual three or four days of feasting and celebrating), Sarah and Ashley were married with panache in the St. Vincent Pallotti Catholic Church in the Marol neighbourhood of Mumbai. Because Ashley now lives and works in Qatar and Sarah was back at her home in Canada, they relied on the creative energies of their Mumbai friends (Pradeep, Darshana, Supriya, Amit, Richa & Danny) and family who cobbled together a stylish and poignant event with only a few weeks notice. Along with Sarah’s mom, Rita Petrescu, who flew in from Canada and Ashley’s mom, Amelia Fernandes, from Mumbai, we danced, ate, and celebrated with exuberance for hours.

Dressed in a gold-patterned kurta, Ashley was the very handsome epitome of refined Indian elegance and beautiful Sarah perfectly blended the two cultures with her choice of a fitted, draped white dress, a halo of jasmine and a glittering maangtika. The ceremony was a traditional rite of marriage mass. Later the reception was led with the finesse of a game show host, by the Master of Ceremony. Francis, dressed in a very slick shiny suit that John Travolta’s Saturday Night Live character could only aspire to, kept everyone energized with theme dances and a fast-paced, action-packed evening in traditional Goan style. The reception hall was a bedazzled display of lights, garlands (a hand-made gift from the Girls Can Be women), fresh flowers and Canadian flag centrepieces. The highlight of the evening was Sarah and Ashley’s entrance to the reception. The MC had everyone stand in anticipation of the newlyweds arrival to the booming Star Wars theme music and throw confetti on them as they paraded the circle of guests. This was the kickstart to a wedding reception I will never forget. The wedding was broadcast live on UStream thanks to Ashley’s friend Pradeep and a laptop. Friends and family tuned in from around the world. Also not forgotten was Sarah and Ashley’s determination to include people from the Saki Naka pipeline slum where they met. Dressed in beautiful sarees, the GCB women and their children were excited to attend their first Catholic wedding. Ranjana and kindergarten teacher Usha and family made it to the reception, very excited to be part of this beautiful occasion. When the music stopped and the clean-up began and we all slowly dribbled out of the building, not really wanting the night to end, Ashley and Sarah had the caterers pack up the left-over food to distribute to pavement dwellers on their way to their honeymoon hotel. They also helped the GCB women by hiring them to decorate envelopes with a photo insert given out to everyone at the reception as a thank-you. The cake was brought to the slum community the next day and handed out in chunks and when the small pieces were gone, the plate was licked clean of any remaining icing and crumbs.  Their wedding linked two cultures and two thoughtful, generous people who value their families and their friends and who will live their lives with compassion for others.

Written in their own words. By Sarah and Ashley.

From Sarah:

It’s hard not to believe in fate when the universe nudges you along like a gale force wind. Last September, a long-planned sabbatical from my job as a reporter at the Times Colonist newspaper came upon me. All but one of my plans for the year fell through – and it was a loose-made plan. The Christmas previous, I met Cindy and Todd Ryan at a mutual friend’s party and spent most of the night talking with them about their son Kane’s charity work with the Dirty Wall Project in a Mumbai slum community. A few months later, Kane told me more over a few drinks on the Canoe Club patio and gave me an invite to visit. Not long after that, with fellowships denied and travel buddies bailed, I found myself alone on a plane to India with a year to kill. On that journey, I wrote in my journal wise words from a woman I met doing relief work in flood-ravaged Mozambique years before: Open your heart to know your heart’s desire.

Kane and his parents greeted me at the airport. I stepped into the cacophonous sauna of Bombay and felt strangely at home. I spent my first few days in the Saki Naka slum community playing with children, drinking chai in homes the size of my bathroom and following around the Ryans. On the third day, Dirty Wall and Janvi Trust held a Diwali party in the garden they’d transformed from a dump. This is where I met my future husband.

I spotted Ashley standing with Kane’s dad, Todd, in the garden. He stood out not only because he looked like an old school Bollywood star, think brown Cary Grant, but also because he appeared so fresh and clean in a pressed shirt and jeans. The rest of us were covered in dust and sweat and children. Ashley is a longtime friend of  Ashley Pereira who operates the Indian charity Janvi Trust. They grew up in the same building a few minutes away and their families attend the same nearby Catholic Church. He had also become quite close to the Ryans.

When Todd introduced Ashley and I we gave each other a smile with a future in it. Through writing, phone calls, visits and my eventual return to Mumbai after a few months’ adventures our relationship unfolded with clear commitment and love. The road has not been easy. We’ve faced several difficulties; stares, criticism, racism, bureaucracy, geography, money – from both our cultures. But with every closed door came an open window and helping hands. One example; Ashley was supposed to come visit Canada this summer to meet my family and announce our engagement. After paying hundreds of dollars and providing all the required paperwork his visitor visa was denied. The Canadian consulate officer was not convinced he’d leave after his intended two-week stay and he came from a country of poor income earners. I was indignant at such a prejudiced response but Ashley and his friends pulled into action, organizing a wedding for us in less than a month.

We were married July 26 in the Catholic and Goan tradition with nearly 200 friends and neighbours, including my mother Rita and Cindy Ryan who came all the way from Canada. It was the best day of my life and I’m still in shock at how it all came to be. I’ll have stories to tell for a lifetime in Victoria. Ashley and I both feel that the way we met, in the slum, at an event to help poor people, has shaped and influenced our relationship. In our own ways, we’ve adopted Dirty Wall’s mantra to “See a Need and Fill It” and hope to continue to do so the rest of our lives. We plan to have a Canadian wedding celebration in 2013.

From Ashley:

Little did I know what amazing surprises the future held for me when I resigned from my previous job in Qatar to head back home to Bombay. Through strange twists and turns my career path meandered over the past 10 years, which took me to the Gulf and then back again to Bombay. Being without a job for the first 6 months and then working on a part-time contract with a University in Qatar from Bombay was like a dream.

The past two years of my sojourn in working from home on my part-time job contract with a company in Qatar made me look inward. I thank God for allowing the rough curves, which helped me become a better driver on the road of life. I still remember the day when I dropped by the community center at Saki Naka to thank Ashley Pereira for his kind assistance in helping me with my Police clearance certificate. The moment I climbed to the roof of the Center’s office, I was startled to see a white guy in his 20s playing with a kid from the slums. I questioned myself  as to what was motivating Kane Ryan to go the extra mile to help, and almost be part of the daily lives of, people dwelling in the slums. I was amazed and captivated by the dedication of this Canadian gentleman who had dedicated his life to help the downtrodden in Indian society.

I still often reminisce the first football match I played with Kane before his parents could land in India for their long sojourn. The match was played at the St. Andrew’s College ground in Bandra in almost half a foot of muck. Thanks to Kane in the mid-field we were able to play a goal less draw with one of the best teams in the tournament.

Besides being a witness to the article which was published in the local Times of India Newspaper about Kane Ryan and his work with the Saki Naka slum community; Little did I know that with Kane’s parents in town soon would lead me to meeting my future wife Sarah Petrescu. Kane’s mom Cindy had already paired Sarah and myself in our first week of meeting each other. Todd, Kane’s dad had briefly introduced Sarah and myself at a local Diwali celebration at the Saki Naka slum community — which led to a rendezvous of adventures in Bangalore, Calcutta, Varanasi and culminated in Bombay.

With time I soon became a part of the Ryans’ household and have enjoyed every moment I’ve spent with them over lunch, dinner or coffee outings.  Kane and his family have been a backbone in supporting Sarah and myself through all phases of our relationship, right up to our marriage and even continuing to do so this very day. I am very grateful for all they have done for me, and now my wife Sarah, and hope to always be part of their lives.

On behalf of DWP and everyone in Saki Naka, we wish Sarah and Ashley an amazing life together.

Cheers,

Kane and Cindy Ryan

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Written and photographed by Cindy Ryan

Flying low over Mumbai, the plane rushes over squares of torn blue plastic, pulled and pinched, secured with bricks and steel pipes. Squint your eyes and slum homes from the air resemble a river of water, its tributaries  invading every space not occupied by high-rise towers. With my forehead pressed against the window of the plane, I try to sort out which blue plastic roofs belong to the Saki Naka community and I get excited about landing. Soon I will be in the thick of it and my heart sings at the thought.

I’m only here for a scant three weeks this time and already my guts are telling me to stay longer. There is always so much to do, so many people to see, and what will I find behind the curtained doorways of the slum community this time?

I leave the plane with an imaginary coat of thin armour to protect me from what I can’t do in such a short amount of time and step out into the humid air of Mumbai. Kane, one of the few white faces in the crowded arrivals area, steps out and welcomes me once again. Suddenly, I am mobbed by Indu, Shashi, Seema and Ruby, who have waited patiently to welcome me. Now I am giddy with excitement again. I have worked side by side in the GCB centre with these beautiful women for months, and I think of them as friends, albeit the conversation is limited to what Indu can translate for all of us.

This whirling, active, bleak and bare bones community, stuffed with too many people, is also the scene of a meeting that has ended in a wedding, another reason why I have returned to Saki Naka. Sarah Petrescu, a journalist from Victoria B.C., volunteered with DWP last October. She immediately attached herself to the women of the GCB and helped us create prototypes and products before leaving for a volunteer stint in Bangalore. Within days of Sarah’s arrival in Mumbai, she attended a Diwali celebration in the community. Also invited to this event was Ashley Fernandes, a friend from Mumbai who has  contributed to DWP. A brief introduction in the midst of the overcrowded garden in the middle of the slum community during the Festival of Light, has led to their wedding 10 months later.

On July 26th, 2012, Sarah and Ashley were married in the Catholic church just down the road from Kane’s apartment. Wanting the community to be part of the celebration of the relationship which blossomed in their midst, Sarah and Ashley invited the GCB women and their small children and Ranjana and her family. Ashley Pereira (Janvi Charitable Trust), a devoted member of the church where they married, did a reading, and beautiful fabric garlands, made for Sarah by the GCB women, draped the elegant doorway to the church. A full circle of events inspired by the generosity of a slum community, friends and family, in the middle of the monsoon season where cement walls resemble, thick, wet, green sponges.

Between wedding festivities, I have been running after children in the slum, jumping over puddles thick with mud and gooey remnants of garbage, finding shelter from the rain in the school or in slum homes where I am invited for chai and dal, and nodding in faint comprehension in conversations conducted in Hindi or Marathi.

While the monsoon rains bring relief, and sometimes a cool breeze, slum dwellers, hiding from the rains, stay inside, breathing the foul air of their cramped huts. Infections, coughs, runny noses, plus lethargy, bring a host of complications to already fragile health. Sweet, young, frail Maya, who is four months pregnant with her fourth child, was hospitalized with the worry of TB. Almost excited for her to be confined to bed rest in the relative comfort of a soft bed in the confines of a hospital, I was incredulous when she was desperate to go back to her tiny home, where the family of five sleep in an 8 foot by 6 foot cement room, on plastic billboard vinyl laid over a bare cement floor. Putting aside my assumptions of comfort, I must understand this is what Maya knows and this small, damp hut is where her family heaps its joys and sorrows.

Opening my eyes in the morning, the first shaft of light from dull, cottony skies brightens the room where I sleep and I take it in. The rain water has been sucked through the coarse mix of sand and clay bricks that form the outside of the building, creating water stains on the side wall of the room, damp to the touch. Mould forms at the corners and the flaking paint on the ceiling above the whirling, clicking fan, threatens to fall in thin slices onto the bed. The honking that never abates invades the room with a crying, tinny sound. Mumbai is not comfortable, inside or out, it is never clean, never quiet and never dull. What is comfortable here is the people I have met, the slum community I feel at home in and the notion that why I’m here is because it’s where I should be. It will be hard to leave, again. It will be divine to be back in the fresh air of Vancouver, Canada. That is the push and pull of Mumbai, up close and personal.

* A full post about Sarah and Ashley’s wedding with photos from the beautiful day coming soon…

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I climb up an unsteady pile of rocks just off the side of the road. Before me, hundreds of colours swirl, and voices fight to be heard. I change my lens and and bring my camera to my face snapping off a few quick bursts of photos, trying to capture the frenetic market scene in a still photograph. Unsatisfied, I look for a better vantage point and spot a small brick wall, fifty feet away and head for it. I attempt to hop up onto the wall, sweat from the humid desert air glues my new green shorts to my leg, (my girlfriend Salomeh  had just purchased these for me with strict instructions not to wear them to work) and as I stretch to make the jump, the pen in my pocket bursts through, cutting a hole in my shorts. I hear the noise and look down at a three-inch gap exposing my pasty white thighs, and see the pen from a hotel, through the newly formed hole, mocking me.  S**t…! I hear a giggle, and look behind the wall to see a young boy of about ten years old, sitting bare-assed and shitting, while pointing to the hole in my shorts and laughing…

A week ago I arrived in Jaipur (dubbed the Pink city), Rajasthan after a nearly two year absence. It was over three years ago that I arrived in Jaipur, having travelled overland from Mumbai, weary from the train journey but excited about my new adventure, The Dirty Wall Project. DWP was just three weeks old and I was wide-eyed, but excited at the prospect of helping. Previous to my initial trip to Jaipur, DWP had delivered food to hospital patients, given rations to a blind community, funded kidney dialysis for a patient in Mumbai, and handed out umbrellas for shade, to poor street vendors. I was fresh and naive, but wanted more . A friend of mine had told me about Vatsalya and I was eager to see their work first-hand. It was clear from the start that Vatsalya was one of the good guys in the NGO world and was truly helping. Over the next week or so, I visited their programs, donated some DWP funds, and helped set up a health clinic in a slum community in Jaipur. It was my first time being in a slum community and after two hours, I knew that’s where I wanted to work. I wanted to find a community where I could bring joy and a helping hand too. In the end, that community was 1200 km’s to the south in one of the biggest cities in the world, Mumbai.

Fast forward 3 years and DWP has become a recognized NGO in India, and has had the chance to help thousands of people. DWP has continued to stay in contact with Vatsalya (run by Jaimala  & Hitesh Gupta) and over the last few years has joined with Vatsalya to work on several projects, including health camps and selling Vatsalya’s womens’ products in Canada. Just recently, Vatsalya opened up a school just off campus from the orphanage located just outside of Jaipur, and I was eager to visit and see what other new initiatives Vatsalya had started since my last visit.

Vatsalya is always busy and this time was no different. I spent the first few days being Vatsalya’s photographer, taking event photos at several of their vocational training graduations around Jaipur. I continued to lend a hand and used DWP’s photography to capture their new school,  their programs and the new womens’ products, for use on their website and for fundraisers. During my time I also had several meetings with them, trying to get a handle on what DWP could do financially for their organization. DWP has been blessed with some very generous donations as of late and I wanted to help Vatsalya with some of their programs.

One of the main problems I have encountered during my time raising funds for DWP and watching other organizations battle for funds, is that certain stuff is easier to raise funds for and some things are damn near impossible. Everyone wants to have their money go towards the building of a school or the sponsorship of a child, but funding the repair work for a fence or a teacher’s salary is not quite as “sexy” to be a part of. It’s understandable, but also a difficulty for all NGO’s trying to keep their programs running with the high cost of maintenance and upkeep. DWP has raised money on the mandate “to see a need and fill it” and it requires a great amount of trust from our donors. Supporters donate funds to DWP not for a specific cause, but with the knowledge that I am on the ground, in the thick of a situation, witnessing things first-hand, and making decisions that we all hope will have the greatest benefit and reach.

After a week visiting and photographing Vatsalya’s work, I crunched some numbers and worked out what I believe to be a generous donation to Vatsalya from DWP.  Like all honest NGO’s, Vatsalya was interested in knowing what I hoped the money would be used for. I replied that the reason DWP was donating at all was because I trusted their work and integrity and that they know best as to where their funds are needed. They spoke to me about repairs around the school and orphanage and parts for their tractor to which I’m excited to be able to help with. There are a million things that go on to keep an amazing NGO like Vatsalya running and I am humbled that DWP’s supporters and friends have put me in a position to fund the small things that will keep Vatsalya looking good and creating possibilities for children across Rajasthan.

*DWP donated 80,000 INR – $1600 CAD to help Vatslaya make repairs to their school and orphanage grounds.

*DWP also sold 20,000 INR – $400 CAD worth of Anoothi products in Canada on behalf of Vatsalya.

To read about some of the projects DWP has worked on with Vatsalya check out the links below:

1. http://dirtywallproject.com/blog/?p=274

2.http://dirtywallproject.com/blog/?p=390

3.http://dirtywallproject.com/blog/?p=222

To learn more about their work in Jaipur check out: 

http://www.vatsalya.org/

Cheers,

Kane Ryan

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