Dirty Wall Project

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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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My shoulder rubs against the pale green wall of the school, and crumbling bits of paint fall to the ground behind me. I squeeze past a row of teen age kids, who are eager to get a look at the foreigner amongst them, and I smile, prompting laughter and giggles. I pass classroom after classroom, filled with row upon row of children, sitting at old wooden desks, surrounded by damp walls covered in flaking paint. The boys jet black hair is oiled tight to their head, the girls hair is braided and looped and tied with floppy, pressed, ribbons. Maybe, in these classrooms, sits a handful of India’s next generation of doctors and engineers.

I reach the main gate, which is a rusted metal door. Twenty women stand on the other side, clutching the bars. The scene resembles a women’s prison, and I hesitantly reach for the gate and slowly swing it open. A swirl of colourful sari’s part, and I move through the group of waiting mothers, and then I feel a hand on my arm. I turn around to see a Muslim woman in a full black burka. She releases the piece of fabric covering her face and smiles quietly. I recognize her as Javed’s mother. (Javed is one of her four children, and just last year had open heart surgery which nearly ruined the family financially).  I reach to shake her hand, which she offers to me, shyly. I tell her in broken Hindi that I have paid for her son’s yearly school fees, and she smiles and thanks me. Then I begin to tell her, that as a surprise, I have also paid her youngest daughter, Yasmine’s, school fees. She looks confused for a moment, and then her eyes well up with tears and she offers her hand again.  I clasp her hand in both of mine, and tell her, “You are most welcome”. I am humbled to be of help, and as I turn to walk away, she thanks me once more, and dabs at her eye with a piece of fabric.

June is the start of the new school year in Mumbai, and a very busy time for families, and all NGO’s working in the education sector across the city. DWP currently has nearly 60 sponsor children, from grade one to college, in about 15 different schools, throughout the area. Each June, parents looking for help, crowd the doors of Janvi’s centre, bombarding Ashley with stories of hardship and financial woes in a bid to get their child sponsored.  Discover Urjaa, (run by Vanessa and Vignesh Manjeshwar) runs an amazing sponsorship program through Janvi’s centre, with Ashley at the helm, sponsoring over 200 children.  In slum communities, almost everyone requires some help, but determining who needs the most help, is the difficult , strenuous and a frustrating part of the work. As Discover Urjaa reaches their threshold of children that they can sponsor for the school year, DWP steps in and takes on some of the cases that they could not.

Every day, for the past week, I have set out from the community, my notebook in hand and back pocket filled with worn Indian rupees, into the soaking wet streets of Saki Naka. Although I have visited these schools several times over the last few years, navigating the small network of alleys, jumping over huge puddles and dodging traffic is forever difficult and time consuming. When heavy rains fall suddenly, and without warning, I find myself huddled in shop doorways with groups of strangers, all quietly and happily waiting for whom ever is in charge, to turn off the tap, so we can all resume our lives and get back to the hustle of the maximum city.

I arrive to each school, find the fee counter, and lineup behind mothers and fathers, also waiting to pay. I encounter stares and intense curiosity where ever I go; a white spec in a brown landscape.

I practice my Hindi in my head as I wait in line, and finally it’s my turn. The rehearsed line is ready, sitting on my tongue. My mouth opens, and the practiced Hindi words that sounded so good in my head, come out garbled and backwards. I smile embarrassingly, and feel awkward as the grumpy woman behind the counter looks up for the first time and sees my white face and smiles condescendingly. I repeat the child’s name over and over till she tells me to stop, and then she quickly flips the pages of my damp notebook, looking for the records, feeling the burning stares of impatient mothers behind me. Five more minutes pass, and finally I reach for the rupees in my pocket and count out the full years fees. I’m handed my receipt, and I feel a sense of accomplishment and excitement. I turn around and realize, no one cares, or is particularly happy, that the guy with the “golden” hair and the speech impediment, has managed to do something right. I smile awkwardly for the hundredth time that day, and head for the exit. I immediately get lost again in the labyrinth of water-clogged alleyways, until a small girl takes pity on me, and walks me to the main road. I turn to thank her but she is gone, quickly disappearing into a row of tin shacks. A large truck thunders past, smashing a three-inch deep puddle, covering me in brown water and mud. I pull at my shirt, and wipe my face,  but it doesn’t matter. The sky opens up, and soon I’m soaked again, searching for cover and the next school….

In the past week, DWP has paid the full year fees for 18 children at 6 different schools across the Saki Naka area. I am working hard at reviewing last years sponsor children, and paying their fees, and I have also added three new cases this week. I’m a sucker for a heartbreaking story, and I find myself nodding and committing to new cases before I’m ready, adding to my workload, and the overall cost.

While DWP has been busy attending to the educational needs of individual cases, I have also purchased 250 school books (nursery rhyme, picture, and notebooks) for Janvi’s kindergarten class in Saki Naka. Each child has been given 3 books, and pencils, to help reduce the cost for their parents, and to encourage more parents to enrol their children in kindergarten to give them the chance at an education.

* I would also like to thank DWP’s friend, Jaita Guha, from Mumbai, who, last year, arranged for 11 students to be sponsored via friends and colleagues. This year she has doubled her efforts, adding another 13 cases. She’s personally responsible for filling an entire classroom!

Cheers,

Kane Ryan

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Pushpa enjoying the GCB picnic!

-Another instalment in the interview series with the women of GCB, written by Cindy Ryan.

“If you are rich people pay attention to you, but if you are poor no one asks you about anything.”

Pushpa’s hands were busy stuffing small balls of newspaper into the plastic carcass of a heart. Sitting in the women’s centre in the heavy heat of early afternoon she was huddled with the other women who were chatting and busy with the task of making heart shapes out of plastic bags. Regardless of the heat the women sat so close to each other they often touched; their sari’s pooled together on the cool tile floor. Guddiya stared open-mouthed at nothing, and her hands moved slowly, mindlessly tearing strips of newspaper and crunching each strip into a ball.  Pushpa’s two children wandered into the room and yanked at their mother’s attention. Her son pulled at her sari while her daughter dangled her arms around her mother’s neck. Tended to warmly by their mother, the children finally dawdled out of the room happy to play outside in the lane way.

I wanted to interview Pushpa as was my plan with the other women. I took my small notebook out of my bag, searched through the boxes of sewing supplies for a pen, and finally settled, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the tangle of women amidst the litter of cut plastic, torn newspaper, skeins of embroidery thread and sequins that stuck to my pant legs. More children filed in to the room, twirling, expectant, curious always, eager to stay in this wonderland of women. Kane joined us and the kids used his body as a prop to swing on, sit on, lay on and sleep on. Pushpa shyly agreed to talk about her life but was suspicious about why I would want to know her story.  Threading a needle, she stared straight ahead and said,  “if you are rich people pay attention to you, but if you are poor no one asks you about anything.” A lump of emotion welling up in my throat I replied, “I am curious about your life, how you arrived in Mumbai, when you came here, what you think about and what you want for your children.” With some gentle prodding from Indu, Pushpa stretched her perfectly shaped lips into a shy grin and began to talk.

What I was beginning to find out about most of the women living in the community was also true about Pushpa. She has no formal education and she has endured the death of more than one child.

Pushpa and her husband are from the Gwal caste (traditionally milk and curd sellers). They started their married life in a large village in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh when Pushpa was 13 years old. On the day of her marriage, devastated to leave her parent’s home, she moved to the home of her 15 year old husband’s parents, living in a separate room for  two years. While she gave birth to her first child at age 16 her husband struggled to find employment in the village. He left his young family in the care of relatives and travelled to Mumbai by train; an arduous, tedious third class journey that takes almost 24 hours. Mumbai beckons impoverished yet optimistic villagers from all parts of India with no assurances of a better life, but with more options for making dismal money and the dim hope of better education for their children and better living standards which might include running water, electricity, and hope. The reality of Mumbai for Pushpa’s husband was a deal with an unscrupulous relative who provided him with a job but refused to pay him. In lieu of wages he was given food, clothing and crude shelter. For three years he toiled under these conditions and visited his growing family when he could. Pushpa remained in Uttar Pradesh caring for their two young daughters, enduring the death of a 10 month old son and the stillbirth of another child.

After a fight with the relative who enslaved him, Pushpa’s husband managed to find a job driving a truck that paid him 4000 rupees ($80 CAD) a month and he was able to rent a small room for himself. It took him 4 years to save enough money to bring Pushpa and his two daughters from Uttar Pradesh to Mumbai. In Mumbai, Pushpa gave birth to two more children and the two oldest children returned to Uttar Pradesh to live with their grandparents. The family has called the Saki Naka slum community home for four years, with Pushpa living one year with her husband and their two youngest children in Mumbai, and the next year she and her two youngest children gather some belongings, and board a third class train, returning to her two oldest daughters in Uttar Pradesh while her husband remains in Mumbai to work. Although Pushpa travels every second year to Uttar Pradesh, she otherwise rarely leaves the Saki Naka community. The family has no extra money for rickshaws and Pushpa is reluctant to venture out of the community. Instead, covering her mouth with a swath of her sari to avoid the choking, black fumes from large trucks that rumble over the bridge that dissects the slum below, she waits for her husband to deliver supplies to his family while driving his work truck, clutching her two young children to keep them from wandering into the jumble of erratic traffic.

Pushpa starts her day by preparing chapati and a pot of  spicy dal, while her children, asleep on the floor, wake slowly. The children’s donated school uniforms are plucked from nails on the walls, their faces are scrubbed under a community tap and teeth are rubbed with a stick. Skipping down the lane way in front of their mother, the kids are excited to be dropped off at the Balwadi for their morning of kindergarten classes. Pushpa then quietly makes an entrance to the women’s centre, looking regal in her sari, her black hair glistening with coconut oil which keeps any stray hairs from escaping the neat braid that drops down the middle of her back. Her gold coloured earrings and her nose pin are a beautiful complement to her coffee coloured skin. She is always serene and much quieter than the other women. When asked if she liked her job at the centre, she replied, “Yes, I can send money back to Uttar Pradesh for the care of my oldest daughters”. She is proud that her two daughters, aged 15 and 16, are taking science classes because she hopes that will enable them to have a job with some prestige, where they will work in an office while waiting for marriage,instead of living in a hut in the shadows of the glass and steel towers. The future she imagines for her daughters comes with a thick coating of tradition as Pushpa is planning to return to Uttar Pradesh in a few months to begin the hopeful search for suitable husbands for her daughters.  Managing three dowries for her three daughters will further drive her family into precarious financial strain. Each daughter will ‘cost’ Pushpa and her husband up to 3 lakh ($1800 CAD) in dowry payments to future in-laws. In turn, she will demand a generous dowry from her son’s future in-laws, continuing the tradition which financially hobbles poor families..  When asked what she thinks about the caste system (which keeps her life in a perpetual dead-end), she surprised us by saying she doesn’t agree with the caste system, but she will strive to choose husbands from higher castes for her daughters.

The rent on their room in Saki Naka costs the family 1500 rupees a month, with bills for water and electricity added to the monthly cost. Her father-in-law is ill and requires treatment costing 50,000 – 60,000 rupees ($1000 CAD) pushing the family into using a money lender who will tack on interest charges at 10% per month. The additional cost of three dowries will contain Pushpa’s family in an insufferable, dangerous relationship with an unsympathetic, unscrupulous money lender, who will use physical force when necessary to collect his loans.

Pushpa’s life seems grim with the realities of poverty based on the caste system, a system that ignores the grueling, punishing life that is lived in slum communities. However, she maintains that she is happy even though she would like for her children to live a better life. I suspect, she has no imagination about what life would be like if she weren’t poor. Her knowledge of the outside world is so limited that she doesn’t understand why I am light skinned and she is dark skinned.  She understands that Canada is a country (whatever that means to her) and I have to fly in an airplane that she sees overhead to get to Mumbai. Watching her two youngest children wander in and out of the women’s centre, I hope their world is full of possibilities; that the ‘new India’ that is both burgeoning and groaning under the weight of government corruption, might reserve a place for them in the glass towers that pass shadows over the slum community.

For now, Pushpa is content sitting among the women in the centre, creating beautiful products, making a wage, and tending to the possibilities that she hopes lay ahead for her children. Although shy, she is calm, determined and confident in her ability to create something beautiful out of nothing, whether it is a plastic heart ornament or a future for her children.

- A week ago we helped Pushpa, her husband and two children into a rickshaw with all their worldly possessions. They have decided to move back to their village in the north of India and it’s very sad to see them go. On behalf of the ladies of GCB we wish Pushpa luck on her journey north. She is a part of DWP/GCB and is welcome back anytime. DWP donated 1000 INR – $20.83 CAD to help them on their journey.

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