What They Say in Books is True.

Pyschiatrists are, in general, extremely attractive. Dr Sabyasachi Mitra waxed eloquent on common mental diseases among the affluent, psychosomatic and somatoform problems, affortdability of mental healthcare, and the impact mental illness has on the family, and I held on to every word. I knew from experience a lot of things he told me, but I learned plenty of others. I found particulrly interesting a few of the stressors he mentioned, like stigma, favoritism, secondary gain mentalities, and criminal motivation. I have a feeling this is going to be a good story.

My next project.

Is on mental health, wellbeing and the insititution of the family. Since I have been victimized by, let's say, the adverse effects of mental illness, I think I have some small qualification to make a start on this. I will interview psychiatrists, caregivers at mental institutions, patients themselves, their families, and... the people you call madmen on the streets. I know the last bit is going to be a bit tricky, but I'll go ahead with it. I have to know what happened so they got estranged from families for all time to come.
Also, I have seen multiple cases of mentally diseased people who don't seem to recover inspite of getting unconditional support from their families. I need to know where this unconditionality comes into the picture, and analyze the psychology of parents, siblings or relatives who mete it out. Imperfections can't be ignored if the qualified people have to make accurate judgments.
Which gives me the idea that psychiatry is somewhat a judgmental science. Can you really free yourself from bias and passion entirely when you are seeing a victim? Or, in the first place, should you? I intend to find out.

The Story.

I'll post the story proper when it's published, which should be in a week from now. At this moment I'm scouting for pictures. I plan to go back and meet the kids I'd interviewed and snap photos of them. Every name needs a face.
The plight of street children of Calcutta is a cause I feel very strongly about, and I have plans to start a fundraising drive to set up a soup kitchen so some of them, at least, can have three square meals a day. With ideas and the promise to be a part of this project, do leave a comment, and I'll get back to you.

Curiosity Killing the Cat? Says Who?

Well, only a certain kind of curiosity can do that. I think I've successfully given that up years ago, but what remains of it came in very useful today.
I didn't go to office, but took enough time at each of the two places I visited- Carmel Convent, and Sishu Bhavan, of the Missionaries of Charity. Sister Nilima of CC was delighted to see an old student, but she wasn't very clear about what funds they already have and what use it is put to. She mentioned a few NGOs that help them out, but when I asked her to name them, she was at a loss. She maintained that they do not accept donations. Where then, does the money to sponsor underpriviledged girls' educations come from? "School fees." And do they offer higher education to the girls who are willing to study further. No, not beyond class four. They are given a mid day meal, but it's strictly vegetarian. After they've finished class four, the girls "go away." Where? She doesn't know. "Home?" she guesses mildly.
Also, regular students are required to bring two potatoes and two onions every week, plus a cupfull of rice. There is a Social Service Week in Septemeber, and they have to give away old clothes, stationery, medicines and packaged food. Cash is also welcome. But didn't she say donations aren't accepted? "No, this is not donation." Come winter and every girl has to provide a blanket. The regular student strength of the schhol is 1000, and only 70 destitute children are cared for. What happens to the 930 blankets? She doesn't have an answer.
Sister Nilima is only faintly aware that slum and street girls are often the victims of physical and sexual abuse. No girl who has been victimized thus is given couselling. "They are too young na?"
Missionaries of Charity is at least a more bustling place. Sister Paulita seemed quite annoyed as I began to ask questions about what food the children are given, and how many of them share a dormitory. I went into one to see for myself, and although spotlessly clean, there was a heavy odor of milk everywhere, and the children were too shy to really interact with. There caregivers were very chatty, and their statements corroborated most of what Sister Paulita had said. Here too, however, higher education remains hard to come by. I met Kajoree, 11, who said she wants to be a doctor, but still hasn't seen a textbook on science for beginners. She knows the English and Bengali alphabets, can count upto 100, and recite a few poems. That's it.
I met Adrian and Jenny, from the US, very nice people, who'd brought three suitcases full of toys and clothes for the children. They sounded interested in my fundraising idea, and I'm going to email them and Oliver right away. I really hope I can do something worthwhile for the numerous suffering children out there.

All Gone Wrong.

I dd go down to MC today, and paid a hundred bucks as cab fare, but they wouldn't let me in. Prayer day, Thursday. What do you say to that? Surely the children don't spend all day praying too? Could I talk to them? No. Prayer day.
And none of that on the very fancy website.
But I have fantastic leads on a new story. So I'm not complaining.

A Surprise Visit.

Plans to go to the Missionaries of Charity tomorrow morning. Before the free lunch time, since I'm told things get pretty hectic around then. I'll try and find the sources of their funds, those literally stretch to millions, and see whether they are being properly chanelized. I've always had this skepticism about the Mother, and I get a helluva kick whenever a favorite hunch turns out right, so tomorrow should be interesting. All I hope is that I can accost a few kids and get a fair idea of what they actually receive from the institution.
Also on the cards is a trip to my alma mater. I've always felt that their barnd of charity was extremely incomplete. For instance, they have afternoon classes for underpriviledged women and children, but they don't help out with textbooks, notebooks, or stationery. And really, do one hour classes really help? Arithmetic one day, English another, no history, geography or science, but three value education classes every week. Unscientific, at least, if not merely stupid.
I also need to talk to Sister M. Cyril of Loreto, Sealdah. She is one of the few who Mike tells me has really done good work for girls from the lower strata of society. She should be able to help me find more leads in the direction of the children's contradictory statements. More on that in another post.

Lakshmi.

I met Lakshmi at Park Circus. She said she was fourteen and wouldn't tell me where her parents are. I had a feeling she was trying to evade my questions about her mother, particularly. Could she be a sex worker? I don't have evidence, but my hunch tells me she is.
Lakshmi has never seen the inside of a school. She can't read or write. She wants to work. Minutes into our conversation, she asked me to help her find work. She can't sew, she can't cook. What does she want to do? "I could work at a brothel," she whispers hopefully.
Is this the state of children in our city? Is this what the world has taught them to expect of themselves and of life? Saying yes would be a broad generalization. Lakshmi is the first street child I've talked to who isn't eager to learn.

The Calcutta Social Project.

I talked to Arjun Datta and Tapas Das from the CSP yesterday, and found a lot of information on what kind of work is being done for kids. In addition to offering street and slum children healthcare and education, as much of it as they could want, CSP has a day care center and an extensive vocational training program. What was novel about their work is that they have evening tutorials for children in English, Math and Science. By the way, they are looking for English teachers to volunteer. If anyone is interested, let me know and I'll put you in touch with Arjun-da.
I didn't find answers to quite a few pressing problems though. The CSP doesn't have a concrete idea as to exactly how many children live on and off the streets of this city. They also do not work particularly with children who have faced violence, abuse, or been criminals.
Tomorrow, I interview the UNICEF Kolkata soppokesperson for more facts, and by the end of this week, I should have interviewed more children about their lives. THey are easy to talk to, friendly without fail, and often intelligent. The one thing that has gotten in the way is the language barrier.

New Finds.

The morning was sultry, humidity levels soaring and I left home at eleven for more interviewing. At Taratala, I met Pooja, a sixteen year old girl, and her three sisters. Pooja has a jhopdi to call home, and her mother begs for food and coins to keep body and soul together. But Pooja has more to tell; her personal life has been unhappy, although her mother has not beaten her up in the last few years.
At fourteen, Pooja fell in love with and married Mansur, a twenty one year old daily laborer. They eloped, and within months, she missed her cycle. Her husband didn't take her to the doctor. Three months later, Pooja hemorrhaged,and was driven out of her in-laws' shack in that condition. Mansur was serving six weeks for a drunken brawl.
I nosed around a bit for more information, and Pooja revealed that her mother occasionally resorts to sex work when earnings from begging are low. It was unclear whether she herself has ever been pimped.

The Street Life.

Mohammad Sahil is ten years old. He goes to school at Free School Street. He eats puri-chai for breakfast, skips lunch, and has a plate of plain rice for dinner. He sells chewing gum at traffic signals in the evening, and goes to sleep at about twelve at night. His bed, though, is a polythene sheet spread on the pavement. He has a gunny bag cover, but no pillow.
There are kids like Sahil in Calcutta and its fringes, over 50,000 of them. They don't have enough to eat, no new clothes on Id or Durga Pujo, toys or books. Often, they are victims of physical, and sometimes of sexual abuse. Theft, scrounging for morsels of food and begging form their means of subsistance. Sometimes, this is substituted by long hours of labour at tea stalls or rice hotels where wage earners and taxi drivers eat, and they get to bring home about a thousand rupees at the end of each month.
My aim in writing the final story on street children in Calcutta proper is to bring out the conditions under which they live, what their hopes and dreams are, and what we as responsible and empathetic human beings could do about the problem. I'll interview street children and their guardians, spokespersons from organizations working in the area, and the socially more priviledged who can contribute positively towards solving the problem.
Any ideas on improving the story, or your experiences with street kids are welcome. Do leave a comment.

A Start.

I though before I began writing about issues I feel strongly about, I'd do a post on what this blog is, and what I'm going to do with it. I am a student of English at Jadavpur University, Calcutta, and I am going to be starting my MA in July. I write for The Statesman, a paper known for its brutal honesty, and I'm interested in doing feature stories on relevant social and political themes. I'm only just starting out, and I hope to learn as I go along, and get feedback from anyone who might read this and share their views.
I should mention a few people who've helped me come this far, which is not very far, but a small step in time. Audrey Janis Das, my English teacher from my school days, who initiated me into the literature life. Mike Flannery, the best editor on earth, every conversation with whom is a learning experience.
Special thanks to countless people from JUDE, who've taught me to find my calling and stay true to it.
My boyfriend, Tamoghna Roy, mathematics genius and electrical engineer who dreams to have a long list of patents to his name in a few years' time; my father, who showed me the way into Marxist theory, and my mother, for helping me keep my feet on the ground.