THE CHILDREN

Pratham, the organization I am supporting this summer, is active across five neighborhoods in Delhi. A cluster of about 250 households is demarcated as Basti (slum pocket) and treated as a unit of planning and intervention. Pratham’s programs are mainstreamed into 260 Bastis. One Basti is home to about 420 children. A database of all children 3-14 years old is maintained for each of these slum pockets, recording the schooling status and learning level of all children.

The majority of Delhi’s child population (87%) is attending school. That is great progress. Out of that portion most students (73%) are enrolled in municipal schools. The current CEO of Pratham, while she was the Education Officer in the Indian government, successfully implemented school lunch as a mandatory policy in public schools. The government is also responsible for providing the students with uniforms and school supplies. Pratham is active in public schools to improve learning levels in math and reading (after surveys showed that many students in fifth grade couldn’t read). Test scores taken in the schools where Pratham is supporting students show that in the last three years, covering the same child population:
- the reading proficiency level has increased from 48.7% to 73%
- the math proficiency levels has increased from 38% to 69%

North Shahdara (slum pocket)

I look at the seat for two. “We can all fit!” the women say and laugh at my expressive doubt. The four of us, Samyukta (I call her Sammie), Arshi and a program manager whose name I can’t remember, squeeze in behind the auto-rickshaw driver. With my dark hair tied in a braid I’m doing what I can to avoid locks of curls from sticking to my moist face on this unbearable humid, hot morning. Makeup? Forget about it! I wipe my nose and forehead with a napkin (only after I’ve cleaned my fingers with antibacterial gel). My nails are cut down—long nails are effective venues for bacterial parties. Comfortable in Arshi’s lap, I stick my head out to savor the breeze as we drive to my first slum visit in Delhi.

We change mode of transportation to be able to continue down narrow alleys. I get up on the cycle-rickshaw. The driver’s long, thin milk chocolate legs start to peddle and off we go in a pedestrian’s tempo. I feel every bump on the road against my (poor) behind. The wheels successfully ride over piles of garbage and uneven roads of mud. When we get off I feel bruised and battered. The women discuss something and laugh. One of them translates, “We call this a five-star slum.”

The girls sit on the floor in blue uniforms. When we enter all of them get up. “Good morning madaaaaaam,” they say in unison. School books hang in a line on a rope in the back, like wet laundry. The library program offers many unique titles for children to improve their reading level. Here, most households don’t own a single book. Walnut eyes look at me; dimples grow bigger, white teeth show. Arms are raised. The teacher points to one of the girls. She walks up to me and the interpreter reveals the question. How did you find us and what do you think of us now that you are here? I tell the class that I am happy to be here and to see with my own eyes that they are learning and doing well. I sit down on the carpet and they hurry to sit close to me. We take pictures. As we leave the class, the girl’s question lingers within. What do you think of us? I read pride in their eyes. Someone comes to visit us! We mean something to the world!

Zakhira (slum pocket)

Pallavi, a supervisor, has a hard time getting an auto-rickshaw driver to agree to take us to our destination. About 17 drivers later, we have a deal. Pallavi and I talk marriage (what else?) on our way to my second visit. “My parents found my husband through a dating website. We don’t believe in love marriages. He must come from a good family. I live with my husband and his parents. That is not a choice. We get along sometimes.”

We get off on a garbage dump. I am immediately surrounded by flies. I feel chills down my spine as I observe the mountain of garbage where a group of children run with kites. I want to cover my nose from the smell and my lips from the flies, but I don’t want to show disrespect to the curious faces around me. Some people have gathered around a truck further down the road. “The truck comes every day, or once a week, who knows…” Pallavi says and points to plastic bins. “Women fill the bins with water. The community depends on the water trucks. There is a limit per family or the water wouldn’t be enough for everyone.”

We start hiking up the hill on mud roads. I can feel everyone staring at me from their homes where windows or doors should have been. Women rest their entire weight hunched down on their two feet while sorting grains on flat stones. Goats with pink and brown spots are tied to short ropes next to men in Muslim attires with sore eyes and wrinkled foreheads deep enough to hide childhood dreams. Bricks and stones are placed on tin roofs in efforts to create stability on windy nights. Naked children stumble on chubby legs in the direction of their mothers’ voices.

Pallavi nods and I look that way. In a tiny opening I see a group of preschoolers clapping along with their rhyming teacher. One step at a time, I manage to climb down the narrow path to the class. Their outdoor classroom, the teacher’s front porch, is just big enough to fit about 15 children. The children are learning to identify family members on picture cards. The children come every day for three hours. They get food, supplied by Pratham. Surveys show that preschoolers are more likely to 1) enroll in elementary school and 2) be well adjusted learners once they go to school. When I look up I have an audience on top of the hill of local men, women and children. We wave to each other. Again, I see that something in their eyes that I can’t dress in words yet.

South Shahdara (slum pocket)

I go with Nupur and Mamta in a cycle-rickshaw. Today is a festival in celebration of newly weds. Mamta married recently and today she is dressed in a brand new lime green gown with henna fresh on her fingers. She has brought sweets, pieces of soft cake ornamented with pistaggio, which I swallow with a sigh of delight. That pleases her. “I had an arranged marriage,” Mamta says as we chit chat on our way to the school. “I was only worried about one thing. Would he let me finish my Masters degree in Hindi? Would he let me continue to work? Now that I’ve been promoted I don’t want to stay at home. He said I can do all these things. That made me very happy.” Her smile is contagious.

We interrupt an English class. “Good morning madaaaaaaam,” the girls stand up during the formal greeting. I am invited to sit down in the back row. There are about 20 students in the class. Girls turn around and spoil me with generous smiles. Humbled by their enthusiasm, I realize that I am also smiling. How did my smile get here on its own? Genuine laughter has been missing for a long time in my life. Long hours at work, one pay check at a time, deadlines and stress... I have a storage of polite smiles and diplomatic laughter that can be delivered on time whenever social etiquette requires it. Who knew that my smile, my genuine smile, was waiting for me all this time inside a girls’ classroom in a Delhi slum? I wish I could thank them. As we leave, some students run after me. Every time I turn around they stop, smile, and instinctively I can feel their hunger for recognition. See me! See me! I am here! If you see me, that means I am somebody! I am careful not to ignore eye contact with any of them before we exit the gates and leave them behind.

We are invited into someone’s living room. I am here to interview some children about Pratham’s library program. I take my shoes off and feel the mud underneath my naked feet. There is a bed against pink walls and a picture of the Taj Mahal. Someone hands me a glass of water that I wish I could drink, but I won’t take the risk for my tummy’s sake. Some women hang around in the room next door; our eyes meet with shared curiosity, their faces are framed with colorful saris.

The children come and sit in front of me. Three boys and one girl, all of them are well spoken and polite. The best thing about the library, they tell me through the interpreter, is that for once we don't all have to share one book. As the interview ends, I put my notebook back in the bag when one of the boys (he likes science and singing) takes a deep breath. His eyes fill up with tears. He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. Although I can’t understand what he is saying, I don’t look away. Ever since his mother died, the interpreter tells me, he is all his grandmother has got. He is doing everything he can, he says, to become somebody.

The children wave to me as the auto-rickshaw drives away. They have the same look as all the other children. Now I know what that look is. Barack Obama said, “it hints at what might be possible and therefore spurs you on.” If by my presence alone (a symbol of international interest for their progress) I can trigger increased motivation in these children, whose lives are contained between brick walls on slim alleys infested by flies and smelling garbage, to keep on going, I would come back again and again.