Children of a lesser God

RECENTLY, I attended a party organised by my young neighbours, who were celebrating their boy’s first birthday. Our houses open into the service lane behind the green belt, so the arrangements for the party were made across the road and partially inside the house. The invitation mentioned, “5 pm onwards”, but after an unexpectedly busy evening at my clinic, I reached only around 9 pm with my wife.

By then, much of the buzz had quietened. Most food stalls had already packed up, though a few dishes were still being served. We greeted the family and gave the customary shagun before settling down to eat. A waiter who had stayed back began serving us with an attentiveness which clearly meant that he expected a tip.

Just as we started having our meal, I noticed a group of underprivileged children slipping into the pandal. Their clothes were worn out, their expressions alert yet hopeful. They began putting leftover food on paper plates. No one stopped them — most guests had left, and the remaining food would anyway have been discarded. It was a small, almost invisible moment amid the fading lights of the party, but it triggered a powerful memory from more than three decades ago.

In 1992, my mother had attended a similar roadside function. On her way out, she saw poor children eating leftovers straight from used pattal (leaf plates). The scene shook her deeply. It troubled her so much that she made an extraordinary decision: she resigned from her secure job as a lecturer to devote herself to educating deprived kids.

This wasn’t a fleeting impulse; it became her life’s calling. She began visiting local ghettos, persuading parents to send their kids for basic education. The earliest classes were held in the front courtyard of our home. Many parents were suspicious, dismissing her efforts as politically motivated. Others protested that if their little ones studied, they would lose the little income they earned by selling fruits, vegetables or chowmein from roadside rehris.

But my mother was persistent. Over time, especially mothers, began trusting her, and slowly the courtyard resonated with kids reciting the alphabet and maths tables (pahade). It wasn’t easy for our family either. The loud recitation often irritated our neighbours. Some cooperated, acknowledging the noble cause, but others threatened to complain to the authorities.

As the number of students grew, the classes shifted to a larger premises. Today, her initiative continues to mentor young minds. Many former students now hold respectable jobs in the public and private sectors.

Standing at that pandal the other night, watching those children help themselves to leftover food, a familiar ache surfaced. India has progressed, yes; schemes and schools have multiplied. Yet, at the grassroots level, little moments like these remind us how much still remains unchanged.