Our Future.

Our future. Walking through the streets of India, it’s something I consider often. The future: mine and theirs. In three months I’ll be sitting on a plane headed towards the USA; towards further education, anxious friends, and a college campus and community that’s provided me with more blessings than I can ever account for. This first trip to India will be a life changing memory. There will be beautiful moments bathed in recollection, a mixture of nostalgia and a longing to return: fleeting sensations of the mouth-watering smells of coals roasting corn and masala, the soft tinkling cow bells floating on sun-kissed breezes, the pull of five-year-old hands that tug on fingers trying to keep up with the street-kids’ desire for chocolate. There will be others, of starving dogs that await death in gutters, of children sitting, naked and unnoticed, behind their brick-carrying mothers, of beggars, crippled and tattered, searching for change. These memories will bring back my tears. But they will be just that: memories.

For the ones who must remain, this is reality; an inescapable daily tragedy. What does the future hold for the children pulling at my leg in search of a spare rupee or plate of food? What will become of the sweeper, shoveling soggy chapatis in a well-worn sari and dusty pink jacket, whose sad eyes haunt me as I walk to class each morning? Where will the HIV+ patients I interview turn for help when first-line treatments eventually fail? What hope is there for the sex-workers whose children I’ve held when age or disease force their retirement? And their children? And their children’s children?

This morning, lost and confused among the crowds of Pune’s largest bus stop, I was unsure. Unsure of what to say to the young girl asking for the change I didn’t have. Unsure, watching youngsters leaf through trash as they choked on the smell of vegetables rotting in shit and urine, of what my part is in all this madness. Unsure about the safety of the families squatting under the faded blue tarps that mark the boundaries of a slum arising from dumping grounds a few feet away from where I stood. Unsure of how to find Sunita in the crowds of people who stopped to stare at the confusing juxtaposition of braided blonde hair, fair skin, and Indian attire. Unsure about my decision to trust the young man whose smile disarmed me when, after a jumbled mix of Marathi crossed my phone line, took my hand and began to lead me through the thickening crowds. Unsure, after he’d introduced himself as Ganesh and delivered me safely to Sunita, of how to apologize for the initial pang of fear he didn’t know I’d felt. Unsure of how to thank him, thank the world for the blessings I have, the opportunities I keep being given. Unsure...

An hour later, jarred by the dusty bus ride that brought me further and further into poverty that cripples the village I visited, I felt a question I’d nearly forgotten begin to overwhelm me. What am I doing? I am one person. How arrogant must I be to believe I have any power to help overcome this mess? What makes me think I can become part of a solution, change the lives of people whose problems I can never fully appreciate? I was so lost in the misery surrounding me that I almost didn’t notice a lady holding fast to the side of our rickshaw. “Please,” she smiled in recognition at Sunita, “please help.” I didn’t need to understand the conversation to understand her plea. “Take my friend,” she asked, gesturing to a woman whose eyes were overshadowed by the white film of blindness. “Take her home, it’s too far to walk.” Sunita got the directions as I slid over to make room. We were off again. A little more hope, a little more stamina. And then my life was changed.



Neehar is a rehabilitation home for the children of sex-workers. Many of you may remember it from my Donations for Education campaign (thank you once again to all of you who sent donations of supplies, money, and good will!). The second I stooped to walk through the low-hanging gate separating the centre from the rest of the village I was tackled by a dozen fascinated youngsters. Their joy was infectious. They climbed on my shoulders, pulled me from room to room, laughed at my Marathi attempts (that later turned into an hour long English/Marathi exchange), and posed for an endless stream of pictures following my two minute demonstration on how to use the camera I turned over to them for the day. The older kids sat captivated when I helped them practice their English and, with the assistance of their teacher, told them stories of Minnesota winters and South Carolina summers. Descriptions of snow were a definite hit. I’ve never seen eyes so big! Next time I’m taking pictures to pass around.


All of these children have been voluntarily turned over to Neehar. Though they want to keep their kids, the mothers know that they cannot provide them with food, clothing, clean air to breathe, room to play, a mat to sleep on, and an education that will ensure them a better future. So they visit monthly and watch as a truly remarkable story is written. Each girl and boy have obstacles to overcome. They have plenty of excuses to cry for pity and throw up their hands in defeat. But they don’t. Instead they laugh and play, throw themselves wholeheartedly into their studies, and care for each other like one giant family. “All are sisters and brothers didi (older sister)!” Lakshmi announced, wrapping me in a bear hug that was quickly joined by everyone near enough to see. And there I was, awestruck in the middle of a beautiful embrace.

Later, with two little boys in my lap, another two running their hands through my strange colored hair and three of the older girls fighting to capture yapping puppies on film in the twilight, it was hard to contain my tears of joy, hope. They are our future. These delightful children are overcoming their meager beginnings, tearing down the stigma they’ve been unfairly assigned, and taking the whole world with them. In a few years they’ll graduate from university. A few more will see them settle into decent jobs, fully integrated into the society that tried to disown them. And a few years after that they’ll have their own families, be able to take in their mothers and free them from the chains of prostitution. Twenty-five years after its birth, multiple success stories testify to the strength of Neehar’s model. The cycle is being broken, the world is being changed.



Fourteen feet pound the ground, fourteen hands rap on the windows of the car. “Come again soon didi! Come again soon!” It all starts here.

Sending love from Pune.