​Mention law and most of us immediately visualise a court-centric complex system populated by lawyers and judges who tackle the incomprehensible rules and provisions populating thousands and thousands of intimidating pages.

Now think of a situation where you are helpless, bed-bound and your life (or its peaceful closing) hinges on someone pulling off a legal miracle. Just when you have given up all hope, an advocate reaches out to you and resolves the situation you are facing with a large dose of selfless compassion. What would you call her? A saviour? An angel? A miracle?

Well, she prefers to be called Sandhya.

Advocate J. Sandhya is a practising lawyer based in Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. She is also a social activist, and a former member of the Kerala State Commission for Protection of Child Rights. For the many she has helped and continues to help, she is the humane face of law.
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Many. Like Maya. And Asha.

​It was during the Covid years that a neighbour with the help of a social worker found Maya all alone at her rented home. She was smitten by some disease that had paralysed her. The home was flooded and infested. It was not easy to move her out.

When she was admitted to a palliative care facility, Maya was not in a condition to move, talk, or remember anything. After several days of care, including physiotherapy, Maya dodged what had appeared to be lurking round the corner: death.

When Advocate Sandhya stepped in, Maya had started to make efforts to talk.

The first thing that Sandhya did was go to Maya’s home and shift all her stuff out. The landlord had insisted on this. Which posed a major question. Where would Maya live now?

Based on the information Maya gave her, Sandhya contacted Maya’s uncle. He came and but did not wait for too long. He declared (in legalese) that he had nothing to do with Maya and he was not to be called again.

It was heartbreaking for all to see Maya’s plight, but Sandhya was not ready to give up.

Her conversations with Maya had revealed that Maya’s parent used to work in a prominent central government office.

Sandhya contacted the organisation and informed them about Maya. Yes, as the only surviving member of the immediate family, Maya was entitled to a pension, provided there was documentary evidence linking her to the late employee of the organisation.

Sandhya had to start from scratch. Painstakingly, she gathered enough evidence to establish Maya’s identity and her connection with the parent. It required a lot of paperwork and plenty of trips to the organisation’s office, all funded by Sandhya.

Then, taking pity on their ex-colleague’s daughter, a few compassionate people in the organisation started coming to Sandhya and Maya to help them with the formalities. Finally, the official announcement came: Maya was entitled to a monthly pension of ₹30,000.

On the health front, Maya was making very slow progress. But now she was very excited. The pension was giving her a second life. Perhaps she could afford the rent for another house and start all over again.

Sandhya said, “For most of us, palliative care signifies that the end of life is very near. Not necessary! Sometimes, we witness miracles. And, with hope and care, some patients like Maya bounce back.”
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Given Maya’s condition, no one had imagined that she could get a regular income. “My thinking was about getting Maya back on her feet,” Sandhya explained. “From whatever I could gather from Maya, I surmised this pension was a strong possibility. As a lawyer, all I had to do was make a good case for it in terms of documentation. Fortunately, it worked out.”

​Asha was ill, very ill. All she had as family was her son.

Instead of going to school, the son would just hug and sleep with her at the government hospital where she had been admitted. What if she died when he was away?

By the time Sandhya stepped in, the mother and son had been in the hospital for more than 40 days. Even if they discharged her, the doctors did not know where they could send her. The advocate managed to crowdsource some funds and get a private sponsor so that Asha could move to a rented house and the son could carry on with his education.

Asha and her son moved to a small home. While Asha continued to face challenges with her mobility, life appeared to be slowly getting on track for both of them. But they remained desperate for money.

One night, around 1 a.m. Sandhya got a frantic call from Asha. The latter had just received a call from the police cyber cell. They were coming to arrest her for being instrumental in moving one crore rupees of scam money through her bank accounts.

Some weeks previously, Asha had received a call from an unknown number offering her commission if she opened new bank accounts and shared the details with them. Given their dire need for income, this was too irresistible a proposal for Asha and her son. Caution stood no chance before desperation.

So, the son helped mother visit four different banks on her wheelchair. Of course, neither of them had any idea they were being played.

Advocate Sandhya contacted the cyber cell and shared all the information with them, complete with photographs and documents. She made it clear that Asha was not a villain but a helpless victim in poor health. When they insisted on arresting and moving her to the north of India where the scam had originated, Sandhya agreed. However, she warned them that she was unlikely to survive the journey.
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Today, Asha is about 45. The son is 18 and has completed his ITI course. Her physical and financial struggles have not ended. But Asha is immensely grateful that she has the backing of someone like Sandhya.

​Says Dr M R Rajagopal, Chairman Emeritus of Pallium India: “We are grateful to Sandhya for providing voluntary service whenever we seek her support on behalf of poor patients. There is always a sense of urgency when we reach out to her and she would gladly and efficiently help us, mostly by avoiding tedious litigation and by practical mediation.”

He cited two instances.

A young woman was dying of cancer. Her only daughter, eight years old, was clearly at risk of being harmed by her father from whom she and her mother had been separated for six years. Sandhya  approached the Child Welfare Committee of the district. In two days, she managed to obtain an order that granted custody of the girl to the grandmother in the event of the mother’s death. The mother died after five days, in peace.

A middle-aged woman, who had been abandoned by her family, was dying of cancer. Her only support was a home nurse, who was looking after her ever since she was diagnosed with the illness. There was every possibility that some member of the estranged family would return to claim the property after she passed away. So, she wanted to prepare a will, leaving her property to the home nurse. Sandhya helped her prepare and sign the document within the limited time that she had left in this world. She too could now leave in peace.

Disputes are all too common when life is setting. Not just about division of estate but also about how long one should be kept alive on life support. How long should one extend the suffering of not just the patient but also the members of the family? As a person hovers between life and death, the challenges integral to both get magnified. Often the situation is beyond medicine (and palliative care) and a little practical nudge from someone well versed with the law and its application brings immense relief to all.

Sandhya believes that law need not be impersonal and intimidating. “Institutions like Pallium India are doing a wonderful job taking care of health and life. Very often, law can make a significant contribution at the right time. Yes, the knowledge of law is important. More important is the willingness to help and to use one’s skill for the sake of humanity. Anyone can help in one way or another. I just happen to specialise in law and its practical aspects.”
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May Sandhya inspire more of us to help, one way or another. 

How would you like a lawyer by your side when you are critically ill? No, not to finetune the will. But to compassionately mediate as you, your family and the doctors struggle to take critical decisions about your very life.

Nancy Dubler, the lawyer-turned-bioethicist who “pioneered bedside methods for helping patients, their families and doctors deal with anguishing life-and-death decisions” would have loved to help you.
In its tribute to her after she passed away on April 14,  The New York Times described her as the “mediator for life’s final moments”. She was 82.

Dubler founded the Bioethics Consultation Service at the Montefiore Medical Center in Bronx, USA. The Harvard-educated lawyer did this to “level the playing field and amplify nonmedical voices in knotty medical situations.” The team included lawyers, bioethicists and philosophers who carried pagers to alert them about ethical emergencies.

In her 1992 book, Ethics on Call: A Medical Ethicist Shows How to Take Charge of Life-and-Death Choices, Dubler observed that modern medical technology “lets us take a body with a massive brain hemorrhage, hook it up to a machine, and keep it nominally ‘alive,’ functioning organs on a bed, without hope of recovery.” And the bioethicists help to untangle the “web of rights and responsibilities that ensnares all patients and caregivers.”

It was at the end of 2005 that’s Dubler warned about the exponentially increasing conflict in medicine. Nineteen years later, the confusion and the conflicts have only got worse. Economic factors like insurance now play a significant role.

As Dubler put it, “The dynamics of the doctor-patient and provider-patient relationships have been deformed by the increasing focus, in fact and in the media, on the cost-containment thrust of both managed care and acute care medicine. There are simply more parties to any decision and thus greater potential for misunderstanding, misinformation, disagreement, and dispute.”
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In A Hastings Center Special Report on Improving End of Life Care Dubler cites a case when the ICU team requested bioethics mediation because the family was not letting them discuss with the patient about his future care. The patient was alert and aware and had recently been removed from a ventilator. The decision they needed was about placing him back on ventilator in case the need arose.

The medical team told Dubler that the patient’s multiple cardiac problems had been “addressed to the maximum medically.” His two sons, loving, devoted and who stayed with the patient, vehemently opposed any such discussion as they felt it would upset their father.

The sons knew that their father was very sick but “the independent and proud person” needed hope to go on.
Dubler cited studies that established “when family members try to shield the patient from bad news, the patient usually knows the worst, and the silence is often translated into feelings of abandonment.”

Finally, they thrashed out a format and Dubler spoke to the patient.

After reintroducing herself to the patient who was “clearly very weak and tired,” Dubler asked if he would want his sons to make decisions for him if he was unable to do so. He was also okay with the order of decision-making, the older son first. Then came the important question of whether the patient would be willing to be intubated again if the doctors thought it necessary. The patient said, “I would think about it.”
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This mediation defused the conflict about sharing information with the patient. At least, the patient and everyone else had a resolution with which they could work. As Dubler observed, “The mediation prevented the bifurcation of family and staff. It was labor intensive, requiring two hours, but it provided clarity going forward.”

The bioethics mediator comes “fresh to the facts of the case, impartial to the situation of the case, uninvolved in the prior treatment decisions in the case, and unallied with any party in the particular disagreement.” The process helps the parties to identify their goals and priorities and to generate, explore, and exchange information and options. Of course, the agreement reached must have sufficient and realistic structural supports to become “the reality of care.”

As Dubler stated, bioethics mediation helps to:

• identify the parties to the conflict
• understand their stated and latent interests   
• level the playing field by minimizing disparities of power, knowledge, skill, and experience that separate medical professionals from the patient and family
• search for a time-sensitive common ground
• reach a principled consensus, legally and ethically.

Conflict in end-of-life decisions can be potentially destructive for surviving family members. Skilled bioethics mediators committed to managing, not banishing, disputes can help to tame some conflicts.

In her tribute to Dubler, Nancy Berlinger, a senior research scholar at The Hastings Center, says: “She always kept her eye on the reality of the experiences of being a patient, being a family caregiver, being the clinician in the room, and being responsible for the care of this patient and for discussions with this family. She would remind clinicians of their basic ethical duty—to be faithful to that person in the bed—and would remind bioethicists that when we were discussing ethical challenges, identifying principles, and crafting guidance, the same duty applied to us.”

Thank you, Nancy Dubler, for devoting your life to helping many lives depart in peace, without being shrouded in conflict.
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Reading about Dubler introduced me to the concept of bioethics mediation and raised some questions. Is this practiced in India? Is it part of palliative care? If it is not, should it be?
If feasible, should a compassionate lawyer be a part of the team responsible for the patient in the final stages?
I am hoping to be educated by my knowledgeable friends in palliative care. 

Last Sunday, the day the world celebrated mothers, was no different for this mother. Her two sons, 33 and 31, are growing without hunger, pain, joy or sorrow, thanks to her. But do they even know her?

Sometimes they do in the dining hall what they ought to do in the bathroom. Or do in the kitchen what they ought to do out in the yard. Radhamani would discover after cleaning up the mess that the younger was down after another epileptic fit. She would rush to find someone to mind the elder son and then rush to the hospital to fix the wound.

She has just one persistent sorrow. That they don’t know her, her love. Every moment, she pines to hear them calling out to amma. There are times when she is cleaning the vessels or sweeping the yard, that she would hear that call. She would look up eagerly, only to realize nobody had called her.

Writing erases pain

Writing offers her relief. When she writes, her sorrows get erased. She has already published three books in Malayalam.

She had a small government job. Father was a sweeper at a bank. Mother was a housewife. After finishing his work, in the afternoon, her father would go to pick jackfruit leaves which he would bundle up and take to the market to sell. Her most cherished moments were when she and her mother joined him to help pack up the leaves and carry those to the market.

Radhamani had to displease her parents when she decided to marry her childhood friend, Raj. Both families objected. But the couple stuck to their decision.

Radhamani and Raj had their first son nine years after marriage. They named him after the poet they both loved — Shelley. Two years later was born the second son — Sherry.

The boys were a little late to start talking. When Shelley was three and half, their regular doctor felt something was wrong and recommended admission to a larger hospital. Both children were diagnosed to be autistic. The parents were advised to pray.

“I realized the truth that they would need my help to go through life. Gradually I regained strength.” Radhamani had no option.

By this time, her father was dead. Radhamani’s family returned to live with her mother. When both of them left for work, Radhamani’s mother would look after the boys. “The boys would be at a special school until the afternoon. Then mother would feed them and take care of them.”

Waking up to cruel reality

Radhamani’s world collapsed when her mother passed away. That’s when she came to know firsthand how tough it was to bring up the boys.

When the boys were 8 and 6 respectively, a heart attack claimed Raj. That shock haunted Radhamani for a long time. Now, it has been 25 years since he moved on.

She learnt that the boys had no clue about death when the family went through Raj’s cremation rituals. They were in no position to do whatever they were expected to do as sons. That whole night Radhamani spent crying.

“I know when I die my sons will forget me within a week,” Radhamani states calmly. “Yet when I go out somewhere, they would be waiting at home. Waiting in the hope that I would get something to eat. That waiting is enough for me to live on. Else I would have taken my life long ago.”

Finding refuge in words

People tell her death lurks in her stories and poems. Radhamani knows. “It is my writing that keeps the thoughts of suicide away. That is why my writing smells of death.”

“After I die, someone should adopt my children. I hope the government opens a facility to take care of such children in every district. That is my appeal, my prayer. Then I can die in peace.”

This is based on a report dated May 14, 2023, in the Malayalam newspaper Mathrubhumi, written by Sajna Alungal. Illustration based on images accompanying the story. 

A child was born to the Shirpurkars in November 2000. It was a joyous occasion for family and friends.
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Then came the time for the child to toddle around. Something was wrong, the parents thought. He was falling more than walking. He struggled to maintain his balance.

Soon came the diagnosis. He had a rare genetic disorder: Duchenne muscular dystrophy. His muscles would continue to waste away. There is no cure.

It was not easy to find a school that would accept him and his companion disabilities. “Inclusion must start in school. Else, discrimination will persist. My teachers played the most important role in my life, preparing me for all that I have ever done and will do in my life.”

He would go on to graduate in Economics. “I wanted to do Engineering, if only to prove a point to those who tried to dissuade me, given my condition. Then I thought about it and chose my favourite social science—Economics.”

He was a brand ambassador for the first Wheelchair Accessible Beach Festival in India in 2017. He is associated with an NGO working for inclusion of disabled individuals.

He has been a blogger right from the age of 13. “I enjoyed writing while in school. My early efforts were rather immature. But I kept at it as a hobby. In college, English was a compulsory subject, including blog writing. That led to my current blog.”

And at 22, Dhruv Shirpurkar has just published his first book, Solace. “After I managed to finish my graduation, blogging became a full-time profession. Wrote more. Readership improved. Gave me confidence. Why not write a book? Publishers and agents were taking too long. Given my health condition, it was wise not to delay. Another bout of pneumonia and anything could happen. So, I went ahead and self-published my dream project, this book.”

This book is a collection of the random thoughts of a young writer who is disabled in body, not in mind. His thoughts force all of us to think.

In his introduction to the book, Dhruv makes it clear that the book is not his biography. “I have not done anything extraordinary in my life, but it is more of a book that is meant to help others.” Until recently, he was quite bothered that he had not done anything extraordinary. He suspects many of his readers might have the same concern.
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This is what he wants to tell them: “It doesn’t really matter what we have done and what we have not done in life. We all have some role to play in God’s divine plan whether we know it or not, whether we believe it or not. We are all worthy and we matter.”

Dhruv remembers looking for a school as a painful phase for him and his parents. Many schools were unequipped for a student like him. Many were unwilling. After a long and frustrating search, Nalanda Public School accepted him. “Thankfully my school was very inclusive.”

He narrates a school incident in the book. He had gone to the washroom (with his attendant). His classmates were making a lot of noise. The teacher punished them by making them hold their ears. When Dhruv returned, he was excused from the punishment as he was not present.

Later, his angry classmates passed some insensitive comments. “If this is the privilege he gets, then even we will also come on a wheelchair and pretend to be disabled, so that we will be excused,” someone said. Dhruv angrily responded, which worsened the situation.

Then, one of Dhruv’s favourite teachers stepped in. She made everyone understand that they were all classmates with inherent differences that all should accept. She went on to encourage everyone to speak up about their grievances, just to clear the air.

“My teachers have really taught me what it is to love someone unconditionally even though that person may not be related to you. If you cannot love your fellow human beings, then you have achieved nothing in life. This is what made my schooling the most extraordinary experience of my life. It truly makes me feel that I did not just go to a school of education, I went to a school of life.”

It is not easy for many, especially the members of a disabled person’s family to accept that the problem cannot be resolved. Yet, in hope and in desperation, they keep trying, even resorting to “pseudoscience”.

In his book, Dhruv suggests that leaving hope is not bad.
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“Sometimes you have to stop hoping for something better and start living. Leaving hope is not bad if it allows you to take control of your life. It allows you to bring change. It guarantees success, something hope won't. You underestimate yourself thinking change will come. You are the source of change, and everything is in you. A change will come only if you work towards it. Otherwise, you are hoping for a miracle and miracles are not miracles if they are expected. Positive attitude involves letting go when you know there is no point hoping. So, stop hoping and start living.”

What does he think of death? Dhruv is calm and clear when he shares his thoughts during a conversation.

His idea of death is simple. “We accept death for others, not for ourselves and not for others without whom we cannot live."

His medical condition forced him to ponder about death right from puberty. “Unlike what was expected out of me, I did not develop negative emotions about it. Instead, I came to the conclusion that there is no point struggling with it. I decided to accept it and forget about it. Not about the event itself, but about its consequences.”

Is he comfortable talking about death? “Yes. But I am conscious of speaking about it because of the way people respond to it. This response is dictated by their belief that I have certain negative emotions attached with it and I have not accepted it.”
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He compares dying to growing. “One doesn’t know while growing what good will come of it until he experiences it. I also do not know what good will come out of it. A child plans what he or she is going to do in life with the conviction that nothing is going to deter him or her from achieving those goals. However, the child cannot see the future. This is how I like to think about death.”

Solace has more to make the reader think and smile. Like the personality sketch of a cool cat. The reason why the microwave went on strike. Then there are some interesting poems. There are also some profound thoughts on spirituality.

The book may or may not occupy the pride of place on your bookshelf. But you will want to keep it within reach so that you can connect to Dhruv whenever life throws a seemingly insurmountable obstacle at you. His approach and words might help you overcome and move on.

Dhruv wants his readers to “hold on, continue on your journey and don’t listen to anyone else when your heart calls out to you.”

A website had run Dhruv’s story under the headline, “Don't look at him with pity; look up to him for his grit.” If this book makes you shun sympathy and embrace resolve without fearing failure, Dhruv would have succeeded in his mission to help you succeed.
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After all, he wrote this book for you.

I reached the hall a little late. Given that it was the first annual day celebration of “doctor foundation”, I expected to disturb the speech of some important physician, while the other doctors on the dais frowned at the latecomer.
Instead, I found a lovely dance by children in progress, all energy and rhythm. Then came another, where the young choreographer (“a volunteer” the emcee said), was also a participant. Distribution of certificates to those who had completed a beautician’s course (“conducted by an employee”) followed.
As I began to wonder if I was at the right venue, I looked around at the audience. They were mainly children, all dressed for a special occasion. They were restless and happy, with my immediate neighbour bouncing up and down on his seat, enjoying the music. He looked at me as if asking why I was not joining him in the celebration. The lone photographer was having a difficult time protecting his tripod from those constantly running to a  better seat.

Just then, the person who had invited me appeared on the stage. The applause told me she was a favourite of the audience. After all, she was the popular “Bhalla Madam”— Dr. Khurshid Bhalla, Founder Trustee of The Doctor Foundation.

Young Khurshid was always sure she would become a doctor. Her father, the late Maj Gen Dhunjishaw Doctor, had served as the Commanding Officer of a number of military hospitals across the country. That exposure, and her love for children presented paediatrics as a good option. Until a child’s death made her change her mind.
“During my internship, I happened to witness the death of a child who had been admitted to the hospital just four days previously. I was shaken up by that death. To me, it was grossly unfair that such a small child should die, even when he was undergoing treatment in a hospital and the paediatrician on duty was close by,” she remembered.
She turned to gynaecology and obstetrics. “I thought I would be happier dealing with birth. For me, every birth remains a miracle.”
Dr Khurshid Bhalla, now 65, retains her love for children, though she has not helped deliver a baby for several years.
Instead, at the helm of The Doctor Foundation (named after her father), she is today on the threshold of a new era in community care, going beyond medicine. 

She had the option of working with a private hospital or setting up her own clinic. Yet she has spent most of her life working for charitable organizations. Why?
“It is not that I did not try,” Dr Bhalla explained. “I did set up a small clinic in Pune. There I would carefully examine the patients who came, hear them out and then prescribe the test or medicine that they required. I would charge about ten rupees per patient. I thought it was my duty to help the poor and serve them at a price they could afford. I was naive enough to think my model clinic would help a lot of people in the locality. Instead, they simply stopped coming. And my nurse, who was my assistant, told me unless I started giving injections and tablets, no one would come. So, that was that. Obviously, I was not cut out for the business side of care and I could not afford to keep the clinic open.”
In 1996, she joined Care India Medical Society, a trust that provided a social support system in the prevention, early detection and terminal care aspects of cancer management. “Care India’s clinic where I worked was surrounded by homes of the underprivileged. HIV infection was rampant. A few years after I joined, I came across many HIV patients and their families,” Dr Bhalla remembered.
During those years, HIV infection was almost a certain death sentence. Many mothers lost their children; young wives their husbands. “I would visit the women at home and try to help. Some NGOs came forward to adopt some of the orphaned children. There was one shelter in the outskirts of Pune that took in HIV patients. They had zero facilities. Often the watchman, out of compassion, would bring rice and dal from his house to feed the patients.”
It was quite common to simply abandon HIV patients on the streets. “I heard many horror stories of patients curling up on the road all alone. When they vomited or had diarrhoea, they would drag themselves a little away from the filth, helpless and miserable. I knew this was cruel reality and not just fiction, when I heard a social worker casually announcing how she had abandoned her husband, who was in the final stages of AIDS,  outside their house before she came to work.”

As part of Care India’s work, Dr Bhalla used to visit Yerwada jail in Pune to examine women inmates. “The jail authorities were surprised that I mingled closely with the women. For me, they were simply human beings who needed care. Some of them were overcome because someone from ‘outside’ was willing to touch them, talk to them.”
Dr Bhalla was shocked to learn that some of the HIV-infected prisoners, whose terms were over, refused to leave the jail. They would plead to remain in  prison. “Where else would we go? Our families do not want us.” One ex-inmate settled under a tree a little away from the prison. The police decided to force the issue and took him to his house and browbeat the family into accepting him. After all, he was the owner of the house. That didn’t work. The next day he was back under the tree.

Then Dr Bhalla got an opportunity to extend her work in HIV. In 2004, she joined Mukta, set up by Pathfinder International, funded by Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. She started work in Budhwar Peth, where most of Pune’s sex workers continue to live and work. “There were about 3,800 women living within one km radius. Initially as I tried to connect to them, I understood that they had the same story—mouths to feed. And as they put it, ‘after the first time, it gets easier.’”
They did not want to be tested for HIV. “What’s the point?” they would ask me. “If we have the disease, we are going to die, test or no test. We would rather die without knowing.” It took a long time for things to improve. Things eased once antiretroviral therapy (ART) arrived on the scene. HIV infection was no longer a death sentence.
Dr Bhalla considers the 10 years with Mukta a great learning experience in helping the community scientifically. “We had some of the best trainers working with us. For the first time, I found myself hopping into a bus and travelling to unknown villages to set up a network of clinics. I never considered myself a teacher. That stint taught me to be a trainer, to work with a team, to share the commitment so that more people could benefit.”
After Mukta, Dr Bhalla returned to head the charitable chemotherapy unit of Care India Medical Society for a few years.

When it comes to palliative care, the norm is “detached attachment”. You should be fully attached when you are there with the patient, but detach yourself later. This ensures you don’t carry a baggage of interminable worries, fears and sorrows home.
“I know that I am a softie. But I can’t help being fully attached to my patient. Yes, I have been a victim of compassion fatigue more than once. But that’s who I am. I always say that I have more friends up there (in the heavens) than down here,” Dr Bhalla confesses.
A 10-year old boy with cancer of the bone was Dr Bhalla’s patient when she was at Care India. He was the only son of a mother with three daughters. Once the doctors were discussing his case with the mother. After all the tests, they had concluded that the only option was to amputate the affected arm. They announced this to the mother. “They ignored the boy who was in the room with them. As soon as he heard the verdict, he jumped up and ran out, screaming. I was very upset. That was not the way to break the news. They treated the boy as if he didn’t exist. I was determined to make amends,” Dr Bhalla remembered.
Despite warnings from her senior, she took personal responsibility for the child. “If he were my son,” Dr Bhalla told his mother, “I would try to save the arm.”
​She took the boy to Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai. There she found that there was a procedure to excise the affected portion and spare the arm. With the mother’s permission, Dr Bhalla got the surgery done in Pune.
“I felt vindicated. The family was happy. But the joy did not last too long. The cancer returned. The boy was in severe pain. Then he died,” Dr Bhalla was distressed to recollect the case. “Finally, I understood why my boss was cautious. There had been a similar case where they had opted for the amputation. That boy was now doing well and was a regular participant in the NGO’s cultural programmes. It was a painful but necessary lesson. You must be compassionate, but being emotional can cloud your judgment.”
Dr Bhalla regrets that compassion is largely missing today. “When my father was dying of cancer, several doctors were treating him and would come to meet him every day. He always looked forward to these meetings. Then they stopped coming. He would often ask us why they hadn’t come. Finally, the truth dawned. There was no treatment left for my father. What would they tell him? It was perhaps embarrassing to tell him that there was nothing more they could do. Looking back, I think even I failed my father as a doctor. Like the others, at that time I too did not know how to talk of death.” 

It is 2 a.m. The family has gathered around the bed of the dying elder. It is clear the end is near. The family has been prepared. Nevertheless, a call is made. After putting the phone away, Dr Bhalla gets ready quickly. Her scooter takes her to the house through empty streets, where “the stray dogs are my only companions”. She arrives and peace descends. She sits with the family until the end. She checks the patient one last time, leaves whispered instructions, consoles the family and goes back home.
“This is something I have been doing for a long time. Many of my patients are the elderly or terminal. I spend time with them and the family. It is a privilege to be with them during the last moments. Nothing happens medically; a lot happens emotionally.” Is this a service under The Doctor Foundation? “Yes, it falls under my free home visits,” Dr Bhalla said.
Walk into the Foundation’s clinic at Bhawani Peth in the evening and you are likely to encounter boys and girls learning to dance, young women learning to be beauticians, a tuition class and a couple of sewing machines that used to train would-be tailors until recently. Aren’t these rather strange engagements for The Doctor Foundation, headed by a medical doctor?

“The Doctor Foundation’s objectives are rather broad, but the main goal is medical care,” Dr Bhalla explained. “We were registered in 2013 and started out with home visits in 2015. We started this clinic in 2016 and opened another in Kondhwa (another locality in Pune) in 2017. I am fortunate to have a team of doctors, mainly specialists, offering their services at the clinic on different days. The idea is to offer professional medical service at a nominal cost. Why should the poor be denied the service of a medical specialist just because they cannot afford it?”
And the dancing children?
“My original idea was a care and community centre for the elderly. We ended up attracting more children from the neighbourhood. In any case, once we finished with the patients during the day, the entire space was available. Why not put it to use?
“An NGO donated sewing machines to teach the women in the community. Somehow, tailoring seems to have fallen out of favour, and so the machines are now idle. Then we had a part-time choreographer come in, keen to teach the boys and girls dancing. He is a big hit now! We also had an employee who was already qualified, volunteering to conduct a beautician’s course. Then a couple who takes tuitions free of cost for poor children asked me if they could conduct their classes here. So, we have a lot of young people coming to the clinic and, in my view, that really energizes the place,” Dr Bhalla said.
That explained the dance performances I saw at the annual day celebration. “I thought it was a great opportunity for the children to showcase their talent. The money for hiring the hall was donated by a well-wisher. In fact, the Foundation has not spent on a single piece of furniture you see here. Some came from my house; others are kind gifts from various people. I prefer to spend only on essential overheads. The rest is all for the patients,” Dr Bhalla was very clear.

So far, Dr Bhalla and her team of visiting specialists have cared for more than 5,000 patients across the two clinics. She is very keen that the Foundation does more.
Her wish list for The Doctor Foundation has three main items. 
Set up a network of partner clinics. She wants to identify clinics that provide ethical, efficient service to patients and make them Preferred Partners of the Foundation. “I would like to begin with Pune and then spread to other districts.”
Improve the home care programme. Recruit the minimum essential team and train them. “I have a couple of old cars lying around. I will be happy to begin with those.”
Set up a hybrid home. “It will be a home for the elderly to begin with. Then I would like to add on an orphanage for children. I think the young and the old will provide each other very healthy company. It will be a happy home for both. They will not be just put there; they will want to be there.”
Would the plans be commercially viable? “I am counting on cross-subsidization. Those who can afford to pay will get better facilities. In the process they will help us serve more poor patients. The service quality will be the same.” Dr Bhalla is positive her dreams would come true.
Dr Bhalla is grateful to her fellow trustees for helping her set up The Doctor Foundation. “It has given my life purpose. I have a good reason to wake up every morning.” She also thanks her fellow doctors, the specialists who spare the time for The Doctor Foundation. “It is hardly remunerative for them. But they do it in the spirit of giving back.”
Several hundred beneficiaries may not understand the intricacies of a trust. They are simply grateful that Bhalla Madam will hear them out and tell them what is wrong with them. They know she is on their side. And she always has the time to sit with them and hold their hand.

Uday was about 11 years old when he saw his elder sister being teased on her way to school. That prompted Uday to start learning karate. He went on to become a popular martial arts instructor in Maharashtra and very successful in national-level tournaments.
Years later, Uday was at a court in Pune to meet someone when a boy called out to him. “Sir, what are you doing here?” Uday recognized him as one of his karate students. That boy was with several others, who were all carrying their schoolbags. They had apparently decided to skip school to come to the court. Why? They wanted to see a notorious criminal who was to be produced in court. “He was their hero. I thought it was urgent and important to give them another role model,” Uday remembered. “Else, they were sure to follow their hero and take to crime.”
That incident started Uday Jagtap’s journey to turn people, especially children, away from crime and integrate them into the mainstream. So far, that mission has fetched Uday many honours, including a Guinness world record.

Uday believes that for most people, crime is not the primary livelihood option. “The first crime is often the result of an impulsive action or an accident. That lands them in jail, and they get branded as criminals. When they are released, no one is willing to give them a job, nor do they have the money to start some business. Whether they are reformed or not, they are left with one option to survive: crime. And the child of a criminal is more likely to turn to crime,” Uday said.
With the help of his family and some friends, Uday produced a small film. It showed a young man, like many in Pune, who felt proud to commit a crime. The film focused on the plight of the family after he was put away. How the young wife struggled to eke out a living. The gradual change in the attitude of his friends, who were once his admirers. Far from making him a hero, the film depicted how crime made him a victim and caused untold misery to his family.
Uday used this film as an ice breaker when he set out to understand the mindset of a criminal. He got permission from the authorities and visited Yerwada jail. “I showed them the film and had long discussions with about 2,500 inmates. The hardened ones apart, many of them regretted their actions, but had no clue how to get on with their lives once they were released.”

Just to drive the message home and to ensure they were committed to turning over a new leaf, Uday drafted a letter. It was from a daughter who was missing her father at every birthday. “Day after is my happy birthday. When my friends celebrate their birthday, their fathers are around. But you are never there. Don’t you feel like coming? Everyone asks me. When I ask mother she just cries and promises to tell you.”  The letter ends with a plea to Ganpati Bappa to send her father to her with treats on her birthday. “And when you are coming, please get a new schoolbag. Mine is torn. I miss you a lot.”
Of the 2,500 prisoners who received that letter, 190 sent a reply to the jailor saying they wanted to start a new life.
“In response, an NGO that I belonged to, Adarsh Mitra Mandal, promised to support the education of their children. Also, the jailor chose 26 of them who were due for release and recommended them for suitable jobs. We found them jobs based on their qualification, experience and interest. Eleven years later, some of them have found new jobs or have started a business. But, not one of the people we supported went back to crime,” Uday proudly stated.

Uday thinks it is important for every child to have a healthy role model. Everyone appreciates an example like Sachin Tendulkar. However, “when you are growing up in a crowded slum or chawl, where most fathers spend time drinking and mothers are too busy keeping the family going, even Sachin can fail to score,” Uday pointed out.
“It is easier to look up to the local goon who appears to lead a lavish, fearless life. We countered this by putting up photos and messages of well-known saints and historical figures at many homes. This had an immediate impact on the alcohol problem. Maybe the fathers found it a little awkward to drink when a Sant Gnyaneshwar or a Mother Teresa was keeping an eye on them. The ultimate beneficiaries were the children,” Uday said.

There was one school in the locality, which was notorious for a high failure rate and rowdy behaviour. The pinnacle of achievement for many children was to feature on hoardings that celebrated criminal elements.
“We worked with the teachers and the local police to identify some of these children. Soon, we were counselling some 24 children. We held classes for them in police stations. On the one hand, the children got to see where criminals ended up and the fate that awaited them. On the other hand, the initiative empowered policemen, used to being punitive, to become proactive in helping build a healthier society. We named this police-public project Parivartan."

Sports libraries were another initiative started by Uday. “We keep complaining that children are addicted to the mobile and TV. But, as parents, we don’t or can’t afford to do anything about it. A sports library makes it easy to keep children occupied in healthy games. Any child can borrow a play equipment (bat, ball, chess set, skating shoes, etc.) for up to three days for a daily fee of one rupee. We urge them to play without fear; they will not be penalised if some equipment is damaged during play. For cricket bats, we put in a condition. They must find at least another 10 children to play with. As a result, we witnessed the formation of some informal teams. The heartening part is that even after eight years, the teams are still playing together. We have 3 sports libraries functioning in Pune and 25 in Gadchiroli.”

Gadchiroli, situated about 900 km from Pune, is notorious for Naxal activity. Over four years ago, Uday happened to catch a news headline on TV: some Naxalites had been arrested in Pune. He wondered: if the violence that has caused so many deaths over the years can come to Pune, why can’t peace go from Pune to Gadchiroli?
“My first reaction was to get in touch with the top police officers in Gadchiroli and tell them that I wanted to do some social development work there. Initially, they discouraged me saying that the ground situation was very bad, and I was better off doing my work in Pune. But so many policemen, so many adivasis dying! For what? I just couldn’t sit back, watch the news and be safe in Pune. I went to Gadchiroli.”
Based on his Pune experience, Uday started helping the children first. “The children were innocent victims. They had to walk for 5 km or more to reach school only to find that there were no teachers. Most of them lived in thickly forested areas. We first got the children some bicycles. With generous help from Rotary and my friends, we managed to give them 110 bicycles.”
Then came electricity. “I was warned that there would be severe opposition to electrification from the Naxalites. For me it was symbolic. More than 70 years had passed since the nation gained independence and they were still in the dark. They deserved light. We began with five schools and then lit up more than 1,000 homes with the help of solar power. Some of the old people at home would just sit and stare at the lamp at night. It was something they had never seen, never even dreamt of.”
It was not possible to force the teachers to risk their lives and come to school, but it was possible to reach education to the children. “We set up e-learning facility in three schools. Attendance improved, not just of students but also of the teachers, who now faced a different problem. With students going to schools that had e-learning, the other schools were in danger of being derecognised for want of students. I met a group of 40 teachers, and they pushed the government for e-learning in more schools. At the request of the government, and with the help of Rotary, we set up e-learning in 1200 schools. Now, the teachers maintain the system and ensure regular update of the software.”
While e-learning was a giant leap, it did not cover all children, especially those in remote areas, too difficult and too dangerous to access. Uday and his team worked out a solution--Gyanganga!
“We set up libraries in all police stations. Most police stations in Gadchiroli are like fortresses. Once a policeman enters a station for duty he may not come out for over a month. But the children could go in and come out easily and safely. It worked well for the police and the children!”
For those children who could not make it even to the stations, the police ensured that the library reached them. “We set up what we called ‘cot’ libraries. We would take the books to a village and spread the books on a cot. The children would come and read. The library would remain in one village for two days.”

Uday wanted to help the children lead as normal a life as possible, away from the threat of guns and the shadow of death. So, following the Pune model, he also set up sports libraries in various police stations.
Public health facilities were almost non-existent. The solution: mini ambulances, equipped with all essential facilities, manned by a medical team and operating within a 10-km “safe” radius. “It was a problem keeping the motorcycles refuelled at all times, ready for action. So, working with an engineering company in Pune, we have recently developed an e-ambulance than runs on three wheels for 80 km on a single charge. We will be deploying these soon.”

It was a happy sign that many Naxals were giving up violence, surrendering their weapons and accepting government support (land, means of livelihood) to once again live peacefully. However, Uday thought more needed to be done.
“They had taken to the violent way of life after they were brainwashed. Now, they were willing to return to the mainstream but was it not necessary to reboot their mindset? We resorted to Gandhigiri to achieve this end. We offered those who had surrendered an opportunity to become familiar with peace and non-violence through Gandhiji’s teachings. We gave them books. The police and I would talk to them. Finally, 56 appeared for the Gandhi Vichar examination.”
Uday added: “It was a very significant moment for all of us. Those who could only think of violence were now wearing white caps of peace. Hands that held murderous AK47 guns were now holding simple pens with the power to transform lives.”
Also, “there were attempts being made to fan inter-caste conflicts. With tremendous support from the police, we got leaders of different religions to talk to the people (especially children) and answer questions. It was soon clear to everyone that no religion advocated hatred or discrimination.”

While this transformation was revolutionary, Uday was convinced that making an impact would require the involvement of children. They were the ones who could bring about a radical change in the way the world looked at Gadchiroli. It was time for good thoughts to find expression as good words and set up one good deed that the world would applaud. It was time for Gadchiroli to bask in the Guinness limelight.
The team mobilised 13,500 children from 273 schools for a Sadbhavana examination. The children were exposed to thoughts of leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, other historical figures and the religious leaders they had interacted with. The participants also had the opportunity to express their own thoughts on peace.

Based on all these inputs, Uday Jagtap penned a book Gandhivichar Aani Ahimsa (the thoughts of Gandhi and non-violence). This was read out by nearly 7,000 residents of Gadchiroli (mainly students) creating a new Guinness World Record: “The largest audience at a book reading (single author) consists of 6,786 people, achieved at an event organised by Gadchiroli Police Department, Adarsh Mitra Mandal, Uday Jagtap and Maheswar Reddy (all India), in Maharashtra, India, on 3 March 2018.”
Uday said, “I told the children that it was up to them to change the way the world saw Gadchiroli.” This world record is what Gadchiroli should be remembered for, not violence and not backwardness. You have made it happen, you can make it last.”
A copy of the world record citation was given to all and now occupies a pride of place at more than 7,000 homes. “According to a police survey, the Naxal movement has seen no fresh recruitment in the last four years or so. I am confident a new Gadchiroli will emerge in another five years,” Uday is positive.
He conducts regular educational tours to Pune for the children of Gadchiroli. “It is hard to believe, some of them have not seen a world outside the forest where they live. The visits and the interactions open their eyes to possibilities beyond a life of fear, suppression and violence.”

“I may provide all the comforts to my children. But in the process if I totally ignore my neighbour who continues to live in misery, anger and frustration, I am putting my family in danger. We are safe if all of us feel safe. We are at peace if all of us are at peace. So, the motive behind social work is in a way selfish. That’s how I see it,” Uday smiled.
He is grateful for all the support he has received. “There is nothing that I could have done alone. I have had great support from the police in Pune and in Gadchiroli. My friends in Adarsh Mitra Mandal have been with me every inch of the way. There are many organisations that came forward to help financially and otherwise. Many are keen to take up new projects.”
Doesn’t he fear for his life when he works in the jungles where every shadow hides possible death?
“Of course, there is always a threat and I keep getting indirect messages to stop what I am doing. Fear does not help. At the same time, when you become a martyr, you end up being just another statistic. To do more and to help the cause of progress, you need to remain alive. Therefore, while working, I do take basic precautions.”
Yes, there have been failures. There have also been touching moments, “more precious than any record.”
“There was this old woman who would keep calling me at every odd hour. She was living alone and was unable to move around. Her daughter lived at a distant place with her husband, who was a violent alcoholic. The mother was worried the son-in-law would one day kill her daughter. I would keep reassuring her that within 10 minutes of her call either the police or some friends would reach her to help. One day she told me: ‘Beta, when I speak to you, I am able to sleep in peace. That’s why I keep calling you.’”
Then there was another old woman who rebuked him. “Several years ago, at the time of Ganesh festival, we screened a movie that showed how boys could put on fake looks and make false promises to lure gullible young girls. An evening after the show, one elderly woman got up and roughly caught hold of my shirt. ‘Why didn’t you make this two years ago? You would have saved my daughter.’ Then she broke down.”
At 47, Uday heads a business that employs 350 people across 8 offices and deals with 94 well-established companies that outsource work to his enterprise. “Most of the money for the social work I do comes from here. Also, the people who work with me typically contribute a month’s salary. Then there are project-based donors.”
As his family pleads with him to be careful for their sake, he is now focused on delegating old and new projects to other NGOs and individuals, who are genuinely interested in social work. And he continues to make regular visits to Gadchiroli.
What next?
“Pune is supposed to be a pensioner’s paradise, the Oxford of the East. Instead, we now have increasing unrest, violence and worsening traffic. I have started some work on tackling the traffic problem. Plus, I would like to do more for children. Recently I managed to expose the menace of hookah-pens and e-cigarettes. The government has now banned its use. There is so much to do.”
Uday Jagtap is far from done.

Bhoopali Nisal was fast asleep when her father answered the telephone about 1.30 a.m. on November 16, 1995, at their Ahmednagar residence. Without telling her anything, he immediately started. His destination: Bhoopali’s elder sister Deepa’s place in Pune, where he had bid bye to Deepa just a few hours before. Where he would now reach to find her dead.
At 19, married for about a year, Deepa was full of life—astronomer, actress, photographer, poet, dancer, musician, state-level badminton and basketball player, and studying-to-be a polymer engineer. True to her name, Deepa was a lamp of happiness who lit up lives around her.
For Bhoopali, tai was more than a sister, older and wiser. She was parent, friend and guide. A relationship of deep love that only got stronger even after Deepa, much to the surprise of everyone, agreed to an early marriage when a close family friend proposed.

“The violence started just about three months after the marriage. However, there was never any mark of the beating she got on her body. I was 15 then, and like everyone else, I hoped things would settle down and my dear tai would be happy. Every night at 10 p.m. we would both talk over the phone, sharing everything,” Bhoopali recollected. “Finally, when she met Papa the day before she died, she told Papa that it was getting too much. They decided that after appearing for her last paper in the examination, a week away, she would return home.”
 “The news of Deepa’s death was such a shock that I lost my ability to speak for a few days,” Bhoopali remembered.
After a couple of days, her father asked Bhoopali, “Do you believe that your tai would commit suicide?”
Bhoopali was emphatic, “No way!”
“Then what are you sitting around for?” her father replied. “Get up! We have to fight!”

Ten years of struggle followed. Countless visits to the court, police, lawyers, VIPs, anyone willing to listen and help them get justice. Bhoopali put aside any thought of her own career or life. She had dreams of studying aeronautics in Chennai. With the case on, she was tied to Ahmednagar and Pune. She settled for a Diploma in Mechanical Engineering from Ahmednagar in 2000.
Her father too ended up paying less attention to his construction business. The fight demanded every moment of their time, and tested every fibre of their patience and determination.
“It was so frustrating how the system worked against you. We simply did not have the resources. I remember poring over medical books and talking to doctors to establish that the nature of the brain haemorrhage the autopsy had revealed indicated not an overdose of contraceptive pills, as the lawyers tried to establish, but trauma.”
Regardless of the setbacks, young Bhoopali was as determined to keep the fight going as her father, if not more.

During their struggle, they got acquainted with others who were also fighting a seemingly hopeless fight against an uncaring system.
“There were so many people, many of them women, with zero support, fighting on in the hope of getting justice. In comparison, even though we were not rich in terms of resources, we had our friends and family with us. They were totally lost. Papa thought the best we could do to honour tai’s memory was to do something to empower people with education and guidance.”
They set up the Deepa Nisal Smruti Pratishthan (Deepa Nisal Memorial Foundation), a year after Deepa’s demise. Over a period of time, the Pratishthan got into several activities, all based in Ahmednagar.

One of the first institutions the Pratishthan set up was a public library and a study centre. “Papa strongly felt that the answer to gender discrimination and domestic abuse lay in good, early education,” Bhoopali explained.
“Presently, the library has more than 15,000 books. The study centre benefits those who lack the space or the books to study at home. It has been very useful to many students from various parts of Maharashtra, especially those who are preparing for MPSC and UPSC examinations. Some of those who made good use of this are now occupying high posts in government service. Tai would have been proud.”
Nyayarth is another Pratishthan venture that provides guidance and counselling to those seeking justice. Bhoopali said, “Papa’s efforts made it acceptable and easier for girls to return to their parents, if the marriage was not working out. While counselling reunited some, others found more suitable partners and led happier lives. One may go through a bad patch, but that is no reason to end or take a life.”
Bhoopali continued, “Through Nyayarth we guide people so that they follow the right course of action. Most cases we see are of domestic abuse where women are at the receiving end of physical and verbal abuse. In some cases, men are the victims.
“Fortunately, in Tai’s case no one changed his or her testimony in court. However, in several cases that we handled through Nyayarth, we found that change of testimony was a frequent problem. This made us lay emphasis on scientific evidence, which does not change in the course of time. So, now we have a forensic expert in our team, who helps people understand medico-legal reports and how to make the right use of those.
“Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, many people give up when they discover it is a slow and tough fight. It is disappointing when we invest our efforts for a long time and then all of a sudden, they withdraw. We just move on.”
Under Devrai prakalp, the Pratishthan undertakes tree plantation drives in nearby villages. So far, more than 400 trees have been planted in six villages.
Then came a computer institute open to everyone. The training was free or at a nominal cost. The Vanaushadhi Prachar Kendra was an earn-and-learn venture where students sold herbal medicines. The profits were used to fund their education. The Pratishthan also set up an Aaji-Aajoba Centre. This was an activity centre for senior citizens. These three ventures were closed down in 2006.
The Pratishthan started observing every November 16th as Deepa’s smrutidin by organising an all-Maharashtra competition—photography and Marathi poetry, both favourites of Deepa. For the contestants, it was a prestigious achievement to find their winning work (picked by independent judges) published at the end of the year. Blessed by luminaries in the field, it soon became a national event and even started attracting entries from other countries.
“One day I received a call from a girl in Maharashtra, asking about her entry to the competition,” Bhoopali narrated. She took it to be a routine call and confirmed that the judges had received her entry and she would soon receive an acknowledgement letter by post. “Please don’t!” was the surprising response from the caller.
The girl was deeply interested in poetry and that was the reason she had participated. “My people (in-laws) at home do not know I write poetry. If they come to know, they will beat me up. So, please don’t send any communication and please don’t publish my name.”
When all entries were adjudged, her poem turned out to be among the top 20 entries. “Sadly, we did not publish her poem as we do not publish anonymous entries. And we did not want her to get into trouble,” Bhoopali said.

Meanwhile, the case was dragging on. “After the district court awarded life imprisonment, the accused was in prison for barely three months,” Bhoopali said.
“They filed an appeal in the High Court. That meant we now had to make frequent trips to Mumbai. That really took a toll on us. There were times when I did not have enough money to return to Ahmednagar from Mumbai. We were fighting a strong adversary. Just to encourage me to give up, someone tried to run me down. Papa’s health was failing, and he asked me to give up and focus on my career.”
Bhoopali’s father, now a broken man, passed away on June 17, 2005. Bhoopali decided to keep up the fight, all by herself.
“In a curious turn of events, despite the arrangements I had made to be present on all critical days, the court ruled against us when I was not present. Also, a few procedural blocks ensured that I lost out an opportunity to take the case to the Supreme Court.
“We lost but, at Nyayarth, I now make it a point to narrate the mistakes I had made so that others have a better chance of getting justice.”

The very evening her father passed away, Bhoopali was taken aback when 700 people came to see her. “They were the daily wage earners who had been employed by my father. Now that father was gone, there was no job. And without a job, they were afraid they would starve. They wanted to know if I had any plans for them.” Bhoopali heard them out and sent them away with the promise to figure out a solution.
She consulted her mother. With so many families depending on them, there was only one solution. She had to take over immediately. “My mother was very composed. She asked me to go ahead,” Bhoopali said.
The next day, after immersing her father’s ashes, Bhoopali went to his office. She called every employee. Took charge of every pending job. They used to renovate bungalows and build temples. “It was difficult for me to understand the intricacies of civil engineering, given my limited exposure to mechanical engineering,” Bhoopali said.
Over the next two years, she completed the remaining jobs, ensured that everyone found other jobs and closed the company down. “Unfortunately, stating some reason or the other, no one paid me any money during those two years. Suddenly, I found myself in a desperate state. I needed a job to support myself and my mother.” Bhoopali got ready for another struggle.

On the strength of her old diploma, she found a job as an inspector for an engineering company. “The job involved visiting various engineering companies and inspecting their facilities and work. That gave me the opportunity to understand the world of engineering as a business. Slowly, I gathered the courage to start my own enterprise.”
Beginning with a borrowed lathe and a drill and working from a small rented place was not the real problem. “No one was willing to give me an order. You are a woman. How can you do a machine job? I kept hearing that.”
Worse, the industrial park where she started out had no toilets for women. She had to put up with that for four years.
“The biggest plus when I moved to my own factory building in my own plot, in 2013, was that I finally had a toilet for women,” Bhoopali said. Not that she succeeded in recruiting a woman mechanical engineer or even finding one in her vicinity. Now that she has a team of ten and has a good track record, “it is easier for me to approach new clients. People no longer ask me if I have come for an accounts or office job.”

During her long conversations with her irreplaceable tai, there are a few pieces of advice that young Bhoopali imbibed, even though at that time she was too young to understand those fully.

• There may come a time in your life when you may ask, “why me”? Instead, ask “if not me, who else?” You are put in a situation because you are the right one with the ability to face it.
• Don’t live with regrets. Don’t look back at the end and think “wish I had done that”. Never lose sleep because you did or not do something.

One day in September 1995, Deepa had come home, hugged Bhoopali and said, “Don’t ask me anything. Let me just cry.” After she had calmed down a little, she made a strange request to 15-year old Bhoopali.
“Whether you get married or not, adopt a baby girl. I wanted to, but now I don’t think it will be possible. Please name her Srujan.”

Srujan, all of 6 months, came home on January 12, 2012.
“Some think that when we adopt a child, we are doing an orphan a favour,” Bhoopali pointed out. "My experience is that we do not adopt a child, the child adopts us. At a time when everything was gloomy and there was hardly any conversation at home, Srujan adopted our family and lit up our lives again. My mother was reborn.”
For some reason, as soon as she could speak, Srujan decided to call Bhoopali baba (father) instead of the expected aai (mother). “Initially, we tried to correct her. She wouldn’t change. Then I accepted that it really doesn’t matter,” Bhoopali said. The two were a hit in Srujan’s school during Father’s Day.
Srujan knows that she is adopted, and she has some idea about what happened to tai. “I keep telling Srujan that there is nothing that she cannot do. Makes no difference that she is a girl,” Bhoopali said.
Indeed, Srujan cannot have a better role model than her baba. Here is a partial list of  Bhoopali’s achievements: National Technological Innovation Award for her final-year project of conversion of two-stroke petrol engine to two-stroke L.P.G. engine; tabla visharad (“can play any musical instrument”); state-level cricketer (leg-spin and batting), horse-riding champion, and karate and judo exponent. Her multifaceted personality (academics, music, sports) has won her a permanent place of pride among other luminaries in the prestigious Marathi Encyclopaedia.

A suicide ended Hemlata’s first job with an NGO. It was probably no big deal for the locality in New Delhi, where gender decides the value of a life. But it shook up Hemlata, then in her early 20’s.
“I will never forget her beautiful face and smile. And she was among the brightest in the class.” The memory still haunts Hemlata. “I fell sick. It took me a few days to feel strong enough to face the world again.”
The NGO was doing a good job of ensuring that the children came to class and got good education. “However, we failed to truly connect to the children. Later, the locals said she had ‘something’ going on with a boy. At the age of 12? And we had no clue that she was so desperate?” Hemlata considered it her personal failure.
At the education centre that she heads today, Hemlata is more than a teacher. She is a dear friend, a trusted confidant and a role model to her students.

Hemlata was born in Bareilly as the oldest of two brothers and three sisters. The family moved to Delhi when she was barely one.
She remembers her father’s words when he took her to college: “This degree will open up many doors for you. Please study well.”
Hemlata had already started tuitions at home to pay for her graduation and her personal expenses. “Looking at the state of girls where I lived, it was enough that my parents were letting me study. I did not want to burden them more with money problems.”
She passed her B.A. examination from Delhi University in 2012. She wanted to complete her B.Ed. immediately after but her financial condition did not permit that. (Hemlata has now taken up B.Ed. and has already completed one year.)
In order to help her mother, Hemlata decided to stay at home for some time. She used that time to tutor her younger brother. She also tried her hand at becoming an electrician. That didn’t work out.

Her first love, teaching, was calling her again. She applied to another NGO that was about to start a centre to teach girls at Kalyanpuri, two kilometres away from her place.
The task was daunting. The locality was not safe for girls. Hemlata had to go there as an outsider and conduct a house-to-house survey to enrol potential students. Then she had to persuade the sceptical and at time hostile parents let the girls come to the new centre.
Sure enough, she had to put up with some nasty comments as she negotiated the narrow lanes. Banking on the encouragement she received from her team, she persisted. She armed herself “with a thick skin and plenty of hope.”
Most initial visits were just to establish herself as a harmless visitor with a positive intention. Whenever she came across a family that had school-going girls, she would ask if the children were receiving tuition. Most parents could not afford the money or the time (in Kalyanpuri it is considered unsafe for girls to walk alone). So, would they consider sending the girls to the new centre nearby for free tuition? Maybe for an hour to begin with? The parents could also come along to see what was happening. Please?
Her perseverance paid off. “In about 20 days, I managed to enrol 54 students.” The centre started in May 2016. Later, she would help recruit another teacher, Bharti, and take the tally higher.

The main objective at the centre where Hemlata plays the lead role is to ensure the girls remain successful in school at least until grade 12. So, they get supplementary education in the main subjects like Mathematics, Science and English.
However, the care is not limited to academics. “We pay attention to their nutrition. There are regular health check-ups. We help uncover and develop the artist in them. We encourage them to express themselves freely. We make them confident enough to stand on their own in society. The martial arts classes help.”
“They are in their early teens and very impressionable. We keep talking about various aspects of life—good touch and bad touch, and the importance of pausing to think before taking any important decision. The teachers look out for subtle changes in attitude, in dressing and in dealing with others. And we stay in touch with the parents.”
Hemlata clarified that the idea was not to dictate how the girls ought to live their lives. “We encourage them to make friends and to spend time with others regardless of gender. However, if the cues are not right, we caution them. Is a friendship becoming an obsession, a distraction that pushes everything else away? Do you end up doing things on the sly? Do you find yourself telling lies often?”
She remembers a case where a girl was all set to elope with a boy. When the parents got wind of it, they made matters worse by preparing to marry her off immediately (early marriage is common as a "safe" option). It took several rounds of counselling to restore normalcy.
“The tendency is to come down on the girl heavily and ban everything. What she really needs is a friend, not a disciplinarian, someone willing to hear her out. We told this student she was at liberty to choose her friends and a life mate. The choice was acting in haste now, losing her education and the regretting it later. Why not wait until she was old enough to take a mature decision? Wouldn’t the relationship have a better chance if they waited until they were both older and independent?”

Three years after Hemlata braved the hostile lanes to enrol them, the girls are today more confident and better equipped to tackle the world on their own. One girl had enrolled from a locality where conditions were the worst. While the teachers helped her with personal hygiene, it was a task to make her sit properly in one spot. However, she was a keen observer and noticed how her fellow students were behaving in class. Soon, she was chastising others who behaved badly.
Another student began as a very shy girl. She too absorbed what was happening around her and made Hemlata her role model. Now she is confident enough to mind the class when required. “The transformation came from within her; we just let her discover herself,” Hemlata said.
Hemlata has now taken on the responsibility of running more educational initiatives. She is training more teachers to be mentors. She would love to see more such centres in economically diverse locations.
“Here we had to deal with reluctant students and reluctant parents. It took our team quite some time, but I believe that we have succeeded in changing the mindset of the local community. I am sure there must be other families, maybe in different economic brackets, keen to educate their girls. They don’t know where to go. Here we go beyond tuitions and examinations and prepare the girls to fare better in life with confidence. My experience tells me more girls deserve that opportunity,” Hemlata said.
Her mission is clear. “I want to keep learning and help more girls learn to cope with life.”
Pooja Varma, a development professional, who played a key role in recruiting Hemlata and then went on to work with her, is amazed by Hemlata’s growth. “From someone not at all sure of herself, she is now a confident leader and an efficient trainer. She is sensitive to the feelings of the girls, knows them well, and yet respects their privacy. I remember the bold stand she once took to refuse all scholarships because the money was offered only to a few students. She felt that kind of discrimination would cause major disruption and undo all the good they had managed to achieve. Hemlata is mentoring more teachers to be more than just teachers in the academic sense. I am sure she will go on to guide more and more girls discover themselves. She will give them the courage to dream and the wings to fly.”

Tomatoes are important. Ask Romesh Kumar, a farmer in Pachote village in Chenani, Udhampur, Jammu.
“When we formed groups to try out new techniques to cultivate vegetables and flowers, women farmers from Mandlote village thought it was a joke,” Romesh remembered. They had never been able to cultivate vegetables in Mandlote. So, how were they, some of them helpless widows with children, expected to believe Romesh?
Believe they did! In a few months, thanks to the support and encouragement from fellow farmers led by Romesh, they produced enough tomatoes to eat at home.
“That was the turning point! From hand-to-mouth survival on maize and the occasional kadam (a local leafy vegetable; Kohlrabi) they now had the luxury of eating fresh tomatoes during family meals!” Romesh said.
Of course, Romesh had his own doubts, too. So, he decided to experiment. “I planted 1,300 tomato saplings in about one kanal (eight kanals make one acre). I put to use all the new techniques I had learnt. I ended up getting about 40 quintals of tomatoes!”
For a traditional farmer, used to the same manual methods for at least four generations, it was a miracle to end up with that much produce, mound after mound of luscious tomatoes!
The traditional farmer in Romesh continued to be sceptical when he went on to plant capsicum. “Nobody has ever grown capsicum in my village on a commercial scale. So, I decided to take a chance with just four lines of plants.”
It was a “gigantic” success! The capsicums weighed 250 gm each on an average. Romesh the modern farmer was born; so was Romesh the guide and mentor to fellow farmers.

Born in 1983, as the oldest of three brothers and a sister, Romesh had to give up school during grade 9. “My father was finding it difficult to manage everything. So, I joined him and picked up farming.”
He is happy that his brothers were able to complete school. And he will ensure that his two sons (12, 5) get good education. “Maybe if I were more educated, I would have learnt all these new things faster and better.”
“Not so long ago, after putting in a lot of hard work across 10  kanals, we would barely get ₹ 1 lakh a year. Now, if you follow the right techniques, you can get the same income from just one or two kanals. It is not a matter of luck, just simple, systematic effort using scientific methods.”
The 50 farmers Romesh has guided to prosperity so far are happy to agree.
The project that taught and supported farmers like Romesh to cultivate vegetables and flowers was discontinued in October 2018. Romesh goes on. Without all the institutional and expert support, is it worth the extra effort?
“Some five years ago, we all started learning together, thanks to the project. Lessons were taught to groups of farmers, demonstrations were given to groups, benefits were given to groups. Individually, none of us could afford to buy a diesel plough. Together we did and that too with government subsidy. We took turns to plough our land. When all of us use our resources like land and water the right way, the benefits are multiplied for every family. Every child eats better and gets the chance to study well. We have to just keep going, try to do better, support one another. I am grateful I was given this opportunity.”
His initiatives to help others made him a popular candidate for the local body elections. Not surprisingly, he won the Ward Panch position in December 2018.

Today, he is an important bridge between various government departments and his fellow farmers. He understands the needs of the farmers in different villages. He recommends beneficiaries for government subsidies and schemes including those for seeds and home.
How does he pick a beneficiary? “I verify that the beneficiary has a genuine need and the willingness to make full use of the benefit within the prescribed deadline. Else, they would be denying someone else an opportunity.”
His days are longer now, and he has to walk longer distances. What else has changed?
“I have never felt that I am someone special. I am one of them, another farmer. We have all been through difficult times. Now, a few of us have seen some success. All I am doing is sharing a little knowledge, giving them a little confidence. So that more of us can succeed.”
Ashishkumar Patel, a development professional, who worked with Romesh through the duration of project, said: “Projects may start and end. But it takes a hardworking local person to assume the leadership role to ensure its success during and, more importantly, after the project is over. I am happy to have witnessed Romesh’s growth. Now, his personal mission is to continue to work for everyone’s success. I am sure Romesh will achieve greater success in this project.”
As usual, Romesh’s day had started before the sun rose. Now, before it gets too hot, he is gearing up for a regular trek, with his brothers who are his co-farmers and a couple of neighbours. They load some crates and gunny bags full of capsicums and tomatoes on two mules. The rest they carry on their heads and shoulders. They have a testing kilometre and half to cover, all uphill.
Once they reach the highway, the produce will travel to the market. And Romesh will proceed to a  meeting with the government officers and community members.

THE UNSEEN FACES SERIES: 1: GUS

1963.
Gus, 12, has just won the full house in Housie (Bingo) in his school. The prizes had been on display even before the game started. He is eager to receive the first prize from the school’s Summer Holiday Camp Manager. It is a beautiful statue of Our Lady. He can’t stop smiling when he accepts it.
Then, in a moment, his world changed.
“You take this,” the Camp Manager took away the statue and handed him a smaller bust, which was chipped. The boy who had won the second prize happened to be from an affluent family and deserved the better prize, a shocked Gus was told. Surely, it would make no difference to Gus, right?
Gus felt angry and sad. An inferior prize, just because he was poor?
He was already waging another battle at home. Because he was standing up to an alcoholic and trying to protect his mother and four little siblings. He felt responsible for them.
Why was the world so unfair, Gus wondered. He just had to grow up and find a job, any job, that would give him money so that he could look after his family.

2019.
Gus is overseeing another game of Housie with a group of girls and boys, all around the age of 16. For every boy and girl, it is an effort and an achievement to face a group of people and read out the numbers by turn. Gus gently prods a boy to make eye contact while announcing a number. One girl who has problems with her sight and hearing (“I want to be an accountant”) is helped by her neighbour.
There are no statues; the winners get mints and chocolates. The real prize is the time they get to spend together, to work together and to enjoy themselves.
They are all equal. At every opportunity, Gus slips in a tip, a piece of advice. Through games, dance and music they are picking up social skills. And, for them, something that is less difficult to spell than to acquire —confidence.

When Gus steps out of the room, I play the devil. “Gus sir is saying do this and don’t do that. Do you think he is being practical? The outside world is so different. And surely money is important.”
“No! Gus sir is right. He is telling us the right things.” That’s the girl who would be an accountant one day.
“I had so much fear. Now I think I can do something.”
“He listens to us,” avers another. He is now less conscious of his appearance. And a lot less angry with the world than when he had joined.
“Yes, money is important,” a boy patiently explains to me. “But it is no more important than petrol. Sure, you need it to go from here to there. That is not the whole journey, though.”
Some of them have learnt to play the guitar “somewhat”, thanks to Gus, they tell me. They were scheduled to have a dance session, but a neighbour was not happy with the noise of the ghunghroos. So, they have to figure out a new location for dance sessions.
And all of them have been with Gus sir for barely a month.

Au(Gus)tine Mendonca is, by qualification, an engineer. However, he considers himself a “people person”.
“I was working in Bahrain for nearly 15 years. Initially, the local boss would keep calling me ‘Hey Indian’. It was infuriating. Then I realized they probably found both “Augustine” and “Mendonca” a mouthful. Next time he called me ‘Indian’, I told him he could call me Gus. And the name stuck.”
Gus says he has “corrected” his career. “I took up engineering because I was desperate to qualify and start earning. If I could go back in time, I would probably take up HR. Not the admin-kind of HR, but the people-kind. Understand them, work with them, motivate them. That kind of HR.”
The Bahrain stint helped Gus clear all the family debts. When he returned to India, he worked with various companies including an engineering company and a hospital.
The engineering company once faced a drastic fall in output during the night shift. Gus spent time with the workers and figured out the reason. As a cost-cutting measure, a supervisor had withdrawn the mosquito repellent they used to give all employees. Now, instead of manning the machines, they were busy slapping the mosquitoes. Gus got the repellent back and, sure enough, productivity was back on track.
The famous but abrasive chief of the hospital was angry. Everyone feared his morning rounds. “Why do you have your rounds immediately after mine?” he once asked Gus.
“So that I can undo the damage you do,” Gus replied.
Gus had a collection of doctor jokes, which he used liberally during his rounds. Those served to soothe frayed nerves and restore morale.
“What nonsense!” the chief roared. “Tell me one of those jokes right now.” Gus did. And the chief burst into laughter.

Apart from doing the jobs that came his way after the Bahrain-stint, Gus also felt a pull to seek out the less privileged and help them. He worked at a night school and assisted a couple of NGOs.
Once at the night school, he saw a boy sitting outside on the steps. Gus asked him why he was not in class. The boy had been thrown out because he had beaten up another boy.
His language was harsh, almost abusive. Gus sat next to him. “There is so much age difference between us. Do you think we can have a more polite conversation?”
The boy looked at him. “You are the first person who wants to talk to me.” And the story came out.
The boy had lost vision in one eye in a playground accident. Ever since, he was called “blind” by other children. He was constantly ridiculed and forever the butt of cruel jokes. The teachers also wrote him off and joined the students in abusing him.
That day, he opened his notebook to find that someone had written an abuse targeted at his mother. The violence followed and the teacher was prompt in expelling the boy from class.
Gus summoned a meeting of the teachers and asked for an explanation. “That boy is impossible; he must be removed from the school.” Gus interrupted the chorus. “That boy will not be removed,” he was categorical.
Then he proceeded to find out exactly what the teachers knew about the boy. Had they bothered to find out anything at all?
A few days later, Gus ran into the boy again. He was all smiles. “I am back in class. They are talking to me now. They are nice.”

“Sometimes, all they need is a hand, a chance. Just what I needed once upon a time," Gus said.
“It is so easy to brand someone as bad or impossible. Just dig a little deeper. I did once. And behind the alcoholic I found a jovial, talented and loving man. If you must, hate the problem, not the victim.
“When the boys and girls come and tell me they are eager to get any job so that they can start earning, I understand. But I don’t want them to make the same mistake that I did. So, I talk to them individually, find out what they are interested in and try to guide them accordingly.
“A few companies are very happy to employ these boys and girls. They say they like the attitude and the willingness to work hard. That is so nice of them.
 “Some of those I had the opportunity to help are doing so well now. They stay in touch. They come and meet me at times.
“Of course, in some cases, I failed. They started earning and money derailed their lives. Bad company, expensive addictions, and the wrong notion that they had ‘arrived’.
“In every case, I begin with a positive intention, whatever the outcome. Unless I am confident of them, how can they be confident of themselves?”
Says Yogesh Kapse, a social development professional, who has been working closely with Gus, “It becomes easier for us to support a project when we know that there is someone as passionate and as committed as Gus mentoring it."

Apart from imparting “employable skills” to the youth, Gus shares art and poetry with all.
Today is song time. He picks up the guitar and the boys and girls join him in singing their “special” song:
I am special
You are special
We are special, you see
Black or white
Short or tall
Fat or thin
All of us are special, you see.