Last week, Kiranbhai and I organized a vali meeting to meet the parents of the kids at the Sabarmati street school. On Saturday afternoon, we spent two hours going around to all of the children's homes and introducing ourselves to their mothers. Many of them didn't know where their kids have been disappearing to to each afternoon for the past seven months.
Most of the mothers were gracious. They would welcome us in, insist on making fresh chai or running out to get a cold soda for us, and turn on the light in the house - reserved for emergencies or special occasions. Some of the mothers were apathetic. They were shy, disinterested, or busy in their housework. We would inform them quickly of the meeting at 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon where a sahib, or leader, from Gandhi Ashram would come to talk to them, and then went on our way.
When 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon finally came around, Kiranbhai and I walked up to the meeting spot with a bucket of hot nasto for the kids and a bag of sweets and snacks for the mothers. We were welcomed by two of our students, and a stray dog that visits our sessions often. The children explained that their mothers were not coming.
Kiranbhai looked at me that way he often does when we're faced with a problem. His expression read, This is unfortunate, but not all together unexpected. As he continued to stroke his chin and think, I demanded answers from the children. Why aren't your mothers here? Didn't you remind them of the meeting? Why did we come to your homes personally to invite them here?
Their response was unexpected. Each month, the government rations out kerosene to the community. Usually the kerosene distribution is scheduled for the 2nd of the month, but this time it was delayed by a few days...and happened to land on the same date and time as our vali meeting. Kiranbhai asked me to go to the children's homes and try to gather as many mothers as I could, before Maheshbhai, the sahib from Gandhi Asrham, arrived.
I tried my best, but after half an hour of chasing the children around to their homes, I was exhausted and frustrated. My Gujarati, although greatly improved over my 3+ months here, is not nearly colloquial enough to express the importance of this meeting to the mothers. Most of them were squatting in the kerosene line which stretched out of the neighborhood and across the street.
The conversations went something like this:
Masi, we called you to come at half past four. This meeting is especially for you.
But we have to fill our kerosene.
When will you be done?
We might be here until late night.
Can't someone else stand in line for you until the meeting is over?
No.
Why not?
I don't know.
Sahib is coming all the way from Gandhi Ashram. How will it look if no one shows up?
We have to fill our kerosene.
At the time, I was nearly boiling with tension. I couldn't understand why these mothers could not request their neighbor, or elder daughter, or friend to keep their spot in line for just half an hour. The meeting we had arranged was especially for them to learn about Manav Sadhna and the type of education we were trying to bring their children.
Eventually the meeting proceeded. Although there was less than perfect attendance, we were able to share with those present, the values that we hoped to impart to their children and the importance of those values starting at home.
Later that night, Kiranbhai and I were invited to have dinner at the home of one masi who has been very helpful as we have started up this street school. We sat in darkness in her tattered home as she rolled rotli by the light of a small kerosene lantern. Today, because she had guests, Masi was cooking the rotlis on a kerosene stove, rather than the slower, cheaper coals-burning stove she usually used. As she mechanically rolled perfectly round rotlis, she talked to us about the life she hoped her children could have, outside of the danger and poverty she was bound to. She told us how smart her children were, even though they love to do tofan masti, mischief, and how grateful she is that we have started a school here for them.
The women in this area know very little of the world outside of their home and their families, but they know what they have to do to survive. Even if they wanted to attend the parents meeting, the possibility of losing a month's supply of kerosene just did not seem logical to them.
I subconsciously have an ego when I interact with the people in the slum, based on the idea that I know a world much larger than they have every experienced. Maybe that's true. Maybe I've flown here from across the globe. But it is times like that moment in Masi's dimly lit home that my ego was slapped in the face and reminded to go into hibernation. I may know a world filled with much more diverse circumstances than theirs, but I cannot even begin to imagine the values and instincts they have learned in order to survive against the odds they are dealt.
In my mind, I saw as a choice between kerosene or becoming aware of how to move their children forward in life. In their minds, it was a choice between keeping their families warm in the December chill or visiting with outsiders from Gandhi Ashram who think they know what's best for their children.
Masi's dinner of thick rotli, cauliflower sabji and onion on the side, was delicious.
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