Shilpa Raj's Blog

This year I was brought into the Shanti Bhavan team that selects children for the new pre-school class. My training in psychology and a graduate of the school were considered helpful to the process. Being no stranger to the typical rural life and its cultural disposition, I was confident on providing useful insight into the behavioural and social dynamics that are integral to marginalized communities. By the end of our two months of search, we came to a few realizations.
The face of rural communities had undeniably changed over the last decade as job opportunities created by urban industrialization had significantly impacted their life-style. Many commuted daily to cities to work as security guards, housemaids, drivers, construction workers, and in other low level jobs, contributing largely to the labour requirement of businesses.
Very often we came upon locked houses and deserted streets, with children away at the local government school and both parents at work. Women like my mother who were once confined to their domestic duties now sought jobs in the cities, sharing the financial burden of the household with their spouses. With today’s high cost of living, it is not an option but a necessity for families, especially among the poor, to have more than one bread-winner.
At times we encountered passive resistance from the villagers. It didn’t make sense to them to send their children to a distant boarding school when the local government school offered free education, a mid-day meal and other assistance. I felt saddened to see that they couldn’t distinguish the quality of education in such schools and the one that Shanti Bhavan offered.


One time I came upon a settlement of small, thatched houses in the centre of a village. A group of elderly women were seated on a straw mat, sharing tobacco. I introduced myself politely and asked, “We’re looking for children from very poor families for our free boarding school. Do you know of any one here?”
To my surprise, one woman instantly replied with a level of indifference, “There’s no one poor here. You can go to the next lane.”
I was taken aback by her directness. The only explanation I could find for her denial was that people like this woman don’t consider themselves poor as a result of the subsidies they receive from the government in the form of hand-outs – food, clothing, free education, free transport for children back and fro from school and loans for house construction. A sense of contentment had taken hold among these poor people as their basic needs were being met.
But for the most part, we found villagers welcoming of our interest in their children. Their sense of appreciation might have come from the many services offered to their communities by several NGOs.
Our experience in urban slums was somewhat different. The urban poor seemed to be more ambitious about their children having good careers. This difference in mind-set might have been from the exposure to the affluence in the society around them, and by observing the hierarchy of job positions in companies. They were willing to consider the possibility of a good future we were offering.
What I found common among both the urban and rural poor was that they struggle to grasp the true power of a good education for their children, and its longer term impact on their families. They fail to recognize the innate potential in their own children to achieve personal and professional success.
But despite the lack of awareness among people like them, I still felt optimistic. There were many who were eager to seek our assistance. It was humbling to see that even in the face of hardships, they were dreaming of a better tomorrow.

It’s very special for a writer who has recently published her debut book to meet her readers first hand. In the early hours of the morning on the 18th of May, I dodged the heavy traffic in Bangalore to reach Inventure Academy, a world class school on the outskirts of Sarjapura.
I had been informed beforehand that all the high-schoolers had watched parts of the Netflix film ‘Daughters of Destiny’ together as a class and had even been assigned to read my book as homework. This level of preparation for my visit undeniably made me nervous because I would be interacting with an audience who knew me quite well from the revealing pages of my book and the raw images of my life in the docu-series.
After quickly scanning the large auditorium filled with young students, a few parents and several teachers, I briefly introduced myself and dived into the session by opening up the forum for questions. The first question came from a young boy wearing black rimmed glasses in the front row, speaking clearly into the microphone, ‘Why did the men in your village resort to alcoholism?’ It was an easy question to answer.
I explained that men like my father who toiled all day in the hot sun as coolies, wood-cutters, liquor brewers and construction workers turned to liquor in the evening to rid away their worries. Drinking was an excuse, but who could blame them?
Questions followed question in excited succession and I wholeheartedly surrendered to the positive energy felt from all around. I carried that energy with me as I returned home that evening, still thinking about my time well-spent at the school.
I jogged my memory into recollecting some of the questions that had been asked:
1. What does your family think of your book? 2.  If you could go back to your childhood and change one thing, what would that be?3.  What would you say to your younger self, today?4. What gave you the courage to be so honest and open about several sensitive parts of your past?5. How have you been able to give back to Shanti Bhavan?6. What would you want to change about the educational system in India?7. How do you still stay so positive and strong despite all that you’ve gone through in your early life8. What are your regrets?9. If Karthika someday did become the Prime Minister and if there was one thing that you would ask of her to change in India, what would it be?10. Do you think the Shanti Bhavan model can be replicated elsewhere?11. Does Shanti Bhavan get a lot of help or support from India?12. Do you ever feel that the challenges that you went through in your personal life have hindered you from accomplishing things you could have done?13. How do you manage not to break down while answering such personal questions about your life14. How can we as high-schoolers help Shanti Bhavan?
In answering these questions, I was able to touch upon a wide range of issues ranging from poverty, social injustice, quality of education, the power of opportunity, women empowerment, personal loss, self-love and self-care, practicing universal values, the role of a school’s culture on its students, and other themes relevant to this particular age group.
In hindsight, I realized that I quite emphatically touched upon the theme of self-care. Given that these were young girls and boys in their teens -- a period ridden with self-doubt, peer pressure, distortion of self-image and identity crisis -- it was important to remind them to treat themselves with care, respect and gentleness. I said, ‘I wish I had learnt to practice self-love earlier on in life. It would have saved me the many years that I spent hating myself and wallowing in self-pity and negativity.’
After the long session, two senior students guided me around the campus on a quick tour. The corridors were filled with children of all ages, running about, immersed in a wide range of activities -- singing, painting, selling a collection of cyanotype pictures and homemade cards, scaling a wall using indoor climbing equipment and wood carving. I took in these sights with amazement, not having seen a school ambience before that was so full of freedom, a striking creative spirit, an abundance of resources, and an enjoyable air of chaos.
I smiled to myself feeling happy that the school offered these children a chance to grow up free-spiritedly and confidently. They seemed to thrive in an environment that allowed them to focus their energies on personality development, leadership skills, interpersonal relationships, exploring their potential and simply enjoying being young.
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t shrug off the thought that this privilege is limited only to a small fraction of the country’s students who can afford it. To grow up happy, free, and safe in the knowledge that they had the financial resources to take risks and make mistakes, and a loving family to support them is every child’s right. But unfortunately, this is not an option for those who remain on the fringes of society. 
How I wish we could change that!

Awareness is the first step to preventing and responding proactively to sexual abuse.
The last week of school at Shanti Bhavan before Christmas break is always abuzz with activity -- from wrapping up with semester exams to preparing for Santa’s arrival. While the children excitedly discuss how they plan to spend time with their families, the grown-ups have more serious thoughts on their minds.
Their concern is translated into long chats with the children, first individually and then as a group in the school assembly on matters concerning personal safety, staying hygienic and how best to handle difficult family situations like alcoholism, death of a relative, and violence.
“We feel nervous to have the children away from us but they need to be with their parents and siblings. They cannot lose touch with their families,” says Ms. Raji who juggles dual roles as head matron and class teacher for the pre-school. While there is plenty of anxiety in letting the children out of their sight and care, the caretakers also understand the importance of family bonding and re-connection, for both parents and children alike.
In my role as a part-time teacher at the school, and as a former student and a trainee counselor, I cannot overlook the need to talk openly to the children, especially on the dangers of being sexually abused. I had an opportunity to do so at the school assembly last week. I began my talk by deconstructing two of the most common myths around sexual abuse: the first being that only girls get abused, and the second, most abusers happen to be strangers. “70% of the time the person who commits sexual abuse is someone whom you trust and love. They are within the four walls of your home,” I shared my thoughts in an emphatic tone.
“A person can affectionately kiss you on your cheeks or forehead or your hand. Not your lips. Touching your breasts, your thighs, your buttocks and between your legs is not right,” I continued, trying to ignore the loud, shy giggles from the younger children in the front rows. The older children listened attentively even though I wasn’t telling them anything new. This conversation takes place every year when the vacations are just round the corner.  
Remembering stories of unpleasant experiences that my peers had encountered when we were growing up, I added, “The adults whom you trust, such as your parents or grandparents, cannot make you feel guilty for reporting abuse to them. If they try to blackmail you into keeping quiet about it, you should let your teachers and housemothers know about it.” I distinctly recalled the moment when my own grandmother yelled at me for complaining about her son -- my uncle – to the school staff about making me feel uncomfortable with his conduct when I was in the eighth grade. Maintaining family honor cannot be an excuse for silencing abuse. Abuse is always wrong. Nothing can make it right.
I’ve come to strongly support the culture in Shanti Bhavan of open discussion and transparency surrounding topics such as this though there are some who are of the belief that by talking to children about such issues, we unnecessarily pike their curiosity and mar their innocence. Children are the most vulnerable targets of abuse in any form, be it sexual, physical or mental. By educating them on this, we help them take the first step towards protecting themselves through awareness. Being aware means being conscious of their surroundings and relationships, especially when something is amiss.
By taking on a preventive approach, we help children arm themselves with not just the knowledge but also the courage to speak up when the perpetrator tries to manipulate them into silence. By failing to do so, we are allowing child abusers to walk away free. Childhoods are lost to the trauma of abuse. The scars remain for the rest of ones life.
It’s never too early to start the conversation.

The outpour of love and support my friends and I have received from many viewers around the world since the release of the Netflix docu-series, Daughters of Destiny, has been indeed humbling. Many seem to be interested in learning more about our lives, and in interacting with them I often find myself reflecting on all that shaped us to be daughters of destiny.
In 2011, I was in the midst of preparing for my final national exams which were to determine the kind of college I could join when I first met the film director, Vanessa Roth. Little did I know then that she was going to be an integral part of my life for the next seven years, silently observing all the happenings in the school through the lens of her camera and with her story-teller’s instinct. I was then seventeen years old and full of questions starting with my own immediate life.
In the beginning, I interacted with Vanessa as one would treat a guest, friendly but careful to give her a good impression. But it didn’t take long for me to let my guard down. Slowly I began to share intimate details about my life both at school and at home. She was understanding of the dreams and desires of a confused young girl quite anxious about her future.
At first I was terribly conscious of being on camera but enjoyed the attention nevertheless. As weeks turned into years, I got accustomed to the presence of the production team on campus. The moments we spent sharing meals, laughter and stories of our lives and of our two different countries and cultures grew into a special friendship.
Credit VR
Vanessa, with her simple and casual style of dressing and friendly nature, was adept at trivializing her presence even while being at the heart of all the action. Her unassuming ways helped me open up to my deep inner feelings and thoughts with the trust that I would be understood and not judged.
I saw the entire project as just another film team doing a story on Shanti Bhavan and didn’t quite understand its significance until it all came together as a four-part series that showcased our stories through its raw cultural, social and gender dynamics. Watching the film with a sense of detachment only deepened my appreciation for Dr. George, Ajit and the entire Shanti Bhavan family who helped transform my life from poverty to one of possibility.
I also got to visit the homes of my four friends for the first time on the screen. I got a better sense of the challenges they too encountered during vacations from school. I was struck by the realization that the film had captured each of us five girls --Theinmozhi, Preetha, Manjula, Karthika and myself -- at pivotal moments in our lives that had left marks in our personal histories.
We were at the threshold of embracing something new. Theinmozhi, the youngest of the five, was moving into adolescence with the typical confusions and questions about the changes happening to her both physically and emotionally. Preetha is seen struggling to handle her personal and professional expectations, and at times seems naturally lost. Manjula who is very driven by her goals is seen wonderfully making the transition from a school girl to a trainee nurse. Through Karthika, we see a passionate aspiring lawyer  acting upon her dreams to be a human rights advocate as she tries to help her community gain sole rights to the quarry land they lived on for many years. In me, you see a girl trying to follow her own heart even when it comes in conflict with the dreams and expectations of her family.
Our individual battles don’t stand isolated from the larger socio-economic influences of poverty, caste discrimination, gender bias and family expectations derived from conservative and traditional beliefs. The conflict of differing belief systems in the two worlds we are a part of is brought out quite distinctly. For instance, while Manjula’s grandfather believes that it is ‘useless to educate a girl’, Dr. George continues to support female education through the Shanti Bhavan program. While my grandmother thinks I should settle down in the village and marry her son, I go on to complete college and travel a path that she nor any other woman in our family has ever had the chance to tread upon.
The fight to strike a balance between these two worlds will be an ongoing one. But what is encouraging is that, as viewers might have noticed by the end of the fourth series, each of the girls has found a clear footing, if not many of the answers to our inner fears. Even in the darkest moments, we will find light through the voice of our education.  We will carry with us the lessons of our upbringing and live the rest of our lives with a sense of personal agency that we gained through our formative years at Shanti Bhavan.  
Haneli barediddu -- what is written on the forehead -- cannot be our destiny. I am responsible for the choices I make and the paths I choose to traverse to create the arc of my fate and the generational change that now starts with me in my family.

Others often ask me about my father. Those who have read my book seem puzzled by the amalgam of his contrasting personality traits: kind and cunning; loving and hurtful; aggressive and submissive; hopeful and fatalistic; selfless and selfish. He is all of these and more. He changes his ‘colour’ with the situation, just like a chameleon.
I still remember how his observant eyes closely scanned the foliage around us as we spoke during those afternoons we spent in the woods just by ourselves. I was sixteen then and deeply troubled by how little I knew about the man I called ‘father”. Acts of violence, deceit, emotional abuse and unfaithfulness to his wife that defined him were told to me by my grandmother and mother when I was growing up. Those tales ensured that I kept a distance from him and relegated him to the role of the oppressor, not considering the fact he too was at the receiving end of oppression from his short-tempered father, money-lenders and the police.
My father on guard for wild elephants 
In the woods, while his mind was focused on answering my endless questions, his senses were concentrated elsewhere – his ears picking up the slightest sounds from within the thicket and his eyes duly set on the wilderness before him. He had never mastered the art of staying still or submitting himself wholly to the present. He was always in motion even while stationary.
With each inquisitive question I asked, he was transported to his past against his own will. If he did feel sad or uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. He was adept at concealing his feelings. When my father spoke of his painful past -- like the occasions when the landlord he was working for whipped him for not waking up on time to clean the cowshed --, a bright smile lit his face. A stark discrepancy between his verbal and non-verbal cues were accentuated by the simplicity of his stories of survival. Laughter was his balm, and it saved him the discomfort of coming to terms with his inner feelings and unfulfilled desires.
These days, my mother fights with my father over the fact that he is the first one I call to share news about my life. “Why does she tell you everything first?” she would complain to him bitterly, taking it as a personal hurt. I find it hard to explain to her that I simply enjoy listening to the ringing excitement in my father’s voice when I share news of my life back in the city. I almost feel like he gets to see my world through my experiences.
Sometimes I wonder if I finally found my father in the quiet sanctuary of the tall eucalyptus trees deep in the woods where he was most at peace with himself. Or among the tales of his lost childhood narrated to me with striking awkwardness. Having grown up not really knowing him, I was determined to break through the wall of emotional distance between us and get to understand the man behind the plethora of masks he wore with skill.
My book, ‘The Elephant Chaser’s Daughter,’ is a testimony to my appreciation and understanding of my father whom I finally got to know through the seven years it took to compile and write my story. Once when someone asked me the question, “What has the book given you?” I promptly replied without a second thought, “Among other things, it gave my father back to me.” 

Anyone who visits the new pre-schoolers is met with the same question, “When will my parents come to take me home?” followed by the earnest plea, “Please ask my mother and father to take me back.” With comforting words, residential caretakers calm down the bawling four year olds when they burst into a loud chorus of cries. They work with clever answers, false promises, and ultimately, tempting chocolates.

This afternoon, as I moved from cot to cot trying to cajole the newcomers into taking a nap, I couldn’t help reminiscing on my own early days at the school back in 1997.  My first night was quite an event. Instead of the cold dung-coated floor of my hut, I slept on a warm cot; my mother’s presence by my side was replaced by a soft stuffed doll. But the elevated height of the cot scared me and the pretty stuffed doll was an empty comfort. I cried myself to sleep that night.

But over time, like the other children in my class, thoughts of home grew less painful as my mind was taken over by the endless fun things and activities we had in school -- the variety of dishes and snacks we were served five times a day to be eaten with spoon and fork, learning to use crayons and pencils, collecting bird feathers during our long nature walks, learning to read and sing rhymes, and enjoying the hot showers we were given in the evening after play. 



It was exciting to speak in English which sounded fancy. I did not realize that I was gradually losing fluency in my mother tongue, Kannada. This still bothers me today. But during my first vacation from school, my family was relieved to see that I had completely forgotten the long list of local foul words I had picked up from them during their fights. They also noticed that a strange calmness had set into my otherwise wild, untamed spirit.

Now as I watch the staff work with the pre-schoolers, I understand how challenging it is to bring up young children and help them adjust to their strange surroundings. In turn, the children will learn to adopt this new way of living which is startlingly different to what they were used to back in their villages.
This community of people at Shanti Bhavan will slowly become their second family, and over time, they will love this place as their own just as I did. 

It’s an ordinary day in my village.
I’m waiting out the scorching afternoon heat, trying to take a nap on the cool cement floor of my grandmother’s house. The stillness all around has lulled my two-year old cousin sister to sleep in the sari cradle that hangs from the wooden rafter in the centre of the room.
But suddenly, the little girl lets out a wail as her peaceful slumber is broken by the loud, urgent cry of the scrap dealer passing by. “Old steel vessels. Paper. Broken parts,” he repeatedly calls out in a sing song manner that is strangely pleasing to the ear.
“Tell him to wait,” my grandmother instructs my brother and hurries to the rear of the house where a pile of discarded materials is heaped.
I eagerly follow her and help rummage through the dusty collection of odd items -- a deflated cycle tyre, a dented coffee pot, a broken ladle, my uncle’s rusty shaving kit, several of my used notebooks from college, and a pair of torn rubber slippers. “He weighs the paper in kilos. Sometimes he gives you new vessels in exchange for the old ones,” my grandmother says, as she greedily sorts through our waste.
“Do you want to give away this?” I ask in disbelief, pointing to a light red plastic can that she had overlooked in her excitement at selling my notebooks in exchange for money. I can sense her hesitancy as she peers quietly for a moment at it with her single good eye, debating whether to part with this can that had been a loyal companion to her for more than thirty years.
I still remember those evenings when village folk, both young and old, and men and women, would stop by our house to buy liquor from my grandmother after a long day of toiling as coolies on landlords’ fields. Afraid of letting the men into her house where her young, unmarried daughters lived, she would always stop them at the doorstep and tactfully finish the transaction.
Grandmother would carefully measure the quantity and pour them a glass of liquor from the red can before collecting the precious coins they handed over to her. She’d send them off after letting them taste her homemade lemon pickle. I wondered whether the pickle was a business trick to attract customers or it was done out of pity for those poor souls.
“I saved every penny I earned from the liquor business to send your uncles and aunts to school and feed and clothe them. I didn’t waste money. I built this house with my savings,” she’d often say when our conversations turned to our family’s interesting past. I never fail to notice the pride in her voice when she speaks of the days when she single-handedly ran the liquor business against all odds -- the risk of getting caught by the police for engaging in an illegal trade, or fighting out the strong competition from neighbours who too engaged in the same business.
Grandfather once teased her for always sleeping with the can right next to her head at night, almost as though she was afraid of having it stolen from her. In retort she said, “This is what keeps our stomachs full. Not what you earn from selling firewood.” Her reply silenced him instantly with the truth in her words. Having grown into the matriarch of the family, she’d built a reputation for herself as having a tongue that was as sharp as a sword.
“Don’t sell the can. I want to show it to my future children too. Our family history is in it,” I say, ending her struggle to make a decision. I put the can aside. Grandmother nods her head and smiles affectionately at me. I would never want to forget our roots.
The scrap dealer approaches us and we get busy trading the old for the new.

It's the last day of school for the elementary grades.
I fill my steel cup with hot tea and walk over to the tables where the little kindergarteners and first- graders are seated in the dining hall. From the satisfied looks on their faces I can tell that they're thoroughly enjoying the fresh slices of cucumber that they're having for their evening snack.

"So are you excited to go home tomorrow?" I ask, settling into the empty chair at the corner of the table. Heads nod in answer and I receive a chorus of a loud, happy 'yes.' But five year old, Keerthika, takes me completely by surprise when she comes over to me and says in her usual soft voice, "I don't want to go home."

The inquisitive psychologist in me immediately grows alert. I place an arm around her waist and ask her in a gentle yet concerned tone, "Why don't you want to go home, darling?" I fear I already know what her answer might be.
I am only too aware of what life is like for this child back at home under the care of an alcoholic father who drinks away his earnings as a mere labourer in a nearby construction site and beats his wife in his drunken rage in his children's presence.
But Keerthika is not alone.
Her friends, peers and the rest of the children at Shanti Bhavan have faced similar problems back at home -- physical and emotional abuse by an alcoholic parent, abandonment by either or both parents, loved ones resorting to suicide to escape accumulating debt, severe financial constraints that impinge on the peace at home, hunger, bonded labour, caste discrimination and other tough social issues.
These children are too young right now to control what goes on in their lives back at home but are old enough to remember them. I am no stranger to the feeling of gnawing powerlessness that accompanies my childhood memories of the discord at home. I know it only too well, having grown up just like Keerthika, in a family that was fraught by alcoholism and abuse. It is this knowledge that makes me want to comfort the child and try to protect her in any way I can.
"Keerthika, why don't you want to go home?" I ask again as the little girl had completely forgotten to answer me in her excitement at seeing another slice of juicy cucumber that is served onto her plate.
"I want to stay here. I like Shanti Bhavan," she says with a broad smile and takes a long, greedy bite.
 I sigh in relief. I'm glad that she is okay and I feel silly inside.

Hi everyone! I’m really excited to return to blogging. A lot has happened since I last wrote and I look forward to sharing all the news on my life back here in India.

After an enrichening journey through college for the past two years, I’m finally in the last semester of my Master’s program in Psychological Counseling and will graduate this May. The friendships and bonds I’ve built at Montfort are a great source of joy.  
I’ve found my sense of purpose working with children in distress. I wish to specialize in child and adolescent couseling because of the importance of early intervention in addressing psychological problems.
Apart from academics, I spend a lot of time at Shanti Bhavan with my peers and caretakers who are family to me. They constantly encourage me to try harder at the things I set out to do.  While on campus, I love reading bedtime stories for the little pre-schoolers and passing on my knowledge of psychology to the residential caretakers who play the role of surrogate parents for the children.
Unlike before, I’ve begun to visit my family back in my hometown in rural Karnataka more often. They look forward to my visits to hear stories about my life not just at college and in Shanti Bhavan but also about all the dreams I have for my future. I’ve learnt to accept my role as the ‘peacemaker’ in the family with humility.  
I thank each one of you for being a part of my life’s journey. Cheers to new beginnings!  

My Mother, Sarophina If you ever get to meet my mother, Sarophina, you’ll notice the way her accent lugs her attempt to speak English. Each word is calculated and every sentence weighs down with  her determination to get it right. She picked up a little bit of the language when she was  working as a housemaid abroad.
My mother gave up on education at the age of fourteen. She was forced to join the family’s local business as a liquor hunter. At dusk, she would pick up a fairly large rubber tube and set out to fetch liquor from sellers. Dressed in her older brother’s faded khaki shorts and pants she looked like a little ruffian who meant business. But the danger of getting caught by the police always followed her like a shadow. Her charm and cunning ways at full display, older men could not turn her down. “It’s the way you approach people and speak to them that makes the difference,” she’d tell me in later years.
My mother has been good at imparting advice, having imbibed life’s lessons the hard way. I hardly spent much time with her growing up as she was often away as a housemaid at different homes. The years we were living apart caused me to drift away from her emotionally.
Ever since my sister died three years ago, she has been depressed. But her strong voice, quick ways, clever talk and a tenacious spirit to fight the odds hide the reality of her grieving state. After long hours of questioning for my book, I finally got to understand my mother better. I am now less judgmental of her stubborn ways, and her constant habit of lying and seeking sympathy. But a little understanding, a comforting hug and a listening ear would turn her into a loving woman.