Every evening when the clock strikes six, I take my young daughters (both under 5) to the balcony. Like millions across the world living through this pandemic, it’s their connect with the outside. But there’s more to our sundowner ritual. Right below our balcony a long queue of humans starts building up, keeping of course the adequate distance. A young child runs out barefooted yet gleeful, holding a steel plate in his tiny fist. A masked, sari clad woman, a tired fruit vendor all stand patiently in a queue. We live close to a government school where in good times we trooped down to cast our votes. At the time of this pandemic, it’s a lifeline for the poor. A young man in khaki scoops out dollops of hot rice and daal as the rickshaw puller, the migrant, the construction worker, stop for this free meal at the end of a long hot day. As we sit down for our evening meal, I make sure my daughters see this sight; it’s a grim reminder of our privileged lockdown.
At first the luxury of stay at home, Zoom meetings and a refrigerator packed with food kept us comforted as a family. We slowed down our frenetic lives, indulged in mindful parenting and shared pictures of burnt toast and avocado on Instagram. But a few days into the lockdown and staring at the daily lines of the poor being fed brought a strange sense of despair. What could we do? How could we help, or contribute instead of continue to feel wretched about our state of privilege.
Friends asked us - how are you juggling work from home and an attention-seeking toddler? At first it seemed entertaining to share our stories – the evening yoga, the make-your-own pizza photos on Facebook as we conquered new heights of culinary achievements and reached a crescendo in online piano classes. But all our stories had soon acquired a falsetto. The despair inside me was only building up.
I tossed and turned every night with a sense of helplessness. In ordinary times perhaps we could have stepped out and helped in some way or volunteered our time? Clearly there were others too feeling the discomfort. Eventually through like-minded friends, we reached out to NGOs who were making a difference to see how we could help, and we did.
'I Am Going to Sell My Books'
My older one wanted to help too. Tiya is five going six and crazy about story telling. Her father and she sit every morning with a box of paints, and as the stories pour out, he records them on the phone as she paints. With the confidence of a five year old one night Tiya said to me, “I am going to sell my books”. There are two possessions Tiya is proud of - her ten books that she has made with her own illustrations, and her ceramic piggy bank that she says is “full of hundreds of tens of coins”. I wasn’t sure if the coins would be worth anything, but the books perhaps could help?
And that’s how I came to write this piece. With her permission we have put out Tiya’s books for free downloads. She wants to use them to to create awareness and raise funds for NGOs who are feeding the poor or helping migrant workers through this lockdown.
I don’t know how much money Tiya will raise or whether her books are worth anything. But I am hoping that this endeavour will teach her a vital lesson - that this lockdown is more than just about baking cookies or spending time as a family. It’s about her role in the world as a privileged individual.
Tiya’s books are available for anyone. Free to download as and when you like on the following link:
(Bahar Dutt is an award-winning environment journalist and author, who lives in New Delhi.)
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