Ending before it began: a NGO fellowship’s crossroads
Smart people learn from their mistakes, smarter people learn from others mistakes but the smartest learn to predict, analyse , evaluate, prepare and act before any mistake is made
After completing my MBA from Christ University, I was ready to take on the business world. I decided to join a real estate startup, eager to apply my new skills. The reality, however, was a lot tougher than I imagined. I couldn’t seem to sell a single property.
Finally, a deal came through, and I was thrilled. But my excitement quickly turned to frustration. After the deal was done, I found out that crucial paperwork from the legal and IT departments wasn’t completed. I had been told it was all taken care of, but it wasn’t, and no one had bothered to tell me. The client lost money, and the deal fell apart.
The final blow came when a simple closing I was handed fell through. I had done my due diligence, but the CEO hadn’t done his, and the client walked away. It was a harsh welcome to the corporate world and after 6 months just before I was about to leave, my supervisor pulled me aside and said…
“Aubrey, your greatest learning from here is that you learned not how to manage but how NOT to “
After a series of career moves, I found my path leading to a new and meaningful adventure: the SBI Youth for India (YFI) fellowship. This isn’t your typical 9-to-5. It’s a 13-month journey that places you in the heart of rural India, working alongside an NGO to create real, lasting change.
I had a very clear reason for choosing the NGO I did. The previous fellow was moving on, and instead of starting a new project from scratch, I wanted to build on her existing work. The project was located in Pandhana, a small town located in the district of Khandwa in Madhya Pradesh.
This was about more than just a project; it was about ensuring its sustainability. The fellow before her had done the same, and now it was my turn to carry the torch.
This focus on sustainability was a key factor for both me and the NGO. They had made a commitment to take ownership of the project, making it a permanent part of their mission and securing its funding for the long run.
So, what was this project all about? It centered on creating salt bricks and mineral mixtures for animal feed. This simple but impactful idea had a dual purpose: it was designed to create a source of income and employment for women in several villages, while also significantly improving the health of their livestock. The healthier the animals, the greater their milk output, providing a direct benefit to the community.
This is where the problems started
My predecessor had warned me. “It’s a process,” she said, describing the tedious procedures and frustrating pace of working with the NGO. She blamed the organization’s lack of experience and, in her words, a “humongous ego” . I soon learned what she meant. There were times when she’d wait for months for a simple answer. Accountability was non-existent, and foresight was a foreign concept.
My task was to help market the product. I quickly realized that before I could market anything, I needed to understand the current sales process. What I found was a mess.
There were no existing procedures for sales or marketing. With a steady stream of funding, accountability had simply fallen by the wayside. I discovered the NGO was primarily selling to itself and its sister concerns. Orders were few and far between, and to make matters worse, those same sister concerns were starting to open their own production plants. The most critical question lingered: who would actually buy our product?
The real people who needed it — the farmers — weren’t getting a consistent supply due to poor manufacturing and marketing. When I brought these issues to the attention of my colleagues, I was bluntly told to “mind my own business.” It was a disheartening welcome to the realities of the fellowship.
I decided to take matters into my own hands. I couldn’t just sit there watching the project fail. I started traveling from village to village, leaving the salt bricks with small shop owners. My goal was to create a chain of mini-stores that would keep the products in stock and accessible to farmers. It seemed like a simple, effective solution.
But just 15 days later, I was told to stop. “The NGO won’t do that once you leave,” they said. It was a disheartening message.
What was I supposed to do during my 13 months here? Just sit and wait?
One evening, the HR manager summoned me. “This is only a 13-month fellowship,” she warned. “You don’t need to poke your nose into everything.” I asked her to define my role. What was I actually supposed to do? Her answer was blunt: “Just do what you’re told.” The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I had just been told to mind my own business, yet now I was being told to just follow orders.
Realizing that my initial approach wasn’t going to work, I pivoted. I moved on to the poultry side of things. My new task was to help farmers and women’s self-help groups learn how to raise chickens as an alternative source of livelihood. It was a fresh start, a different kind of challenge, and hopefully, one where I could actually make a difference.
When I pivoted to the poultry project, I was walking into a situation that had started just a few months before I arrived in August 2017. The project’s goal was to provide an alternative source of livelihood for villagers. To kick things off, the NGO had given 18 households 50 chicks each during the monsoon season.
The results, however, were disastrous. The chicks were dying at an alarming rate. A quick look at the numbers revealed a staggering 87.88% mortality rate.
What went wrong? It was a combination of factors:
- Poor upkeep of the sheds: The coops weren’t properly maintained, leaving the chicks vulnerable to disease and the elements.
- Sickness: Lack of proper care and sanitation meant illnesses spread quickly through the flocks.
The NGO’s wanted to reintroduce indigenous chicken breeds, specifically the Desi Satpuda and, if possible, the Kadaknath. The Kadaknath, a breed known for its black meat and high protein content, even has a Geographic Indication (GI) tag, which helps protect and promote its unique origin.
The focus on the Desi Satpuda chicken was meant to be a step in the right direction, but the farmers weren’t seeing the promised profits. Many of them were selling their chickens for as little as ₹110, suffering significant losses.
As a result, many households closed down their poultry operations.
The Kadaknath breed, while a premium, free-range option, was not a viable alternative for most. It required more specialized care and was a huge jump for farmers who were already struggling.
Meanwhile, the NGO remained staunchly against introducing the broiler variety, a far more profitable and common option for commercial farming. I even traveled to Bhopal, the capital of Madhya Pradesh, with some NGO representatives to visit a company called Saguna Chicken. I had hoped to show them the financial viability of broiler farming, using Saguna’s farms as a case study.
Despite the trip, nothing came of it. It became clear that the NGO’s opposition to broilers was a major roadblock, even if it meant sacrificing the project’s financial sustainability for the farmers.
Three months into the fellowship, it was time for the first official review with SBI. This was my chance to present everything I’d seen and done. I laid out the problems with the salt bricks and the struggles with the poultry project. But it was the last slide that truly made an impact.
In bold letters, it simply read:
I do not wish to continue with this project.
The room went silent. A meeting was immediately called. I was told to find a different solution, to figure out another way forward.
When I returned to Pandhana, my field location, I was instructed to write an apology letter. I did, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was filled with doubt and frustration.
What was I supposed to do? How could I possibly do justice to this fellowship when it felt like every idea I had was being shut down? I questioned everything. Should I even continue? Where do I go from here? The path I thought I was on had just disappeared, and I had no idea what came next.