Rural India is not about giving up, It’s about hope, optimism, and the unstoppable journey of progress
It was 10:00 am, and I was miles from my usual post, visiting fellow SBI Youth for India (YFI) Fellows in Dedtalai, a small town 63 kilometers southeast of Khandwa. The remote location instantly became a problem: my carrier, Jio, had no signal. I was using my friend’s Wi-Fi when the message arrived. It was an urgent WhatsApp from the Cluster Manager (CM), demanding a call ASAP and instructing me to meet the entire Pandhana NGO team in Khandwa.
By 11:30 AM, I was walking into The Blue Orchid hotel. The meeting with the CM was brief; the true purpose of the trip became clear moments later when the NGO’s HR representative pulled me aside. The discussion was about my work, and her tone was instantly harsh.
“You have to do what the NGO tells you,” she stated, cutting straight to the core of the issue.
I pushed back, genuinely confused. “I don’t follow. What is the problem?”
“You have to follow everything you are told.”
My frustration, built up over months of stagnation, erupted. “Ma’am, I have only 7 months left in my fellowship. I haven’t been able to achieve anything due to sheer bureaucracy. Nothing is happening on the ground.”
Her response escalated the tension, her voice taking on a subtly threatening edge. “You think you are great, hmm? You think you know everything?”
I held her gaze, my expression unwavering, a small, weary smile crossing my face.
“What’s funny?” she demanded.
“Ma’am,” I replied, my voice steady despite the adrenaline. “I ask for work, I’m wrong to ask. I correct something, I’m wrong. I take the initiative to start a project, I’m wrong. What exactly do you want me to do?”
The question hung in the air — a challenge to the illogical system they were enforcing.
“You think you are over smart,” she sneered, her voice laced with finality.
I offered no reply. Silence was the only meaningful response left, a refusal to engage in the pettiness of the personal attack.
“I’ll make sure I complain to the YFI team,” she threatened.
Still, I said nothing. The HR representative’s words had ceased to matter; the battle wasn’t about her validation, but the work itself. I simply picked up my bags, turned on my heel, and walked out of The Blue Orchid hotel.
Stepping away, the path ahead became intensely clear.
If I didn’t act now — if I didn’t manage to start something better, something that proved the possibility of impact outside their suffocating bureaucracy — I knew I would never forgive myself.
The walk out was not an exit from the fellowship, but a declaration of independence for the work.
The confrontation at the hotel was the breaking point. It became clear that continuing the NGO work was impossible; their vision lacked conviction, and the pervasive bureaucracy had stifled any chance of real progress. My fellowship had hit a wall.
Instead of fighting a dead-end system, I made a decisive pivot: I chose to pursue an idea of my own. That sudden, risky decision to abandon the prescribed path and carve my own entrepreneurial route became the unexpected first step toward creating something of value.
It was a choice born of frustration, but one that ultimately led to tangible, impactful work
My journey began with a group of women in Udaypur village, located 15 Km to the south of Pandhana, who were always eager to try something new. We brainstormed ideas for a start-up, and I suggested making Sanjories, a sweet pastry filled with coconut, to sell at the local market. They were a little skeptical at first, but with nothing to lose, they agreed.
I invested ₹500, we sourced our ingredients, and the work began. That evening was one I’ll never forget. It was more than just a preparation session — it was a gathering of families, where laughter and stories were shared, creating a sense of community and excitement.
The next day, we headed to the Ghatakhedi market, a bustling Thursday bazaar filled with everything from hawkers and butchers to vegetable sellers and medicine men. Four women, their children, and I set up our small stall. We were met with many stares and even some rude comments, but we were not deterred. We were determined to sell our product.
We had created 300 packets, each priced at ₹5, consisting of a papad, four Sanjories, and a small mixture. As the day went on, a passerby sneered and made a cruel comment, but one of the women responded with a powerful line:
“Hum yaha chori to nahi kar rahee hai, imandari se kam kar rahe hai” (“We have not come here to steal, we are working honestly”).
Her words were a testament to their spirit. How could anyone ever hold these women back?
By the end of the afternoon, we had only sold five packets. We distributed the rest to the villagers. Even with the low sales, it was one of the happiest days of my life. You might wonder why.
Because rural India is not about giving up. It’s about hope, optimism, and the unstoppable journey of progress. It’s the beating heart of India, and these women showed me what that truly means.
Our Journey was just Beginning.