Kanchan Yadav

When I think of school mornings, I remember two things: the weight of my school bag, and the tug of my Dadi’s hands gently braiding my waist-length hair. Back then, I used to sit cross-legged on the floor, grumbling about how long it took, while she sat behind me on the edge of the bed, her fingers moving with rhythmic precision. Without fail, each day, she would tell me the same story—word for word, with the same pauses, the same expressions. "Beta, jaise paudhon ko paani nahi doge toh wo nahi ugte, waise hi agar baalon ko tel nahi doge toh wo nahi badhenge." (If you don’t water plants, they don’t grow. Likewise, if you don’t oil your hair, it won’t grow.) And just like every day, I would pretend to hear it for the first time. Truth be told, I never liked oiling my hair. It made my scalp feel greasy, and my hair, sticky and outdated. It wasn’t cool . While she lovingly warmed up coconut oil and massaged my head like it was a sacred ritual, I was already dreaming of coll...

It was my second visit to Jhabua in November 2024. As I sat with Nitin ji, engrossed in conversations that often wove seamlessly between development and grassroots transformation, he shared an idea that sparked curiosity within me. He spoke of an internship programme - Jatan, a gateway for individuals to not just observe rural life but to immerse themselves in its rhythm, to feel its pulse, and eventually become a part of the grand narrative of change. At the time, I listened with interest, appreciating the vision but unaware of how deeply it would soon intertwine with my own journey. The conversation took its own course, but what I didn’t know then was that I was on the verge of being part of something historic -- the Gram Samruddhi Navkumbh, a confluence that would leave an indelible mark on my perception of grassroots leadership and collective empowerment. The Navkumbh was a sight to behold, over 5,000 village leaders from Jhabua and Alirajpur, standing together as custodia...

Every time I step into a railway station, an odd wave of anxiety grips me. It doesn’t matter whether I’m there to board a train, drop someone off, or simply receive a loved one- the feeling remains stubbornly intact, like an unwelcome companion. The cacophony of hurried footsteps, the blaring announcements, the sight of people navigating their way through the maze of platforms- it all adds to the unease. For the past six to seven months, I’ve travelled alone by train almost every month, yet the nervousness refuses to fade. The first time I embarked on a solo train journey, I assumed it was the unfamiliarity that caused the unease. I told myself that with time, I would adapt, that the repetitive process of booking tickets, checking seat numbers, and boarding would eventually dull the nervous edges. But as each month passes, I realise that nothing has changed. It’s strange how a place brimming with movement and life can feel so overwhelming. The station is a hub of countless stories- tea...