Nineteen years ago, Deepali Sahay walked away from Indian Idol without the trophy. But she never walked away from her dream. ❤️

From singing as a child in Bihar to performing on countless stages, exploring acting and direction, and giving Bhojpuri folk music a fresh identity, she kept showing up, even when success took its time.

Today, her voice has reached millions, and she has sung for A. R. Rahman. Her journey is proof that dreams don’t expire, they reward those who refuse to quit. 🎶

#DeepaliSahay #IndianIdol #ARRahman #BhojpuriMusic #WomenInMusic #InspiringJourney #NeverGiveUp #SuccessStory #IndianMusic #SingerLife #Motivation #PositiveStories #MainVaapasAaunga #MusicJourney #TheBetterIndia

[Deepali Sahay, Indian Idol journey, Bhojpuri folk music, inspirational singer story, A R Rahman, Main Vaapas Aaunga, Indian singer success story, women in music India, singer perseverance, Bihar singer, Bhojpuri music artist, music career inspiration, Indian Idol contestant story, never give up story, inspirational music journey]

Who Is Deepali Sahay? Her Journey After Indian Idol
Deepali Sahay’s Success Story From Indian Idol to A. R. Rahman
Inspiring Singer Story: She Never Gave Up on Music
How Deepali Sahay Revived Bhojpuri Folk Music
Indian Idol Contestant Who Turned Rejection Into Success

Trigger Warning: This story includes references to sexual assault and the emotional impact of trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

As part of our Pride Month series, we are spotlighting stories of courage, identity, and belonging from LGBTQIA+ individuals across India. 

In this deeply personal first-person account, Kolkata-based human rights researcher, educator, dancer, and podcast creator Shovan Sinha Ray reflects on a life shaped by resilience — from surviving sexual assault and an HIV diagnosis to building communities through dance, advocacy, and storytelling. 

Through moments of pain, self-discovery, and acceptance, Shovan shares what it means to create belonging in a world that often asks people to hide parts of themselves. His story is a reminder that healing is rarely linear, but that hope, dignity, and connection can emerge from even the most difficult journeys. 

The day I thought my life had changed forever

I was pursuing my Master's in International Studies at Christ University and living in the university hostel. On the surface, life seemed to be moving forward. I attended classes, kept up with my academics, and spent every spare moment dancing. Yet beneath that routine, I was struggling.

In December 2018, I met someone I liked. He was a friend's friend, and one evening he called, sounding distressed. I went to meet him, believing he needed help. What happened next changed my life.

I was drugged and sexually assaulted by an unknown cab driver and the person I had trusted.

The memories of that night remain fragmented. I remember confusion and pain. I remember trying to make sense of what had happened. Most of all, I remember feeling completely alone.

For two days, I could barely move. Eventually, I gathered enough strength to return to the hostel and seek medical help. The driver who brought me back may never know it, but his kindness helped me get through one of the darkest moments of my life.

By the time I reached the clinic, more than 72 hours had passed. I did not know about PEP then. I was diagnosed with HIV that day.

PEP, or Post-Exposure Prophylaxis, is a short course of antiretroviral medication that can prevent HIV infection if taken within 72 hours of potential exposure.

Dr Praneeth and Dr Ashoojit counselled me with the compassion I desperately needed. I tried to appear calm and told myself everything would be fine. But the truth was that I was carrying a pain I did not yet know how to name, let alone heal from.

Looking back, I realise that day was not only about an HIV diagnosis. It was the beginning of a much longer journey of learning how to live, trust, love, and belong again.

How dance gave me community

Long before I was diagnosed with HIV, I was searching for a place where I could belong.

I was a frail child who survived serious health complications as an infant. Growing up, I often felt like I was being measured against expectations I could never meet. My dark skin was criticised. My sensitivity was mocked. 

When I experimented with nail paint or draped a dupatta around myself, I was reminded that I was not the son my family had hoped for. Praise was rare. Criticism was constant.

If there was one person who saw possibility where others saw disappointment, it was my grandfather. He encouraged my curiosity, nurtured my creativity, and introduced me to the power of stories. More importantly, he taught me that failure was not something to fear. 

"Go out into the world," he would say, "make mistakes, learn, and build a life you will be proud to look back on."

His faith in me became a quiet source of strength. But when you grow up hungry for affirmation, you often mistake attention for belonging.

At 13, I met an older boy who made me feel seen. The relationship taught me difficult lessons about power, boundaries, consent, and self-worth. Yet even in that period of confusion, I found purpose through dance.

What began as a personal refuge slowly became a way of creating community. I started teaching dance to young people from underserved backgrounds, including the children of waste pickers and newspaper vendors. 

Together, we built Kalchakra, a small initiative that used movement, performance, and storytelling to create confidence and connection. Years later, two of those students went on to become professional dancers and choreographers.

Kalchakra eventually evolved into Kalchakra: Dance Beyond Boundaries. This space now welcomes not only young dancers but also men challenging gender stereotypes and women who have spent decades putting their own dreams on hold. We believe in the philosophy of "anybody can dance."

For the first time, I understood something important. Belonging was not something I had to wait for other people to give me. It was something I could help create.

Finding my place, one space at a time

For years, I had been told what I was not. Through my work, I slowly began discovering what I could become.

Mentors like Sohini Das Hartmann gave me opportunities to contribute meaningfully long before I entered the workforce full-time. Through projects with the U S Consulate General Kolkata, I found myself working on education, inclusion, and community engagement. 

My commitment to community-led change also led me to volunteer with Gramiksha as Head of Research and Development. Today, as a Human Rights Researcher with ReportOUT, I continue engaging with questions of identity, dignity, belonging, and justice on a broader scale.

As I entered professional spaces, I also realised that inclusion is often more complicated than representation. There were moments when I felt welcomed as a symbol of diversity but not always understood as a whole person — with ambitions, ideas, leadership potential, and dreams of my own. 

Those experiences strengthened my belief that true inclusion goes beyond visibility. It requires trust, opportunity, mentorship, and a genuine willingness to invest in people's growth.

For queer people, people living with HIV, and many others from marginalised communities, acceptance is only the beginning. Real inclusion means being able to participate fully, contribute meaningfully, and be recognised for our work rather than reduced to a single identity.

There were opportunities I chose not to pursue, workplaces I chose to leave, and relationships I chose not to hold on to. Yet each of them taught me that self-respect often requires courage before it brings clarity. Today, I no longer see those moments as setbacks. I see them as invitations to create something more aligned with who I am and what I value.

Living with HIV

Living openly with HIV has taught me that stigma often causes more harm than the virus itself. While medical science has transformed what it means to live with HIV, social attitudes have not always evolved at the same pace.

Some opportunities seemed to disappear after disclosure. Some conversations became noticeably different. There were moments when I found myself explaining my condition more than my capabilities. I have watched people openly discuss diversity and inclusion, yet struggle to make space for the realities of living with HIV.

These experiences reinforced a difficult truth: representation alone is not enough. We need workplaces, institutions, and communities that move beyond awareness and actively create environments where people living with HIV can participate fully, lead confidently, and thrive without fear.

Creating the conversations I once needed

Hear Queer Podcast emerged from a simple question: What would have happened if I had heard stories like mine while growing up?

One of those people who helped me turn the corner was Ben Collins, who would later become an advisor to Hear Queer. 

Something he told me fundamentally changed how I approached both life and the podcast: "Shovan, you are a great guy. But you know what? You don't always have to start from zero. Start from where people left off. Don't be so stuck to things and your way of doing things. Open up. Embrace. Adapt."

Hear Queer launched in September 2024 and has released five episodes so far, with two more in post-production. We have hosted seven guests — educators, advocates, artists, and community leaders — spending nothing except our hearts and our time. Every follower has come through word of mouth.

The response has been encouraging. On Instagram alone, the platform has generated over 36,797 views, with our highest-performing content reaching nearly 10,000 views. Our audience is primarily young adults aged 25–34, based largely in India, with viewers also engaging from the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, and the Netherlands.

Our first episode featured Aniket, Mr Gay India finalist of 2026. 

One viewer commented: "When did you mature so much bro? I remember a calm, shy guy visiting my house… God bless." Another simply wrote: "But we accepted you, boy." Those comments reflected something larger than the podcast — acceptance, belonging, and the possibility of dialogue.

The initiative has also contributed to the UNAIDS and International AIDS Society's U=U Dance Challenge, and has had the privilege of engaging with voices such as novelist Kiran Bhat, while advocates including Vishal Pinjani and Yasir Khan, founder of HIV Buddies, have expressed support and interest.

More than anything, Hear Queer has reaffirmed my belief that storytelling cannot erase pain, but it can reduce isolation. If even one person feels less alone after hearing a conversation, the platform has served its purpose.

The journey is not over

Perhaps the most unexpected part of this journey has been what is happening within my own family. We are having conversations that would have been impossible a few years ago. There are still disagreements. There is still hurt.

But there is also something new: a willingness to engage. For the first time, we are not trying to change one another. We are trying to find a middle ground.

As I prepare to begin my journey as a Teach For India Fellow and continue building Hear Queer, I carry that lesson with me. Change rarely happens all at once. It often begins with the courage to have difficult conversations and the patience to keep showing up for them.

The journey home to myself has been long. But if it has taught me anything, it is that belonging is not something we wait to be given.

It is something we create within ourselves, negotiate with the world around us, and extend to others. Every conversation, every story, and every act of courage brings us one step closer to that possibility. If I can belong, you can too.

All images courtesy of Shovan Sinha Ray

Every day, Aavi is discovering that even the smallest steps can carry the biggest kind of courage.

At just three years old, she is learning to walk again with a prosthetic leg — not as a return to who she was, but as a beautiful new beginning of what she can do. 

At an age when most children are just beginning to explore the world with curiosity and play, Aavi is learning something far more complex — how to walk again, one determined step at a time.

A life rewritten in small steps

Aavi’s life changed suddenly after a devastating bus accident. In the aftermath, doctors had to perform a below-knee amputation on one leg to save her life. Her other leg was also severely injured and required two metal rods to rebuild the broken bone.

In a matter of moments, her world turned into hospital rooms, surgeries, and recovery routines — a reality no child is expected to understand, let alone endure.

And yet, through it all, the one thing that stayed steady was her willingness to keep trying.

Learning a new way to move forward

Today, Aavi is adapting to a prosthetic leg and slowly learning how to walk again. Each attempt feels new, each step takes effort, and even standing up becomes a small achievement worth celebrating.

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Her mother says what stands out most is how naturally she keeps going back to trying, even when it is difficult. Despite everything her body has been through, Aavi continues to take things day by day, slowly building her confidence again.

“She is quietly keeping her head up and moving forward,” her mother shares, adding that the family began documenting her progress to share hope and perspective with others.

Small steps, big lessons

Aavi’s journey is still unfolding, but what stays with people is not just what happened to her, it is how she responds to each new challenge.

With every small step, she is learning balance, trust in her body again, and the simple joy of standing a little longer than yesterday.

And maybe that is what courage looks like here, not something big or distant, but something that shows up every day in the effort to try once more.

When Manoj Prabhakar Mahajan wants to know whether rain is likely over his fields, he no longer waits for a visit from an agriculture officer or calls around for advice.

Instead, the farmer from Uparwahi village in Maharashtra's Kalmeshwar taluka opens an app, speaks in Marathi, and receives guidance within seconds.

For Mahajan, who is also the director of Nayra Farmer Producer Company, that simple voice interaction reflects a significant shift: agricultural information is becoming easier to access for thousands of farmers, regardless of their education level or familiarity with technology.

Mahajan is among the more than 1.06 lakh farmers in Nagpur district who have registered on MahaVISTAAR-AI, Maharashtra's artificial intelligence-powered farm advisory platform. The district currently leads Vidarbha in registrations, as the app crosses 10 lakh downloads across the state.

Speaking the farmer's language

Before MahaVISTAAR-AI, farmers like Mahajan often relied on a familiar network of calls and personal contacts.

If dark clouds appeared unexpectedly, he would phone fellow farmers to compare local weather conditions. If pests affected his cotton crop, he might travel to the agriculture office, consult a pesticide dealer, or wait for an extension worker to visit his village.

Today, his routine is much simpler.

Each morning, he opens the app, asks in Marathi whether rain is expected over the next few days, and receives an instant advisory. He can also upload photographs of crop issues and seek guidance on pest management without leaving his field.

Launched on 21 May 2025 by the Maharashtra Government in collaboration with the Project on Climate Resilient Agriculture (PoCRA), MahaVISTAAR-AI brings together weather forecasts, crop advisories, market information, and government services on a single platform.

Farmers can register using a mobile number and OTP before selecting their district, taluka and village. Once enrolled, they can access guidance throughout the crop cycle, from sowing decisions and irrigation planning to pest management and pesticide use.

One of the app's most popular features is its voice-enabled interface.

While smartphones and internet access have become increasingly common in rural India, many farmers still face challenges navigating digital platforms. Reading-heavy interfaces and unfamiliar technology can often become barriers.

Voice-based AI is helping bridge that gap by allowing farmers to ask questions in their own language and receive answers instantly.

From weather forecasts to crop advice

The platform's appeal lies in its usefulness for everyday farm decisions.

A farmer noticing signs of pest damage can seek immediate guidance. Another can check the weather forecast before planning irrigation or spraying crops.

That convenience appears to be driving adoption.

Nagpur currently leads Vidarbha with 1,06,287 registrations. Chandrapur follows with 1,04,395 registrations, while Wardha has recorded 78,609 users. Gondia has 73,105 registrations, Bhandara 71,706, and Gadchiroli 41,334.

Within Nagpur district, Parseoni has emerged as the most active taluka with 11,896 registrations. Kalmeshwar follows with 10,145 registrations, while Katol has recorded 10,020 users.

Farmers already looking ahead

Even as registrations continue to grow, some farmers are already thinking about what could come next.

Many believe integrating the service with WhatsApp could make it even more accessible.

Currently, farmers can upload crop photographs through the app. A WhatsApp-based system could also allow them to share soil test reports and receive tailored recommendations on soil health, nutrient management and fertiliser use.

Weather alerts and advisories could reach farmers directly through a platform they already use every day.

MahaVISTAAR has already reached more than 30 lakh farmers, making it one of India's largest AI-enabled agricultural advisory initiatives.

Challenges remain, including improving accuracy across regional dialects, increasing awareness and encouraging adoption among first-time users. Yet the platform's significance lies in its approach.

For decades, access to agricultural expertise often depended on literacy levels, geography or proximity to extension services.

Now, as the sun rises over fields in Kalmeshwar, Parseoni and Katol, farmers can ask a question and receive an answer before stepping into their fields.

In a profession where decisions are often shaped by weather, timing and uncertainty, technology is no longer asking farmers to learn a new language.

It is beginning to learn theirs.

Sources:

‘AI Farmer: 1.06 lakh farmers from Nagpur district embrace AI-powered guidance’: by Rohit Pawar, Published on 16 June 2026

‘30 Lakh Farmers Accessed Maha-Vistaar AI App’: by FinTech BizNews Service, Published on 22  February 2026

‘Global leaders endorse Maharashtra as global living lab for AI in agriculture’: by AgroSpectrum India, Published on 22 February 2026

In the village of Karkitchoo, about 13 kilometres from Kargil town in Ladakh, lives a man who has never sat in a classroom, and yet holds an honorary doctorate. 

Akhone Asgar Ali Basharat, now in his seventies, is a writer and poet of Balti, a language spoken in Ladakh and the Baltistan region of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. 

What began as a love for verse in his father's home has grown into a five-decade mission to document, preserve, and breathe life into a language that the census data show is steadily losing speakers.

His early education came from a madrassa (educational institution) his father established at their home in 1972, where students were taught Balti, Persian, and Arabic.

That beginning gave Basharat fluency across scripts and traditions, making him uniquely suited to compile and author literary works in a language with no known dominant institutional backing. 

He became interested in writing poetry around 1980, with his early works being Naat — poetry in praise of the Prophet Muhammad — and Manqabat, a Sufi devotional form.

From those beginnings, his writing expanded into the full cultural landscape of Balti life: its geography, oral histories, and the community divided by the Line of Control.

Five books and a shrinking language

Over more than 50 years of writing, Basharat has compiled three books and authored two more.

As a compiler, his works include Guldasta-e-Najaat, a collection of Balti Masnavi and Behra Taweel; Muhzinul Bukaa, a collection of Balti Marsia and Noha; and Raah-e-Behasht, an anthology of poetry by old Balti poets, including some works by Persian poets.

As an author, he has written two poetry collections, Guldastae Basharat and Bazme Basharat.

The urgency behind that body of work is not sentimental; it is statistical. The Balti language faced a speaker decline of 31.31% between the 2001 and 2011 censuses, and UNESCO classifies Balti as a vulnerable language spoken in both India and Pakistan. 

India is home to hundreds of indigenous languages under threat, but Balti's situation is particularly fraught because the community it belongs to is split across an international border that prevents the kind of free cultural exchange that might otherwise sustain it.

Taking Balti into classrooms

Basharat's literary journey received a significant boost when All India Radio's Kargil station launched in 1999; he was a regular at its poetry recitation programmes from the very first day. 

As a presenter and writer of radio programmes like Mehfil-e-Mushaira, he helped bring Balti poetry into homes across Jammu and Kashmir, much as other remarkable people of Kargil's AIR station have shaped the region's cultural life. 

Beyond the airwaves, his work entered formal education: between 2016 and 2017, he served on a committee that prepared the Balti language syllabus for Jammu and Kashmir Board of School Education (JKBOSE), and under his supervision, the basic Balti language textbook for NCERT was compiled.

In July 2024, the University of Ladakh conferred an honorary doctorate on Basharat at its inaugural convocation, in recognition of his efforts to preserve and promote the cultural heritage of the region.

The self-taught poet who received the Padma Shri 

In 2022, Basharat was conferred the Padma Shri, India's fourth-highest civilian honour, for his contributions to literature and education through the preservation of Balti, marking the first time the award had gone to a Balti writer. 

Other writers working to save endangered languages have received similar recognition from the state, but Basharat's case stood out: the honour came to a man who had never sat for a formal examination.

Basharat admitted he had never expected the award when he received the call about his nomination. Yet recognition did not resolve the practical struggles that define life as a writer in a minority language. 

A year after receiving the Padma Shri, he was still searching for the means to publish his latest anthology of Balti poetry, a substantial collection he described as highlighting multiple facets of the language and culture divided by the Line of Control.

India's palm-leaf manuscripts have the National Mission for Manuscripts behind them. Balti has Akhone Asgar Ali Basharat, working from a village in Kargil, hoping someone will fund the printing of his next book.

What sustains him is what started him: his father's influence, and the conviction that a language is not just a tool of communication but the vessel of everything a people know about themselves. It is the fear of cultural erosion, he says, that keeps him writing.

Sources:

'Akhon Asgar Ali Basharat gets Padma Shri': by the Administration of UT Ladakh, Published on 26 January 2022 

'The Unschooled Laureate: Akhone Asgar Ali's odyssey from Kargil village to Padma Shri fame': by Rising Kashmir, Published on 4 August 2024 

'A year after receiving Padma Shri, Balti author Akhone Asghar Ali Basharat struggles to get book published': by Awaz The Voice, Published on 22 December 2023

'Language and Culture Preservation in Kargil: A Focus on the Balti Language': Published in Cultural & Religious Studies Review, via Academia.edu

Originally reported and written in June 2023, this story has been republished as part of our archival content.

Trigger warning: This story contains mentions of violence, torture 

At a learning centre in Lumding, Assam, children from the local tribes come faithfully every day to engage in a slew of activities such as reading, writing and listening to stories told by the village grandmothers. Some of these children live at the centre itself, with their food taken care of by the attached community kitchen. There are also facilities for mothers who are victims of domestic violence to stay here. 

The centre is a hub of laughter, chatter and progress. Similar to this centre in Lumding, 160 others have been set up across Northeast India, West Bengal, Karnataka, and Goa. And at the helm of these Ananya Paul Dodmani, founder of Tribal Connect, a foundation working tirelessly to uplift and empower indigenous communities, like the Kunbis of Goa and Uttar Kannada, the Siddis in Karnataka and Karbi, Dima and Kuki tribes of Assam.

Ananya’s is a tale of valour, a journey of persisting every single day to ensure that tribal communities in India finally get the safe space and respect they deserve. 

‘It started when I was in school.’

The communities that Ananya works with have had a long history of being marginalised. For instance, the Siddi community remains among India’s most neglected tribes and have spent generations in abject poverty. Additionally, many of the tribes in Northeast India lack access to basic facilities like education. 

Ananya recounts her early schooling years in Assam, where a majority of her friends and neighbours hailed from Santhals and other tribal communities. “There was a certain disparity between their ways of life and our ways of life,” she notes. 

It wasn’t until she was in class 8 that these incidents began to become more vivid. Ananya shares that most of her friends who stayed in the school hostel wouldn’t return after the summer holidays. Their parents would tell the school that they had contracted malaria during the holidays and passed away. Ananya would hear these stories with dismay, all the while feeling guilty about her own privileges. 

One particular day she was made more aware of these privileges while at a shop with her caretaker. A local tribe woman was buying a product that cost Rs 10. But when she handed the shopkeeper a Rs 20 note, he stubbornly insisted that it was actually a Rs 10 note, and refused to give her change. “I realised these people needed to be taught at least basic things like recognising money denominations, writing their own name, reading bus numbers and train timings, etc,” Ananya says. 

And that’s the moment she realised if they couldn’t access these learnings anywhere, she would create a space where they could. 

 

“I began to look out for kids loitering around and I would ask them to come to the local school, where I found an empty space where I could have them sit and learn basic topics. I would read stories to them too.” 

Soon Ananya was joined by other batchmates who were also keen on imparting their knowledge to the local tribal kids. The team she formed would travel across the villages of Northeast India on weekends, raise funds through cultural activities, football matches, and more. 

When Ananya passed out of school and went to college, she began convincing her professors to conduct exchange programmes that would also facilitate these children to travel and learn. But then, an incident shook Ananya’s world, compelling her to make tribal upliftment a goal she wanted to dedicate her life to. 

‘My dad was kidnapped.’  

Though Ananya had grown up hearing incidents of people from local tribal communities being kidnapped, she only realised the gravity of the situation when her own father was abducted one day in 2002, she says. “You’ll never know the heat of the fire until it burns your own house.” 

“It was traumatic,” she recalls. “For seven days, he was tortured, beaten and was only able to escape when he jumped from the third floor of the building where he was being kept hostage. He ran several kilometres to reach the closest railway station to reach home. This incident had a heavy impact on my brain.” 

 

While at the time she was fuelled with angst for what had happened, looking back now she says a lack of education compels people to resort to kidnapping others for money. “These unconstitutional people have been brainwashed into doing these things. It’s only when one does not have money to put food on the table for their child that they do things that are not constitutional,” she adds. 

Ananya knew that while she had been teaching those around her the basics of education, there was a dire need for her to increase the numbers and scale to see visible impact. Driven by this fire to create a change, she started her first learning centre in the same village where her father had been held hostage following being kidnapped (a name she avoids mentioning). 

She started small, with the resources she had at the time. She explained her plans of setting up a centre where children could learn, and the youth could get employment opportunities to the gram buda (headman) of the village. But, she notes, they couldn’t envision her dream. So she started under a banyan tree in 2003 with five kids keen on learning. 

Today, the same concept is applied at the 160-odd learning centres across India, albeit in a more organised form. Though these centres have existed for years, Ananya formally established the organisation in 2019. 

 

A welcome space for everyone

At the learning centres, language is no barrier. Ananya frequently employs local youth so they can teach the children in a language they understand best. “I collaborate with any NGO or foundation that can help us in bringing about change,” she notes. 

In 2019, when Ananya got married and moved to South India, she found many tribes facing the same issues as those she had seen in the Northeast. “I began working with tribes such as Siddi, Halakki and Kundi.” 

She explains that education is free at the learning centres, as are meals thrice a day. There is also a community farming model through which the children and men can grow their own food, which then goes into the meals. A unique concept is that grandmothers are housed with the children so that they can look after them. This benefits both, says Ananya. At a time, 35 kids can be accommodated at a centre. 

There are also community centres for men who don’t have jobs. Here, they practise community farming to grow produce and sell it in the markets, while the leftovers are used in the community kitchens. Every learning centre is headed by three local youth, says Ananya so that the centres continue to thrive even while she is away. 

This was always something she wanted. “My work is often in conflict zones and I do not want the workings of the community centre to stop should something happen to me.”

 

‘I will persist no matter what.’

Aside from the work Ananya does for the community centres she also creates awareness related to menstruation and has reached “over 90,000 tribal women” through her workshops. These include teaching women to make sustainable pads at home, distributing pads to the women in villages and even introducing the concept of eco-friendly menstrual cups. 

With 700 volunteers, Tribal Connect is bringing a change in the lives of people in marginalised communities across the country. Ananya was awarded the Karamveer Chakra for her work in 2019. 

“Sometimes I see kids who come from broken homes to the centres only for the food. But in 10 days, they are transformed seeing the environment around and we inculcate habits of good learning in them,” she explains. 

She goes on to recount an instance where one of the girls stopped coming to the learning centre as she started menstruating and the family did not want her to leave home. “I sat outside their house for two nights, caught a cold and fever in the process, but did not budge until they promised she would be back at the centre.” 

Twenty two long years of persisting and Ananya is still going strong. 

How? 

“It is your willpower,” she affirms. “Our community centre isn’t always made up of walls. Sometimes it’s just a tent, washed away by the heavy rains every year or trampled upon by elephants at other times. But what sets us apart is that we rebuild every time.” 

To this she adds, “Everyone has trauma. It’s how you let it change your life that makes all the difference. I could have chosen to be a victim because of what happened to my dad, but instead I looked fear in the eyes and chose to start a centre right in that very spot.” 

“You have to be your own cheerleader. Always.” 

You can learn more about Ananya’s work here.

(Edited by Divya Sethu)

In Telangana's Khammam district, many children learn to use a bow and arrow long before they ever see an archery range.

For generations, the bow has been part of everyday life for the Koya and Gond communities, used for hunting, protection and survival in the forest. Today, that traditional skill is helping shape a remarkable sporting legacy.

Over the years, archers from Khammam have won more than 150 national-level gold medals, transforming a practice rooted in daily life into one of the district's biggest sporting success stories.

This summer, that legacy is continuing with nearly 400 students enrolled in archery training camps across the district.

From forest skill to sporting strength

Khammam has earned a unique place in Telangana's sporting landscape. The district has the highest concentration of archery training centres in the state, with programmes running through Sports Schools in Kinnerasani and Kanchanapalli, Eklavya Model Residential Schools in Kothagudem and Dammapeta, and two dedicated Khelo India Centres in Khammam and Palvoncha.

But this ecosystem did not emerge overnight.

It grew from a skill that was already deeply embedded in local communities. Coaches say many tribal children are naturally comfortable with the bow and arrow because they have grown up watching elders use it. As a result, formal training often builds on skills that already feel familiar.

This has created a strong pipeline of young talent that coaches can nurture and refine.

The man who helped build a movement

Much of Khammam's archery success can be traced to P Shankaraiah, a retired sports officer from the Integrated Tribal Development Authority and one of Telangana's most influential archery mentors.

Now serving as secretary of the Khammam District Archery Association and a development committee member of the Archery Association of India, Shankaraiah has spent decades travelling to remote tribal areas to identify promising young archers.

His mission has always been clear.

“Lack of opportunities, proper coaching, guidance and encouragement in rural areas is hampering their progress. We must identify hidden talent in rural and tribal regions and provide scientific training from a young age,” he says.

Among the athletes he has mentored is G Morappa, the first international archery medallist from the erstwhile united Andhra Pradesh.

The names behind the medals

Khammam's success is reflected in the achievements of its archers.

Aniga Durgaiah from Kothagudem became a national record holder and won gold at the All India University Archery Meet. Karam Kanakaiah went on to represent India at the World Archery Meet in 2010, demonstrating how local talent can reach the international stage when supported with the right coaching and opportunities.

A new generation is now following in their footsteps. E Avanthika and K Lohitha Sri have been selected to represent Telangana at national championships, while several others continue to compete at state and regional events.

For the district, every achievement reinforces the connection between a traditional skill and modern sporting success.

Looking ahead to 2036

The summer training camps currently underway are about more than just learning a sport. They are helping identify future talent while introducing children to the discipline required for competitive archery.

With 400 students training this season, Khammam is investing in the next chapter of its archery story.

Shankaraiah believes the coming years will be crucial, especially as India pursues its bid to host the 2036 Olympics.

“To reach Olympic standards, a child requires at least 10 years of continuous training, discipline, physical fitness and mental strength,” he says.

For many young archers beginning their journey today, that dream may still be years away. But in Khammam, where the bow and arrow have long been part of everyday life, the foundations are already in place.

All images courtesy of TNIE

Sources:

'Archery and P Shankaraiah are just inseparable': by Telangana Today, Published on 14 May 2026 

'Khelo India Centres to come up in erstwhile Khammam': by Telangana Today, Published on 7 December 2022

'Four-day State-level archery competitions begin in Khammam': by Telangana Today, Published on 20 February 2026

'Telangana archery team named for Tribal Sports Meet in Delhi': by Telangana Today, Published on 18 February 2026

'How India's First-Ever Tribal Games Are Putting Indigenous Sports on the National Stage': by The Better India, Published on 26 March 2026

In Kodagu, rain shapes everyday decisions on coffee estates.

It is something people notice, talk about, and remember. For coffee growers in this hill district, every shower carries meaning. Every inch of rain can change how a season unfolds. And over the years, each day’s rainfall has been carefully written down, forming a record of life on the estates.

Here, rain is part of how land is understood. Growers read it through soil, slope, moisture, flowering, and the timing of each shower. These details matter so much that rainfall charts are often among the first records people ask to see when an estate changes hands.

A record kept for generations

Across Kodagu, many coffee-growing families have kept rainfall notes for decades. Some records go back to the 1950s and 60s. What began as a farming habit slowly became a family practice, passed from one generation to the next.

The process is simple. A rain gauge is checked each day, the reading is noted, and the figure is entered into a notebook. Over time, these small entries build into a long record of seasons, including wet years, dry spells, and everything in between.

Some families say they have not missed a single day of recording rain for years. The notebooks sit silently in estate homes, but they hold years of attention and care.

Sixty years of rain in Garvale

In Garvale near Madapur, the family of Pandanda Vijai Deviah has been recording rainfall for more than 60 years.

“My father started recording rainfall in 1965, and I am continuing it,” he says.

For the family, the records are still part of daily work on the estate. They help plan everything from the blossom showers in April to the main monsoon months. In coffee farming, knowing when and how much rain has fallen helps decide when to spray, when to harvest and how to manage drying.

A practice passed down in Kakkabe

At Palace Estate in Kakkabe, Apparanda Prasad Kushalappa continues a similar practice that has run through three generations.

His grandmother began recording rainfall. His uncle continued it. Today, Prasad maintains the same routine. The estate still holds records from 1963.

These notebooks are not just old pages. They help the family look back at earlier seasons and compare them with what is happening now. Over time, they reveal how rainfall patterns shift and change.

Those shifts are not just observations on paper. For coffee growers, even small variations in rainfall can have a real impact on how an estate is managed. What may seem minor to someone outside farming can make a noticeable difference in the field.

“There is a difference between getting four inches of rain and three-and-a-half inches,” says Dinesh, an agriculturist from Ponnampet.

That small gap can affect soil moisture, flowering, pest control and the timing of field work. It can decide when workers enter the estate and how the crop is managed through the season.

A history written in rainfall

Over the years, even the Coffee Board of India has referred to rainfall records kept by Kodagu’s families. In a time when weather is becoming less predictable, these long records help make sense of change.

Today, weather data mostly comes from screens and forecasts. But in Kodagu, many estates still rely on handwritten notes kept over decades. They offer a record that grows with every passing day.

Each entry in these notebooks is small on its own. A date. A number. A note about rain.

But together, they tell a longer story of coffee estates influenced by weather, of families paying attention to the land, and of knowledge passed silently across generations.

In Kodagu, rain is memory written in ink, carried forward year after year, and still shaping the way coffee is grown in these hills.

For the last 12 years, Gopal, a potter from Uttar Pradesh, has spent his time, money, and energy watering roadside trees. What began with a few buckets of water has grown into a daily mission carried out with a 500-litre water tank. 🌳

He noticed that many saplings were being planted but few survived due to lack of care. So instead of planting more trees, he chose to save the ones already in the ground. Despite ridicule, obstacles, and limited resources, he never gave up.

Today, people know him as "Oxygen Baba." His story proves that protecting nature doesn't require great wealth—just consistency, compassion, and the courage to keep showing up. ❤️

#OxygenBaba #Gopal #TreeConservation #Environment #Nature #ClimateAction #GreenIndia #InspiringStories #Sustainability #SaveTrees #PositiveStories #EcoHero #UttarPradesh #Banaras #TheBetterIndia

[Oxygen Baba, Gopal tree conservation, Banaras environmentalist, roadside tree care, tree conservation India, save trees campaign, environmental hero India, climate action story, sustainability inspiration, Uttar Pradesh positive story, nature conservation, green India movement, tree watering initiative, eco hero India, inspiring environmental story]

Who Is Oxygen Baba? The Man Saving Trees in Uttar Pradesh
How One Potter Is Protecting Thousands of Trees
Inspiring Environmental Story From Banaras
Tree Conservation Hero of India
Why Oxygen Baba Waters Trees Every Day

Nine women waited backstage in Jaipur on a winter evening in 2025.

For some, it was the first time they had travelled alone. For others, it was the first time they were stepping into the spotlight without fear or hesitation.

When their names were announced, they rolled onto the stage in their wheelchairs and faced an audience of more than 350 people. Then they danced.

For the women on stage, it became a moment of being seen, heard and celebrated on their own terms.

The event was called Astitva 2025. Astitva means existence or identity, and for the women who performed that night, it captured exactly what the evening represented.

Behind that moment stood Priya Sharma, the woman who had worked to make the stage, and the journey to it, possible.

An accident, and a new question about life

Priya Sharma’s journey into this work began with an abrupt rupture.

Originally from Chhindwara, Madhya Pradesh, Priya came from a rural, lower-middle-class family. Before the accident, she had completed her MCom and a postgraduate diploma in computer applications, and had worked across sectors such as BPO, education and recruitment. She was focused on building a stable career, becoming financially independent and supporting her family.

In September 2018, a road accident left her with a spinal cord injury. She became a wheelchair user overnight.

The spinal cord injury that left her paraplegic changed those plans, forcing her to rebuild her life from scratch. For her, the aftermath was social and deeply personal. “There were days when even small tasks felt impossible,” she says. “And harder than that was the question, what does life look like now?”

The fear of dependence crept in. So did the awareness of how disability is seen. Silence became part of daily life. So did self-doubt. But recovery, in her case, came in small, difficult steps.

With consistent effort and family support, she was learning to navigate daily routines again. But the larger question remained: what would she do next?

The wedding dance that brought joy back

Then came her sister’s wedding. At the wedding, Priya hesitated to participate. Social gatherings had become unfamiliar territory for her by then.

But her siblings, as siblings often do, insisted she join. They would not let her sit out the celebration. She sat in her wheelchair and danced at her sister’s sangeet (pre-wedding musical celebration).

Was it easy? Priya had no answer to this question. “It was the first time I felt joy after the accident,” she tells The Better India.

That moment offered her a direction. Dance, she understood, was a recognition of self.

But Priya was never a professional dancer, nor had she been deeply involved in dance before this. “In 2019, during my sister’s wedding, I experienced something very emotional. I saw everyone dancing, celebrating, and enjoying themselves, and somewhere inside, I also wanted to be part of that happiness. So, sitting in my wheelchair, I danced, not perfectly, but simply with joy,” Priya says.

“After that, I occasionally danced informally, mostly for happiness and self-expression.”

Later, one of her close friends and fellow para-athlete, Ekta Bhaiyan, encouraged her to think about dance as an instrument for change. That idea resonated with Priya because she had already experienced how dance could emotionally transform someone.

As she connected with other women with disabilities, she realised that opportunities were limited and platforms for them were nearly absent. She began trying to bring women together and explore wheelchair dance as a collective practice.

“So in 2024, I started Dance With Wheels, honestly, without a big plan in the beginning,” she adds.

Dance With Wheels (DWW) began with three or four women.

“The early sessions were very simple, emotional, and honestly quite unstructured because we mostly met online, as everyone lived in different states and travelling is not easy for wheelchair users,” Priya shares.

She adds, “In the beginning, there was no formal choreography or professional setup. We would join on video calls, talk about life, laugh, share our struggles, and slowly try basic movements together while sitting in wheelchairs.”

Sometimes, they practised hand movements and expressions. Sometimes, they selected songs together and simply enjoyed dancing in whatever way they could.

“Many girls were initially hesitant even to turn their cameras on because of low confidence or fear of judgement,” Priya says.

Over time, the sessions naturally became more structured. For many participants, DWW became a safe community.

There was no funding. Just a WhatsApp group and weekly online sessions. Priya often covered small costs herself to ensure participants could stay connected. “It didn’t feel like an organisation in the beginning,” says Priya. “It felt like a conversation.”

That conversation began drawing in women who had been looking for a space like this, even before they had the words for it.

Building the space they had been missing

One of the women who joined Priya in building this space was Nidhi Gosalia, whose own relationship with dance had survived years of limited mobility and shrinking social spaces. “In 2020, when stepping out became difficult, dancing stayed with me,” Priya’s team-mate Nidhi Gosalia shares.

Nidhi lives with cerebral palsy, a neurological condition that affects mobility. “Walking is difficult for me,” she says. “But I have always been a dancer. I used to dance in my special school. That part of me never went away.”

When Priya came across Nidhi’s dance videos online, she reached out. “I was Priya’s first teammate,” Nidhi says. “I just knew I wanted to support what she was building.”

Today, Nidhi is one of the key performers with Dance With Wheels. But she remembers how unfamiliar the idea felt in the beginning. “Most of us didn’t even know something like this could exist,” she says. “Not just dance, but a space where we are not explained, not pitied.”

Before joining DWW, her world had gradually begun to shrink. “You lose more than mobility,” she says. “You lose social space. You stop being invited. You stop being asked.”

Dance became a way for her to reclaim that space on her own terms. “I don’t even do physiotherapy in the usual sense,” she says. “For me, dance is therapy. It works on my body, but also on my mind.”

Her connection to dance is constant, almost instinctive. “I can wake up at 3 am and feel like dancing,” she says. “That’s how much I love it.”

When DWW organised Astitva 2025 in Jaipur, it marked her return to a physical stage after years.

“That performance was my first after school,” she says. “Standing there again, it felt like I had come back to myself. Even my parents came to cheer me on.” 

What made the experience especially meaningful, she adds, was the journey leading up to it. “It started as a weekly session,” she recalls. “We would talk, share, try movements. There was no pressure to perform. That’s what made it powerful.”

For many women, that sense of support and belonging became the reason they stayed. One of them was Akansha Singh from Fatehpur, Uttar Pradesh, who remembers joining her first session with hesitation.

Akansha had been living with a spinal tumour for years. She was first diagnosed in 2007 when she was in Class 10, and then again in 2015 when the tumour recurred. The condition significantly weakened her right knee. Multiple rounds of treatment and physiotherapy followed, but recovery remained slow and uncertain.

“There were times when I felt I was not getting better,” she says. “Doctors told me reversal would be difficult.” 

The physical challenges were only part of the struggle. A fracture during this period pushed her into a phase of depression. “My life was limited to four walls,” she says. “I had stopped going out, stopped meeting people.”

So when she first encountered Dance With Wheels, she was unsure of where she fit in. “I didn’t know how to move. I didn’t even know if I should try,” she says. “But Priya kept saying, ‘Start where you are.’”

Akansha began with small movements. Over time, she started noticing changes. In an interview with The Better India, she says her body felt less rigid and the tightness gradually eased. But the biggest shift was in her confidence. “I started dancing regularly. My strength improved,” she says. “More than anything, I realised I can live again.”

Today, she attends dance sessions twice a week and looks forward to performing. “Earlier, I would avoid every social space,” she says. “Now I wait for performances. That is not a small change.”

When dance becomes identity

Today, Dance With Wheels has connected with over 45 women and girls with disabilities across 16 states in India, with different levels of active participation depending on health, accessibility and personal circumstances.

Some attend sessions regularly, while others engage through WhatsApp, online community discussions, events or performances. Many women join when they are emotionally struggling after disability and later become more active as they regain confidence.

At DWW, dance is framed as a way to rebuild identity. “There is no right or wrong here,” says Priya.

The sessions include discussions on daily challenges, access, confidence and visibility. “You realise you are not alone,” she adds. “That is the first step.”

For many, the impact is visible in speaking more openly, travelling independently and participating in public spaces.

“We conduct structured online sessions primarily through Google Meet and Zoom, including regular wheelchair dance training, fitness and well-being activities, mentoring conversations, story-sharing sessions, and community interactions,” explains Priya.

“We also organise virtual celebrations, awareness activities, and occasional guest sessions. Soon, we are planning to introduce Digital Skills Training to create more learning and livelihood opportunities for women with disabilities.”

The night they took the stage in Jaipur

Astitva 2025 was created as an impact event to give girls and women with disabilities, especially wheelchair users, an opportunity to perform on a public stage, build confidence, and experience visibility, celebration and community.

Priya clarifies that the nine participants were not chosen through a competition. They were part of the larger DWW community and came together through months of online practice, conversations and preparation for the stage.

For several participants, it was their first journey outside their home cities. For some, it was their first train ride.

They had prepared virtually for months. Coordinating across locations was not easy, especially with different health needs, access challenges and personal schedules.

Priya says, “For months, we practised virtually through Google Meet sessions. Trainers taught the choreography online, participants practised at home, and we kept refining the movements together. Since everyone had different physical abilities and mobility levels, routines had to be adapted carefully for each participant.”

The group also shared practice videos, received individual feedback and repeated sections many times.

“It was challenging because of internet issues, health concerns, pain management, and different personal schedules and daily routines, but the commitment of the girls was incredible,” she says.

When participants arrived in Jaipur, they did intensive in-person rehearsals before the performance. It was the first time many of them practised together physically in one room, and Priya says it felt emotional to see virtual connections come alive.

In many ways, Astitva 2025 was built through passion, trust and collective effort. For many of the girls, this was their first time travelling independently, meeting other women who use wheelchairs in person, staying away from home or performing live on stage.

“Some of the girls were crying because, for the first time in their lives, people were clapping for them instead of feeling sorry for them,” Priya shares.

Many had spent years feeling invisible, dependent or judged because of disability. But that day, they were seen as artists first.

One participant came up to Priya and told her, “Didi, today I forgot I have a disability.”

Priya says this with a wide smile. “It was actually about showing up.”

Beyond the stage

Priya’s work extends outside DWW.

She is a para-athlete and has represented Rajasthan. She won a gold medal in javelin throw and a silver in shot put at the 15th Madhya Pradesh State Para Athletics Championship in 2025. She is also a peer mentor with The Ganga Foundation, where she supports individuals with spinal cord injuries in rebuilding independence.

Together, her work in dance, peer mentoring and disability advocacy has become a way to help others navigate life after disruption.

But Priya does not position herself as a figurehead. She believes in creating conditions where others can lead. Several DWW members now facilitate sessions, mentor newcomers and represent the platform in their own regions. The structure is still evolving. But its core remains rooted in accessibility and inclusion.

“Earlier, we would say I am someone with a disability,” says Priya. “Now we say we’re dancers.”

For Priya and her team, that shift carries the real win. They are building a space where movement becomes memory, confidence and identity.

All pictures by Priya Sharma

What if the bench you're sitting on at an airport was once electronic waste? ♻️✈️

Brothers Vikash and Rahul have found an innovative way to tackle India's growing e-waste challenge by transforming discarded e-waste plastic into stylish, durable furniture.

Their recycled products now welcome millions of travelers at Noida International Airport, proving that sustainable design can be both practical and impactful.

So far, their innovation has helped divert over 12 tonnes of waste from landfills, giving discarded materials a valuable second life while supporting the principles of a circular economy.

In a world struggling with rising waste, solutions like these show that today's trash can become tomorrow's resource.

Would you choose furniture made from recycled e-waste? Let us know in the comments. 👇

#EWasteRecycling #Sustainability #Recycling #CircularEconomy #Innovation #WasteManagement #NoidaAirport #SustainableDesign #PlasticWaste #GreenInnovation #EcoFriendly #RecycledFurniture #EnvironmentalImpact #StartupIndia #TheBetterIndia

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How E-Waste Is Being Turned Into Furniture in India
Noida Airport's Recycled Furniture Story
Best Examples of Circular Economy Innovation in India
How Recycled Plastic Furniture Helps Reduce Landfill Waste
Indian Startup Transforming Electronic Waste Into Useful Products

Originally reported and written in June 2023, this story has been republished as part of our archival content.

“One day, I will build a farmhouse here,” Rajan Chaughule, a journalist from Mumbai, thought to himself in 2014, as he stood before his ancestral piece of land in Guhagar, Maharashtra. 

Anyone who heard Rajan’s intent would laugh out loud, dismissing his thoughts as mere wishful thinking. After all, countless properties lay in ruins across the country. What made him think this particular piece of land would be an exception?

But Rajan believed it would.

Today, Ayra Farms — a farm stay situated six hours from Mumbai — is a nature lover’s dream with cottages that open their doors to lush gardens, hiking trails and more. As his daughter Noopur Chaughule, who is a culinary professional, recounts, it has been a winding path that has led the family to this moment.

“And the journey was worth it,” she says.

 

‘There was just something about this land. My father knew it’

While Rajan’s lucrative career as a journalist was taking off and life seemed impeccably perfect, he would often get away from the city and travel to his ancestral land.

“This was the place where my grandfather grew up. My great grandfather was the zamindar here,” Noopur shares, adding that it is at least 50 years old. “My father would often visit the village during his summer holidays as a child. The land always held something fascinating that would keep pulling him back here, in spite of his city life.”

 

 

 

 

 

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In 2014, Rajan couldn’t ignore this any longer and decided to start where he was, with what he had, and turn this ancestral land into a space he could call ‘home’ once again. He began the tedious process by planting trees, clearing the dilapidated foliage, and preserving the existing greenery.

The next task was to build the home.

Although the initial plan was for this to be their second home, which they could visit for vacations, Noopur’s mother Sadhana played a pivotal role in the decision to turn it into their main residence.

“In reality, it was always my wife who made us a conscious family,” says Rajan, referring to his wife taking the call for them to quit their city jobs, move to the village, and set up their lives. “There was also a strong influence from the community I belonged to. Together, my wife and I made more sustainable choices.”

 

And so, Rajan and Sadhana began living in the quiet and solace of Guhagar. Meanwhile, Noopur, who was working in Toronto at the time, was amazed at this cocoon her parents had created in a land that everyone once perceived as ‘gone’.

She decided to pay a visit here in 2020. “I was pregnant at the time, and it was also when the COVID lockdown struck. I was stuck here and couldn’t return back. In fact, I even delivered my baby here!”

Noopur recalls the next couple of years being an eye-opener for her.

“I watched my baby grow up around nature and watched as it influenced her. I realised I had found my purpose in life — to build a project of my own here and preserve the space.”

 

 

 

 

 

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Ayra Farms is born

There is still much to do on the four-and-a-half acre plot of land that houses Ayra Farms, which has two cottages, a tent area, a cowshed, and a kitchen garden, which blooms with vegetables like cabbage, cauliflower, spinach, chillies, pumpkins and cucumbers.

“Right now, there is the farm stay where four adults can stay for Rs 5,000 a night. We provide homemade meals and the menu is seasonal. It changes every three months.”

She points to the food being a mixed cuisine of her learnings from Toronto, her mother’s secrets, and a local Maharashtrian cook’s recipes. Among the specialities here, there is Kerela stew with grilled chicken, bhajleli ratali (roasted sweet potato), grilled fish fillet with a chimichurri sauce, kalva (oyster) curry, steamed yoghurt, crab curry, and prawns pulao.

 

While the food is a delight, the space has been designed to make the most of the heavy rains that Guhagar receives, while the rooms have high ceilings providing a lot of ventilation.

While Noopur reveals their future plans — which include constructing additional eco-friendly homes using locally sourced materials and establishing a community kitchen, a yoga centre, and a workshop — she expresses her belief that the future holds great promise for these endeavours.

 

There is also a village project that Ayra Farms is a part of — a dam that has significantly improved the water levels, she says. “The groundwater is literally blue!”

While spending time on the farm has been the best part of her life, Noopur watches in awe as her baby girl Ayra grows up around these natural elements. Whether it is playing with the animals around or finding natural pigments that she can use instead of traditional chalk while she plays, there is always something to be explored and enjoyed at Ayra Farms.

 

 

 

 

 

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Ayra’s grandfather too shares this sense of wonder.

As he traces back to the journey of how this all unfolded, he says, “I never expected Noopur to take interest in this project. It was a complete surprise especially when she showed consistency in her work here. And not to miss my granddaughter!”

 

He adds that just watching Ayra play around the farm is the most satisfying feeling for him. “She will go feed the cows, run around the house with laughter in her eyes, draw on the floor, and take me out for walks. It feels so good to be able to create something where not only us, but all the generations to come will benefit in one way or the other.”

As dusk settles in the village, Rajan’s favourite pastime is to go sit near the water tank that they have built on the highest point of the land. “At any given time, day or night, the view is absolutely spectacular. I sometimes like to go up there to just sit and watch the clouds pass by.”

Edited by Pranita Bhat

Every morning, long before most of Delhi wakes up, 77-year-old Natarajan begins his day with a mission.

By 4 am, he is already working to ensure that earthen pots filled with drinking water are replenished across the city. For thousands of daily-wage workers, labourers, drivers and passers-by battling the summer heat, these matkas offer something simple yet essential: free access to clean drinking water.

Over the years, this commitment has earned him a name many in Delhi now recognise — the ‘Matka Man’.

Today, his network of 100 matka stations serves hundreds of people. Spread across multiple locations, the initiative has become a lifeline during periods of extreme heat, when access to drinking water can be difficult for many who spend their days outdoors.

But for Natarajan, the work has never been only about water.

It is about dignity.

Having spent years abroad before returning to India, Natarajan says a cancer diagnosis prompted him to confront the certainty of life and death. The experience strengthened his desire to give back and dedicate his time to meaningful work.

What began as an effort to provide drinking water gradually evolved into a broader philosophy of service rooted in sincerity, humility and respect.

He dislikes describing his work as charity. Instead, he calls it sharing.

In his view, those who have more than they need should share what they can with others. Whether it is water, food or time, the act matters most when it is offered sincerely and without any sense of superiority.

That philosophy extends to the weekly meals he serves as well. Prepared with the same care as food cooked at home, the meals are designed to ensure that people feel respected rather than pitied.

“Give it with dignity,” is the principle that guides much of his work.

Natarajan believes social service is not about grand gestures or public recognition. It is about showing up consistently, treating people with respect and recognising their humanity.

His efforts are largely self-funded, supported by occasional sponsors and a close-knit team that includes his wife and long-time staff members. Together, they manage everything from cooking meals for hundreds of people to maintaining the growing network of water stations.

Despite the scale of the initiative, he remains convinced that change begins with simple actions.

For him, a matka filled with water is more than a clay pot. It is a reminder that compassion can be practical, that service can be personal, and that dignity should never be a privilege.

In a city that never slows down, the Matka Man continues to prove that one person’s commitment can touch thousands of lives — one pot of water at a time.

To know more about Natarajan, view his full video interview by The Better India here. 

When Nishant Chaturvedi lost his corporate job, life took an unexpected turn. As his wife Vibhuti stepped into a demanding leadership role, Nishant became the primary caregiver for their 6-year-old son, Shiven. ❤️

People questioned his choice, asking why he was doing a "mother's job." But Nishant kept showing up—for every school drop-off, homework session, swimming class, and bedtime story. What started as a layoff became a chance to experience his son's childhood firsthand.

Today, his story reminds us that parenting has no gender. Children won't remember your job title or salary—they'll remember who was there when they needed them most.

#FathersDay #StayAtHomeDad #Fatherhood #Parenting #NishantChaturvedi #ModernParenting #DadLife #GenderRoles #FamilyFirst #InspiringStories #ParentingJourney #PositiveStories #WorkingParents #IndianFamilies #TheBetterIndia

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What Is It Like Being a Stay-at-Home Dad in India?
Father's Day Story: The Dad Who Chose Presence Over Prestige
How One Layoff Changed a Father's Relationship With His Son
Modern Indian Fatherhood: Nishant Chaturvedi's Journey
Why More Fathers Are Taking Active Parenting Roles

By afternoon in Agra, the heat settles heavily over construction sites, roadside corners and tree-lined stretches where birds gather in search of water. The summer temperature in the city often touches 40 degrees Celsius. The winds are harsh and unforgiving; people and animals struggle with dehydration, and the search for water and shade becomes a daily necessity.

Life, however, carries on. Construction workers continue to toil under the blazing sun, street vendors carry on with their routines, and birds seek refuge wherever they can find it.

While most people are busy planning their day, one man chose to pause and notice what others often overlook — labourers working for hours in the scorching heat and thirsty birds resting silently under trees, waiting for water.

Meet Suyash Jain, a marketing and branding professional from Agra whose commitment to social service has been shaping lives for years. Today, he works for a marketing firm, but beyond his professional role, he has spent much of his time finding ways to support people in need.

A support network born during the pandemic 

His journey as a changemaker became particularly visible during the COVID-19 pandemic. During the first wave, when thousands across India lost jobs, income and stability overnight, Suyash chose to act.

Along with Rajat Agarwal, he launched the COVID-19 Free Jobs Forum to connect job seekers with employers across the country. What began as a simple Google Form soon evolved into a large support network.

According to YourStory, the forum received registrations from more than 8,000 job seekers within a month and eventually grew into a community of over 13,000 job seekers and 600 recruiters, helping more than 1,200 people find employment.

But when the second wave struck, Suyash realised that many families needed something even more fundamental than jobs — they needed food. Blue-collar workers, migrant labourers, daily wage earners, rickshaw pullers, families living under bridges and residents of slum settlements were struggling to arrange even a single proper meal.

Inspired by his parents, who had already been helping daily wage workers with food supplies from their home, Suyash started the ‘Feeding Ones In Need’ initiative on 15 May 2021. Using his own income initially, he purchased ration kits containing atta (wheat flour), rice, dal (lentils), sugar, salt, spices, tea powder and oil.

As the need grew, he began raising funds to reach more families. Each kit could support a family of four for nearly two weeks. The first drive reached 150 families in Agra, followed by another distribution covering around 200 more families across different parts of the city.

He also visited construction sites to support workers there. Altogether, more than 400 ration kits were distributed during the initiative's early phase.

For Suyash, these efforts were never acts of charity. They were acts of responsibility — a way of standing beside people during their most difficult moments.

‘Helping others runs in the family’

The roots of that philosophy go back much further. Long before Suyash began organising relief drives and employment forums, he watched his parents serve their community every day. 

His father would wake up early each morning to place bajra (pearl millet) and rice on the rooftop for birds. He distributed around 50 rotis to cows daily and, during summers, would step out at dawn to hand packets of biscuits to security guards, workers and others who began their day before the rest of the city had woken up.

His mother worked behind the scenes, helping prepare and organise everything so these small acts of kindness could continue uninterrupted.

There were no announcements, photographs or expectations of recognition. Helping others was simply a way of life.

“Helping others runs in the family,” Suyash says with a smile.

It is this culture of compassion that has shaped him and inspired his latest effort to bring relief to both labourers and birds battling Agra's relentless summer heat.

Sharbat for workers, water for birds 

This year, Suyash launched ‘Summer Relief Seva’, a grassroots effort aimed at helping both people and birds cope with Agra's unforgiving summer.

The initiative revolves around two simple acts of care.

The first is distributing chilled sharbat (a sweet summer drink) to people who spend long hours working outdoors — security guards, construction workers, ragpickers and others who continue their duties under the scorching sun. 

The second is placing water bowls and bajra for birds across the city so they have access to food and water during extreme heat.

The idea took shape shortly after Suyash arrived in Agra in mid-April for a six-month work project. While moving around the city, he noticed construction workers labouring through the hottest hours of the day and birds searching for water in the intense heat.

“I initially started by giving out cold water to labourers,” he says. “But then I felt that if we added some sugar content, it would not only help with hydration but also give people some energy. That's when I started serving sharbat.”

Every afternoon between 12 pm and 4 pm, the time when he usually takes his lunch break, Suyash visits different locations across the city with freshly prepared sharbat. He chose this time of the day as the temperatures are usually high during these hours. On average, he serves around 30 to 40 workers a day.

Rather than trying to reach hundreds of people at once, he has consciously chosen a different approach.

“I wanted to help fewer people but do it consistently and give them something of good quality,” he explains.

The initiative is currently funded largely from his own pocket. Every day, he spends approximately Rs 350 on ingredients such as sugar, sharbat concentrate and ice. His goal is to continue the effort until at least the first week of August, when temperatures begin to ease.

Alongside the sharbat distribution, Suyash and his family have placed water pots for birds at 10 to 15 locations across Agra. These are regularly monitored and refilled to ensure birds have access to clean drinking water throughout the summer.

The initiative draws heavily from the example set by his parents, who have spent years caring for animals and helping people in quiet, consistent ways.

“My parents were already doing this, especially for animals,” says Suyash. “I simply followed in their footsteps.”

Your help can keep this summer seva going 

Today, he hopes the initiative can grow beyond his own efforts. He is looking for volunteers who can help identify locations, refill water bowls and participate in sharbat distribution drives. He is also seeking donations to help cover the recurring costs of ingredients and supplies.

For Suyash, the strongest motivation comes from the people he meets in the heat of these afternoons, workers who pause for a glass of sharbat, offer a blessing, and return to labour under the same blazing sun.

But one person can only cover so many streets, refill so many bowls, and serve so many glasses.

Your contribution can help this summer seva reach more construction workers, guards, ragpickers and thirsty birds across Agra. A small donation can help buy sugar, ice, sharbat concentrate, bird feed and water bowls. A few hours of volunteering can help identify more locations and ensure the bowls stay filled.

If you wish to donate or contribute, you can transfer the amount via Google Pay/PhonePe to this number: +91-8791629433.
To know more details, you can directly reach out to Suyash Jain at: 8791629433.

When COVID took away his wife, many believed raising two young children alone would be impossible. But this father chose resilience over despair. ❤️

Having grown up without parents himself, he knew what loss felt like. Instead of giving up, he dedicated himself to giving his children the love, care, and stability they deserved.

Today, his journey is a powerful reminder that parenting isn't defined by gender, it's defined by love, sacrifice, and showing up every single day. Salute to all single parents. 🙏

#SingleParenting #Fatherhood #FathersDay #ParentingJourney #SingleFather #InspiringStories #DadLife #ParentingAgainstOdds #FamilyLove #Resilience #PositiveStories #ParentingInspiration #FamilyFirst #IndianStories #TheBetterIndia

[Happy Father's Day, Single Father Story, Fatherhood Journey, Parenting Against Odds, Inspiring Family Story, Single Parent Success, Fathers Day, single dad inspiration, widowed father story, parenting after loss, father raising children alone, resilient parenting, family strength, inspirational parenting story, overcoming tragedy, positive Indian stories]

Inspiring Single Father Story After COVID
How One Dad Raised Two Children Alone
Father's Day Story That Will Touch Your Heart
Parenting Through Grief: A Single Dad's Journey
Why This Single Father's Story Is Inspiring Thousands

Originally reported and written in June 2023, this story has been republished as part of our archival content.

In a palatial spot in Candolim, along the touristy beachy belt, there lies a house that seems untouched by time. The ‘Costa Frias House’ has essayed the role of a safe abode for Nirmala Costa Frias and her family who have been living here since she got married in 1969.

Speaking about the bygone days, Nirmala recounts them as magical times. “The sala [living room] and the dining room was the space where the family entertained guests, so these two rooms were elaborately decorated and embellished. Our house is probably the only house in Goa with the wash basin in the dining room made of pink marble, specially imported from Carrera in Italy.”

As she goes on about the memories the home has held through the years, her son Jose is hard at work these days, trying to put together the family tree. He says their tree is “unique” as it mentions the daughters’ names too, unlike others that focus mostly on male lineage.

While the Costa Frias family home has been witness to many generations of the family and their joys and sorrows, it is one of the many homes in Goa that has these legacy stories etched into its veins and cracks.

 

Heta Pandit’s book ‘Stories from Goan Houses’ is doing justice to bringing these stories to light. It shows the world that Goan homes transcend beyond being spots to point and marvel at while on a holiday, but rather they are time capsules that hold different worlds within their brightly painted facades.

At 69, Heta who grew up in Baroda says she defines herself as a pioneer of sorts.

“I worked with Dr Jane Goodall on a chimpanzee research station in Tanzania, East Africa; worked as a volunteer in the environmental field pioneering the saving of several monumental buildings in Bombay; then left for Munnar to work in the tea gardens after the 1993 communal riots in Bombay,” she says, adding that she played the role of the country’s first women tea plantation managers along with her cousin.

It was in the year 1995 that Heta moved to Goa, a place that would come to mean a great deal to her in the years to come. Today, having lived here for 28 years and counting, Heta says it’s been a journey. She has 11 books authored on Goan heritage to her credit, along with being the founder of the Goa Heritage Action Group.

 

A Goa of yesteryear

Having been a spectator of the evolving Goan culture, Heta says the changes she has witnessed have by far been positive. “That is, there is more awareness that Goa is more than a party destination, and that it has a history and culture that is unique and extraordinary. Even Goans have begun to sit up and take notice of the uniqueness of their own culture outside of their inner circles.”

She points to evidence of this in her personal experience. “When I worked on ‘Houses of Goa’ way back in 1998, there was very little trust. People did not know us. They did not know what goes into a book. They were shy about sharing. The world has changed a lot since then.”

She speaks of how people she had known for years now suddenly wanted to share their stories, the histories of their families.

 

“There is also the story of their struggle and the challenges they faced trying to preserve and protect their beautiful homes. In the past, they were ashamed of sharing these challenges with the world. They were ashamed of saying that they were facing financial difficulties, but now that they have overcome these challenges, they want the whole world to know about it. They are proud of their achievement!”

‘Stories from Goan Houses’ weaves the tale around 21 select homes in Goa to tell stories that have never been told before — legends associated with the house; the trials and tribulations; and the love and care that has gone into the preservation of not just the house but the house as a crucible of Goan culture.

Tracing these stories

 

Through the pages of the book, it is evident how homes are sometimes more than simple brick and mortar, but gatekeepers of secrets, silent watchers of family traditions, and sometimes even members themselves.

The 21 families chronicled in this book have novel tales that they recount to Heta, which she shares with the world.

For instance, the Gaunekar House in Bandora with its facade of yellow ochre and burnt clay is 250 years old, and the children recount how they grew up going for rides in British-made trucks down the road. It is only recently that the family switched to modern stoves from the traditional wood fire ones.

Another story is of the Dempo Nivas in Calapur, inhabited by the Dempo family. Yogesh, who grew up in this home echoes the thoughts of the family when he says, “I am who I am today because of this house.”

A common thread that binds the 21 homes is that of family and unity.

For instance, at the Nadkarni House in Sattari, the family believes in the principle that was passed down through their generations — staying under one roof.

 

Sandeep Nadkarni, one of the members recounts how his growing-up years sometimes had 30 kids of the same age under the same roof!

The best part about these stories, says Heta, is that they let her in on a part of these people’s lives. For instance, Sandeep shares in the book that the home had two unwritten rules — chicken would never be cooked in the house and a first floor would never be built.

While some homes are known for being close-knit, there are others that are known for opening their doors to just about anyone who wishes to come in and spend a moment. One such home is the Kelekar House in Priol, which is filled with the book collection of the Gandhian activist and famed author Ravindra Kelekar. Architect Girish Kelekar, his son, has now opened their doors to scholars, visitors and students who wish to immerse themselves in the legend’s writing.

The book also tells the tale of the Kamat House, the family who set their home in an old bead factory in the 18th century; the Dada Vaidya House, where Dada Vaidya, a pioneer of Ayurvedic medicine, practised; the Sanvordekar House — which housed 125 people under its roof at the same time — among others.

While these are glimpses into these homes and their stories, you can read the entire tale in Heta’s book, here.

Edited by Pranita Bhat

Civil servants spend their careers behind files, postings and transfer orders. But every now and then, one of them looks past the paperwork and decides to fix something that's actually broken — a hot rooftop, a dying water table, a child who's never touched a tree. This week, we're tracing four such stories of officers who chose to do more than just their job.

In 1952, She Became India's First Woman IAS Officer Despite Being Told It Wasn't for Women

When Anna Rajam Malhotra cleared the civil services exam in 1951, the interview board suggested she try the foreign service instead — it was "more suited to women." Chief Minister C. Rajagopalachari himself wasn't keen on women in public service. She argued her case anyway: "You should give me a chance." She got it, trained alongside men in riding and shooting, and was posted as sub-collector of Tirupattur.

"She had to learn how to ride, to shoot, she had to do everything that men had to," her sister later said. Here's how she went on to spend a career breaking barriers no woman had been allowed near.

How IAS Officer Supriya Sahu Helped Cool Chennai Homes by 8°C With Just White Paint

Chennai's summer heat was turning low-income homes into ovens, with cooling appliances out of reach for many. IAS officer Supriya Sahu's answer was sitting right above people's heads — the rooftops. Under Tamil Nadu's Urban Heat Mitigation Project, her team began coating rooftops with solar-reflective white paint that bounces sunlight away instead of trapping it.

The Cool Roof initiative rolled out across 200 public schools and vulnerable neighbourhoods. See how this simple idea ended up impressing the United Nations.

This Delhi IRS Officer's 'School of Trees' Is Helping Children Learn From Nature

Rohit Mehra, an Indian Revenue Service officer, noticed something on family walks: children could recognise brand logos instantly but went blank in front of a peepal or a neem tree. So he and his wife Geetanjali started the School of Trees in their Kidwai Nagar society garden — a free weekend programme with no textbooks, just bark, soil, seeds and questions.

"This isn't just a tree but where life begins," he tells children, running his fingers over the trunk. Take a look at how a few weekend walks turned into a movement he now calls his reason to live.

IAS Officer Turns Farmer, Shows How to Grow Paddy Using Just 25% Water

Punjab's groundwater could fall below 1,000 feet by 2039, and paddy — a crop that isn't even native to the state — is the biggest reason why. Kahan Singh Pannu watched this happen for years as Punjab's Agriculture Secretary. When he retired in 2020, instead of stepping away, he went back to his own village fields to test a fix: seeds sown on raised beds, with water going only into the furrows instead of flooding the whole plot.

The idea was to stop fighting weeds with water and start growing rice the way it actually needs to grow. Find out how this 64-year-old's experiment is now cutting water use by 75% across Punjab's farms.

What if the best way to fight a water crisis is to prevent it before it begins? 💧

As El Niño threatens rainfall patterns across India, IAS Avishyant Panda is leading a large-scale water conservation mission in Maharashtra's Gadchiroli district.

From check dams and farm ponds to irrigation infrastructure and the revival of water bodies, thousands of water-management projects are being implemented to strengthen the district's long-term water security.

The goal is simple yet powerful: don't wait for drought—prepare for it.

At a time when climate change is making weather patterns increasingly unpredictable, proactive solutions like these can help build stronger, more resilient communities.

Can this model become a blueprint for drought preparedness across India? 👇

Follow: @AvishyantPanda

#WaterConservation #ClimateAction #ElNino #Gadchiroli #Maharashtra #SustainableDevelopment #EnvironmentalProtection #WaterManagement #ClimateResilience #DroughtPreparedness #IASOfficer #PublicAdministration #Sustainability #IndiaDevelopment #TheBetterIndia

[El Niño in India, Avishyant Panda, Gadchiroli water conservation, water conservation projects, climate resilience India, sustainable water management, drought preparedness, Maharashtra water security, check dams India, farm ponds Maharashtra, water body restoration, climate adaptation India, public administration excellence, water crisis solutions, environmental sustainability]

How Gadchiroli Is Preparing for El Niño and Water Scarcity
IAS Avishyant Panda's Water Conservation Model Explained
Best Water Conservation Projects Fighting Drought in India
Maharashtra's Proactive Approach to Climate Resilience
How Check Dams and Farm Ponds Can Prevent Water Crises

In this first-person account, facilitated by Nishtha Kawrani and narrated to The Better India, Devanshu Srivastav reflects on his late father and explores the idea of fatherhood beyond biology. He shares how his uncle stepped in as a father figure when he needed one most, and how, in turn, he became like a son to his uncle to help save his life during a critical medical illness.

Every year, I see fathers and their children celebrating Father's Day, whether through social media posts, family gatherings, or simple moments on the streets of Delhi. 

While these celebrations bring joy to many, they also remind me of a loss I experienced when I was just nine years old.

My father passed away during my childhood, leaving behind a void that no Father's Day message or memory could ever fill. 

For years, I found myself wondering what life would have been like if he had been there to guide me through school, adolescence, and adulthood. 

The feeling wasn't limited to a single day in June. It stayed with me throughout the year, surfacing during important milestones, difficult decisions, and moments when I needed a father's advice.

Yet, life has a way of redefining relationships. In the years that followed, I came to understand that fatherhood is not always determined by blood. Sometimes, it is defined by the person who chooses to stand beside you when life becomes uncertain.

The uncle who stepped in to become ‘father’

I grew up in an ancestral home in Jaunpur, Uttar Pradesh, where three generations of our family lived together.

My grandparents, parents, younger brother, uncle, and I shared the same house. Like many children, I did not think much about money or how the household ran. 

My father loved us deeply, but he remained unemployed for most of his life. Due to a lack of formal education and the influence of the wrong company, he was unable to build a stable career. Despite his struggles, he always tried his best to fulfil our wishes. Whether it was a toy from the market, a packet of sweets, or taking us out for an evening, he rarely let us return disappointed. 

However, the financial responsibility of supporting our joint family largely fell on my uncle. Even before securing a government job, he contributed to the household through scholarships while pursuing his studies. 

Later, as his career took him to different cities, he continued sending money home. 

I still remember waiting for him to come home during Holi or Diwali. He was strict, and I was slightly afraid of him, but I also knew he would arrive with gifts, sweets, and stories from Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh, where he spent time during his education and training.

In 2007, life took a tragic turn, and I lost my father. 

For a long time afterwards, I searched for him everywhere. Even today, there are moments when I wish I could wake up and find that none of it happened, that it was all just a bad dream.

In the middle of that grief, my uncle held me close and told me that he would take care of me.

At the time, I did not understand what those words would come to mean, but years later, I could. 

More than an uncle, a father figure

The years following my father's death were not easy. My mother was illiterate, and although she did everything she could for us, I began struggling in school. 

Subjects that once came easily became difficult, and for the first time, I found myself falling behind academically.

In 2010, another challenge arrived: I developed an autoimmune condition that affected my legs to the point where walking became difficult. At first, I thought it was temporary stiffness, but the condition gradually worsened. 

When my uncle learned about it, he immediately called me to Lucknow for treatment. For nearly three months, he ensured that I received proper medical care and bore all the expenses for my treatment and recovery.  The treatment helped me recover physically, but my uncle was equally concerned about my future. 

By 2011, he had noticed that I was struggling with studies and lacked the environment I needed to grow. He asked me to move to Lucknow permanently and continue my education there.

That decision changed the course of my life.

Lucknow offered opportunities that were difficult to access in my hometown. Better schools, a stronger academic environment, and exposure to a different way of life helped me regain confidence. 

My uncle took care of every educational expense, from school fees and uniforms to books and other necessities. He often reminded me that there was no alternative to hard work, a lesson he repeated throughout my school years.

But what I remember most is not the money he spent.

It is the feeling of belonging, every evening, we would sit together for dinner with my grandmother, uncle, and aunt. Those meals may have seemed ordinary at the time, but today they represent something much deeper. 

After losing my father, I found a home where someone continued to worry about my studies, my health, and my future.

My uncle never claimed he was replacing my father. He simply showed up, year after year, and did what fathers often do.

The future he helped me build

By the time I completed my schooling in Lucknow in 2015, my uncle had already spent years investing in my future, both financially and emotionally. 

His support went far beyond paying fees or buying books. He wanted me to become independent and capable of facing life's challenges on my own.

After school, he encouraged me to move away from home for higher education. While it would have been easier to stay within the comfort of family, he believed that independence was an important part of growing up. 

With his guidance and support, I got admission in a government pharmacy college in 2015.

Throughout my college years, he remained my strongest support system. Whether it was educational expenses, advice during difficult phases, or encouragement when things did not go as planned, he was always there.

In 2019, I completed my undergraduate studies and stepped into professional life. Looking back, I often wonder how different my journey would have been had my uncle not stepped in at crucial moments after my father’s death. 

For more than a decade, he quietly helped me rebuild a future that once felt uncertain. Then, in 2020, life tested him in a way none of us had expected.

A chance to give back to the man who raised me

In May 2020, my uncle called me from Lucknow and told me that doctors had advised him to undergo a liver transplant. It was the only option left to save his life.

Hearing those words was difficult, but my response was immediate. I offered to donate a part of my liver.

For me, it was never a complicated decision. The man on the other end of the phone was not just my uncle — he had helped my family through difficult years, paid for my treatment when I could barely walk, supported my education, and stood by me after my father’s death.

Initially, he was hesitant. The transplant required multiple medical evaluations, government approvals, and months of preparation. But as his condition worsened, the need became urgent.

By September 2023, I moved to Lucknow to complete the donor process. For nearly a month and a half, I followed a strict diet and prepared myself physically for surgery.

On 30 October 2023, we were admitted to Medanta Hospital in Lucknow together. 

The surgery was successful, but the recovery was difficult, and I stayed in the hospital for about 15 days. The next day, I was allowed to see him — still critical, recovering from a more complex procedure. Yet seeing him there gave me hope.

Weeks later, he returned home. In January 2024, I returned to work in Delhi. Today, both of us are doing well.

People often ask me about liver transplants. But when I think about my uncle, I do not think about hospitals, surgeries, or recovery rooms.

I think about a man who chose responsibility when he could have chosen convenience. A man who supported his parents, his brother's family, and later a young boy who had lost his father. 

He never spoke much about sacrifice, nor did he seek recognition for it. He simply did what he believed was right.

Father's Day reminds us to celebrate the people who shape our lives. My father, Alok Kumar Srivastav, gave me love and memories that I continue to cherish. My uncle, Rajesh Kumar Srivastav, helped guide me through the years that followed.

Long before I donated a part of my liver, he had already given me something far greater: the chance to build a future.

All images courtesy Devanshu Srivastav

A movie set brought them together, but love made them stay. ❤️

When Amin Hajee met Charlotte during the shooting of Lagaan, few believed their cross-cultural romance would last. Yet 25 years later, they've built a beautiful life together, raising two daughters and creating memories across cultures and continents.

Their journey reminds us that lasting relationships aren't built on similarities alone. They're built on trust, respect, understanding, and choosing each other every single day.

What's your secret to a long-lasting relationship? 👇

#LoveStory #RelationshipGoals #Lagaan #AminHajee #CrossCulturalLove #MarriageGoals #FamilyValues #InspiringStories #CoupleGoals #TrueLove #LongLastingMarriage #BollywoodStories #PositiveStories #LoveBeyondBorders #TheBetterIndia

[Cross Cultural Love Story, Long Lasting Marriage, Lagaan Love Story, Amin Hajee, Charlotte, inspirational relationship, relationship goals, successful marriage story, love beyond borders, Bollywood love story, intercultural marriage, family values, enduring relationships, couple inspiration, Lagaan]

Who Is Amin Hajee's Wife? Their 25-Year Love Story
Cross-Cultural Marriage Success Story From India
The Untold Love Story Behind Lagaan
How Amin Hajee and Charlotte Built a Lasting Relationship
Secrets Behind a 25-Year Marriage

Every morning, the sun arrives with enough energy to power entire cities. Most of it goes unused. One café in Odisha decided to put some of that energy on the menu.

At Golden Brew Café in Bhubaneswar, sunlight is doing much more than brightening the day. It is helping cook biryani, pulao, and other hot meals while reducing the café's dependence on costly LPG cylinders.

Turning a crisis into an opportunity

For restaurants across India, rising fuel costs have become a growing concern. Commercial LPG cylinder prices have climbed from around Rs 1,600 to over Rs 3,000 in just five months, putting immense pressure on small businesses. 

Many eateries are struggling to stay afloat, and some have even been forced to shut their doors.

But instead of waiting for the crisis to pass, Golden Brew Café decided to rethink the way it cooks.

Today, the café prepares everything from biryani and pulao to freshly cooked meals using a solar-powered cooking system that dramatically reduces its dependence on conventional fuel.

Cooking with the power of the sun

What makes this system unique is that it doesn't stop working when the sun sets.

Developed by scientists Dr Sudhanshu Shekhar Sahu, Dr Manoj Nayak, and Santosh Swain, the technology combines a solar coil with an induction cooking system. 

During the day, solar panels generate electricity to power the kitchen. Any excess energy is stored and later used to run the induction setup.

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The result? The café can continue cooking long after sunset and even on cloudy or rainy days, all without relying on LPG.

The innovation, for which a patent was filed in 2021 and approved in 2024, currently operates on a 3-kilowatt solar installation that meets the café's cooking needs efficiently and reliably.

A small café, a big lesson

Beyond helping one business save on fuel costs, the technology points towards a larger possibility. India's restaurant industry relies heavily on LPG, making it vulnerable to fluctuating fuel prices and rising emissions.

Solar-powered cooking offers a different path — one that cuts long-term operational costs while reducing environmental impact. Though it requires a one -time investment, the benefits can continue for years.

As plates of biryani leave the kitchen at Golden Brew Café, they're carrying more than just a meal. They offer a glimpse of what happens when innovation meets a real-world problem.

With fuel prices continuing to climb, the café's solar-powered kitchen shows that clean energy solutions don't have to be futuristic or complicated. Sometimes, they can be as simple as harnessing the sunlight that falls freely overhead, and turning it into dinner.

Originally reported and written in June 2023, this story has been republished as part of our archival content.

Dr Prasanna Jogdeo, a marine biotechnologist, first learnt about duckweeds while pursuing his master’s degree from the University of East Anglia in the United Kingdom back in 2009–10.

“As a part of the course, we were supposed to do a six-month research project. I chose to do a project with Professor Keith Waldron at the Institute of Food Research (IFR), Norwich. The project was titled ‘Starch Optimisation in Lemna minor’, a species of duckweed. Upon learning about duckweed, I understood its magic, potential for wastewater treatment and as a protein supplement. Duckweed was something which hooked me on to the subject of phytoremediation,” says Jogdeo, speaking to The Better India.

But what is phytoremediation? According to the Nature journal, it refers to the “use of plants and associated soil microbes to reduce the concentrations or toxic effects of contaminants in the environment.” In duckweeds, which float on or just beneath the surface of still or slow-moving bodies of freshwater and wetlands, he found a nature-based solution for the growing requirement of wastewater treatment and rejuvenation of dying water bodies.

Following his master’s, Dr Jogdeo came back to his native Pune as a lecturer at the renowned Fergusson College in 2010. Here, he met his student Pooja Tendulkar and introduced her to the duckweeds. Their shared fascination with duckweeds prompted a couple of collaborative projects in Pune and extensive research on how they can be used for wastewater treatment.

In 2013, Prasanna went to Nanyang Technological University (NTU), Singapore to pursue his PhD. Despite spending the next four years working towards his PhD, the collaborative work and discussions with Pooja continued, and soon the idea of Lemnion took birth.

This collaboration eventually resulted in the creation of a startup in 2018 called Lemnion Green Solutions. The name ‘Lemnion’ comes from a family of duckweed called Lemnnaceae.

“We started the company based on our shared fascination for duckweed and its potential for wastewater treatment. However, we went ahead and acquired more exposure. When we went beyond just wastewater treatment and into the ecological rejuvenation of water bodies, we realised that duckweed was only a part, albeit important, of the process,” explains Jogdeo.

Today, the Pune-based startup provides a range of services including ecological rejuvenation of water bodies (rivers, nullahs, ponds) and biological systems to treat wastewater.

Lemnion works with both businesses and governments, and has completed about 30 projects which include ecological rejuvenation of targeted stretches of nullahs and rivers ranging from 100 m to 2,000 m, and biological systems to treat wastewater of capacities ranging from 1 KLD [kilolitres per day] to 3,000 KLD across multiple geographies, particularly in Maharashtra.

 

Employing duckweed

“Use of duckweed can be one of the many interventions employed in the rejuvenation of water bodies. Ecological rejuvenation is a holistic and multidisciplinary process,” says Tendulkar.

Duckweed is an excellent phytoremediator (plants that uptake nutrients from wastewater). It’s the smallest angiosperm, which grows/floats on the surface of the water and accumulates nutrients through the roots. It also grows really fast, doubling its biomass in 48 to 96 hours. They also accumulate nutrients from wastewater and convert them into protein. “Duckweed contains up to 40% protein, a composition similar to that of soybeans,” she adds.

“When employed for treatment of wastewater, the system is designed with enough retention time (approximately four days) of water for efficient treatment, and duckweed is inoculated in the system. As duckweed covers the entire water surface in the system, around 75% can be removed every other week after use, and employed as manure for the garden,” says Dr Jogdeo.

Where do they source duckweed from? Usually, duckweed is sourced from local natural water bodies.

“Out of a total of 37 species found worldwide, about four or five are found in India. Once obtained from the environment, we prepare pure cultures of the available species and use them. There are some species that show really fast growth but are less robust; some which are excellent phytoremediators and accumulate a lot of protein; some which are used as polishers,” he explains.

To address the problems of wastewater and polluted water bodies, however, Lemnion doesn’t depend on one specific type of system or fixed parameters. They provide solutions based on a “proven toolkit” which can be configured for specific cases.

“Basic principles involved in such work include water flow regulation, nutrient balance, improved biodiversity and stakeholder participation. For wastewater treatment, the technology involved is phytoremediation where specific phytoremediat-ing plants with specific microbial cultures are employed for effective wastewater treatment. In addition to duckweeds, we also use canna, taro, sedges and grasses like vetiver and pampas,” explains Dr Jogdeo. 

 

Rejuvenating a water body

The first major ecological rejuvenation project Lemnion worked on was the Kamandalu river located in Sangli district, Maharashtra. Located on the banks of this river is a village called Kavathe Mahankal which has a population of about 25,000. From planning to execution, it took seven months starting from March 2022.

“When we saw the river for the first time and spoke to village residents, they didn't know that the river even had a name. They thought it was just a stream and referred to it as an odha in Marathi. Residents had little knowledge of the river’s historical importance and religious significance. According to folklore, a shepherd found an idol of Goddess Mahankali in the bed of this river. Hence, the village was named Kavathe Mahankal. The river, which used to be healthy, had become a small and neglected stream over time,” says Jogdeo.

This project was organised in partnership with a young politician, Rohit Patil, son of the elected MLA from the Tasgaon-Kavathe Mahankal Assembly constituency.

These were some of the challenges Lemnion encountered:

1) There are nine to ten temples along the river. Waste from religious rituals was one big challenge including flowers and other types of offerings.

2) Solid waste was a big problem as well. People kept throwing plastics, wrappers, and mattresses, and the Lemnion team even found used condoms in the river. Solid waste was dumped into the river and sewage was discharged from the village, resulting in a polluted river.

3) Human encroachment was another concern. Half the width of the river was converted into a road. Before the encroachment, the river was about 150–180 feet wide, of which half had been encroached upon. Also, due to the erosion of surrounding land, silt deposition increased. Overall, the water-carrying capacity of the river decreased.

 

To execute the project, most of the financial contributions came from local non-profit organisations like the RR Patil Dnyan Prabodhini and Agrani Rurban Development Foundation. And the excavation machinery for the rejuvenation project came from the Naam Foundation.

Here’s a brief summary of the project: “Solid waste, accumulated silt and unbounded growth of Typha (tall reedy marsh plants) were removed from the river, and water was finally visible. To improve the quality of this water, it is necessary to treat the sewage entering the river. For this, natural systems were set up to treat approximately six to eight lakh litres of sewage every day. It reduced foul odour and stopped mosquito breeding,” explains Jogdeo.

“Various indigenous/native trees were planted to stabilise the banks and prevent soil erosion. Stone pitching and coir lining were done to stabilise the banks. Moreover, bunds and instream structures were built in the riverbed for water flow regulation. Structures of loose boulders were created as required. As a result of this work, the river started becoming healthy again,” he adds.

Around 250 students and 100 villagers contributed to this project. About 60 workers were given employment for three to four months due to this project. Today, the river is alive. Aquatic life, including fish, crabs and other aquatic plants have come back. Birds too started coming back.

 

“Structural work took about four or five months which included a clean up of the solid waste and excavation of the deposited sludge. When we work on such streams, we do not take away the sludge. We use the sludge in the river itself to stabilise the banks. This sludge is very fertile and we use that on the banks, do coir lining on it and develop plantations,” explains Dr Jogdeo.

“For any river ecosystem, the water flow has to be regulated and needs good riparian vegetation (which we normally see along rivers in its natural form). This riparian vegetation helps in holding the soil, mitigating floods, etc. There are many ecosystem functions attached to riparian vegetation. Our main target was to get those ecosystem functions back,” says Tendulkar.

What specific role did duckweed play in this project? Duckweed has a lot of advantages and disadvantages as well, according to Jogdeo. One of the biggest disadvantages is that it covers the surface of the water very fast, and thus its use has to be restricted.

“When we are doing something in a restricted area, it’s better to use duckweed. The best thing about duckweed is although it covers the surface of the water, it does not hamper sunlight penetration. Usually, duckweed is falsely compared to water hyacinths, which are very detrimental to aquatic ecosystems. However, fish can swim through the duckweed. Duckweed also doubles up as good feed for fish as it produces a lot of protein. Duckweed accumulates all the nutrients from the wastewater and produces protein for marine life,” he explains.

 

Along a big stretch of the river, there were about five bridges. Between two of the bridges, Lemnion confined that area for duckweed use.

“In this project, duckweed played the role of treating the wastewater or improving the water quality. Since we do all the work in summer, the water flow is less. Since most of the rivers in Central India are monsoon fed, there is less water in the river. Most of the water flowing through the river was wastewater coming from nearby villages. That water had to be treated. Duckweed played the role of phytoremediation or treating that wastewater,” explains Tendulkar.

Another key aspect of ecological rejuvenation, however, includes behavioural change and awareness among local stakeholders.

“In the past four years, we have learnt that unless you get all these stakeholders on board, we cannot have a sustainable rejuvenation project. That makes a lot of difference in any project when you have support from local people. That’s what happened in Kavathe Mahankal. After completing the project, the village celebrated the Navratri festival. On that day, a temple in the area sees about 8,000 to 10,000 tourists pay their respects to the local deity. That’s when we saw the behavioural change we wanted. We saw temple folk stopping tourists from throwing garbage in the river. They felt a renewed sense of belonging with the river,” he says.

“Through innovative techniques and sustainable practices, Lemnion successfully transformed a once-polluted waterway into a thriving ecosystem. "This river rejuvenation project serves as a shining example of environmental stewardship, inspiring us all to protect and restore our precious natural resources," says Rohit RR Patil. 

 

Wastewater treatment

The first wastewater treatment project Lemnion worked on was a duckweed-based wastewater treatment system for a bungalow in Wanwadi, Pune. The capacity of the system was 7,500 litres per day. Lemnion did the designing and supervision during execution. The implementation of this project took almost a month. “The most challenging part was appropriate plumbing since this was our first project, to ensure efficient treatment,” recalls Tendulkar.

For treating wastewater, the key is the regulation of water flow and retention time required for treatment. The roots of these plants [specific phytoremediat-ing plants] penetrate into the natural media (gravel, stones, etc). The roots with biofilms on them penetrate through the natural media, following which the water passes through. These biofilms do the work of getting the nutrients from the water and transferring them to the plant for their growth.

Some people call this process the constructed wetland system (or terrestrial system). Similar to natural wetlands, constructed wetlands also act as a biofilter and/or can remove a range of pollutants.

 

“We also have an aquatic system, where we use duckweed. Water comes into one tank. On the surface of the tank, we have duckweed growing. Since duckweed grows on the surface, we have fish in it so the circulation of water and nutrients keeps happening. Here, the water flow is regulated. Depending on the quality of the water, we provide enough retention time for the water to get treated. Towards the end, the water is pumped and used for gardening,” explains Jogdeo.

The aquatic system has duckweed growing on the surface. The wetland system has natural media with plants in it. There is no duckweed involved. Usually, what Lemnion employs during wastewater treatment is a hybrid system. For example, in the first two tanks, there are media and plants. In the third tank, which can also be used as a reservoir, they use duckweed in it.

Sahil Kanekar, a senior program associate (Urban Planning) at the World Resources Institute (WRI)-India, a major research organisation, is currently working on a pilot project with Lemnion at IIT Bombay, where they are rejuvenating a stretch of stormwater runoff.

“Their solutions seemed technically sound from an environmental engineering perspective — a lake and nullah rejuvenation or wastewater treatment with an ecological approach. However, operations and maintenance post-execution for public water bodies has been my concern. Solutions like these require coordination across multiple departments like gardens, stormwater and solid waste, and it can sometimes be difficult to identify who takes ownership and responsibility to maintain them after the project is handed over,” says Kanekar.

 

The pilot at IIT Bombay is currently in the final stages of implementation. 

“The project aims to treat water in a stream flowing through the campus and retain a portion of it to use to meet the watering needs of the campus, partially offsetting the current water demand. The aim is to also improve access of the campus residents and visitors to the local stream. We will be monitoring and assessing this project over the coming year,” he says.

Are their solutions scalable? Kanekar urges caution.

“For smaller streams, which have moderate to no concretisation along the edges and the nature of pollution discharged is domestic only, these ecological rejuvenation solutions can be feasible, cost-effective and bring co-benefits like biodiversity and community resilience. However, if the stream or nullah is heavily concretised with retaining walls or has a heavy industrial effluent discharge, there could be limitations to these solutions,” he says.

“Moreover, governance is a big challenge in terms of scalability. Such solutions require coordination across various departments and need a strong champion to successfully execute and shape the protocols for operation and maintenance,” adds Kanekar.

(We have received information for this article in collaboration with WRI India, an independent charity which provides objective information and practical proposals to foster environmentally sound and socially equitable development.)

(Edited by Pranita Bhat; Images courtesy Lemnion Green Solutions)

When tourists visiting Rajasthan’s Jawai region spoke about the growing plastic waste polluting its landscapes, Kana Ram Mewara couldn’t ignore it.
So the tea seller from Bisalpur started collecting plastic himself and soon came up with a simple idea: people could exchange plastic waste for essentials like sugar, stationery, and groceries.
Despite criticism and limited resources, he kept going.
What began at a small chai stall has now grown into a 15-village movement that has helped collect over 15,000 kilograms of plastic waste and transform it into benches, dustbins, and tree guards.
Loved the video? Stay tuned for more in #ForceForGoodHeroes, an extraordinary series on India’s unsung heroes that will inspire you to believe in the power of change.
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In partnership with @adityabirlagroup

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Women entrepreneurs are redefining what development looks like in India's most remote corners. 

Across tribal communities, women are turning age-old skills into sustainable livelihoods, proving that economic independence can grow from cultural roots rather than at their expense. 

At just 24, Debongshi Chakma is doing exactly that. From Mizoram's Lawngtlai district, the young entrepreneur has built a 500-member collective that is helping women earn livelihoods through traditional tribal crafts while ensuring that the cultural heritage of the Chakma community continues to thrive. 

Building opportunities where they are needed most

For Debongshi, entrepreneurship was never just about business.

As a member of the Chakma tribe, she grew up surrounded by rich cultural traditions, from weaving and bamboo craftsmanship to indigenous food practices and jhum cultivation. 

But she also witnessed the challenges many women in her community faced, particularly those dealing with economic hardship or social vulnerabilities, including divorced women.

Instead of seeing these realities as limitations, she saw an opportunity to create change.

Through Bodhibloom Society, she brought together women artisans, farmers, and craftspeople under one collective platform. Today, the organisation supports livelihoods across multiple sectors, including handwoven textiles, bamboo-based products, traditional foods, and sustainable farming practices.

"I do not want to see any woman suffering or unemployed," says Debongshi. 

"My vision is to create opportunities so that every woman in my community is self-reliant and empowered. I want to preserve our traditions and proudly represent our culture on the global stage."

Turning heritage into sustainable livelihoods

What makes Debongshi's journey particularly significant is that it challenges a common misconception — that preserving tradition and pursuing economic growth are opposing goals.

Her work demonstrates the opposite.

Every handwoven textile, bamboo creation, or traditional product emerging from Bodhibloom Society carries generations of tribal knowledge. Yet these products are not confined to local markets. 

They are being positioned for contemporary consumers who increasingly value handmade, sustainable, and culturally authentic goods.

In a region where access to large-scale infrastructure and mechanised production remains limited, this approach has created new pathways for income while ensuring that traditional skills remain relevant for younger generations.

The result is a model where cultural identity becomes an economic strength rather than a barrier.

From remote villages to national markets

A crucial part of this journey has been market access.

Through collaboration with TRIFED (Tribal Cooperative Marketing Development Federation of India), Debongshi's products are now reaching audiences far beyond Mizoram. 

The partnership connects tribal producers to larger retail and e-commerce networks, helping artisans access customers who value the craftsmanship behind their products.

This support is part of a broader effort to strengthen tribal entrepreneurship across India. Through initiatives such as Van Dhan Vikas Kendras, tribal producers receive support in value addition, packaging, branding, skill development, and market linkages, enabling communities to earn greater value from their work.

For entrepreneurs like Debongshi, such platforms bridge the gap between local production and national visibility.

Weaving a different future

The story of Debongshi Chakma is not just about selling crafts. It is about creating dignity through livelihoods, ensuring that women have economic agency, and proving that indigenous knowledge still holds immense value in a rapidly changing world.

In many ways, Bodhibloom Society represents a larger shift taking place across tribal India — one where women are emerging as architects of development. 

As Debongshi continues to expand opportunities for hundreds of women, she is showing that the most resilient enterprises are often those rooted in tradition and shaped for the future.

Sources:

‘From Forest to Fashion: Tribal India Enters Global Value Chains’ by Press Information Bureau, Published on 27 March 2026.

After fifty years of planting trees, Peepal Baba has arrived at a set of conclusions that sound almost backwards: nature doesn't need saving, careers kill passion, and for an environmentalist, a grandmother can matter more than a policy paper, and the most important tree in the world may be the one already standing.

Ask him a simple question, and his answer will leave you rethinking what conservation is, what restoration means, and why saving a tree is not always the same thing as planting one.

I ask him: if you had to choose between saving a 500-year-old tree and planting one lakh new saplings, what would you do?

He shifts in his seat, excited, as though he has been waiting years for someone to ask this question. Yet his answer comes in the form of another question, one that cuts to the heart of why protesters wrap their arms around trees and what an ancient tree can mean in a world obsessed with replacement.

“It is like asking: would you save your father, or go and give birth to 500 more children?” he says. “I would save my father. That 500-year-old tree is a mother tree. It produces millions of seeds. You are talking about one lakh saplings — that one tree may already be giving birth to 10 lakh trees.”

It is the kind of answer that creates the rare feeling of intellectual vertigo, the sense that familiar ground is shifting beneath your feet.

‘I confess: I have hardly made a dent. But I tried’

Swami Prem Parivartan — known to the world as ‘Peepal Baba’ — has spent 50 years doing something that very few people in India have done with such relentless consistency: planting trees, tending them, watching them grow, and then letting nature do the rest. 

His organisation, Give Me Trees Trust, has restored vegetation across 2,70,000 hectares spanning 226 districts. The numbers are staggering. The philosophy behind them is even more interesting.

His new memoir, Ghosts on Peepal Trees (Ebury Press, Penguin Random House India), published this year, is the book it took him over a decade to write — and a road accident in November 2024 to finally finish. In the Author's Note, he is characteristically unsparing about the scale of what he has achieved and what it means. 

“After working on the ground for nearly five decades, restoring vegetation across 2,70,000 hectares, planting twenty-five million trees and as many shrubs,” he writes, “I confess: I have hardly made a dent. But I tried. That is what matters.”

It is an extraordinary sentence from an extraordinary man. And when I sit down with him one morning — the conversation unhurried, ranging freely across five decades of experience — what strikes me most is not the scale of what he has done, but the modesty of how he thinks about doing it.

The boy who planted trees to avoid homework

The beginning, as Peepal Baba tells it, had nothing heroic about it. In those days, there was no mission statement, and the concept of climate anxiety was not yet an Instagram-approved term to describe what our ancestors already knew. His first introduction to environmentalism was a grandmother, a bicycle, and a child's natural tendency to find ways to escape the afternoon homework.

He was born in Chandigarh in 1966, the son of an army doctor who would rise to the rank of Brigadier. His early childhood was a series of postings — Dalhousie, Kolkata, Dehradun, then Pune. In Ghosts on Peepal Trees, he describes the smell of conifers entering his lungs before language did, and a childhood spent in the generous, sprawling bungalows of army cantonments, where the land itself was a kind of education.

But the real teacher was his grandmother.

"Granny was, by herself, a thriving ecosystem," he writes in the book. She arrived when he was born and stayed for 20 years, turning ordinary rooms into breathing spaces, teaching him to make compost from kitchen scraps at the age of six. "Waste nothing," she would tell him, handing over a bowl of vegetable peels. "Even what you throw away has some shame; let it find new life." 

The baptism — his word — came on his eleventh birthday. 26 January 1977. Republic Day. He came home from the school parade still humming the national anthem, and his grandmother was waiting at the gate. His gardener, Sunil Kaka, took him on an old bicycle to a small nursery on the edge of Kirkee Cantonment, which smelled, the book recalls, of damp soil and cow dung. 

The nursery owner handed over nine saplings — two peepal, two neem, two banyan, two jamun and one goolar. "I held them," Peepal Baba writes, "as if they were living secrets."

That evening, grandmother and grandson walked along the roadside in fading golden light and planted the first tree — a banyan — in front of bungalow T-20. Forty-eight years later, those nine saplings are landmarks, their roots gripping the road like veins of time. 

"It was fun," he tells me simply, when I ask what drove him in those early years. "We came from school, we put our bags down, picked up our digging tools and just rushed off. It was a good way to get away from homework. It was a good way to avoid being scolded." He laughs. "There was no mission. There was no climate action. There was no vocabulary like 'carbon credits' or 'global warming'. We just wanted to see the butterflies come."

‘You cannot save the Ganga. The only thing you can do is save yourself’

Fifty years later, that instinct has hardened into a philosophy, and it is one that challenges much of how modern environmentalism talks about itself.

"When management trainees come to us," he explains, leaning forward, "we always tell them: you are not here to save nature. You cannot save a planet. You cannot save the Himalayas. You cannot save the Ganga. The only thing you can do is save yourself." 

He is not being defeatist. He is being precise. In the book, he puts it another way, describing nature as carrying "4.5 billion years of silent genius" — a system so intelligent, so self-organising, that human intervention is best understood as service, not salvation. "We are transient guests on this blue planet," he writes. "The understanding of science should lead to awe, not arrogance."

On the ground, this philosophy translates into something beautiful and counterintuitive. When Give Me Trees plants on a patch of land, they might introduce 40 species. Within three years, an audit will find 150. The birds have come. The insects have come. The pollinators have arrived through channels no human managed or planned. 

"I cannot call a single butterfly through a WhatsApp message," he tells me, and there is real delight in his voice as he says it. "It will come on its own. The snakes will come. The reptiles will come. We are only caretakers. We are security staff. If we can manage doing what we ought to do, the world will be a much better place."

This shapes how he thinks about afforestation itself. In Ghosts on Peepal Trees, he describes the traditional method of planting — slow, patient, deeply personal — as being like classical music, ‘steady and layered’. You dig a pit, sometimes with borrowed hands, fill it with compost, plant the sapling and then you wait. "Every monsoon was a festival," he writes, "every survival a small victory." 

But too much of what India calls afforestation, he warns, is something else entirely — ritual dressed as action.

A nation of rituals

India, he says with no particular anger, is a nation of rituals. And tree plantation drives are among its most elaborate.

"On June 5th, everybody goes into party mode," he tells me. "Everyone starts calling us from April — banners, signages, there is a party. And then in September and October, you see all the saplings drying up because nobody is there to water them."

The problem, he explains, runs deeper than neglect. India has the largest plantation budget in the world — larger, he says, than the US and Australia and Europe combined. And yet survival rates on plantation drives are catastrophically low. "On paper, on Excel sheets, you say 40%, 50% survival. In reality? Two percent. Three percent. Four percent."

What would he do with that budget, if given the choice? He does not hesitate. "I would not allow a single new sapling to be planted. I would say: conserve what is already left. Our old forests. Our ancient trees. Let us fence those areas. Let us create wildlife corridors. Let us invest in what already exists." 

This is where the 500-year-old tree becomes more than an analogy — it becomes a policy position. "We are shutting down our ancestors," he says fiercely. "You cannot do that. And we need to learn from other countries. In Dublin, in Glasgow, in Amsterdam, in Paris — they have 300, 400, 600-year-old buildings. If they need to build something new, they build it somewhere else. They do not bulldoze the old. Same attitude. We need the same attitude for trees."

Stealth, community and the oldest currency on earth

In five decades of working on the ground, Peepal Baba has learned something that no course in environmental science teaches: that the real work happens invisibly, slowly, and almost always through other people.

He describes his style of working as that of a backbencher — starting projects without fanfare, building community support first, never announcing until the work has matured. 

"The moment we write about it," he explains, "too many people come. Too many cooks spoil the broth. We are out on the battlefield. We know how things work on the ground. So zip up, do your thing, and once it matures, show the world."

In the book, he describes discovering what he calls "the oldest currency on earth: goodwill." In his early years as a roadside gardener in Pune, when money for saplings ran out, strangers offered spades, gardeners lent manure, shopkeepers gave water in discarded bottles. "I realised," he writes, "that generosity grows faster than grass when watered with purpose." 

That instinct — to embed the work in the community before anything else — has protected his projects in ways that formal structures never could. He recounts incident after incident where land mafia or local troublemakers arrived to interfere, only to find not just the Give Me Trees team but the entire surrounding community ready to defend the patch. "When 150 people are sitting there, and 200 people are involved in the whole thing," he tells me, "they back off. Community is very important. Your team is very important." 

He pauses, then adds something that sounds like the distillation of fifty years: "You are nothing. The real work is done by the whole troop."

Don't make it your career

And then there is the advice no one expects from a man who has built a 400-person organisation and spent half a century in service to trees.

"Career is such an ugly word," he says, with settled conviction.

I had asked him what he would tell young people who want to follow in his path — people like my six-year-old daughter, who already tries to rescue dying moths and stops to look at every tree. His answer surprises me. He would not tell them to pursue environmentalism as a profession.

"The moment it becomes transactional," he explains, "it is finished. You become very cold. The passion goes. You start thinking about deliverables and PPTs and profit and loss."

He pauses, then says something that reframes the entire conversation: "I would like to see my country, my planet, with hobby gardeners. Hobby foresters. Hobby birders. Saturdays, Sundays, holidays. They take their friends, their families. It is like a picnic. It is party time. You do the real thing." 

In the book, his grandmother's voice surfaces at just the right moment — the same woman who told him at 11 that becoming a doctor or engineer was “such a boring thing”. "Do the thing that makes your blood sing," she used to say. "The rest will follow."

He is still following that advice. His best recommendation for young people passionate about nature is to first build a balcony garden. Then join a school eco-club. Let parents take children to forests instead of malls, to wetlands instead of multiplexes. "If you don't know the names of the birds," he reassures me, "it's okay. Let them Google it. Let them just explore." 

And if someday, by accident or by grace, the thing they love becomes something larger? He gestures at his own life. "I don't even know how this organisation happened," he says, with genuine wonder. "I really don't. There was some divine conspiracy."

Spend weekends in forests. Follow curiosity before ideology

When our conversation began, I thought I was speaking to one of India's most prolific tree planters.

By the end, I realised I had spent two hours with a man trying to convince me to stop obsessing over planting trees.

Not because planting doesn't matter. He has devoted half a century to proving that it does.

But because somewhere along the way, we started believing that every environmental problem could be solved by replacing what was lost with something new. A sapling for a forest. A plantation for an ecosystem. A target for a living thing.

Peepal Baba's argument is far more uncomfortable. The greatest environmental victories may not be the trees we plant tomorrow, but the ancient ones we refuse to cut down today.

When I asked him what young people should do, he did not tell them to become environmentalists. He said, plant a balcony garden. Learn the names of birds. Spend weekends in forests. Follow curiosity before ideology.

It is advice that sounds almost too small for someone who has planted millions of trees.

Then again, almost everything he told me sounded smaller than the environmental movement likes to sound.

Perhaps that is what environmentalism looks like after 50 years on the ground: less ambition, more affection. Less saving the world, more learning how not to destroy what is already saving us.

That is why his answer to my question lingered long after our conversation ended.

Would you save a 500-year-old tree or plant one lakh saplings?

For him, the answer was obvious.

And perhaps that is the lesson hidden inside 50 years of planting trees. After all the targets, campaigns, budgets, reports and plantation drives, the most important tree in the world is often not the one we plan to plant tomorrow.

It is the one that is already standing.

Source:

'Ghosts on Peepal Trees' by Peepal Baba is published by Ebury Press, an imprint of Penguin Random House India (2026).

Originally reported and written in June 2023, this story has been republished as part of our archival content.

It was the winter of 2017 when engineers Mohit Ahluwalia and Jagjyot Kaur were looking for a perfect getaway to Bali. Not only did the couple make warm memories there, but they also returned with new aspirations.

“While exploring markets in Bali, we saw how Indian-made fabrics with block printing had more value — not just financial value but also earned respect from consumers. We did not associate this kind of niche with block printing. Although there was a huge demand for them in Bali, the same products were not given much importance in India,” Mohit (36) tells The Better India.

“The major difference that we found in the products available in the foreign markets was the transparency with which the sellers were selling the products to consumers. They narrated the process, the techniques, the efforts that went into making the products, and how so many people would be impacted by the purchase. This also helps artisans earn more. We were not aware of those details despite living so close to Jaipur [known for block printing],” adds the Chandigarh resident.

 

After returning home, the couple decided to promote the ancient craft of block printing and support the livelihood of artisans. In 2019, they quit their more than decade-long corporate career and co-founded Raamae. Currently, they sell around 60 product types such as cushion covers, pouches, bags, swaddles, and quilts in India and abroad.

Finding joy amid chaos

Mohit says that during the trip, they observed how Bali is similar to India in terms of leading a chaotic lifestyle. “Yet people generally lead a joyful life. That is what Raamae means in Balinese — finding joy in the chaos. This word stayed with us when we came back,” he adds.

While they went back to their regular jobs post-vacation, the aspiration to explore entrepreneurship in block printing did not diminish. They started exploring textile companies and markets, and understanding various products.

 

In 2018, they planned a visit to Jaipur for a two-day workshop to understand how block printing works and meet artisans.

Three months later, the duo took part in an exhibition organised in Delhi where they showcased a few quilts and cushion covers. “This was our first step. Surprisingly, we got a good response from people and received some orders as well. This gave us hope for a market opportunity,” he shares.

What worked for the couple was the colour choices that went into making products. “We only worked with artisans on the colours and the prints. Generally, the colours that artisans use are a mix of red, yellow, and green. But we saw a demand for monotonous and minimal colour usage in the traditional prints. People wanted to go with traditional yet contemporary products to suit their home decor. So, we kept the design contemporary to reach out to modern buyers,” says Mohit.

 

He also points out that the usage of cheap synthetic colours averted buyers since they are harmful to human and environmental health. To avoid that, he uses natural colours made from turmeric, rusted iron, indigo and non-toxic azo-free dyes.

Later in 2019, he decided to quit his job and co-founded Raamae with his wife Jagjyot. From quilts and cushion covers, they expanded the produce range to bedsheets, pillow covers, clothes for infants, accessories, pouches, bags, and tote bags, some of which are made after upcycling leftover fabric.

What started with an investment of Rs 4 lakh, is not a company that clocks a revenue of up to Rs 18 lakh every month.

Mohit says they get most of their orders from Rajasthan, Mumbai, Bengaluru, Chennai, Hyderabad, Mysore, Goa, Kerala, Imphal, Assam, and Mizoram in India. They also cater to customers in United Arab Emirates (UAE) and the United States.

 

The labour of love

Believed to have its origin in China, block printing — the art and technique of crafting beautiful textiles using wooden blocks — emerged in India about 450 years ago.

In block printing, wooden blocks are carved out to print the outline of the design. Separate blocks are used to fill the colours in the design. Each colour has its own block. For fine detailing of prints on the fabrics, the blocks are hand-stamped more than 1,000 times to create a pattern across the length of the cloth.

The designs used are mostly traditional Indian motifs influenced by the nature, beliefs, and customs of the region. From start to finish, the whole process of hand block printing is a labour of love.

 

 

 

 

 

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A post shared by Raamaé - Home Baby Lifestyle (@raamae_life)

 

In Rajasthan, the important centres for hand block printing are Jaipur, Bangru, Sanganer, Pali, and Barmer. Sanganer is famous for its calico-printed bed covers, quilts and saris.

“We found that most artisans do not have any formal training to learn the art form. It has been passed through generations. But unfortunately, with declining demand, they are forced to move to cities for several odd but better-paying jobs. This made our goal even stronger,” says Mohit.

“The products that these artisans make have little value in Indian markets. Since they get paid less, they would rather leave their generations-acquired skills to work as delivery executives in cities,” he adds.

With his startup, Mohit has been able to find work for some artisans in the region. Currently, he works with a dozen artisans in Sanganer and Jaipur.

One such artisan is Rajesh Kumawat (45), who has been practising block printing for the past 15 years. In conversation with The Better India, he says, “Block printing is very arduous work; we have to be careful with balancing the blocks on fabric. Earlier, we would only print bedsheets and sarees. Now with changing times, we have started printing on quilts, garments, bags, and mobile covers — there is nothing we cannot block print on. And because of this, we are getting good money,” he says.

“We had been getting fewer orders for traditional art for many years now. But during the pandemic, we lost all work; there was no income. But now we are earning a decent amount again. Previously, we would manage to earn Rs 300 in a day, and now we get Rs 1,000. Our products are worn by foreigners as well; it is such a great feeling. I believe in the coming times, this market will get more recognition,” he adds.

Today, Raamae gets up to 400 orders in a month for its diverse range of products. From starting and scaling up the business, the decision to choose a new path was full of risks for Mohit.

“Even though we had good jobs, there was a calling from within to work towards real impact with people. At times, this work gets chaotic because we design and photoshoot our products ourselves, but we find joy in it, just like the meaning of our company,” he says.

“Since we do not have any background in designing, it is very overwhelming for us when people buy from us and also when we encounter someone wearing products designed by us. Our growth in numbers can never be fulfilling, but the acceptance we get from the people is overwhelming for us,” he adds.

Source:

The Craft of Hand Block Printing: Published by Government of India's Indian Culture.

Edited by Pranita Bhat

2,000 guests. Two days of celebrations. Thousands of meals served.

By most standards, Neha and Shankar’s wedding had the scale and warmth of a grand Indian celebration. 

Friends and family gathered, guests ate together, music filled the venue, and the rituals carried on in full spirit. But when the celebrations ended, one thing stood out: the organisers had managed to keep nearly 20,000 plastic disposables away from the waste stream.

Their wedding answers a question that many families are beginning to ask. Can large Indian celebrations become more environmentally responsible while keeping their culture, comfort, and scale intact?

Neha and Shankar’s wedding shows that they can.

Rethinking the invitation

The first decision was made long before the wedding day.

Instead of printing invitation cards, Neha and Shankar chose to send digital invitations to every guest. It eliminated the need for paper, printing, transportation, and packaging, reducing waste before the celebrations had even begun.

It was a simple shift, but it set the tone for the rest of the wedding. 

Feeding thousands without plastic disposables

Food is often at the heart of an Indian wedding. It is also one of the biggest sources of single-use waste at large gatherings. 

Over the course of two days, over 2,000 meals were served at Neha and Shankar’s wedding. But disposable plastic plates, cups, and serving materials were kept out of the dining experience.

Guests ate on banana leaves, a traditional practice familiar across many parts of India. Biodegradable cutlery was used in place of plastic alternatives, and food packaging was kept free of plastic-based materials. 

With these choices, the organisers estimate that nearly 20,000 plastic disposable items were prevented from entering the waste stream.

What happens behind the kitchen matters too

Much of a wedding's environmental footprint is created away from the dining area, inside kitchens where food preparation generates significant organic waste.

At Neha and Shankar's wedding, fruit peels, vegetable scraps, and other biodegradable leftovers were collected separately from the beginning.

Rather than being discarded alongside mixed waste, the material was sent for composting.

This ensured that organic matter could return to the soil instead of ending up in a landfill, where it would contribute little beyond adding to the growing volume of urban waste.

The approach took the sustainability effort beyond visible guest-facing choices and into the operational side of the event. 

Decorations that leave no trace

Nowadays, Indian weddings are all over the internet for their visual grandeur. The challenge is that many decorative materials used for temporary displays are difficult to recycle once the event ends.

Neha and Shankar chose a different route.

The wedding avoided thermocol and foam, two commonly used materials that often become waste after a single use. Instead, natural flowers and biodegradable decorative elements were used throughout the venue.

Where possible, materials were selected for reuse. Others were chosen because they could naturally decompose after the celebrations.

Sorting waste at the source

The venue also had its own composting system, allowing part of the waste to be processed on-site.

Different waste streams were segregated carefully so that organic material, reusable items, and other waste did not get mixed together.

This step made a real difference. Once waste is combined, it becomes much harder to recover or process responsibly.

By sorting waste at source, the organisers ensured that materials could be handled properly instead of being sent away as one mixed pile.

A blueprint for big-fat celebrations

More than 650 kilograms of waste were diverted from landfills. Around 250 kilograms of banana leaves used during meals were returned to the soil through composting or natural decomposition. Nearly 20,000 plastic disposables were avoided altogether.

Neha and Shankar’s wedding did not ask guests to give up comfort or tradition. Instead, it showed how familiar practices, from banana leaf dining to composting organic waste, can be combined with thoughtful planning.

For families planning large celebrations, their wedding offers a clear reminder: sustainability does not have to shrink the joy of an occasion. Sometimes, it begins with choosing what the celebration leaves behind.

Mumbai's reservoirs are running low, but the answer may be arriving with every rainfall. 💧

The Rainy Filter, a simple yet effective rainwater harvesting system, has helped save nearly 50 billion litres of water over the last two decades by capturing and filtering rainwater that would otherwise go to waste.

Today, it is being used by schools, residential societies, institutions, and major companies, helping communities reduce their dependence on traditional water sources while strengthening water security.

As climate change and water scarcity become growing challenges across India, innovations like this prove that sustainable solutions don't always have to be complicated, they just need to work.

Every drop of rain is an opportunity. 🌧️

Would you install a rainwater harvesting system at your home or apartment? Let us know in the comments. 👇

#WaterConservation #RainwaterHarvesting #RainyFilter #WaterSaving #Sustainability #ClimateAction #EnvironmentalAwareness #WaterManagement #SaveWater #SustainableLiving #ClimateSolutions #GreenInnovation #Mumbai #WaterCrisis #TheBetterIndia

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How Rainwater Harvesting Can Help Solve India's Water Crisis
What Is the Rainy Filter? Water Conservation Innovation Explained
Best Rainwater Harvesting System for Homes and Apartments
Mumbai Water Crisis: Sustainable Solutions That Work
How Schools and Societies Are Saving Water With Rainwater Harvesting

On a Tuesday morning inside a free school run by a non-profit in the tribal belt of Madhya Pradesh, a teacher paused midway through a story and looked around her classroom in disbelief.

Thirty children who usually struggled to sit still were listening with complete attention.

Not one child was fidgeting. Nobody was trying to leave the room. The classroom, usually noisy and distracted, had fallen into what the teacher would later describe as “pin-drop silence”.

For her, the moment felt extraordinary because she remembered what the same children had been like a year earlier.

“When Turning Pages Foundation first came, some children threw books around,” she recalls. “Some walked out. They were not interested at all. But now they wait for story sessions.”

The transformation is part of a larger reading movement quietly unfolding across India through Turning Pages Foundation, a non-profit that works with a mix of government, government-aided, free schools and low-income schools that aid underserved communities to build strong reading habits among children from Classes 1 to 5.

Founded by sisters Bunty and Madhuri Pai, and their first cousin Nayana Pai, the organisation works across 12 active schools in Maharashtra, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and Madhya Pradesh. 

Through classroom libraries, read-aloud sessions, teacher training, and school-wide reading programmes, it currently reaches nearly 8,000 students and 150 teachers. Over the last few years, the foundation has sourced and circulated close to 15,000 books across schools that often had little or no access to children’s literature before the programme began.

But for the founders, the work is not just about books.

It is about changing children’s emotional relationship with reading.

Why the reading crisis in India runs deeper than marks

Across India, concerns around foundational literacy have become increasingly urgent. Under the Government of India’s NIPUN Bharat mission, educators and policymakers have repeatedly pointed to a troubling reality: millions of children are progressing through school without developing basic reading skills.

Several national assessments have shown that many Grade 5 students still struggle to comfortably read Grade 2-level text.

For Turning Pages Foundation, however, the issue is not merely academic.

The founders believe many children disengage from reading long before they are officially identified as “weak readers”. By the time books enter their lives through exams, correction, and pressure, reading has already become associated with anxiety rather than pleasure.

“Children have an innate desire to read and listen to stories,” says Madhuri Pai, co-founder of the organisation and an IIM Bangalore graduate who spent 25 years in business management before moving into education. “The problem is that we often turn reading into a forced activity instead of an enjoyable one.”

That belief now sits at the centre of the foundation’s work.

Rather than focusing narrowly on test performance, the organisation works to build what it calls a “whole-school reading culture”, where books become part of everyday life inside classrooms, corridors, and homes.

How three sisters built Turning Pages Foundation

The idea for Turning Pages Foundation emerged from the sisters’ own childhood in Mangaluru, where books were deeply woven into family life.

“Our best memories growing up involved books,” says Bunty Pai. “Reading was never treated like homework in our house. It was associated with comfort, joy, and conversation.”

Though the sisters eventually entered different professions, books remained a constant thread.

Bunty worked as a journalist before spending years in the education non-profit sector, where she developed story-based learning programmes. 

Madhuri built a long corporate career while running neighbourhood book clubs for children in her spare time. Nayana Pai worked in software engineering before motherhood pushed her to rethink her career entirely.

“When my son entered Class 1, I started doing phonics activities at home and reading sessions for children nearby,” Nayana says. “I realised how much children responded when stories were made enjoyable.”

In 2017, she piloted a structured reading programme inside a Mumbai school with Class 3 students. The response convinced the sisters that the model needed to grow.

By 2020, all three had come together to formally launch the Turning Pages Foundation. Ironically, the organisation was born just as the COVID-19 lockdown began.

“I had gone to Pune and was supposed to return on March 24,” Bunty recalls. “Then suddenly the lockdown was announced and we couldn’t meet.”

Even during the uncertainty of the pandemic, the sisters continued refining their curriculum, teacher training models, and classroom methodology through online interactions.

“We were talking about physical books and reading culture at a time when the whole world had shifted online,” Bunty says with a laugh. “But we believed even more strongly then that children needed stories.”

What the programme looks like inside schools

Turning Pages Foundation does not simply donate books to schools and move on.

Before beginning work at any school, the organisation conducts a detailed audit that assesses physical infrastructure, classroom spaces, existing book collections, family demographics, and reading habits among children.

Schools that join the programme commit to structural changes within the timetable itself.

Every participating school introduces a daily 20 to 30-minute DEAR period, which stands for Drop Everything And Read. Children also receive a weekly double period dedicated entirely to joyful reading experiences rather than textbook instruction. In addition, teachers receive 40 minutes every week for mentoring and coaching support.

“You cannot create a reading culture by just placing books in classrooms,” Madhuri says. “The ecosystem matters.”

The reading sessions themselves are intentionally simple.

Teachers read aloud from physical books while encouraging children to respond freely to stories through conversation, imagination, drawing, drama, and discussion. Children are invited to predict endings, question character choices, and connect stories to their own lives.

“If the story did not have a proper ending, students would create their own,” says Amalorpavamary, a teacher at HOPE School in Bengaluru who has worked with the programme for three years. “Stories became alive for them.”

She remembers reading a story about a blind boy who navigated spaces by counting his steps. After the session, students began counting distances everywhere, from classrooms to school gates and even inside their homes.

“They wanted to understand what that boy experienced,” she says.

The change in classroom participation has surprised even experienced educators.

“Earlier, reading sessions meant the teacher spoke, and students listened quietly,” Amalorpavamary explains. “Now they ask questions constantly. They ask whether stories are real, why characters behaved a certain way, and what they would have done differently.”

One child once walked to the front of the class holding a storybook and confidently declared, “Okay, I’m the teacher now.”

Why teachers are at the centre of the model

A key part of Turning Pages Foundation’s approach is that teachers themselves drive the programme.

Instead of relying on external volunteers, the organisation invests heavily in teacher training so schools can sustain reading culture independently over time.

“Teachers are already under enormous pressure,” says mentor Veda Venkatesh, who supports schools in Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. “Our job is to make storytelling feel manageable and joyful rather than like another burden.”

The organisation conducts a three-day intensive teacher training programme every year.

The first day reconnects teachers with their own childhood experiences of stories and imagination. The second day introduces teachers to read-aloud techniques and classroom practices. The third day trains teachers in performance techniques such as pacing, voice modulation, classroom movement, and discussion facilitation.

“They taught us how to hold books properly so children could see the illustrations clearly,” Amalorpavamary says. “They also taught us how to use pauses, voice, and movement to make stories engaging.”

Teachers are additionally trained to create emotionally safe discussion spaces where children feel comfortable expressing opinions without fear of being judged.

For many educators, this approach feels radically different from traditional classroom instruction.

At schools where the programme has run consistently, teachers themselves have begun developing stronger reading habits.

“At one school, teachers started asking for book recommendations for their own reading,” says mentor Pallavi Mallya. “That was a very important shift because children notice when adults genuinely enjoy books.”

How libraries are transforming schools

At SSVM Hippocampus School near Kanakapura in Karnataka, principal Shobha K R remembers how limited the school’s reading environment once was.

“We had only twelve books earlier,” she says.

Today, the school has nearly 3,000 books distributed across classroom libraries in English and Kannada. It also conducts two 40-minute reading sessions every week alongside its daily DEAR period.

What has surprised Shobha most is how reading has gradually become embedded in the school’s larger culture.

“Every morning, the entire school reads,” she says. “Teachers read, the principal reads, support staff read, even security guards read. It has become normal for everyone.”

Students from higher grades who are technically outside the programme have begun asking why they cannot participate in storytelling sessions, too. Children now routinely borrow books to take home.

“Reading is my favourite time,” says Mishika, a Class 3 student from Mumbai. “Every day we get twenty minutes, and I wait for it.”

Another student admits, “I usually fall asleep during classes, but I pay lots of attention during storytelling sessions because my ma’am makes them fun.”

Reaching children often left behind by classrooms

Some of the programme’s strongest impacts have emerged among children who struggle within conventional classroom systems.

Veda remembers a child with learning disabilities at a Karnataka school who could not independently read text but still formed a deep attachment to one particular storybook.

“He cannot read the words fluently,” she says. “But he remembers the story completely and explains why it is his favourite.”

That same child later participated confidently in a classroom skit during the annual showcase.

In another school, a child with autism who found it difficult to remain engaged during regular lessons became calm and attentive during storytelling sessions.

The programme is deliberately designed to allow participation beyond reading ability itself. Children can engage through oral narration, drawing, observation, discussion, and dramatisation.

“Our programme is designed not to exclude anyone,” Veda explains.

How reading habits are reaching homes 

The impact of the programme often extends far beyond classrooms.

At JES School in Mumbai, Kankuben, the mother of a Class 3 student named Mishika, says books have transformed conversations at home.

“She comes home with excitement and tells us every story,” Kankuben says. “Even during summer vacations, she misses reading in school.”

Kankuben describes herself as someone with limited literacy in Hindi and English. Yet she says she trusts her daughter completely when it comes to reading.

Another parent, Shabnam, says her son Arfaan now regularly narrates stories from school at home.

In several schools, parents who did not grow up with books themselves have started attending read-aloud sessions. One mother later told teachers that participating in a storytelling activity reminded her of her own childhood for the first time in decades.

“That stayed with me,” Bunty says. “Then you realise this is not only about literacy. It is also about memory, affection, and belonging.”

Measuring impact beyond marks

Turning Pages Foundation is careful about how it evaluates impact. The organisation conducts baseline and endline surveys at schools to assess shifts in reading engagement, participation, and confidence. 

But unlike many education programmes, its primary indicators are not exam marks alone.

Instead, teachers observe whether children voluntarily pick up books, whether they can name favourite stories and explain why they liked them, whether they discuss books with friends and family, and whether classroom participation improves over time.

“Reading culture is not an exact science,” Bunty says. “But you can clearly see when children begin emotionally connecting with books.”

Mentors also track behavioural indicators that reveal deeper engagement.

Some children finish lunch quickly so they can spend extra time in reading corners. Others begin borrowing books regularly or narrating stories at home. Teachers report stronger classroom discussions and increased curiosity among students who were previously disengaged.

For the founders, these changes matter because they indicate that reading is becoming self-driven rather than externally imposed.

Building a culture that survives beyond the foundation

One of the core goals of Turning Pages Foundation is sustainability.

The organisation does not want schools to remain permanently dependent on external intervention. Instead, it works toward helping schools build reading ecosystems that continue functioning independently.

That is why teacher ownership remains central to the programme.

“We want schools to eventually say, ‘This is how we function now,’” Bunty explains. “Not because Turning Pages is present, but because reading has become part of the culture.”

Today, across government-aided schools, tribal communities, low-income classrooms, and coastal villages, children who once saw books as intimidating are beginning to experience them differently.

They are waiting for storytelling sessions. Borrowing books voluntarily. Asking questions. Creating alternate endings. Reading at home during vacations.

And in classrooms where silence once came only from fear or disinterest, teachers are now witnessing something they rarely expected to see. Children listen because they genuinely want to.

All images courtesy of the Turning Pages Foundation

Not every dream is meant to come true.

Sometimes, it's meant to make way for something even bigger.

Before becoming a household name through 3 Idiots, Mirzapur, and international projects, Ali Fazal dreamt of building a career in basketball. But an injury brought those ambitions to an unexpected end.

Instead of giving up, he chose a different path.

That decision led him into acting, where he went on to earn recognition in Bollywood, Hollywood, and the hearts of millions of fans worldwide. ❤️

Ali's journey is a reminder that setbacks don't always close doors—they can open new ones we never imagined.

The dream may change, but your potential doesn't.

What's one setback in your life that ultimately led to something better? Share your story below. 👇

#AliFazal #Mirzapur #3Idiots #BollywoodActor #SuccessStory #InspiringJourney #CareerTransformation #Motivation #NeverGiveUp #LifeLessons #IndianActors #PositiveStories #Hollywood #Raakh #TheBetterIndia

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Who Is Ali Fazal? The Inspiring Story Behind His Success
Ali Fazal Biography: From Basketball Dreams to Acting
How Ali Fazal Became a Bollywood and Hollywood Star
Mirzapur's Ali Fazal and the Setback That Changed Everything
Ali Fazal Success Story: Lessons in Resilience and Reinvention

Along the West Deo River in Odisha's Similipal Tiger Reserve, a forest team scans the waterline. A pair of eyes breaks the surface. Further downstream, another crocodile basks on a sandy bank.

For conservationists, these sightings mean more than another reptile counted in a survey.

They are signs of a river system that is holding steady.

The latest census has recorded 84 mugger crocodiles, up from 81 last year, reversing a decline that continued for two consecutive years.

The increase may seem small. But for a species that depends on healthy rivers, abundant prey, and secure nesting grounds, those three additional crocodiles tell an encouraging story about the health of an entire ecosystem.

A positive shift

The census, conducted between January 6 and 8 this year, covered 20 locations across eight major water bodies within Similipal. More than 100 forest personnel, working in nearly 30 teams, surveyed rivers, streams, and wetlands across the reserve.

Their final count stood at 84 mugger crocodiles.

The figure marks a welcome turnaround after a dip in recent years.

Similipal recorded 81 crocodiles in 2021, 83 in 2022, and 86 in 2023. The numbers then declined to 82 in 2024 and 81 in 2025.

This year's increase has pushed the population back up to 84, breaking the downward trend.

The West Deo River remains the species' strongest habitat in Similipal, accounting for 60 crocodiles.

Of the total population, 78 were recorded in the South Similipal division, one in the North Similipal division, and five at the Ramatirtha Mugger Crocodile Breeding Centre.

Why crocodiles matter

Mugger crocodiles (Crocodylus palustris) are often seen as fearsome animals. But for ecologists, they play a crucial role in maintaining healthy freshwater ecosystems.

As apex predators, they help regulate fish populations, remove weak or diseased prey, and influence how other species use river habitats.

Their survival is closely linked to the health of the water bodies they inhabit.

A river that can support crocodiles must also support fish, aquatic vegetation, nesting sites, and a wider web of life. For this reason, crocodiles are often considered indicators of ecosystem health.

When their numbers remain stable or increase, it suggests that the river system beneath them is functioning well.

In a landscape as biodiverse as Similipal, that matters far beyond the future of a single species.

The Ramatirtha model

At the heart of these conservation efforts is the Ramatirtha Mugger Crocodile Breeding Centre.

Hatchlings raised at the facility are periodically released into rivers and water bodies across the landscape, including the Deo, Khairi, and Budhabalanga river systems.

The goal is simple: strengthen wild populations while giving young crocodiles a better chance of surviving their most vulnerable years.

Forest officials attribute the latest increase largely to these releases, along with continuous habitat protection and monitoring.

The annual census also plays an important role. By tracking where crocodiles occur and how populations change over time, forest managers can identify emerging threats and adapt conservation measures when needed.

A forest that is responding to protection

The story of Similipal's crocodiles is also a story of what long-term conservation can achieve.

Unlike wildlife recoveries that make headlines overnight, this progress has come through years of fieldwork, habitat management, and scientific monitoring.

The mugger crocodile is listed as Vulnerable by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), and populations across South Asia continue to face threats from habitat loss and shrinking freshwater ecosystems.

Against that backdrop, Similipal offers a hopeful example.

The rise from 81 to 84 crocodiles will not transform the species' future overnight. But conservation is often built through steady gains rather than dramatic leaps.

Three crocodiles may not sound like a breakthrough. Yet in the rivers of Similipal, they represent the impact of sustained conservation efforts, careful monitoring, and habitat protection working together.

For a species that has survived for millions of years, and for the rivers that sustain it, that is a promising sign.

Sources:

‘Crocodile Population Rises In Similipal, Reversing Two-Year Decline’: by OMMCOM NEWS , Published on 14 January 2026

‘Identifying individual mugger crocodiles using drone technology to minimise conflicts’: by Anusha Krishnan, Published on 24 Nov 2022

Ravikant (name changed) had farmed the same black soil fields in the Gadag district all his life. At 60, he felt fine. He had no chest pain, no fever, and no significant loss of weight. When he occasionally coughed, he put it down to old age, nothing more. He had never been to a city hospital. He did not think he needed to.

Then one morning, a health screening camp arrived in his village, run by a team carrying what looked like a small briefcase.

He walked in casually. There were no obvious symptoms that brought him there. No alarm, no crisis. Within minutes, a smartphone-based respiratory screening tool analysed his cough pattern using an AI model. It flagged him as high-risk. The health worker referred him for further testing. Weeks later, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis at a stage where treatment could still make a full difference.

“I had no idea,” he said later. “I thought I was just getting old. There was nothing that told me something was wrong.”

That is what makes the story both remarkable and sobering: Ravikant was not a man in denial. He genuinely had no symptoms. The disease was silently progressing inside him, undetected, as it does in millions of people across rural India every single day.

The illness you don’t know you have

Ravikant’s story is not unusual. It is, in fact, devastatingly common.

Across India’s rural and underserved communities, millions of people are living with conditions they cannot name. Hypertension quietly elevates the risk of a stroke that arrives without warning. Diabetes builds for years before peripheral nerves fail. Anaemia drains women and children of energy so gradually that exhaustion begins to feel normal. Tuberculosis spreads in bodies whose owners are still working the fields, cooking the meals, and going about their days.

The problem is not just disease. It is the gap between when a disease begins and when it is found. In cities with routine check-ups, private clinics, and easy access to diagnostics, that gap can be weeks. In rural India, it is often months.

“By the time many patients reach us in tertiary care, the disease has already progressed significantly,” says a physician involved in rural health outreach in Karnataka. “If we could catch these conditions a few months earlier, the outcomes — and the costs — would be completely different.”

A kit that screens 20+ parameters in under 10 minutes

The portable kit that reached Ravikant’s village is called AffEx — a platform developed under the Anjani Mashelkar Foundation (AMF), founded in 2011 by Padma Vibhushan Dr R A Mashelkar, one of India’s most celebrated scientists.

Dr Mashelkar, former Director General of CSIR and a Fellow of the Royal Society, built AMF on a single driving idea: that true inclusive innovation must bring access equality despite income inequality. He calls it “affordable excellence.” Technology that is not watered-down or a lesser version designed for the poor, but genuinely high-quality and made affordable by design.

AffEx is that philosophy in a kit.

India’s first completely medical-grade, point-of-care, fully digital early detection and monitoring platform packs an extraordinary range of tools into something a health worker can carry on her shoulders. The kit includes a non-invasive haemoglobin testing device (no needle, no blood), a digital blood pressure monitor, a smartphone-based respiratory health screening tool that uses a cough as a biomarker for TB, COPD, and asthma, a glucometer, a smart BMI machine, a 12-lead digital ECG, and an AI-enabled digital stethoscope that listens to the heart sounds and flags cardiac murmurs automatically.

The whole assessment — covering 20+ parameters — takes less than ten minutes per person. Every result is instantly digitised, stored, and accessible through a clinical dashboard that tracks individuals over time. For a community health worker like Prabha, it means the difference between noting a concern and actually catching it.

The day Prabha heard a heart

Prabha Kulkarni is an ASHA worker in Umari village, Karanja, in Maharashtra’s Vidarbha region, one of India’s most economically distressed agricultural belts. For years, her toolkit had been simple: a weighing scale, a mid-upper arm circumference tape, a register book, and her feet.

She walked her rounds every day, tracking pregnancies, nudging families toward vaccination, following up on malnutrition. She did it without complaint and without much recognition. But she had always felt the edges of what she could do. She could notice, she could refer. She could not diagnose.

Then, during an AffEx training session, a trainer placed a digital stethoscope in her hands.

It was not an ordinary stethoscope. The AI-enabled device captures and analyses heart sounds in real time. Place it on a patient’s chest, and within seconds the platform tells you whether it has detected a cardiac murmur, an early warning sign that the heart is not working as it should.

Prabha pressed the device to a patient’s chest. She listened. Then she looked at the screen.

“Pahilyandach hrudayache thoke itke spasht aiku aale mala. Vatla kharch kunaacha jeev vachavtey mi,” she said softly (For the first time, I could hear the heartbeat so clearly. I thought I was truly saving someone’s life today.)

For Prabha, the moment was not just clinical. It was personal. She had spent years as a frontline worker, respected in her community but often invisible to the healthcare system. Now she was holding AI in her hands. She was the one detecting what a heart might be hiding.

The hardest problem: what happens after the camp

India is not short of health camps. Many NGOs, government programmes, and CSR initiatives run them regularly. But those who work in rural healthcare will tell you something sobering: a camp that finds a problem and then walks away may do as much harm as good.

A person told they are high-risk for hypertension needs follow-up counselling, possibly medication and certainly monitoring. But without a system to track them, they go home, worry for a few days, and then return to life. Six months later, nothing has changed. Or everything has.

AffEx was built with this gap in mind. Once someone is flagged, the platform stores their digital health record, enables referral coordination, connects them to teleconsultation, and keeps them trackable for follow-up. The tool is not a one-day intervention. It is the beginning of a thread that stays connected.

“The screening is just the first step,” says a frontline health coordinator who has deployed AffEx in tribal districts of Maharashtra. “What matters is whether the person gets treated. The platform keeps us connected to them. We know who was flagged, who was referred, who followed up and who didn’t. That’s what changes outcomes.”

50,000 people and a first mile that could change everything

AffEx is currently operating across six states and has screened more than 50,000 individuals through community outreach programmes, rural screening initiatives, tribal health drives, and institutional collaborations.

But the number that matters most is not 50,000. It is the number of people who, like Ravikant, would not have known what was coming — and now do.

For most Indians, the first point of healthcare contact is not an AIIMS or a corporate hospital. It is a primary health centre. It is a mobile van. It is an ASHA worker like Prabha, walking from door to door with a notebook and a blood pressure cuff.

If those first-mile workers can be equipped with tools like AffEx, tools that are genuinely medical-grade, genuinely affordable, and genuinely simple enough for a trained community worker to use, then the entire architecture of early detection changes.

A frontline worker empowered by AI 

Ravikant completed his TB treatment. He still farms the same black soil in Gadag. But he goes for check-ups now. He tells his neighbours about the camp, about the little briefcase, about what it found in a cough he had learned to ignore.

And in Umari, Prabha still walks her rounds every day. But now she carries something new in her kit. When she places the digital stethoscope against a chest and watches the screen, she feels something she had not felt before in twenty years of community work.

“Now when I go to a house, they trust me differently,” she says. “Before, I could only tell them to go to the doctor. Now I can show them what is happening in their own body. That changes everything.”

That feeling of a frontline worker empowered, of a patient found before the worst arrives, of a system that reaches people instead of waiting for them is what Dr Mashelkar’s vision of “affordable excellence” looks like in practice.

The technology is impressive. But the real story is simpler and older than any device.

It is the story of what happens when someone decides that people in a village in Vidarbha deserve the same quality of early detection as someone in a city clinic. And then builds it.

AffEx Healthcare is an initiative of the Anjani Mashelkar Foundation, which works to bring high-technology, ultra-affordable healthcare innovation to underserved communities across India.

This monsoon, one of the easiest crops to grow at home may already be sitting in your kitchen.

Turmeric grows well in the rain, needs little space, and can thrive in pots, grow bags or small garden beds. For Kanchan Verma, a farmer from Madhya Pradesh, this everyday spice also became a source of serious income.

By improving her cultivation practices, she doubled her earnings and made around Rs 12 lakh from turmeric farming.

“Although I did not face any losses cultivating traditional crops, I wanted to explore new crops for better returns. As a farmer, we should keep experimenting in the field,” Kanchan tells The Better India.

Her experience offers simple lessons for home gardeners too. With healthy rhizomes, loose soil, good drainage and organic manure, turmeric can grow steadily through the monsoon and stay productive for months.

So, before you fill your garden with the usual tomatoes, chillies and spinach, make some space for turmeric too.

1. Begin with healthy rhizomes

A good turmeric harvest begins long before planting.

Kanchan’s experience highlights the importance of selecting quality planting material, and the same rule applies at home. Choose fresh and firm rhizomes that are free from mould, cuts and signs of rot. Pieces with visible buds tend to establish more quickly once planted.

If the rhizomes are large, they can be divided into smaller sections, provided each piece has at least one healthy bud.

2. Give the soil some attention

One of the reasons turmeric performs well on Kanchan’s farm is the attention she gives to soil preparation. 

The crop develops underground, so loose, fertile soil makes a noticeable difference to the final harvest. Hard or compacted soil can restrict rhizome growth, while waterlogged soil increases the risk of rot.

“Our region is famous for black soil that is suitable for wheat cultivation. However, a well-drained sandy loam soil rich in humus content works well for growing turmeric,” Kanchan says. 

Before planting, mix compost or well-rotted manure into the soil. A growing medium that combines garden soil, compost and a small amount of sand usually works well for home gardens.

The aim is to create a soil structure that holds moisture without remaining soggy.

3. Use raised beds to prevent waterlogging

Before planting, the farmer prepares raised beds and enriches them with organic manure. The approach helps excess rainwater drain away while keeping the soil loose around developing rhizomes. Home gardeners can borrow the same idea.

Whether you use grow bags, large pots or garden beds, make sure excess water can drain out during the monsoon. Containers should have enough drainage holes, and water should not collect around the roots after heavy rainfall. 

Plant the rhizomes about five to seven centimetres below the soil surface and cover them lightly.

4. Feed the soil, not the plant

Kanchan relies heavily on organic inputs such as cow dung manure and jeevamrut to maintain soil fertility.

In a home garden, compost can play a similar role.

Adding vermicompost or well-rotted manure every few weeks helps replenish nutrients and supports steady growth throughout the season. Rather than pushing the plant with strong fertilisers, the focus should remain on building healthy soil.

“We only use cow dung and jeevamrut to boost the fertility of the soil,” Kanchan says. 

Turmeric generally responds well when organic matter is added consistently over time.

5. Do not skip earthing up

Around a month after planting, the farmer carries out a practice known as earthing up. This involves drawing soil around the base of the plants, helping the rhizomes expand more comfortably underground.

The technique is easy enough for any gardener to try.

Once the plants are established, add a layer of soil or compost around the stems. It takes only a few minutes but can improve rhizome development later in the season.

6. Keep an eye on water and soil health

One reason turmeric suits home gardens so well is that it rarely creates the kind of headaches associated with many vegetables.

The crop generally faces fewer pest problems, and once the plants are growing strongly, maintenance is limited to occasional watering during dry spells and periodic feeding with compost.

Good drainage remains the most important safeguard during the rainy season. As long as the roots are not sitting in water for extended periods, turmeric grows steadily without much intervention.

7. Know when to harvest

Turmeric requires patience.

The rhizomes remain underground for seven to nine months after planting. By late winter or early spring, the leaves begin to yellow and dry naturally. This is usually the sign that the crop has reached maturity.

At harvest time, gently loosen the soil and lift the rhizomes from below. Fresh turmeric has a strong aroma and colour that is difficult to match with store-bought varieties. It is also wise to set aside a few healthy rhizomes for the following season’s planting.

A crop worth making space for

For gardeners looking beyond the usual monsoon vegetables, turmeric offers a practical alternative. It copes comfortably with wet weather and stays productive long after the rains have ended.

The lessons from Kanchan Verma’s farm are pretty easy to follow. When the soil is healthy and the growing conditions are right, the crop largely takes care of itself.

The craft that created Mohenjo-daro's iconic Dancing Girl is still alive in India today. Yet the tradition that has endured for 4,500 years could disappear within the next generation.

The bronze sculpture, known as the Dancing Girl, remains one of the most recognisable artefacts of the Indus Valley Civilisation. With one hand on her hip, hair tied in a bun, and 25 bangles stacked along her arms, the figure continues to fascinate people thousands of years after it was created.

Made around 2500 BCE, the sculpture was crafted by artisans of the Indus Valley Civilisation using the lost-wax casting technique — a metal-casting method so advanced that it still amazes researchers today.

What makes the story even more remarkable is that the same technique continues to be practised in parts of India.

A 4,500-year-old craft still practised today

Across Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, Odisha and West Bengal, Dhokra artisans continue to preserve the ancient art of lost-wax casting.

The process begins with a clay model. It is then decorated with intricate wax patterns before being coated with layers of earth. Molten metal is poured into the mould to create the final piece.

A defining feature of the craft is that every mould is broken after casting. As a result, no two pieces are ever the same.

Despite surviving thousands of years, empires, invasions and changing times, the craft now faces an uncertain future.

Low incomes, shrinking markets and little support are making it increasingly difficult for artisan families to continue the profession. As a result, many are leaving the craft behind.

The Dancing Girl has survived for 4,500 years. But the hands that have kept her story alive through generations of Dhokra craftsmanship may not survive another generation.

The future of this ancient tradition now rests on whether it receives the recognition and support needed to endure.

Sources:

'Dancing Girl' Of Mohenjo-Daro: Why The 4,500-Year-Old Bronze Icon Still Fascinates The World’ by Dristi Sharma, Published in NDTV on 16 June 2026. 

‘CHAPTER 1 - The Dancing Girl’ by Balaji Sadasivan, Published on 21 October 2015. 

‘Dhokra: Metal Casting and its Harappan Connection’: by Akshata Mokashi , Published on 26 February 2021.

‘NCERT’s new Art textbook covers up Mohenjodaro’s ‘Dancing Girl’’ by Ritika Chopra , Published on 16 June 2026 

‘The Other Dancing Girl’ by Dr Jonathan Mark Kenoyer  

‘'Dancing girl's' bare torso restored in Indian textbook after backlash’ by Cherylann Mollan

For most people learning to code today, the starting point is a screen. A cursor blinks, blocks of colour shift, and feedback arrives visually, instantly. 

It is a setup so standard that it rarely gets questioned. But for learners with visual impairments, that single assumption — that a screen is simply part of coding — has quietly kept them out of one of the most consequential skill sets of the 21st century.

Three students from Galgotias University in Greater Noida decided to question it. The result is TACTO, a hands-on learning device that teaches foundational coding concepts through touch, interactive sensors, buttons, and audio feedback — with no screen involved at any step. 

The innovation recently won top honours at EDVentures 2026, an international student innovation competition held at The Education University of Hong Kong, where 19 teams from 10 countries presented solutions built around the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals.

Why coding tools need to work beyond screens 

India is home to around 4.95 million blind people and 35 million visually impaired people, making up nearly one-fourth of the world’s visually impaired population. For many of them, learning to code can feel out of reach from the very first step, especially when the tools available depend so heavily on sight.

The difficulty often begins much before a student reaches a coding class. Many visually impaired children are gently pushed away from science and technology early in school, sometimes through small comments, sometimes through larger institutional choices. 

Over time, they begin to hear the same message again and again: this subject may be too difficult, or this field may have no place for them.

For a learner, that can be deeply discouraging. It means losing access to subjects that could open doors to confidence, careers and independence. By the time coding enters the picture, many students have already spent years being told, directly or indirectly, that STEM is meant for someone else.

Most beginner coding tools do little to change that feeling. They are designed around screens, colours, blocks, error messages and visual outputs. Screen readers help many blind users, but early coding platforms still expect learners to follow what appears on a screen, which can make the first lessons confusing and isolating.

This is where the gap becomes very real. In many parts of India and the Global South, only a small number of visually impaired students have access to learning tools that use touch, sound and interaction. 

Without those tools, a student’s interest in technology can fade long before they get a fair chance to explore it.

How buttons, sensors and audio become a coding lesson 

TACTO uses buttons, sensors, and audio feedback to help visually impaired learners understand foundational coding concepts through touch and sensory interaction. 

Rather than asking a student to read code on a screen or follow visual cues, the device makes the logic of programming tangible — something that can be felt, pressed, and heard. 

Concepts like sequencing, loops, and conditionals, which underpin all coding, are delivered through experience rather than sight.

The approach aligns closely with how learning researchers understand knowledge acquisition in multisensory environments: that understanding is deeper when learners engage physically with an idea rather than observing it passively. 

For visually impaired students especially, tactile and auditory learning pathways are not accommodations — they are the primary channel through which complex ideas are best absorbed.

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The project was represented by Gaurang Pant, a third-year BTech Computer Science and Engineering student; Shristi Mandoliya, a second-year BTech Computer Science and Engineering with Data Science student; and Kavya Singh, a third-year BBA Financial Investment Analysis student. 

The team was mentored by entrepreneur Rachit Mathur, who described the process as one built on sustained debate, refinement, and conviction. "What started as mentorship eventually felt like working alongside co-founders," he said, noting that the team's belief in their idea carried them through a rigorous preparation process covering pitch strategy, go-to-market thinking, and investor readiness.

The student idea that stood out among global teams 

At EDVentures 2026, TACTO competed against student innovators from universities including Nanyang Technological University in Singapore, King Saud University in Saudi Arabia, East China Normal University, and Mahidol University in Thailand, among others. 

Project TACTO won the Top Prize and the AWS Championship Prize, receiving total prize money and support worth USD 7,000.

Speaking after the win, the founders said the experience of competing internationally deepened their sense of purpose. 

“We wanted to build something that could make learning more inclusive and accessible for visually impaired learners, and this recognition has strengthened our belief that technology can become a powerful tool for meaningful social impact.”

The project contributes directly toward UN Sustainable Development Goal 4, which calls for inclusive and equitable quality education for all. For a student who has been told, explicitly or implicitly, that coding is simply not for them — TACTO makes a simple case: when learning tools change, more learners can enter the room. 

Sources:

'Indian Students From Galgotias University Win Global Recognition at Hong Kong's EDVentures 2026, Competing Against 19 Teams From 10 Countries': by ANI / NewsVoir, Published on 2 June 2026

'Indian Students From Galgotias University Win Global Recognition at Hong Kong's EDVentures 2026': by Digital Journal / Access Newswire, Published on 2 June 2026

Originally reported and written in June 2023, this story has been republished as part of our archival content.

Flawed and fabulous is how Anurag Bhandari describes his products. 

The founder of Ek Kalakaar Designs, a sustainable studio dedicated to handcrafted designer furniture, has gone through life priding himself on his creative choices, and taking the road less travelled, even when the path wasn’t very clear. 

As I chat with him, it becomes clear that a love for nature is deep-rooted in everything he does. And this reflects in the ethos of his brand. 

“I had a degree in transportation design and was then engaged in my family business for a decade. But I soon realised it wasn’t my cup of tea. I couldn’t cope as I wasn’t of a business bent of mind, but rather a creative one,” shares the 38-year-old from Ahmedabad in conversation with The Better India. 

As he spent his days wondering what profession he should turn to, a sense of uncertainty lay ahead when a series of family disputes in 2017 pushed him out of his family business. Even so, it was as if the universe itself had answered the question of whether he should leave the business and take a leap of faith. 

 

 

 

 

 

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“While the way forward was now clear, I did not have a lot of savings to go full throttle into something,” he notes. 

As he was wondering how to proceed, Anurag realised he had always held a fascination for furnishings and decor. He’d also seen furniture design as a space where he could explore his creative side. And so he decided to dive into this space. 

Moulding waste into exquisite decor

Make a decision, and things fall into place in the strangest of ways. That’s what Anurag witnessed firsthand when he began looking around for material with which to build furniture. 

 

He turned to the discarded wood, TMT steel bars, old cupboards, broken chairs, and other such waste that had been left lying in a spare room of his farmhouse. “It was like a storehouse of everything discarded, and one look at it and I was sure this would be my very own studio someday,” says Anurag, adding that the farmhouse also had numerous trees that had fallen and were lying around, meaning there was abundant wood to use. 

Thus began Anurag’s quest of building his brand from scratch, from the ruins that lay in his own home. To do this, he decided to marry his interest in furniture and design with sustainability and aesthetics. This, he thought, was a good time to test his hand at utilising the waste material in the spare room, considering that he did not have a lot to invest in this venture. This way he would also be able to minimise on buying new wood, or other material. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Boring holes into large pieces of wood, he then began moulding his first piece, refashioning it along the way. After months of working on the discarded wood, he created a bench supported on a wooden trunk — a model that would later go on to be his best-selling piece. 

A simple, creative idea had manifested into a pretty amazing design, but the product needed work, Anurag notes. “Everything was on an experimental basis and looked raw and ugly, factors that I realised needed to be worked on if I were to sell in the contemporary market. When my friends would come to visit, they’d give me their suggestions and I would incorporate these into the following products. One of the most helpful ones was to work on the finishing touches to the product.” 

Not having a background in interior design meant Anurag was not well aware of trends. But while some would perceive this as a problem, he says it worked in his favour. “I wouldn’t follow trends. I make things from my heart.”

 

Curated with style and passion  

As Anurag points out, the story behind every piece of furniture he has created is strong and meaningful. So, in 2019 when he decided to broaden the horizon of Ek Kalakaar Designs and take them online, the response he received was welcoming. This was around the same time that the COVID pandemic forced everyone into the confines of home. Anurag put this time to use, spending hours in his studio perfecting designs. 

While the sustainable brand is keen on avoiding mundane designs, they work towards building timeless furniture that ups the aesthetic of the house almost instantly. But at the heart of everything they do, upcycling and sustainability are key. Most weekends see Anurag visiting scrap markets to source TMT steel bars — that are byproducts of construction — along with metal corrugated sheets, plastic pipes, old tyres and, of course, wood from his farmhouse. 

 

 

 

 

 

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“I have left the wood in its most natural state in my designs. If I see old wood eaten by termites, I see it as art and I don’t disturb it, as I want my designs to be art,” says Anurag, pointing out at the same time that he sprays natural medicines on the wood to ensure it is free from the insects. For metal, a high-pressure jet stream is used to clean the rust and dirt, while sanding is often done for most raw materials to get rid of rust. 

‘Making waste look beautiful is tough, but gratifying’

What are the most unique products from the existing creation? 

Anurag points to a table he created using a fallen tree, which had been completely uprooted during a storm. “What was wonderful was that the tree had its roots intact. So I took it to my studio, cut the roots vertically in half and made a table out of it. I then supported this wooden structure with a mirror box that created the illusion that the roots were elevated in the air.” 

This centre table, says Anurag, fetched him not just buyers but also praise. 

“People see a fallen tree every day in their lives, but they’d never seen a fallen tree being turned into something like this.” 

Anurag also uses PVC plastic pipes to make standing lamps by boring holes into the pipe and putting a light at the bottom. “What is amazing is that if you see this lamp at night, you won’t believe it is made from waste.” Another unique product was a table made out of a manhole cover! 

 

 

 

 

 

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“I often have to convince people that this beautiful work of art is made from waste. While sometimes I think it’s an achievement that the art is so good that they cannot tell it is made from waste, it is exasperating that they don’t see the work going into turning that waste into something unbelievable.”

Ek Kalakaar ships pan-India and the price of the product ranges as per the intricate work that goes behind it. While a chair retails for Rs 18,000, a table retails for Rs 25,000. The brand clocked a turnover of Rs 18 lakh last year, and Anurag couldn’t be prouder. 

“I always maintain that while during the making process of contemporary design, brands have an idea and then mould the material around this idea. In my case, I mould the material and the design emerges along the way. Making waste look beautiful is tough, but gratifying.” 

What if the next breakthrough antibiotic isn't discovered in a laboratory, but deep inside a cave?

A recent review suggests it could be growing quietly on the walls of India's cave systems.

Scientists are turning their attention to an unexpected world beneath the country's surface: microscopic fungi that survive in complete darkness, feed on rocks and minerals, and thrive where few other organisms can.

These underground life forms, researchers say, could one day help develop new medicines, clean polluted environments, and even support future space missions.

The possibility is explored in a recent review published in the Geomicrobiology Journal, which examined fungal diversity across Indian caves. The study found that despite India being home to more than 1,500 known cave systems, much of its underground microbial life remains largely unexplored.

The review, Geomycology of Indian Caves: Diversity, Ecology and Biotechnological Potential, was authored by Dr Sujata Dabolkar, Assistant Professor in the Department of Botany at Government College of Arts, Science and Commerce, Quepem, Goa.

1,500 caves, countless unknowns

Caves are among the most challenging environments on Earth.

Unlike forests or grasslands, they receive little to no sunlight. Nutrients are scarce, temperatures remain relatively stable, and humidity levels stay high throughout the year.

Yet life persists.

Among the organisms that have adapted remarkably well to these conditions are fungi.

Researchers have documented fungal groups such as Aspergillus, Penicillium, Cladosporium, Trichoderma, and Fusarium in various Indian cave systems.

According to the review, these fungi actively interact with the rocks around them. By releasing organic acids and specialised enzymes, they break down minerals, recycle nutrients, and contribute to the formation of new mineral deposits.

In other words, these fungi are not merely surviving inside caves. In many ways, they are helping shape them.

From the limestone caves of Meghalaya and the Borra Caves in Andhra Pradesh to Chhattisgarh's Kotumsar Cave, Goa's lateritic caves, and the volcanic caves of the Deccan region, each underground system hosts its own microscopic ecosystem.

Scientists have identified more than 1,500 cave sites across India. Yet only a small fraction has been studied for the fungi and microbes they contain.

For researchers, that gap is exciting.

Organisms that survive with little food, no sunlight, and limited resources often develop unusual survival strategies. Those same adaptations could one day help scientists create new medicines, improve industrial processes, and develop innovative environmental solutions.

The drug hunt goes underground

The medical potential of cave fungi is particularly intriguing.

Around the world, doctors are facing a growing challenge as some bacteria become resistant to existing antibiotics, making infections harder to treat.

The fungi living inside India's caves may offer valuable clues.

For thousands of years, these organisms have survived in isolated, resource-poor environments by developing chemical defences against competing microbes.

Researchers believe some of these compounds could help inspire the next generation of antibiotics and other medicines.

The review also notes that cave-derived fungi produce enzymes capable of functioning under conditions that would disable many ordinary biological systems, making them especially interesting for biotechnology research.

Could these fungi survive on Mars?

The possibilities may extend far beyond Earth.

Some cave fungi can survive long periods with very little food and adapt to extreme environments. In some cases, they can tolerate high levels of radiation and other stresses similar to conditions expected on Mars or icy moons such as Europa.

These qualities have attracted the attention of astrobiologists — scientists who study the possibility of life beyond Earth.

The discoveries waiting underground could have implications far above it, from new medicines and cleaner technologies to future journeys into deep space.

For now, India's caves remain one of the country's least explored scientific frontiers. Hidden within them may be tiny organisms capable of answering some very big questions.

Sources:

‘India’s hidden underground fungi could hold clues for medicine, mining, and even space exploration’: by Sujata Dabolkar, Published on 2 June, 2026

‘Geomycology of Indian Caves: Diversity, Ecology, and Biotechnological Potential’: by Sujata Dabolkar, Published on 11 May 2025

Once, Uddeysha Sachan was the child who was asked to leave school because his family couldn't afford the fees.

Today, that painful experience has become the foundation of a powerful mission. Through Gurukulam – School of Happiness, he is providing free education, support, and opportunities to 400 underprivileged children. ❤️📚

Many of these children come from backgrounds marked by poverty, hardship, and limited access to education. At Gurukulam, they gain not only academic learning but also confidence, life skills, and hope for a brighter future.

What Uddeysha once lost, he is now helping hundreds of children find.

His vision is ambitious yet simple: to take Gurukulam to every city and village across India, ensuring that no child is denied education because of financial challenges. ⭐

If you'd like to support this mission, you can connect with him at +91 84678 33822.

What do you think is the most powerful way education can transform a child's life?

#EducationForAll #UddeyshaSachan #Gurukulam #SchoolOfHappiness #InspiringStories #YouthChangemaker #SocialImpact #CommunityDevelopment #FreeEducation #UnderprivilegedChildren #EducationMatters #ChangeMakers #IndiaInspires #PositiveStories #TheBetterIndia

[Uddeysha Sachan, Gurukulam School of Happiness, free education initiative, underprivileged children education, education for all India, social entrepreneur India, youth changemaker, community impact story, educational changemakers, free school India, child education support, inspiring Indian stories, social impact education, poverty to purpose story, education transformation]

Who Is Uddeysha Sachan? The Man Educating 400 Children for Free
Gurukulam School of Happiness: A Free Education Movement in India
Inspiring Story of a Youth Changemaker Transforming Children's Lives
How Free Education Is Changing the Future of Underprivileged Children
From School Dropout to Education Leader: Uddeysha Sachan's Journey

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In this first-person account facilitated by Nishtha Kawrani and narrated to The Better India, Shubhangi Bajpai remembers her father, whose greatest passion in life was music and how he sacrificed his own dreams to support the family but never allowed his passion to die.

For most people, my father, Ashok Bajpai, was a government employee. To me, he was the person behind many of my earliest memories of music.

Before responsibilities took over, my father was part of a local orchestra in Varanasi. Along with a group of friends, he performed at local events and functions. One of his close friends played the banjo, and music brought them together for years. He loved singing and looked forward to every opportunity he got to perform.

After my grandfather passed away, things changed for him.

As the only one eligible, my father took up a government job to support the family at the age of 24, as my uncle was still studying. He never got the chance to continue his studies the way he wanted to, and whatever plans he may have had for music had to take a back seat.

Even after that, music remained a part of his life.

The dream that stayed, even when life moved on

I grew up listening to old Hindi songs at home. Mohammed Rafi, Mukesh and Manna Dey were among his favourites. Songs like Barbad-e-Mohabbat Ki Dua, Hoke Majboor Mujhe and Woh Jab Yaad Aaye Bahut Yaad Aaya were always playing somewhere in the background. Even today, hearing any of them reminds me of him instantly.

He sang with an audience and in everyday moments at home. He sang because he genuinely loved music, and that love found its way into almost every part of his life. 

Whether it was a family function, an office gathering or a wedding, someone would eventually ask him to sing. He especially loved qawwalis. What usually began with him singing would soon turn into a group performance, with relatives and friends joining in. He had a way of bringing people together through music. 

One of my strongest memories is of my brother preparing for a singing competition in Varanasi when he was just 12 years old. I was very young at the time, but I still remember my father coming home from work and sitting with him every day to practise. 

Songs like Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si and O Re Taal Mile Nadi Ke Jal Mein would play over and over again in our house.

The lessons were meant for my brother, but after listening to those practice sessions every day, I learned the songs too. Looking back, it was one of the many ways my father's love for music quietly became a part of me.

A childhood shaped by old Hindi songs 

Looking back, I realise music wasn’t something my father deliberately taught us. It was simply always there, woven into everyday life.

He also had a playful side. When we were younger, he would often make up songs on the spot. Sometimes, while putting us to sleep, he would change his voice and sing random songs he created himself. 

We never knew what the next line would be, and that was part of the fun. Years later, it is still one of the things I remember most clearly about him.

As I grew older, I heard more stories about his orchestra days. He had travelled to different places for performances, including a show at Bokaro Steel Plant. 

There was also an incident during a programme in Bihar where members of the orchestra got into an argument after they weren’t paid what they had been promised. Stories like these helped me understand that music had once been much more than a hobby for him.

Some of my favourite memories are from the COVID lockdown. We were all at home together, which meant more conversations, more music and more time with each other. 

In the evenings, we would often sit together and play antakshari (a song-based word game). Back then, it felt like a simple way to pass the time. Today, those evenings are some of the memories I hold closest.

In later years, health issues affected his voice. Singing became more difficult, but his love for music never changed.

We lost him in November 2025.

After losing him, I began to see the man behind 'Papa'

His absence made me think about him in a different way — not just as Papa, but as a person with dreams, passions and a life of his own.  

Growing up, I never really thought about what my father might have wanted for himself. To me, he was simply the person who went to work every day, took care of the family and was always there when we needed him.

It was only later that I realised there had once been a young man who loved singing so much that he spent years performing with an orchestra. When his family needed him, he chose responsibility without hesitation.

What stays with me is that he never stopped making space for music in his life. He shared it with friends, sang at gatherings, encouraged my brother and, without even realising it, passed that love for music on to me as well.

Today, whenever my brother sings or plays the harmonium, I see a part of my father in him.

And whenever an old Mohammed Rafi song starts playing somewhere, I think of him instantly.

My father left us many memories, but some of my favourite ones begin and end with music.

All images courtesy Shubhangi Bajpai

She’s just 4 inches tall, but her story stretches back more than 4,500 years. ✨

The iconic Dancing Girl of Mohenjo-daro, one of the most celebrated artifacts of the Indus Valley Civilization, wasn't just a remarkable sculpture—it was created using the lost-wax casting technique, a craft still practiced by Dhokra artisans across India today.

While the statue has survived thousands of years, the artisans preserving this ancient tradition face an uncertain future. As machine-made products replace handmade crafts, many communities struggle to keep this extraordinary heritage alive.

Their work is more than art, it's a living connection to one of the world's oldest civilizations. ❤️

Can we ensure this priceless tradition survives for the next generation?

#DancingGirlOfMohenjoDaro #DhokraArt #IndianHeritage #IndusValleyCivilization #TraditionalCrafts #ArtAndCulture #HandmadeIndia #CulturalLegacy #AncientIndia #IndianHistory #Craftsmanship #MetalCasting #HeritageIndia #SaveTraditionalCrafts #TheBetterIndia

[Dancing Girl of Mohenjo-daro, Indus Valley Civilization, Dhokra art, lost wax casting, ancient Indian craftsmanship, Indian heritage, traditional Indian crafts, handmade India, cultural legacy, Mohenjo-daro artifact, ancient metal casting, tribal artisans India, heritage crafts, Indian history, Dhokra artisans]

What Is the Dancing Girl of Mohenjo-daro?
How Dhokra Art Keeps a 4,500-Year-Old Tradition Alive
Ancient Indian Craftsmanship That Still Exists Today
Lost Wax Casting Explained | India's Oldest Art Form
Why Traditional Dhokra Art Is Disappearing in India

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