From Observer to Insider: Straddling Two Worlds
I met Riya Hembrom, a bright and curious seven-year-old, on my way to Sundrafalan village in Dumka district, Jharkhand, during my three-month stay as a Development Apprentice. The program focuses on making choices based on first-hand experiences and begins with exploration through an immersive phase, where one lives in a village, observing, reflecting, and gaining a deeper understanding of rural life. Riya was easy to talk to—full of questions, quick to smile. As we walked together, she told me about her days—attending the local primary school, helping her mother with household chores, and, despite it all, never missing a chance to run barefoot through the fields, playing with her friends until dusk.
Over time, Riya became a familiar part of my days. I would often see her in the same set of clothes, unbothered by the repetition, while I absentmindedly sifted through my suitcase each morning. One afternoon, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked if she had more outfits. She grinned and said, “All my clothes fit in a small potli.” Then, with the same casual ease, she added, “I wear these even for special occasions.” Her words stayed with me, a quiet reminder of how differently we saw necessity and abundance.
Photo: Ishita with Riya; learning together
Her words lingered in my mind. It was a simple fact to her, but to me, it was a moment of quiet realization. Where I had the privilege of choice, she carried an entire world of practicality in a small bundle.
I come from Ramgarh, another district in Jharkhand, where people from the Santhal tribe, much like those in Sundrafalan, have made their home. But there was a stark difference—back in Ramgarh, those people have blended seamlessly with other communities, while here, the Santhalis carried their culture with a quiet pride, deeply woven into their daily lives.
Did I make the right decision?
At first, I was restless. Anxious. Unsure.
Did I make the right decision to join PRADAN as a Development Apprentice?
I was used to the pulse of city life—constant movement, endless noise. In my hometown, children rarely played outside, their eyes fixed on phone screens, their laughter confined within four walls. But here, in Sundrafalan, childhood stretched beneath the open sky, untethered and free. For women—young and old—life here was an unbroken rhythm of work, woven between household chores, childcare, and long hours in the fields. Many were my age, already married with children, their paths seemingly set, their roles defined. In contrast, I was still searching, still uncertain. Our lives felt worlds apart, and at times, I struggled to bridge the gap between their reality and mine.
Would I be able to adjust to this world so different from my own? Would I be of any use to them? Did they even need my help?
With these thoughts circling my mind, I finally arrived at the home of Shivani Kisku, mother of Riya Hembrom, who had graciously opened her doors to me for the next three months.
That was in August 2024.
Today, it is March 2025. Over the last 8 months, I experienced life like never before. And I can say with certainty—I have found another family, one that lives far from Ramgarh, in Dumka district. A family I can call my own.
From the Beginning
When I first arrived in Sundrafalan, I had only a vague understanding of village life in India. I carried assumptions—some shaped by books, others by stories I had heard. At first, I felt like an outsider. People stared at me wherever I went, and were hesitant to offer me water or food. I mistook it for indifference, even hesitation. But as days passed, I began to notice their quiet gestures—asking subtly if I wanted to share their lunch, if I felt comfortable walking beside them to the fields, or what I thought of their attire. It wasn’t indifference; it was consideration—waiting to see if I was at ease with what they had to offer. Another assumption I carried was that city life was better, more relaxed, even healthier. But the village had its own quiet rhythm of well-being. My sleep improved, my eating habits became more mindful, and for the first time in years, I never felt lonely. Slowly, Sundrafalan didn’t just feel like a place I was working in—it felt like a place I belonged to.
The first sights of Sundrafalan stayed with me—lush greenery stretching across the fields, kachha roads winding through the village, mud houses standing strong against time, and men and women working side by side in the fields. It was a world unlike my own—beautiful, yet different.
Photo: Sundrafalan from Ishita’s lens
Living the culture
Life in Sundrafalan was deeply intertwined with its culture—its traditions, its land, and the strong bonds among its people. This connection was visible in everything they did.
Mornings here started early, with the first rays of sunlight spilling through the windows. I learned to brush my teeth with neem sticks, fetch water from the hand pump, and embrace a rhythm of life dictated by the land rather than the clock. At times, I would lose track of the days, the dates blurring into the slow rhythm of village life. The dodgy network was a constant struggle, but over time, I learned to adapt. Slowly, I started perceiving very minute details about life and surroundings that I would never have perceived if Sundarfalan hadn’t happened to me.
During festivals, they welcomed me with open arms, inviting me to the mela as if I had always belonged. I still remember the football match in a neighboring village, where I wore a Panchi lungi (*Panchi lungi- a traditional attire of Santhali, ateo-piece cloth wrapped in a certain style) along with the other didis. Days later, whenever I met them, they would bring it up with pride, delighted that someone from outside had embraced their tradition. And to me, it wasn’t just about embracing their tradition; draping the panchi lungi was a moment of realization—of blending in, of feeling a sense of belonging, as if Sundrafalan had, in some way, embraced me too.
Photo: Ishita with other community members wearing Panchi lungi
I cherished the simplest moments—cooking over firewood, transplanting rice in the fields, foraging for mushrooms, teaching students, and playing with the children. These experiences weren’t just activities; they were my way of becoming a part of their world.
Life in Sundrafalan
I saw how the villagers worked tirelessly for their daily sustenance, their aspirations simple yet steadfast. It made me reflect on my own life—the privileges I had always taken for granted. The security of a stable income, the freedom to focus on my studies, and the privilege of time—to pause, to reflect, to shape the life I wanted.
I began noticing a pattern: as one moves up the caste hierarchy, women's participation in income generation declines. In Sundrafalan, where all families belonged to the Santhal community, women carried the weight of both household and economic responsibilities. Whether it was tending the fields, collecting firewood, or working as wage laborers, their contributions were indispensable. Even if the men were employed, a single income was rarely enough to sustain the family, leaving women with no choice but to work—balancing both household and economic responsibilities.
This was strikingly different from my own society, where women were rarely expected to earn, their financial independence often treated as a choice rather than a necessity.
This reminded me of the research I had come across in college—studies like ‘Status, Caste, and the Time Allocation of Women in Rural India’ (https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/abs/10.1086/668282) —which I had once brushed off as mere academic theory. But seeing it unfold before my eyes, woven into everyday realities, hit me hard.
Living with a family led by a single woman—Shivani Kisku—offered me a deeper perspective. Twice married, widowed from her first spouse, and separated from the second, Shivani didi, now in her forties, single-handedly cared for her two daughters, Riya and Priya Hembrom. She managed the household, worked the fields, and ran a thriving polyhouse business—an exceptional feat she began in 2022 under the Green Transformation Pathway Initiative, a collaborative project initiated by PRADAN.
Photo: Shivani Kisku working on her polyhouse nursery
Starting with just 0.02 acres, she grows the saplings of tomato, pumpkin, cucumber, etc. in her polyhouse, selling these in the nearby market of Shikaripara. She also sells these through Community Resource Persons (CRPs), and sometimes to the farmers directly. Today her polyhouse earns her around ₹1,80,000 annually. Yet, beneath her quiet strength lay daily struggles—ones that echoed the silent resilience of so many women I had known. Women who carried burdens without complaint, who made strength seem effortless even when the weight was unbearable. Watching her, I was reminded of the unspoken expectations placed on women—to endure, to provide, to persist. And in that reflection, I saw the quiet fortitude I, too, had learned to carry.
And so, I wondered—maybe life isn’t all that different, no matter where we come from. We all face challenges, we all endure. But resilience alone doesn’t shield one from injustice. One day, a distant relative stormed into Didi’s house, shouting and trying to drag her outside over a dispute. That same evening, land sellers harassed her over property matters. Later, she confided in me—her voice steady yet weighted with frustration—saying that people saw her as weak simply because she had no spouse, despite being financially independent. That moment stayed with me. It made me realize how, even today, irrespective of geographies and societies, a woman’s worth is often measured by her marital status rather than her strength, her success, or her resilience. Some battles, it seems, are fought everywhere.
It made me realize that at such times of despair, all we need is a catalyst, someone to push us forward.
Could I be a catalyst for Shivani didi and the community members—grappling with daily hardships, economic burdens, and an uncertain livelihood? I wanted to be.
Sundrafalan Taught Me a Lot—So Did PRADAN
While the warmth and joy of the people in Sundrafalan were undeniable, I couldn’t ignore the stark reality of the burdens they carried, especially the women. They worked 13-15 hours a day, juggling household chores, childcare, and farm labor—often with inadequate nutrition and little regard for their own health.
I would often ask Shivani didi, “Aap itne der tak kaam kaise kar leti hain? Thakaan nai hoti? Nirash nai lagta” (How do you manage such long hours? Don’t you ever feel tired? Frustrated?)
She would offer a small, knowing smile and say, “Didi, aur kya kar sakte hain? Bacchon ka, ghar ka khayal bhi toh rakhna hai.” (What else can I do, didi? I have to take care of the children and the house too.)
Her words lingered in my mind. The resilience in her voice was undeniable, but so was the quiet resignation beneath it.
Financial struggles only made things harder. With limited irrigation, much of Shivani Didi’s mid-uplands remained uncultivated, restricting her agricultural income. Most families relied on subsistence farming, but erratic rainfall and the lack of irrigation made it an uphill battle. Shivani Didi could cultivate only 2.5 out of her 3.7 acres of land, earning around ₹1,70,000 a year—barely enough to support a family of six.
Self-Help Groups (SHGs) like Tuwadari SHG and Gulabbaha SHG held the promise of financial security, yet many remained inactive due to migration, internal disputes, or waning participation. Access to clean water was another daily struggle. Most households depended on shared hand pumps, while poor drainage and the absence of proper sanitation led to stagnant water pits—breeding grounds for mosquitoes and disease. The stench lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the health risks the villagers endured.
To navigate these challenges, I took small but necessary steps. Since Shivani didi used a shared facility. I ordered phenyl and washroom cleaner, ensuring at least some level of hygiene. For drinking water, I made it a habit to boil mine, though I noticed that Shivani didi and her family rarely did the same. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t ignore the deep-rooted constraints—clean water and sanitation weren’t just about awareness but access, habit, and the daily reality of making do with what was available.
I spent my days talking to community members, listening to their stories, and trying to understand their way of life. I would accompany Shivani Didi to the fields, getting my hands dirty, immersing myself in their daily struggles. The hardships were undeniable, but so were the moments of joy. Harvest season, in particular, was a time of celebration—lush green fields, the promise of a good yield, and the hope of a stable income brought a collective sense of happiness to the village.
Despite the challenges, the villagers’ resilience, resourcefulness, and the strength of their social bonds were remarkable. Determined to understand the extent of their workload, I organized focus group discussions with the women. Meetings were not easy—PRADAN had been working in these villages for years, and a level of saturation had set in. Gathering women was a challenge; they were constantly occupied—collecting firewood, tending to their fields, or visiting the market in Shikaripara. I invited them multiple times—visiting their homes a day before, reminding them in the morning, and calling them again when the meeting started—yet, at most, ten women would show up.
At first, I felt disheartened. The language barrier added to the difficulty, as they spoke in Santhali, and I often needed someone to translate. Even when they attended, they were in a rush, their minds preoccupied with unfinished chores. But over time, I realized that participation was not just about attendance—it was about trust, familiarity, and relevance. I sought insights from my field guide, Vijay Kumar from PRADAN, and we discussed the possibilities ahead. It became increasingly clear—targeted interventions in water access, health, nutrition, and sustainable livelihoods could create lasting change. But such change could only be unleashed through collaborative and participatory approaches, where solutions emerged from within the community rather than being imposed from the outside.
I often found myself lost in thought, trying to process it all. I would share my concerns with fellow apprentices, exchanging perspectives that both challenged and reassured me. I also turned to my team in Shikaripara, seeking guidance on how to navigate these complex realities. My fellow team-mates helped me realize I wasn’t alone in these feelings. We were all walking the same tightrope—on one hand, in awe of rural India’s beauty, the unfiltered happiness of its people, and the warmth with which they embraced us; on the other, grappling with the weight of their struggles, the inequalities woven into their everyday lives, and an indomitable urge to help them change the status quo.
The more I understood, the deeper I wanted to engage. I wasn’t just an observer anymore. I wanted to do something—however small—to contribute, to be a catalyst for change in whatever way I could.
The Journey Ahead
As I look ahead, I see myself diving deeper into the rhythms of this land, learning its ways, and understanding its struggles firsthand. My journey will be one of immersion—getting my hands in the soil, walking alongside the farmers, and finding ways to strengthen agriculture as a source of dignity and prosperity.
Farming here is more than just a livelihood; it is survival. Yet, the absence of proper market linkages forces farmers to sell their produce individually at the same local market in Shikaripara, barely a kilometer from their homes. With everyone selling in the same place, supply outweighs demand, driving prices down and leaving farmers with little bargaining power.
I shared my concerns with my field guide, Vijay. He mentioned that going forward, one may want to explore the possibility of a cluster-based approach—one that connects groups of farmers and producers to processors and larger markets through a structured supply chain. With better infrastructure, year-round cultivation, access to quality inputs, and stronger market linkages through Farmer Producer Organizations (FPOs), farming could become more than just a means of survival. It could be truly sustainable, profitable, and empowering for the community.
At present, most farmers grow paddy, leaving their land barren for the rest of the year. Initially, I believed the solution was simple—introduce new crops, improve yields, and strengthen the market. But as I spent more time in the fields, listening to farmers talk about their struggles, I realized that change isn't just about what they grow; it's about what they trust. Crop diversification isn’t just a technical fix—it’s a shift in mindset. Encouraging climate-resilient varieties like green gram, pigeon pea, and promoting mixed farming with tomatoes, chilies, creepers, and leafy greens could help them adapt to uncertainties. But before that, they need to believe in the change, to see its value in their daily lives. And that understanding has reshaped the way I approach solutions—not as an outsider offering advice, but as someone learning alongside them.
Water—the lifeline of agriculture—remains a persistent challenge. Strengthening irrigation systems, building water conservation structures, and promoting efficient natural resource management will be crucial for securing livelihoods. But beyond the fields, I want to make a difference in the everyday lives of families. Almost every household had a small raised platform in their backyard or along the side of their home, measuring around 0.06 acres—an untapped opportunity. By helping them start kitchen gardens on those raised platforms, with nutrient-rich vegetables like creepers, chili, leafy greens, papaya, guava, and tomatoes, I hope to ensure that no plate goes without the nourishment it deserves.
Change doesn’t happen overnight. But it takes root in the little things—the quiet conversations under the shade of a tree, the first sprouts in a freshly tilled field, the shared determination to try something new. With each small step, I see the village evolving—not just in its land and livelihoods, but in the confidence of its people. And that gives me hope.
The new me- life has just begun!
As I am halfway through my DAship journey, I feel an unshakable energy rising within me—a sense of renewal, of transformation. Sundrafalan has been more than just a place; it has been my teacher, my challenger, my home. I have lived its rhythms, embraced its struggles, and felt its triumphs in my very veins.
This village has shown me life in its rawest forms—the good, the bad, the better, the worse, the best, and the worst. And in the midst of it all, Riya has taught me so much. When we first met, she had minimal proficiency in Hindi, speaking only in fragments. But over time, she grew more comfortable, slowly finding her voice. We spent countless evenings sitting on the bed, talking—about her school, her daily adventures, and even my own sister, who, coincidentally, is also named Riya. She would light up at the mention of our shared stories. Once, I gifted her a dress, and she wore it often, proudly showing it to me each time, her joy shining through in the simplest of moments.
Photo: Life in Sundrafalan
Through it all, one truth stands clear: the journey matters more than the destination. Every shared meal, every lesson learned, every night spent under the vast open sky has shaped me in ways I never anticipated.
But this is not the end—it’s just the beginning. A new path unfolds before me, one where I can give as much as I receive, where learning and giving go hand in hand. I step forward, eager, humbled, and ready to embrace all that lies ahead.
Life is calling, and I am listening.
About the Author
