There are places you visit to work and then there are places that quietly weave you into their story, thread by thread, until you realise you’re no longer just a visitor.
That’s what happened to me in a quiet tribal village where I went to help women with stitching training. It started off as just another project. A skill-building program for women from two villages. But little did I know that this training would become one of the most heartwarming experiences of my life.
Every day, women from the SHGs would come walking barefoot from nearby hamlets, balancing daily responsibilities with determination. They brought with them not just fabric to learn on, but stories, laughter, songs, and the kind of curiosity that fills a room with light.
We sat together on mats, sometimes under trees, sometimes in shaded verandahs. The stitching machine, the one they sent me, now sits right there in the heart of it all, like a quiet witness to our shared moments. It’s not just a machine anymore it’s a symbol of our journey. A bridge that connected us.
Women would take turns using it, learning patiently, and helping one another. Some were quick to grasp, some were hesitant but no one was left behind. And in between the stitching instructions, we talked about their lives, their dreams, and their hopes.
In the evenings, as the sun dipped behind the trees, someone would always bring something to eat.
Pakodas, puffed rice, sweet puris, and pani puri.
They never let me leave without sharing food not because they had much, but because they had love. And love in villages is always served warm.
I still remember the day they asked me,
“Do you eat chicken?”
I smiled, nodded, not thinking much of it.
The next day? A surprise lunch chicken curry made just for me. They had cooked it with joy, saved the softest pieces, and waited to see me smile. I’ve never had a meal that filled my heart more than my stomach.
Another time, I was sick for a few days. I couldn’t visit. When I returned, they didn’t even let me speak
“Sit down!” they said, and in front of me appeared plates of snacks, tea, and all their affection.
It wasn’t just the women who made this journey beautiful. The children from the village would come by every now and then. They would dance, sing songs, show drawings, and ask curious questions. Some even put on little performances, no stage, no costumes, just pure joy. I would clap and laugh and become a child again with them. I wasn’t their trainer or didi anymore, I was one of them.
I also tried to speak in their language. Trust me, it was funny. My pronunciation was off, and they laughed, but never unkindly. It became a game where they taught me words, correcting me gently, and I trying to impress them with one perfect sentence (which rarely happened). But in those moments, we built something far greater than just communication — we built trust.
Looking back now, I realise this was more than a stitching training. It was a stitching of hearts. Mine with theirs.
I came here to teach. But I was taught so much more:
How to share.
How to care.
How to belong.
The stitching machine still sits in that room, humming softly as the women gather around it. But what surrounds it now is more than just learners. It’s a circle of community, warmth, and unshakable bonds.
And when I leave, I know a part of me will stay behind, sewn gently into the folds of their everyday lives.
Because this village?
It didn’t just welcome me.
It stitched me into its soul.
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