I’m sitting in a quiet room in the old hospital building of Swasthya Swaraj in Kaniguma. Outside, the valley whispers under a starlit sky. The towering trees stand like guardians, and the paddy fields, ready for harvest, stretch out below in tiered terraces. The serene beauty of this landscape contrasts sharply with the daily struggles I’ve been witnessing here—struggles that are largely borne by women.
Women in this remote corner of Odisha move through life much like the water trickling beneath the paddy fields: steady, often unnoticed, but always resilient.
A Life On Foot
Whenever I ask the women here how they travelled for a training or a meeting, their answer is almost always the same: chali chali ki—on foot. This isn’t a casual stroll. It means navigating forests, climbing hills, and crossing rivers, often for hours. They walk for water, to reach the weekly market, to access healthcare, and even for childbirth. Many walk back home mere hours after giving birth, cradling their newborns.
Their journeys are not just about reaching a destination. They reflect a quiet defiance—against poverty, geography, and the societal limitations imposed on their gender. These walks are acts of survival and resistance.
Silet Swasthya Saathi: Balancing Worlds
This resistance takes many forms. During a field visit to the villages in the adjoining block, we picked up a Swasthya Saathi from Silet. She carried her baby in her arms the entire day, breastfeeding during impromptu village meetings while guiding us through the community’s challenges.
Throughout the day I learned that she is the only girl in her village to have completed matriculation. Her journey to education began at 5 a.m. every morning, walking to a bus stop four hours away. After school, she’d retrace her steps, walking back in the fading light. Her story is not just one of survival but of determination—to walk towards the life she envisioned, even when the path was daunting.
The TULSI Programme: Lighting The Path
The TULSI programme is another step toward breaking cycles of early marriage and limited opportunities. Most of the girls in the programme are either school dropouts or have never been to school. Yet, they step forward as TULSI Saathis, representing their villages and attending monthly trainings. These sessions equip them with knowledge in health, nutrition, and life skills, nurturing a generation of young women who are walking toward self-reliance.
I’ve attended a few of these training sessions now. There are always at least a couple of girls with babies held close in kangaroo slings. Watching them try to grasp every shred of mobility and opportunity these trainings offer is deeply moving. These young women dream not just for themselves but for their children and peers in their villages. Their resilience is admirable, and their hope is contagious.
Mobility challenges impact not just these girls but also their programme manager, Mercy, and me. Visiting remote project villages often means walking miles, hitching rides with male colleagues, or coordinating with bus schedules. Recently, we found a small workaround: borrowing a doctor’s scooty when available. When our schedules align, we share the scooty, cutting down on the need to depend on anyone else. These moments of freedom feel monumental in a world where autonomy is often hard-won.
The DCHP Girls And Pink Cycles
The Diploma in Community Health Practice (DCHP) trains young tribal women to become skilled health practitioners. For these young women, mobility takes on a different hue—pink. The cycles they receive aren’t just tools for commuting to clinics and the field; they are symbols of newfound agency.
When I asked these girls about their dreams, they spoke cautiously—nurses, lab technicians, and beyond. Yet, their voices carried an undercurrent of hesitation. Leaving their homeland to chase dreams feels like a leap into an uncertain, and often unsafe world. The cycles might carry them across villages, but the barriers of societal expectations and gender norms loom larger.
The River Crossing
One day, I found myself crossing a river on foot to screen a malaria awareness video at a school health camp. The makeshift stone bridge was slippery, and the water rushed past on one side while pooling deep on the other. Trying to keep my balance, I slipped, one leg sinking thigh deep into the water in a slow descent. It was comical, really, as I held onto a big rock with both my hands and squatting on one leg, probably looking like a frog. But it gave me a sliver of insight into the everyday reality for women and girls here. I’ve seen young girls carrying siblings across such rivers with a grace born of necessity.
Small Acts Of Quiet Resistance
A friend once told me I’m brave for sitting alone by a river at night. I replied, “Isn’t merely existing in this world an act of bravery for women anyway?” These lives are a testament to this quiet resistance. From women walking miles to fetch water and cycling to a clinic to navigating societal expectations, their steps are deliberate and defiant. The motivation might differ—a hunger for opportunity or simply the joy of watching moonlight dance on water—but the resilience remains the same.
Mobility, in this part of the world, is deeply gendered. Women bear the brunt of geography and poverty more acutely than men. Even for ’empowered’ women like Mercy or myself, the challenges persist. But what sets these women apart is their choice to walk—towards better futures, against all odds.
Their journeys, though fraught with obstacles, carry an undeniable beauty. Every step is a story, every path a symbol of hope. Chali chali ki—women walking towards the light, even when the path is steep, slippery, or seemingly endless.
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