On a humid afternoon in Bengaluru, the kind that makes the city feel more like its tropical neighbours, Basmati Gagrai walked into the MS Engineering College auditorium. Her presence was commanding yet unassuming - draped in a simple sari, her eyes carried the weight of stories untold, the kind that both inspire and humble. She had travelled over a thousand miles from Lamjhari, her tiny village in Jharkhand’s West Singhbhum district, to speak about her journey. And what a journey it had been.
We sat together after her talk, and, as the crowd dwindled, her words began to unfold like pages of an epic. Born in a community where education was an afterthought, especially for girls, Basmati’s life could have been ordinary. Instead, it turned extraordinary. “The village was my world,” she began. “But it was a world without schools, without opportunity, and often, without hope.”
Her story wasn’t polished for effect; it was raw, tinged with the scars of a childhood spent in poverty. But in her quiet, steely manner, she turned pain into resolve.
Her first steps were as small as they were audacious. In 2016, under the shade of a banyan tree, she gathered four children and began teaching. “It was my protest against despair,” she said. That protest grew into a residential school for 330 children. Registered now as the Rural Development of Child Education and Women Empowerment Trust, her institution stands as a testament to what one person’s grit can achieve.
But Basmati’s ascent wasn’t linear. “The village wasn’t ready for what I was trying to do,” she admitted. Resistance came in waves. First as scepticism, then as outright hostility. When she began building the school, she faced nightly vandalism. “I would wake up each morning and rebuild.”
The attacks weren’t limited to the physical. Rumours spread, questioning her character and motives. Some accused her of profiteering; others said she was being manipulated by outsiders. Slowly, her community began to see the school not as a threat but as a lifeline.
“I started with my mother,” she said, recalling how she convinced the first and most sceptical villager. “If she could believe in education for girls, others could follow.” Together, they went door-to-door, assuring families that the school was safe, that it had toilets for girls, and that education was not a luxury but a necessity.
The school, built from mud and clay, with asbestos roofs and sturdy resolve, became a sanctuary for children who had never dreamed of classrooms. “The first time a girl enrolled, I cried,” she said. “Not from sadness, but from knowing the tide was turning.”
Her efforts extended beyond education. She worked with tribal forest dwellers, advocating for their rights and fostering awareness. “Education isn’t just about books,” she said. “It’s about dignity.” She recounted the story of a physically challenged woman she cared for, a figure almost forgotten by her own community. “She had been left to fend off rats and ants,” Basmati said, her voice breaking. “No one should live like that.”
Listening to her, I wondered where such strength came from. She spoke of it not as heroism but as necessity. Her greatest satisfaction, she confessed, was in the transformation of her village. Parents who once doubted her now celebrated their children’s progress. Girls who might have been married off in their early teens were now dreaming of careers.
As we said goodbye, I was struck by the ordinariness of her parting words. “Thank you for listening,” she said, as if she hadn’t just laid bare a saga of resilience and revolution. The sun was setting, and Basmati Gagrai walked away—back to her mission, her mud classrooms and the children who now have a future because one woman dared to imagine it.
(The author is a student of MS Engineering College, Bengaluru. Views personal.)
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