Jhabua: An Untouched Mystery Between Tradition and Transformation

The essence of true transformation lies in experience—not just seeing but living, not just hearing but feeling. True transformation isn’t just about witnessing—it’s about experiencing. My grassroots internship with Shivganga (Feb 22–Mar 8, 2025) immersed me in Jhabua’s Bhil heartland, where self-sufficiency, deep-rooted traditions, and community spirit define life.

Nestled between the Mahi and Narmada rivers, Jhabua remains a cultural stronghold of the Bhil tribe—India’s “Brave Bowmen.” Their history, however, is often overlooked. The Mangarh Massacre (1913) saw British forces brutally kill over 1,500 Bhils who had gathered under Govind Guru, a revolutionary who united them against exploitation. Though history tried to erase their struggle, the Bhils preserve their legacy—not through written records, but through lived traditions. While history may have overlooked their sacrifices, the Bhils have preserved their legacy through traditions that continue to define their way of life today. Over the next few days, I had the privilege of stepping into their world—not as an observer, but as a participant. For the first four days, I lived in two villages Lalarundhi and Soyla—experiencing the Bhil way of life firsthand.

For generations, Baba Dev stood watch over the villages, his simple shrine nestled near the sacred groves. The people prayed, and nature thrived—until one day, the rains grew uncertain, the fields withered, and the rivers fell silent. It felt as if Baba Dev had stopped listening. An old woman, gazing at the dry sky, heard a child ask, “Did we do something wrong?” Deep inside, she knew the truth—the gods had not fallen silent; the people had stopped listening. The elders remembered Matavan, the sacred forests once guarded with devotion. These trees weren’t just wood and leaves; they were the soul of their world. But greed had thinned them, and with them, balance was lost. Then came the realization—Baba Dev was Mahadev himself, the guardian of nature. Their faith was never about rituals; it was about responsibility. So, they began to restore what was lost. The young returned, planting trees in devotion, reviving forgotten names—Jamimata, Gaumata, Jalhandevi, Saavan Mata. And then, like an answered prayer, the rains returned—not just water, but forgiveness, renewal, and hope. Baba Dev had never abandoned them. He had only been waiting for them to listen once more.

 

Lalarundhi: Living with Dasharath Ji’s Family:

My first day was spent in lalarundhi village, in Dasharath ji’s home. It was a house built by hands that knew hard work as second nature, surrounded by fields that sustained not just a family but a way of life. Unlike the fast-paced urban world, life here moved with the rhythm of nature. The mornings began early, with the sounds of livestock, birds, and the collective murmur of a village waking up together.  What struck me immediately was the self-sufficiency of the household. The family grew their own food, fetched water from a common well, and cooked over a traditional chulha. The simplicity wasn’t just a lifestyle—it was a deeply ingrained philosophy of sustainability.  I helped with daily chores—collecting firewood, cooking with fresh produce, and tending to the animals. The connection between human effort and survival was starkly visible; nothing was wasted, and everything had a purpose. Even the waste from cooking became fodder for animals, and every drop of water was valued. Once, out of sheer curiosity, Dasharath Ji casually inquired about my caste. Before I could respond, his father, with the wisdom of years, intervened and said, "Sadhu koi bhi ho, uska jaat nahi poochte, poochte hai uski aatma kaisi hai." This means "Regardless of who the saint is, one doesn't ask about their caste; instead, one asks about the state of their soul."

These words struck me deeply, reinforcing the idea that a person's worth is not determined by their social classification but by the purity of their soul. It was a reminder that true respect transcends superficial labels, and in the grand scheme of life, what truly matters is one’s deeds and inner self.  This experience broadened my perspective on inclusivity and human values. In a society where caste-based distinctions often dictate interactions, this village wisdom offered a refreshing counterpoint. It emphasized that true spirituality and wisdom lie in seeing beyond material identities. It made me reflect on how we, as a society, often limit our understanding of people based on inherited labels rather than their actions and virtues. The simplicity and clarity of his words left a lasting impression on me, urging me to internalize this lesson in my own journey. One evening, while sitting outside, Dasharath Ji casually remarked, "Kharab logo ka kaam hota hai police, jail, court vagere." This means "Bad people's business is handled by the police, courts, and related authorities."

His words weren’t spoken with resentment but with the conviction of a life lived in harmony with one's values. Here, justice wasn’t about legal systems—it was about honor, trust, and the natural order of life.  Another unforgettable moment was the harmonium session. The warmth of those discussions, paired with the depth of their intelligence, made me realize that true wisdom isn’t found in degrees—it’s found in lived experiences. The Bhils, often overlooked by society, possess a 10/10 intelligence—masters of survival, community living, and resourcefulness.  Dinner that night was simple yet fulfilling chana dal, makka roti, each bite carrying the warmth of homegrown grains and the effort behind them. But more than the physical tasks, it was the mindset of self-reliance that left an impact. Here, people didn’t wait for external help; they built their own roads, constructed their own homes, and took responsibility for their collective well-being. This was my first lesson—true empowerment isn’t given, it’s taken.

 

Soyla: Three Days in Kavita's home

From Lalarundhi, I moved to Soyla village, where I stayed with Kavita's family for the next three days. Soyla felt different—livelier, with a stronger sense of collective participation. The women of the village, especially Kavita ji, played a crucial role in decision-making. The deep respect for women in the Bhil culture was evident, not as a forced idea of equality but as an organic reality that had existed for generations.  In Soyla, I saw the power of community gatherings. Every evening, people assembled to discuss farming techniques, village needs, and upcoming collective projects. Unlike urban settings, where individual gain often overshadows collective progress, here, growth was measured by how much the entire village prospered. Soyla had its own rhythm. Evenings were spent under open skies, discussing everything from Indian geography to life experiences. One particular night, the electricity suddenly went out—a power cut. But instead of frustration, there was excitement. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I looked up to find the sky lit up with countless stars. It was a sight that city lights had stolen from us—a mesmerizing, heart-capturing moment of pure peace.

 
“A Summer in world but winter so wintry here,

 Cool yet Peaceful breeze makes all cheer.

 People so cool and welcoming dear, 

 Why does everyone else goes out with fear?

City lights being unrest, to kick out their goal, 5 gods of life, worshiped with soul,

A new yet beautiful experience us welcoming with all out hearts ......”

 
That night, wrapped in layers of warmth, we continued discussing Maharashtra, MP, Chennai, Andhra, Sikkim, and how each region had its own beauty and struggles. But Soyla also revealed stark contrasts. Water, a scarce resource for villages, was being wasted in towns. I saw a water contractor casually letting gallons flow away because "pani kharab ho gaya hai (Water has got singly used)." I asked him, “Paudho koi dedo, kahi aur daldo road pe kyu?” This means "Give it to the plants or reuse it elsewhere, why do you throw it on the road?", but He had no words. Meanwhile, villagers in Jhabua conserved every drop. The difference wasn’t just in resources; it was in the mindset of scarcity versus abundance.  Dinner was another soulful meal—Masur dal, roti, chawal, sev, cooked with simplicity yet full of flavor. 

Soyla was an experience that far exceeded my expectations. We often believe that degrees and formal education define knowledge, but witnessing the real essence of learning in the village changed my perspective. As a Civil Engineering student, I always considered structural engineering a subject requiring both theoretical depth and practical skill. However, in Soyla, I met an artisan who defied this notion. He was a master of construction—not because of a college degree but because of his lifelong experience and adaptability. At times, he functioned as a contractor, leading projects with precision, while in other moments, he worked as a majdoor, seamlessly transitioning between roles as per the need. His hands, though rough with labor, crafted structures with an accuracy that many trained engineers struggle to achieve. This encounter reshaped my understanding of knowledge and expertise.

Education is not confined to classrooms—it is about curiosity, continuous learning, and hands-on experience. The artisan’s ability to adapt, innovate, and execute tasks with perfection was a testament to the power of experiential learning. It made me realize that true mastery is not about the number of degrees one holds but about one's ability to evolve, apply knowledge, and refine skills over time. His journey was an inspiration, reinforcing that learning is a lifelong process, unrestricted by formal education. 

A Lesson in Open Defecation

At first in Soyla, I thought maybe there were no toilets at all. But I later learned that at least one household had a toilet. Yet, it remained unused. The first time I had to relieve myself in the open, I felt an unease I had never experienced before. The sun was barely up, yet I found myself walking towards an open field, hesitating with every step. There was no door to close, no walls to shield me—just the vastness of the land and the unsettling fear of being seen. I crouched down, heart pounding, eyes darting around, feeling exposed, unsafe, and, most of all, helpless. That moment changed everything. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was dignity at stake. And for millions, this wasn’t a one-time experience; it was their everyday reality.If I couldn’t endure it for a single day, how do they live like this every day? And more importantly—what can we do to change this?

 The reason wasn’t lack of awareness; it was the complexity of waste treatment and the scarcity of water. More importantly, water was a luxury they couldn’t afford to waste. But being there, walking in their reality, talking to them, I realized something profound: Open defecation here is not just a habit; it is an adaptation. We often think building toilets is the solution. But in places like Soyla, where resources are scarce, building is the easiest part. Adapting is the real challenge. Many don’t oppose toilets, but without regular water supply, proper sewage systems, or a sustainable way to manage waste, what is the use? Development is about basic needs, not imitation. They don’t need city-like infrastructure; they need solutions suited to their life. Clean water, accessible health services, a sustainable way to live—that’s what matters more than an imposed toilet model. This wasn’t just about sanitation; it was about basic human dignity. And the only way forward was ownership and action—not just policies, but real change led by the people, for the people. That day, I promised myself—this issue isn’t just theirs. It’s ours. I realized how flawed one-size-fits-all policies are. We assume people need what we think is best for them. But real change is about purpose, not pressure. Unless a solution fits into their daily life, it won’t be accepted, no matter how well-intended it is. Being in Soyla, I didn’t just understand why open defecation exists—I understood why forcing solutions without understanding the ground reality will never work.

 
One afternoon, I met Papita Bhabhi. Her home stood half-built—just one room, no doors. Her husband, a mistry in Gujarat, sent money when he could. When I asked why she hadn’t finished the house, she simply smiled, “Jab wo ayenge, tab saath mein bana lenge.” No complaints, just quiet patience. A lesson in gratitude and acceptance. Nearby, a washroom existed but stored water instead. The chulha’s smoke darkened the walls, making it impossible to sleep inside, so they built another single-room home—one for living, one for resting. I saw the contradictions of menstruation in rural life. Women sat apart for five days, yet when hunger demanded, the same customs bent. If men were away for majdoori, the very women expected to be in isolation stepped into the kitchen. Survival came before tradition, but only just enough. Pain wasn’t a reason to pause—it was something to endure. Cramps, exhaustion, heavy bleeding—none of it changed the expectation that they must carry on. Medical help was distant, with a hospital 3–4 km away and a bus that arrived hours late. I waited 1.5 hours for a 12 PM bus that came at 1:25 PM—and wondered, what happens when these women need urgent care?

Here, I learned that progress isn’t about waiting for change; it’s about creating it. The women of Soyla never stopped. Even through their periods, they harvested fields, cooked meals, and held their families together. Menstruation wasn’t taboo, nor was it an excuse—just another part of life. In cities, we talk of period leaves and comfort. Here, strength meant something else—not the absence of struggle, but the ability to keep going despite it. Not that their hardships should be overlooked, but their resilience was a kind we may never fully grasp.
In the heart of these tribal villages, where the rhythm of life follows the wisdom of ancestors rather than the rules of the outside world, the people live by a code deeply rooted in their land, beliefs, and survival. The Indian Constitution, through the Fifth Schedule and Sixth Schedule provisions, provides special protections and governance mechanisms for tribal communities, recognizing their unique cultural heritage and way of life. Additionally, the Panchayats (Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act, 1996 (PESA) empowers tribal communities to manage their natural resources and govern themselves. The Forest Rights Act (FRA) and other special laws also safeguard the rights of tribal people to their forests, land, and cultural heritage. Furthermore, the National Commission for Scheduled Tribes (NCST) plays a crucial role in investigating and monitoring matters related to the safeguards for Scheduled Tribes, inquiring into complaints of rights deprivation, advising on socio-economic development, and presenting annual reports to the President, thereby ensuring the conservation and protection of tribal rights and culture. But with preservation comes a complex question—where does tradition stand firm, and where does it need to evolve? 

Take early marriage, for instance. In these communities, it is not uncommon for girls to be married by the age of 12 to 15.

To an outsider, this might seem like an outdated practice, even a violation of rights. But in the tribal world, life does not wait for years to pass before maturity is expected. Hardships arrive early, and responsibility is not something one prepares for—it is something one lives from the moment they take their first steps. The weight of survival shapes them differently; what others learn in schools, they learn through experience. Yet, does this justify early marriage? It is not a simple question. While modern laws see childhood as a time of learning and exploration, here, childhood is intertwined with duty. The idea of “growing up” is not measured by birthdays but by how well one navigates the challenges life throws at them. In such an environment, textbook education often feels like a distant, unrelated concept. What does algebra mean to a child who must first learn how to gather food? What value does a history lesson hold when the future is uncertain? For many, the struggle is not just about learning but about what learning leads to. Formal education, in its current form, often disconnects them from their own reality. A tribal child who spends years in school might emerge with a certificate but find no opportunities, no place for their skills in a world that still does not recognize their existence. To spend years learning something that does not guarantee a livelihood is a luxury they cannot afford. This is why they seek not just education but Prashikshan—a system of learning that is deeply practical, designed for their way of life.

 
Prashikshan is not about degrees and standardized tests; it is about mastering the skills needed to sustain their communities. It is about knowing how to build, farm, trade, heal, and adapt in ways that ensure survival. It is about carrying forward the knowledge of generations while also making space for new ideas that do not uproot but strengthen their world. Their way of life is not defined by a classroom but by the land they walk on, the rivers they drink from, and the traditions they uphold. In this world, what seems unconventional to outsiders is simply the way things have always been. And while debates continue on what should change and what should remain, the real question is—who decides? The government, the policymakers, the educators? Or the people who have lived this life, shaped by its challenges and wisdom? Perhaps the answer is not in choosing one path over another but in understanding that different worlds require different ways of learning, growing, and thriving.

 
"Jhabua’s story isn’t just about them—it’s about us. It challenges our idea of progress, of sustainability, of what it truly means to live in harmony with nature. If a community with so little can achieve so much, what’s stopping us from rethinking our own ways?"

- Tanmayee Deshpande