Gram Samriddhi Navkumbh: Where Change is Written on the Soil

 "Until the lion learns how to write the story, every story will glorify the hunter." 

For years, Jhabua was just another story of struggle—scarce water, barren lands, and survival. But what if the story wasn’t about struggle at all? What if it was about strength? 

Navkumbh wasn’t just a gathering; it was a declaration of self-reliance. For decades, Jhabua’s people have revived their land, restored water, and reclaimed their future—not by waiting for policies, but by shaping their own destiny. As I entered Navkumbh, I wondered—can a village truly rewrite its fate? What I witnessed was not just sustainability, but a revolution in motion. 

This is where Navkumbh was born—not just as an event, but as a collective vision for the future.  
 

In Navkumbh, the villagers didn’t sit and listen to pre-planned solutions. Instead, they became the planners. Maps were spread out, hands traced the outlines of their villages, and minds worked together to reimagine the future. 

• Where should the next Matavan be planted? 
• How should the water resources be managed? 
• What will the village look like in the coming years? 
• How can they ensure their children inherit a thriving land?  
 
Every person—elders, women, youth—had a say. Because this wasn’t just about development. It was about ownership, about reclaiming their place as the true guardians of their land.  Navkumbh wasn’t just a gathering; it was a mirror, reflecting the power villagers always had to shape their future. With every tree planted in Matavan, they restored not just forests but faith. With every discussion, they weren’t just planning villages—they were reclaiming their destiny. The gods had never left; they were simply waiting for their people to remember their strength. 

From February 25th to March 3rd, I witnessed the remarkable making and spirit of Gram Samriddhi NavKumbh—a gathering of 6,000 individuals from 900 villages. More than a conference, it was a celebration of self-driven change, shaping the next 12 years of development. Here, I saw how the Bhil's preserved their cultural heritage while embracing modern realities. Their prayers extended beyond gods—to water, land, forests, and animals—rooting their spirituality in sustainability itself. 

At Navkumbh, sweeping the ground wasn’t just about cleanliness—it was about shedding ego, fostering discipline, and embracing collective responsibility. Leaders, elders, and youth all took part, erasing hierarchy with every stroke of the broom. It wasn’t just dust being cleared; it was entitlement, separation, and the notion that some tasks are beneath us. The entire space buzzed with purpose—some carried bricks, others laid them with precision. No labourers, no contracts—just voluntary effort. Hands turned rough, feet ached, but the shared commitment kept everyone going. 

At first, I was unsure about Jhabua. But as Nitin Ji had said, "Just come and breathe in the air of Jhabua." This place proved it well. International organizations speak of sustainability through reports and conferences. Shivganga does it differently—it doesn’t just discuss change; it embodies it. Here, transformation isn’t a theory. It’s a way of life. 

One of the most striking moments at Navkumbh was the invitation event.  

I wondered, are people even interested in such initiatives?  

The answer was a resounding yes. They didn’t just attend—they owned it. 

One statement stayed with me: "The poor are not beneficiaries; they are partners in progress." 

This wasn’t about aid or handouts. It was about dignity, self-reliance, and the belief that real change comes from within. Too often, development is planned in distant boardrooms, treating communities as passive recipients. But here, the Bhil's weren’t waiting for solutions—they were creating them. True progress isn’t charity; it’s empowerment. And in Jhabua, that lesson was unfolding before my eyes. 

"In cities, change is often drawn on whiteboards and presented in meetings. In Jhabua, it is sketched on the soil—with hands that will bring it to life." 

At the heart of Gram Samriddhi Navkumbh’s growth was Sampark Abhiyan, a transformative initiative that fostered deep connections rather than mere outreach. Whether in familiar regions like Petlawad and Ranapur or uncharted villages, the focus was on relationships—genuine, personal, and trust-driven. Led by Rishabh Ji, Riddhi Ji, Poonam Ji, and the team, this effort turned allies into torchbearers, while new communities were engaged through dialogue, understanding, and shared purpose. Conversations replaced skepticism with trust, making people feel not just involved but responsible for the movement’s growth. 

Through these personal interactions, Anubhuti (the lived experience of transformation) took root. Farmers, homemakers, and youth—once hesitant—found purpose within Navkumbh. This was no longer just an event; it became a way of life, driven by belonging rather than obligation. What started as outreach evolved into a self-sustaining ecosystem of change, proving that true transformation isn’t imposed—it flourishes through trust, participation, and shared vision. 

Navkumbh was never just an event; it was a movement shaped by countless hands and hearts. What began as a small effort soon became unstoppable, fueled by the belief that every contribution—no matter how small—mattered. People didn’t just give; they became a part of something larger than themselves. A driving force behind this collective spirit was Dhanasangrah (Fundraising), led by Nitin Ji Dhakad. It wasn’t merely about raising funds—it was about fostering a shared sense of responsibility. Small contributions poured in, each carrying the weight of trust and commitment. Daily meetings, real-time updates, and relentless dedication turned giving into a bond, not an obligation. What started as an effort to collect funds became a testament to the power of collective ownership. 

Navkumbh wasn’t built on grand gestures but on countless small acts of belief. People didn’t contribute because they were asked to; they contributed because they felt they belonged. And in that belonging, the movement grew—unstoppable, unbounded. 

At the onset of Navkumbh, where tradition met transformation, men arrived with their geti (pickaxe) and phavda (spade), ready for halma (shramdan, collective effort)—some driven by purpose, others hesitant, unsure of the change unfolding around them. The land beneath their feet was not just soil; it was a reflection of a deeper shift taking place—not led by one but shaped by many.

Yet, beyond the rhythmic clash of metal against earth, another force moved silently, seamlessly—women. They didn’t wait for permission, nor did they seek validation. They arrived with decisions already made, with roles they had chosen for themselves. There was no formal invitation needed—they were already part of Navkumbh’s pulse. Among them were Meena Ji and Rama Ji, as pillars of this transformation. Navkumbh was not just an event; it was an awakening. 

But how do you bring women into such a movement? How do you ensure they are not just present but included as its very foundation? 

The answer was simple yet profound: to bring women into Navkumbh, they had to feel that Navkumbh belonged to them. And what better way than to bring their home here? The best way to ensure their presence was to create a space where they felt at ease, where their role was not separate but central. 

“If women are to come, build chulhas (mud stoves). They will cook food, people will gather, experience something new, and the movement will thrive.” 

And so, on February 22, 271 women arrived, carrying nothing but their hands and their determination. In just two hours, 217 chulhas stood ready—each one a silent testimony to their presence, each flame a flicker of their contribution. 

As the fires burned, a new kind of warmth spread through Navkumbh—not just from the flames but from the hearts of the women who now felt at home in the movement. They had not merely come to help—they had come to own it. No one instructed them, yet they brought cooking utensils as an extension of their love. They carried their children, setting up jhulas (swings) in the open space, making Navkumbh a home for them too. For three to four days, entire villages lived together in the Hawai Patti of Jhabua(Airstrip), where Navkumbh took place. No one complained. No one hesitated. No one resisted. Everyone stood together. They had built it. It was theirs.  

When the guests and delegates arrived—people who had come from far and wide to witness this extraordinary gathering—they did not sit apart in chairs or on stages. They sat on the mud-made floor, built by the hands of villagers, just like homes in the villages in the good old days. And there, under the open sky, surrounded by the crackling sounds of the chulha, the air filled with the rich aroma of food cooked with love. Hot, fresh makka roti (corn flatbread) was served with hands that had tilled, built, and nurtured. The guests did not just see Navkumbh; they felt it, tasted it, lived it. 

This was not just about food. 

This was about belonging.  

It was about the unspoken strength of women, who, without speeches or declarations, had made Navkumbh their own. 

Meanwhile, men too carried their role with equal responsibility. They did not arrive empty-handed—they brought with them geti (pickaxe) and phavda (spade), the tools for halma (shramdan, collective effort). Together, they planned, deciding the locations for matavan (sacred forests), ponds, and other crucial elements. They set schedules for frequent village meetings, ensuring that Navkumbh was not just a one-time event but a lasting movement. They even included morning and evening games to strengthen their bonds, recognizing that a village united in play would also be united in action—something the city life could never even imagine. The transformation was not uniform. Some men hesitated, some resisted, but many understood. Men and women stood side by side, each contributing in their own way, neither seeking dominance over the other. The shift wasn’t about defiance—it was about balance, about recognizing that strength existed in many forms. 

Yet, in a world where gender equality is often spoken of as a goal yet to be achieved, the women of Navkumbh had no such battle to fight. They did not come here to demand freedom—they already had it. Unlike in cities or the rest of the world, where equality is still debated, here, it was simply lived. 

These were the stories often left untold—the women who gathered to plan, the men who worked tirelessly beside them, the villagers who walked miles carrying saplings, determined to plant a future together. The hesitant and the determined, the men and the women, in the quiet moments of shared work and responsibility, the true essence of unity emerged—not because it was imposed, but because no one ever questioned that it should be any other way.

As Navkumbh unfolded in all its beauty, the spirit of unity and joy culminated in, Anand Utsav—a grand celebration of art, music, and togetherness. Different villages brought their unique cultural expressions to life—Dholak (hand drum), Bansuri (flute), Mandal (traditional folk band), and Shehnai (woodwind instrument) echoed through the air. The villagers danced, wore vibrant clothes showcasing their traditional attire, sang, and rejoiced, not just marking the end of an event but celebrating a shared journey of transformation. The next step is naturally followed - halma (shramdan, collective effort). 

Navkumbh was never about change led by one. It was about transformation owned by all. 

As the chulhas cooled and the echoes of halma lingered, one question remained— 

"If a village, without rules or reminders, could live, work, and thrive as one… then what’s stopping us? What if the rest of the world wasn’t just watching—but learning?" 

 - Tanmayee Deshpande