Chapter 1

The Journey of Her

1. The Migrator’s Wife

The story of waiting, uncertainty, and quiet sacrifice

I was scared when he left.

Even before he packed his things, I was scared.

Every morning, my husband would wake up early, before the sun, and go to the fields. But no matter how hard he worked, it wasn’t enough. The money was getting less and less.

One evening, he came home and said there was no other way.

“We need to think of our children. We cannot have them suffer our own fate. I must leave my village, Budadeeh, and go to the city, to Gorakhpur. There is work there.”

My heart sank. I knew what it meant. I’d heard stories from the other women in the village—how their husbands left, how the city swallowed them up. But they sent money back. That’s what we needed.

We woke up before dawn on the day he was leaving. He packed a small bag. We didn’t talk much. What was there to say? I watched him wear his worn-out slippers, pull on his old shirt, and he hugged our youngest before he left. I stood by the door, trying not to cry.

The first few days after he left were quiet. Too quiet. The fields were empty without him. The house felt bigger. My youngest asked when his father would come home, and I tried to explain that he would come back soon. I wasn’t sure if I believed it myself.

Now, I wake up early every morning. I get water from the pump. I take care of the animals. I make food for our children. I go to the fields, even though I know it won’t be enough.

When the money comes, it helps. He sends Rs 15,000 every month. But it’s never enough. All of it goes towards educating our four children. One was studying for engineering college entrance exams. She got into IIT but had to drop out since she had trouble adjusting to that life. The next one is studying for medical entrance. The younger two will also follow their siblings and leave the village for higher education once they are done with school, I guess. 

I know he’s doing it for us. For our future. For our children.

But I also know that the city changes people. Some men never come back. Some don’t send anything after a while.

 I don’t blame him for going. I don’t blame the other men who left too.

I blame the fields that don’t feed us anymore.

I blame the rains.

2.  The Silent Wave of Migration

The men leave, the women stay behind, and the struggle continues

I wasn’t the only one.

In our village, more and more men were leaving. First, it was a few, then it became most of the men I knew. It felt like a wave washing over us, one family after another seeing their husbands, brothers, and sons pack up and leave for the cities.

It’s happening everywhere. Across rural India, more than 37% of households depend on migration to survive. The men go to places like Delhi, Mumbai, or even farther—factories, construction sites, markets—wherever they can find work. They say over 450 million people in India are on the move like this, traveling between villages and cities, just to keep their families fed.

When you talk to other women, you hear the same stories. They tell you how their husbands went to Mumbai and send money every month. But the money isn’t much. Maybe Rs 8,000, Rs 10,000 if they’re lucky. Not enough to fix the roof when it leaks or pay the school fees when the time comes.

I heard that in Uttar Pradesh alone, one of every four rural households has a man who has migrated for work. It’s not just the big cities, either. People go to Gujarat, Punjab, wherever there’s hope for wages. And it’s not just my village. Millions of women like me are left behind to take care of everything. Nearly 70% of these families rely on farming, but with less rain, the land gives back less. The men leave, but the work doesn’t stop.

I heard once that in some parts of India, villages are almost empty of men. Places in Bihar, Jharkhand—whole regions where only the old, the young, and the women remain.

It’s hard. When you don’t see them for months, sometimes years, you wonder if they’re okay. Some women I know only get a call once in a while, and they have to stretch the money they send as far as they can.

And what happens when they come back? They return, but they’re not the same. The city changes them. I’ve heard that 40% of migrant workers don’t come back at all. They find a new life, and we’re left to make do without them.

They say that one day things might get better. But for now, the city is where our husbands are, and the village is where we wait. We wait for the rains that never come, and we wait for the men who went away to make sure we survive.

3. A Path to Swavlamban

From a wife waiting for survival to a woman shaping her own future

I thought I had to manage alone after my husband left for the city. But I soon realized, with the help and support from Drishtee Foundation, that the answers to our struggles were right here, among the women of the village. The solution wasn’t just in  waiting for the men to return with whatever they could earn in the city. It was in us—the women who stayed behind, the women who knew how to hold everything together when things seemed to fall apart.

That’s when we started talking about Swavlamban, or self-reliance. It wasn’t just an idea; it was a path forward. The thought was simple: instead of depending on unpredictable city wages, we could build something right here in our village. Something sustainable. Something that belonged to us. We began to see that with the right skills and training, we could create livelihoods for ourselves—and for other women in our community.

In small groups, we learned new skills—crafting, stitching, and making eco-friendly products. But it wasn’t just about learning; it was about transforming those skills into businesses that could support our families. Slowly, we began to set up small enterprises. Some women started producing beautiful stitched garments while others made incense sticks or other products to sell in nearby towns. What was remarkable was how these businesses didn’t just benefit one household—they created jobs for other women, multiplying the impact.

As each business grew, more women joined. It became a cycle of support—one woman’s success became an opportunity for another. We found help in the processes developed by Drishtee; we found help in each other. The more we worked together, the more confident we became. We formed cooperatives, shared resources, and found ways to reach markets far beyond our village. We were no longer just caretakers of our homes—we were builders of something much bigger.

Today, I am an established trainer in my community. I have trained over 150 women and make around Rs 6,000 each month. Some of it I save. Some I need for daily expenses. I would like to train more women from neighbouring villages to start their own enterprises and become self-reliant. I hope to make Rs 15,000 each month staying right here in my village.

This is what Swavlamban means to us: taking control of our lives and our livelihoods, so we don’t have to wait for someone else to do it for us. We’re creating jobs, generating income, and supporting our families, all while staying rooted in the village we call home. We know  we can survive and thrive right here, in the place we’ve always belonged. We are building sustainable livelihoods, and in doing so, we are building our community—one step at a time, one woman at a time.

Sunita Devi’s story is not isolated; it reflects the lives of millions. Yet, within this waiting lies a deeper question: What if the solution didn’t have to come from the city but from within the village itself? It is this question that takes us forward—to the voices of women who are rewriting their narratives of self-reliance.