Woman of the House
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“Bus roko!” yelled one of the boys seated in a front row, “Kachra pada hai yahan.”
Startled, I peered out the window and saw a heap of garbage on the side of the road.
All the children turned towards the windows. Some stood, some knelt on their seats, and others rushed over to the left side of the bus.
“Bus roko,” shouted a few others.
It was an order. The driver obeyed.
I beamed as I watched them deboard the bus one after another. Energetic footsteps beat against the bus floor. Two of them carried a few empty sacks.
The next generation was taking Tilonia into its hands right before my eyes.
Moistness clouded my vision.
Always Listen to the Man on the Ground
“So, dogs smell blood, topple the bins, and drag the waste out?” I asked, “And then you have to pick up sanitary waste scattered all over the grounds. Correct?”
Ramlal nodded. “I can imagine ways to solve the problem,” he said, “But no one has considered this a problem worth allocating resources to.”
“Well, tell me your ideas!” I pounced.
“We have to design bins dogs can’t mess up. The bins have to be long so dogs can’t reach into them and fixed to the ground so dogs can’t topple them. Or we could try a different approach where the bins are completely out of reach to dogs — wall-mounted bins.”
Wall-mounted bins. Elegant!
“Tell me more about the wall-mounted bins.”
“They would need to have lids. Otherwise, they will attract insects.”
“Good point! So, these wall bins ensure nothing gets scattered. What else do you need them to do?”
“Only a few people wrap their sanitary waste in newspapers before disposing of them. This is something I’d like everyone to do. What if we provide a stack of old newspapers right next to the bin? And a poster to remind them to wrap the waste? We’ll be able to unload the bin with minimal direct contact with the waste.”
“Makes sense! And what if the bins can be unloaded by unlocking the base to let all the waste fall into your collection bag? So, the waste goes in from the top and is unloaded from below.”
“That would be fantastic!” His eyes sparkled.
To turn our idea into a prototype, we first needed to identify the cheapest raw material available for the purpose. I had a go-to place for such things: the storage area of the nearest mess.
Bingo! 15 Litre oil cans made of tin.
One’s trash is another’s treasure.
A Matter of Survival
We planned to deploy the prototype at the Barefoot campus. We could then gather feedback from the women on campus before manufacturing more bins for the rest of Tilonia. But to manufacture more bins, I needed to raise funds. And it wasn’t only about the sanitary waste bin project. Our aggregate cashflows indicated the department itself would cease to operate in about 14 months. Eight people’s livelihoods were at stake — along with their families’ and cattle’s.
With Suman’s help, I set up two sources of income that postponed bankruptcy day from 14 months away to 3 years away:
a) conducting waste management workshops for urban school children as part of their Rural Immersion Program, and
b) selling the compost or jeevamrit produced by all the compost pits we installed.
Cashflows through these bought us some much-needed time, but the clock was ticking. We needed substantial cash generation — and fast. We needed to function like a business.
“Ankit Ji, how will we keep our department afloat beyond three years?” Suman asked, looking at the spreadsheet.
“Maybe we should sell one of your goats.”
Suman chuckled.
There were an interesting bunch of people who seemed to make a good deal of money trading waste: scrap dealers or kabaadiwaalas. These gentlemen buy from people who don’t know the value of their waste (or don’t care). And then sell the components to those who do. These folks knew how to monetize the very goods Suman and his team produced daily. We were among those who didn’t know the value of their waste.
I had to get us into the kabaadi business!
The Thing About Rural Women
Barefoot College was founded after a 22-year-old abandoned his picture-perfect life among Bengal’s elite following a visit to a famine-afflicted village in Bihar. “I want to know how the other half of my country lives and dies,” Sanjit Bunker Roy told his parents in 1965, before making that fateful visit. “I’d like to live and work in a village,” he told them upon returning. And just like that, a suitable boy vanished from urban society, never to return.
Bunker found himself in Tilonia, and a few years into his stay, decided to start a college only for the poor, run by the poor. He leased an abandoned tuberculosis sanatorium from the government at ₹1 per month for the college campus. The sanatorium consists of 21 buildings, a few of which remain unused to this day.
In his 50 years of work with villages across the country and abroad, one of the lessons Mr Bunker learnt is: It is way better to empower rural women than men.
“Men are untrainable. They are restless, ambitious, and compulsively mobile. They all want a certificate so they can go to a city looking for a job. A man never trains another man. But a rural woman always trains other women.” says Mr Bunker.
This lesson was relevant to me. I had just acquired an abandoned hall in one of the sanatorium’s unused buildings to serve as our warehouse. This warehouse would monetize our waste to its full potential. And this new warehouse needed a leader. It needed someone who wouldn’t run off to become a kabaadiwaala elsewhere. It needed someone who sees the community as an extension of themself. It needed a rural woman.
Enter Gyana Kaki
She was the only woman on the team and served as a temporary staff member. Recently widowed, she lived in a small mud house with her 17-year-old son. Gyana Kaki had no formal education. She supported her family by rearing peoples’ sheep as a paid service. She had a few sheep of her own too, which provided her with milk.
If I could get Gyana Kaki trained in monetizing waste, it could enhance our cash profile. And also make her a permanent member on the team.
Now, monetizing waste wouldn’t be enough for the department to break even. But it could buy Suman ample time to scale the waste management model to ten villages. And hitting ten villages was the key to breaking even.
Would training Gyana Kaki buy Suman ample time?
“Gyana Kaki, I would like you to accompany me to Kishangarh. We need to learn how to be a kabaadiwaala.”
A Spooky Warning
One morning Suman and I were planning a trip to Barmer. We were to assess waste management practices in the region and set up an office at Barmer’s Barefoot campus. Our waste management model was ready for some scaling up.
I hadn’t slept well the previous night. You can place obstacles to seal every gap in your room, but snakes still make their way into your nightmares.
“I’m looking forward to Barmer. I haven’t travelled much since the Pushkar trip,” I told Suman.
“Oh haan! Pushkar mein aapka weekend kaisa tha?”
“Bahut maza aaya,” I replied.
His face turned grim.
“Ankit Ji, dhyan rakhna, Barmer mein maza kabhi mat kehna.” “People there will think you’re a rapist,” he continued.
“They’ll think I’m a what?”
“They’ll mob you and beat you up.”
I blinked.
“To them, the word maza associates with rape,” he explained.
Goosebumps took over my neck.
If ‘maza’ can get me assaulted, what else might?
Should I just not talk when I’m there?
Suman must’ve seen the look on my face.
“You can say anand instead.”
Note to self: Suman saves me from beatings.
Marwar ka Dimaag, Mewar ki Daring
Gyana Kaki and I visited Kishangarh, home to the largest dump yards in the 25-kilometre radius. Kabaadiwaalas in the region saw us as prospective clients — which was partially the case — and gave us information about the value of different waste components. We spoke to several of them to get a holistic view. And to understand which dealers specialised in which components.
Kaki paid rapt attention to everything.
We made similar visits to dump yards at Ajmer and Roopangarh, interviewing a dozen more kabaadiwaalas in the process. Kaki increasingly took the lead.
With what she learnt, Kaki increased the number of SKUs at our warehouse from 3 to 25. She now had a grip on where the high-value components featured in our waste, and how to extract them in the condition that maximised their value.
She had a Nokia feature phone through which she contacted dealers weekly to enquire about component prices. Most of the dealers weren’t keen on talking business with a woman over the phone. So, Kaki put calls on loudspeaker and had Ramlal do the talking as per her instructions.
She even got a few dealers to visit our warehouse. Once there, she extracted information from them that helped her deduce where she’s likely to get the best prices. She had dealers spill information about SKUs they didn’t have a stake in, in exchange for a discount on bulk inventory. The discount was one-time, and the know-how was eternal.
Kaki’s ever-expanding contacts ensured we were getting optimal prices for our waste. Kaki also figured out aspects of seasonality and timing; when to sell and when to hoard.
Fun fact: Kaki never made notes; she doesn’t know how to read and write. She operated purely from memory — flawlessly.
Kaki’s days of weeping at work were over. Like MS Dhoni, she kept her head in the game. And the cash was starting to flow.
Borderland
At Barmer, Suman and I set up the local waste management office.
Barmer district is one of the largest in the country and occupies a border with Pakistan. Its border is known to be a place where heroin and cocaine are tossed across. There’s often talk about the region playing host to spies of the R&AW and the ISI.
Most visibly, Barmer is home to many Hindu refugees who fled Pakistan. Some fled as long ago as 1970 and some as recently as 2010. “My younger sister was only seven years old, but they still kidnapped her. We never saw her again,” said one of them. “My sister was raped, and my elder brother was hacked to death. I crossed the border to bring my mother to safety,” said another. “I have cousins who are still there,” his voice quivered.
—
The food at Barmer was lip-smacking.
“Nashta kaisa laga?” asked a local we dined with.
“Bahut anand aaya.”
“Agli baar mere ghar pe chai peekar jaana.”
“Ji, anand se.”
—
The last night of the Barmer visit was one I had been looking forward to; I was going to sleep in the desert to an open sky.
“The quality of sleep is incomparable. You’ll see!” said Suman.
Wait a second.
“There aren’t snakes around here, are there?”
“A few species take to the sand,” he nodded.
“Are these snakes venomous?”
“They move quietly in the sand,” he said as if noise was my prime concern.
“Are they venomous though?”
“Umm — I don’t know if they are venomous — But it’s okay. You needn’t worry actually…”
I prodded his sentence along with a nod. There’s a reason not to worry? I’m all ears.
“Okay Ji, good night,” he said with a head bobble before descending into his pillow.
I was left looking at the stars, soon enough pondering some of life’s pertinent questions.
If I die tonight, can I say I’ve lived a good life?
Does Suman save me from beatings because he wants the snakes to get me instead?
How do you say ‘Please don’t kill me’ in Parseltongue?
—
“Registan mein raat bitaane ka aapka anubhav kaisa tha?” asked one of the locals while I was feasting on breakfast.
“Anandpoorvak”
Product-Market Fit = Big Hit
The warehouse clocked record sales and we had enough cash for the sanitary waste bin project.
The women at the Barefoot campus gave Ramlal and me feedback on several aspects of the sanitary waste bin. What mechanism should we use for the lid to keep insects out? Should the opening for disposal be on the front face or on the top? How long should the spike be that holds the newspapers in place?
Based on their suggestions, we designed three more prototypes for further testing and feedback.
The women similarly helped us iterate the poster design.
With the designs of the sanitary waste bin and posters locked down, we were ready to deploy them at local schools. The new waste bins were an instant success! Earlier, sanitary pads often clogged the school toilets because students knew dogs would drag the waste out if they used the regular bins. Our new bins were just what they needed.
After their spectacular reception at schools, the new bins found adoption at local clinics and several disposal points across Tilonia. They were then deployed across Dhanau, Patan, and Singla.
Ramlal’s happiness was a sight to behold.
“Ankit Ji, you cared about our dignity in a way no one else did,” he said, “I will always be grateful.”
I met his tender gaze with a smile.
Throat lumps are contagious.
Bliss
By the time my fellowship was drawing to an end, Kaki had added another 5 SKUs to the warehouse. It had become evident to everyone on the team that to optimize revenue you sell when Kaki says to sell. Today, Kaki is officially the head of the warehouse. Part of her role is to train others on the team to extract and store components for monetization.
Sales from Kaki’s warehouse bought Suman an estimated 7 years to scale the model to 10 villages. A solid platform to break even.
Before I left, Ramlal surprised me with a gift: a handmade peacock!
I’m still in touch with Gyana Kaki; her son video calls me from time to time. The way she greets me with a smile, I know I have her blessings.
Friendships and memories from my time at Tilonia will stay with me for a long time to come.
Thank you for stopping by so I could share them with you!
Anand mara nahi. Anand marte nahi.
