We drove for hours deep into the countryside of India.

Much like driving into rural America, this is where the farmland is. Unlike America, these farms are plowed by oxen and harvested by hand. The road is dotted with small villages where lives are on display for all to see—water stations where young girls fill jugs for home, men shower, and women do laundry; fruit and vegetable stalls for tonight’s dinner; and chai shops, of course.

On this particular day, we were headed to see some very remote skills training sites. We parked the car on a dusty street, littered with pieces of concrete from crumbling dwellings. On my right was a humble brick house covered by trees. The door hung off its hinges. I hoped it was abandoned. On my left were several concrete or stone-looking cave-like structures. Also abandoned or, at least, inhabitable.

And then we turned the corner.

Amidst the dusty rubble, there was a one-story pink building and a courtyard filled with smiling women. Warm hands greeted us, and we passed inside where 23 women sat at foot-powered sewing machines, the kind our great-grandmothers used at the turn of the 20th century.

 

One by one, they showed us what projects they were creating. Often, they were wearing a dress they had made themselves. Every one of them beamed with pride at the accomplishment of their own making.

 

 

Back out in the courtyard were 25 other women just beginning their training. They were learning how to hold a needle, embroider flowers, and cut patterns for their children’s clothing. Some were adorned in beautiful saris with flowers in their hair. Others were Muslim women with their heads carefully covered and their eyes sparkling. They were eager to greet us, take photos with us, embrace us, and gently kiss each cheek.

I don’t know exactly where each woman came from, but I know the rubble they walked through:

  • Abject poverty
  • Hunger
  • Discrimination based on birth, religion, village
  • Abusive husbands

They have come through desolation and hopelessness to find the promise that life can be better, that their children do not have to starve, and that they can provide clothing and shelter for their families when life shatters around them.

I wish you could walk with me along the street that leads to this oasis. Maybe you can in your mind’s eye.

There is gray, dusty debris everywhere.

And then, there is…
 pink,
 laughter, and
 the whirl of human-powered sewing machines.

Hope. Life. Promise.

 

You can give a woman like the ones I met the gift of this very same tailoring class. It will change her life forever.