Transitioning Into Social Impact

Eight years ago, if you had landed at Chuliaposhi, you might have encountered a starkness reminiscent of Satyajit Ray’s The Apu Trilogy. A village in the Mayurbhanj district of Odisha, it bore the markers of spiraling rural distress: a water-bereft landscape inhabited by ethnic tribal communities, where livelihoods had collapsed, acute hunger was commonplace, and hope had all but vanished.

Bindu Vinodhan, Founder, Mauna Dhwani Foundation, hadn’t stumbled on this place by accident. She had deliberately googled “list of five poorest tribal villages in India,” while plotting next steps.

A year earlier, Bindu had been in a distinctly different setting. As the Global Head of Learning & Development at WNS, her team had garnered a global award for exceptional performance. The ceremony held at the glitzy Disney World in Florida should have been uplifting. Though she was all smiles on stage, back in the hotel room she felt a numbing emptiness. She had worked for 22 years in first-rate organizations, and won the appreciation of peers and bosses. Yet she asked herself: “Is this it?”

In an animated to-and-fro, Bindu recounted her personal pivot from a flourishing corporate career to her social impact foray.

Raised to Speak Up

Born in Kerala, Bindu was raised in Mumbai. Disregarding surrounding mores, their home was inflected with Kerala’s matriarchal values. Her feminist father urged his daughters to pursue any field and to express themselves freely. Bindu grew up cherishing her inventiveness and voice. As a student of Loreto Convent, she dove into everything: drama, music, reading, dance, even training formally in classical dancing. She was the school’s Head Girl and an academic star.

In her final year of engineering college — one of the few women in a predominantly male class — Bindu married early and embraced the life of an Air Force officer’s wife. At the time, she was content in that role. But it was Vinodhan’s quiet conviction that she was meant to chart her own path that gently shifted her course. With his encouragement, and the unwavering support of her parents who helped care for their daughter, Bindu was able to pursue her further studies — laying the foundation for a journey of growth, purpose, and self-discovery.

While pursuing a Master’s in Education Technology at Oxford University, Bindu encountered, for the first time, the quiet sting of privilege denied. As a five-foot-nothing, brown-skinned Asian woman, she experienced what it meant to be gently, almost imperceptibly, sidelined — a form of soft discrimination that was both subtle and deeply unsettling. It was a moment of reckoning that shook her assumptions and widened her lens.

One of the most powerful turning points came through her tutor and mentor — and now dear friend — Professor Davies. He reminded her again and again that her perspective, rooted in a different geography and lived experience, was not just valid but vital. “Don’t hold back,” he told her. “Your questions, your voice, your way of seeing the world — they make a difference.” That insight became one of the most enduring lessons of her life, and later, the cornerstone of her work in championing Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion upon her return to the corporate world in India.

Chasing Meaning, A Step at a Time

Forging a journey in organization development, she thrived in helping others realize their potential. Lessons imbibed in the process still hold her in good stead. She understood how the glass ceiling operates, and how identities are shaped by complex circumstances, which can also be shifted with other viewpoints.

After resigning, Bindu took a leap into unfamiliar territory by starting her own consulting organization — despite having no entrepreneurial experience. Friends and family who knew her well were often incredulous: “You’re going to start a business? Do you realize you’ll need to ask people for money at some point — can you even do that?” The doubts were real, but so was her quiet conviction.

Kickstarting A Consultancy and an NGO

She was fortunate that her former company became her first client, offering her a consulting assignment that gave her both a foothold and a foundation. Soon, other organizations followed. This new arrangement gave her the financial independence to support herself while volunteering with other NGOs — a phase of exploration and learning. For nearly a year, she volunteered with an NGO focused on building entrepreneurial skills for the rehabilitation of commercial sex workers and survivors of trafficking. The experience was transformative. But deep down, she knew her path lay beyond volunteering. She had to build something of her own — a platform that would reflect her vision, values, and belief in long-term, community-led change.

Intending to help commercial sex workers, she dispatched proposals to numerous individuals. She suspected most were promptly trashed: “Who was I? Not an expert, just a woman, possibly facing a midlife crisis, trying to enter a world with its own hierarchies and arcane rules.”  So she was gobsmacked when Annie Raja, the then Chairperson of the National Commission for Women, called.

Raja had been kind enough to go through every level of detail in her proposal. Clearly Bindu possessed the gravity and fervor required of such interventions. About her intent to help sex workers, Raja asked her if she was aware of where these women came from. Bindu noted that human trafficking originated in ultra-poor tribal areas where other opportunities were scarce. Raja suggested that she tackle the source by creating alternatives that would stop women from fleeing or being sold.  

No ‘Welcome Mats’ Here

The phone call changed everything. In a process akin to firing darts, she lit on Chuliaposhi in Orissa. She knew nothing of the area, not even its language. Besides, the region was notoriously hostile. The Australian missionary, Graham Staines and his two sons, had been brutally murdered in the district.

None of this deterred Bindu, who began reaching out to regional non-profits in the hope of exploring collaborative opportunities and grounding herself in grassroots realities. Of all the people she wrote to, only one person responded — Gobinda Dalai, a TISS graduate who had founded his own NGO in the region. He was curious about Bindu’s intentions but, like many others, didn’t expect her to actually show up. But she did. And when she did, Gobind was not just welcoming — he was present, consistent, and generous with his time and knowledge.

Flying into Bhubaneswar, she caught a train to Balasore and then set off by road—driving as far as the vehicle could manage, switching between motorable and near-impassable stretches in a rugged SUV. Tingling with a mix of fear and excitement, she planned to call her family to reassure them she was safe. But the moment she reached the village, she discovered there was no network at all. Silence—both literal and symbolic.

The absent signal was the least of it. Chuliaposhi was a village littered with “no’s” – no electricity, no motorable roads, no water, no food, no school, no jobs, no healthcare. Around her children noticeably malnourished, with hardly any clothes on their backs seemed to reinforce the worst stereotypes of a “third world” country. Could the nation still abide with such contradictions – a gleaming abundance in its malls, and spaces where even Maslow’s basics hadn’t reached? Says Bindu: “I’ve never seen that much poverty in my life. I just stood there, overwhelmed, and knew — whatever I chose to do here, no matter how small, it would matter. It would reach someone who had been left behind.”

Melting Walls, Visit by Visit

She also grasped how hard this would be. The community was suspicious. People asked her – “What’s your phaayda?” “What’s in it for you?”. Maybe they had reason. So far, outsiders had always entered to seize something. To take their land, people or children. They wondered why this woman from Bangalore, who didn’t speak any Oriya or Santali, had arrived to help? As Bindu puts it, “How do you explain a calling to someone who hasn’t eaten all day? You can’t.” When she said, “I want to help in whatever little way I can,” her words rang hollow, even to her.

Winning their trust was going to be her biggest hurdle while quelling her own nagging disbelief. She knew, too, that she couldn’t sway them with words. She needed to stay put in a very tough place. But where? Finding accommodation that was both safe and clean became a challenge in itself. She often spent hours driving through remote stretches just to locate a usable restroom. “My ego?” she laughs now. “It was ground to dust. After years in corporate offices, trying to look and act a certain way, all of that just fell away. None of it mattered here.

She lived without toilets for two years. Spent nights in the dingiest rooms with a plastic chair as the only furniture. There were times when a teammate would stand guard outside as she sat alone inside, to ensure her safety. She faced attacks—driven out by officials, insulted by Tehsildars, even questioned by the police. “My ego is underground now,” she says, without any trace of resentment, almost amused. Her sisters tease her on long drives in Bangalore. They’ll stop somewhere and she’ll casually gesture toward a bush. “They say, ‘You’ve become a rustic villager!’” she grins. “And they’re right.”

Over time, something changed. The community saw her returning, again and again, without any self-serving agenda. One day, when she was surrounded by 50 or 60 belligerent men — fear snaking through her, unsure if she would make it out—someone placed a hand gently on her back. She could gradually feel more hands, the gentle, wizened hands of women. It was a Santali gesture. It meant: “You’re ours. We’re yours. We’re one.”

Quelling Internal Doubts

“I didn’t know how to conquer fear until I stood in front of it,” she says. “Those hands told me: I’m not alone.” That, for Bindu, was another life-altering moment. All her life she had fought alone—for positions, for respect, for her place in boardrooms and foreign universities. Always proving, always pushing: “Being told you’re strong becomes a life sentence. You start believing that you’re not allowed to be weak.” In that moment, held up by women who lived communally, who danced holding each other, who said we instead of I, she recognized this wasn’t a personal journey. It was a movement.

She stopped being afraid. Of snakes, or scorpions, or insects, or judgment. “Once you step through fear, it becomes familiar,” she says. Now, when I see a giant insect on the wall of my mud house, I just look at it and say, “I’ll stay on this mat, and you can stay on your wall. Let’s draw the line there—and let’s coexist.”

Recently, after seven and a half years, her husband visited her mud house. “He couldn’t believe it,” she says. “He just stood there and said—wow, you really are doing this aren’t you?” She used to be the kind of person who checked every hotel for proper toilets before agreeing to stay. “Now I can sleep without any problem knowing that there may be lizards and many-legged creatures on the wall,” she laughs.

Spinning the Past Back to Life

Bindu recalls how they tackled the hopelessness, one step at a time. To begin with, electricity was a priority. They brought in poles and installed solar power. By conducting ethnographic research, Bindu had discovered that the region had an ancient weaving practice that had died out in the past two decades. Rather than imposing an alien modernity, she chose to revive what was theirs already.

She set up their first community center in a livestock shed – with goats on one side, looms on the other – because no one was willing to allot land. Propping up four looms and slowly gathering a few women – eight to begin with – she awakened a knowledge that had been embedded in their ancestors’ knotty fingers.

Finding artisans to teach the women had been daunting. The expertise had vanished about a century ago, leaving no one to transmit skills. Bindu had scoured other parts of Odisha, seeking craft masters who would be willing to stay and teach. Slowly a few agreed, when she offered compensation, housing, food, and tools.

At first, the village had scoffed, saying that women couldn’t weave. Bindu soon realized the real issue wasn’t their ability to learn—it was malnutrition. She set up a community kitchen, Neivedya, to churn out nutritious meals. As strength returned to their bodies, the looms started whirring and clacking with a buoyant rhythm.

Modifying Machines to Fit Women

Bindu herself had no background in textiles, let alone handloom weaving. She traveled widely, learning about looms and intricacies of the craft. She even moved a loom into her Bangalore house and started weaving. She needed to understand it viscerally, to feel the process with her hands. As she wove, she sensed the looms were designed for men, not women. Her team started modifying the machines, making adjustments for women. One day, she dreams of collaborating with an IIT to further refine the design.

Scaling from 8 to 800 and Beyond

From those eight women, Mauna Dhwani now supports 800 women, with 21 centers spread across 62 villages. It had taken them two and a half years to build their first center. Three and a half years to build five. In seven years, they had built 21. By now, they knew what worked. They could build quickly.

After spending ten days in the village, Bindu would return to Bengaluru to run her consulting firm — the very income stream that kept her rural initiative afloat. Everything she had, she poured into building this dream from the ground up. In quiet moments, she often felt her father’s presence — as if he were smiling from above, gently nudging her forward, beaming at her with joy for the path she had chosen.

Gradually, things began to shift. She started attracting supporters. Friends sent her donations. Nandita Lakshmanan from The Practice, Kalki Yasas, Rajesh Unni from Synergy and R Swaminathan being her pillars in the initial days, and supportive of her endeavor when very few believed in what she was doing. They stood strong by her and also connected her with many other folks – for assisting with designs, marketing, finance, “the right people for the right causes.”

Instead of wordy marketing spiels to potential collaborators and customers, Bindu chose to exhibit their work. Folks who travelled to Chuliaposhi were overwhelmed by the Santali women, who retained their communal spirit and minimalist ethos. Then, there was the ethereal fabric they were producing, embedded with their stories and symbols, evoking plants, mountains, rivers, animals in their terrain.

When they presented their material for the first time in Delhi, their revival sarees were almost sold out in a day. To reach new markets, Bindu has started creating swatch books. Word is beginning to spread. Several designers have expressed interest in their eco-friendly and unique extra-weft textile, a hopeful sign that demand is growing.

Bindu couldn’t help but think, when they started out more than seven years ago, the women hadn’t even known what yarn was. They are currently applying for a GI tag. Once they get it, the community will be known as the weavers of the Mayurbhanj Santali Sari — a lifelong identity.

Her larger goal is for the centers to become autonomous. Twenty-six women attended a 600-hour leadership training. That cohort manages and mentors others. They have forged a producer organization, where the Santali women are shareholders and are on the Board of Directors. They will learn to market their products and manage finances of their enterprise. She foresees a time when they turn to her and say, “Bindu, we don’t need you anymore.” That, she says, would be a mark of her success.

Setting Up A Soil-to-Shelf Process

Mauna Dhwani intends to revitalize the whole ecosystem, from the production of organic cotton and indigo, to setting up a modest solar-powered spinning mill. With a zero-carbon footprint, they plan to incorporate all stages from “soil to shelf” – pre-processing, dyeing, weaving, embroidery, tailoring and marketing.

While fundraising and marketing are ongoing challenges, Bindu’s long term dream is to establish an inclusive, residential school for craft and handloom. She envisions linking up with a university eventually to confer degrees.

Fueling Other Voices

Nirmala was one of the Santali girls who came to work at their center. She had to cross upper-caste areas where folks taunted her “so-called training.” Often, her face was streaked with tears. Within a year, she had a bicycle. Bindu watched her ride past those tobacco-chewing men who still mocked her: “Huh, you think you can fly on your cycle?” A gritty Nirmala pedaled on. Four or five months ago, she arrived on a scooty. “Chalo,” she said, flashing her sunglasses and helmet. She whipped out sunglasses for Bindu and asked her to ride pillion. Past those jeering men, the women whizzed past. For Bindu too, the sunglasses were handy. They masked her proud and jubilant tears.

References

https://maunadhwani.org