Conversations with young girls in Dohani that humbled me

[shristi joshi]

Last week, I visited Shri Sat Kumari Sherchan Secondary School in Dohani—a quiet village in Kapilvastu. I had long heard about Atoot and its incredible work, especially their dedication to supporting girls who are often left behind in the mainstream education system. But nothing could have prepared me for the warm welcome I received that day.

As soon as I stepped through the school gates, I was met with an overwhelming wave of love, warmth and excitement. A group of girls came running towards me with radiant smiles and open arms. Before I could even say a word, they enveloped me with the warmest hug I had ever received. Some clung gently to my hand, others curiously hugged me from behind, but what touched me the most was how they looked at me—with a mix of wonder, joy, and genuine affection.

There was a kind of unspoken energy in the air—a silent acknowledgment that my presence, even if just for a moment, mattered to them. They walked with me, surrounded me, their laughter echoing across the playground until we finally reached their classroom.

As we settled in, the energy in the room was mixed with curiosity and anticipation. Sharanya turned to the girls and introduced me, inviting them to ask any questions they had. I expected something about my work or maybe where I was from, but their first question caught me completely off guard.

“Are you married?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“At what age did you get married?” another girl added.

When I said, “At 30,” the girls looked at each other, with their eyes widening in absolute disbelief.

One of the younger girls, barely a teenager, replied, “Here we get married by the time we’re 14 or 15.”

Her words hit me like a wave. It made me feel very heavy all of a sudden!

As I continued to share a bit about my life, I mentioned that I had been sent to a boarding school in India when I was just three and a half years old. Instantly, the questions poured in:

“Why did your parents send you away so young?”

“Weren’t they scared you’d run away and get married?”

“How did you stay unmarried for so long while being on your own?”

I could see that they were genuinely baffled. My life was so different from the stories they knew or had heard of. Another girl raised her hand shyly and asked, “Did your in-laws allow you to work after marriage?” And then another: “Why aren’t you wearing sindoor (vermilion)?”

 “If you don’t wear sindoor, how will people know you’re married?” one girl asked, very confused.

Her question was simple, but it held layers of meaning. In that moment, it was evident how deeply the idea of marriage was woven into their lives, even as children.

Their curiosity was unfiltered, raw, and deeply personal.  In their questions, there was no judgment but pure curiosity. For them, my life gave them a glimpse of a completely different world—one where choice, freedom, and timing looked very different from what they had experienced so far.

But then, one child asked something that completely shook me:

“So why are you here? You must be like everyone else who just comes and leaves.”

I didn’t know what to say. Her words stung me like a bee and pierced deeper than all the other questions. I felt extremely uneasy, ashamed and guilty!

Was I just another outsider passing through? Another person just collecting stories and leaving before anything changed?

I felt the weight of responsibility in that very moment: of privilege, of the uncomfortable truth that, despite my best efforts, I might still be part of a system that treats their lives as just another story, rather than lives to understand.

That question stayed with me long after the conversation ended. It echoed in my mind during the drive back, through the quiet of the evening, and even as I tried falling asleep that night. Their words- so honest, so pure and so direct- forced me to look inward.

I didn’t want to be someone who just came and left. I didn’t want to be a passing presence in lives that deserve so much love, care and consistency.

Being there with them that morning wasn’t just about answering questions or sharing my story. It was about showing up—fully, humbly, and with the willingness to listen. It was about earning trust. And most importantly, it was about committing to return, not just in person, but through our continued effort, connection, and solidarity.

That day didn’t just humble me. It reminded me of why I do what I do. Because every child deserves to ask hard questions—and to have someone who stays long enough to answer them with their heart, honesty and respect.

What began as a visit turned into something far more personal—an encounter that challenged my assumptions, touched my heart, and left me with questions I’m still carrying.

[Sadia Jafrin]

Thank you for sharing your blog Shristi. You’ve captured all the intricate details so beautifully—I could truly feel the experience while reading it.

[Santi rambari]

Excellent 

[G. Sharanya Rao]

This truly touched my heart! Thank you so much for sharing, Shristi! This post is also much like what you experienced with the girls - raw, unflitered and deeply personal. Thank you so much for opening up and sharing a piece of your heart with us ♥