ndo baval. It was a livelihood generation project, in which wood from the gando baval was to be used to make charcoal. It was a challenge to manage this project professionally.
One had to walk for an hour through a marshy zone to reach the project site. The organisation I worked for had already roped in agriculture experts for the job. Since I was the cooperative secretary, I was supposed to go to the project site every week. My job was to oversee the ‘food for work’ project, about which I had written in this column last time.
Every day, early in the morning, the digging jodi (normally husband and wife) would reach the project site to dig pits. By 11 am, the sun would be up, and even the best of them would get tired. There was no drinking water at the site, so these people had to carry water along with digging equipment.
When I went there for the first time on a “supervisory” visit, I was a young urban-bred social worker, trained to identify community needs and develop plans to organise communities and professionally manage such projects. I walked over the 90 acres land of the project site for an hour. It was already 11 am, and I realised that I was thirsty, but had no water. The mukkaddam, who accompanied me, casually remarked that the jodis could work only till they had water, after which they would call it a day.
Realising that I would soon be in trouble, I mumbled that I had “some work to do” and so I needed to rush back. As I was returning, I saw the jodi of an old woman and a 13-year-old boy digging. I was indignant. We had clear-cut rules that no child or elderly would be involved in digging operations. As I approached her, I asked the supervisory staff why they had broken the rules. One of them told me that it was a drought year, and her son and daughter-in-law had migrated in search of jobs, leaving them behind. He said that they had exhausted all the food stock and hence they needed to work.
 In a state of dilemma, I greeted the old lady. She looked up to me, smiling, and asked, “Do you need water? Here, I have some of it in my batak (the clay water bottle).” I drank a few drops, and quietly proceeded to the village.
That night I wept bitterly. I had failed to understand why this world was so cruel to such compassionate people. They would offer you whatever they could without asking for anything in return. With her compassion, the old woman had made a mockery of my professionalism and skill to manage projects. Can compassion be taught? I haven’t yet been able to figure it out.

Author is founder of Janvikas & Centre for Social justice