About the Storytelling Fellowship
This fellowship was created to give people working at the heart of social change a rare space to pause, reflect, and write—not reports or case studies, but real stories. Ten fellows came together to explore what it means to witness, to listen, and to share experiences that are often left unseen. With time, mentorship, and care, they shaped narratives that move beyond data or impact statements—stories that evoke, that remind us what it truly means to care, to act, and to stay present.
About the Author
Megha Suhas, Founder of Prapti Foundation, is a visionary social entrepreneur with over 25 years of experience in advancing education
and empowerment. She has transformed Anganwadis, trained teachers, empowered women and girl students in digital and financial
literacy, and fostered community awareness, creating inclusive, sustainable learning environments.
The Story
I didn’t set out to start a foundation. I just wanted to sit with the children. Tell them stories. Watch them laugh.
But what I witnessed in that Anganwadi broke something in me. And, maybe, stitched something else back together.
This story isn’t about an organization. It’s about a little girl in a frilled dress, whose tears taught me that silence protects no one.
Prapti was born from that moment—not as an act of charity, but as a promise: that no child should ever fear the very place meant to nurture them. I still carry her eyes with me. But now, I carry the joy too—of seeing children safe, learning, smiling. That’s the work. That’s the promise.
Inside a cramped Anganwadi, one moment of cruelty sparked a quiet rebellion—and gave birth to a foundation built on healing, safety, and the right to a gentle childhood.
It started with a child’s question.
“Who are you?” came a tiny voice from inside a cramped garage-turned-classroom. Curious eyes looked up at me. I hesitated, then smiled gently. “I’m Megha. What’s this place?”
“Our Anganwadi!” another child piped up, proud and shy. The term was unfamiliar to me. I stepped inside. Scattered mats, peeling alphabet posters, and a rusted cupboard filled the small room. In one corner, a kitchen with food stacked precariously—it didn’t feel safe.
A helper came over, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Madam, the teacher isn’t here today.”
“Could I sit with them a while?” I asked.
She shrugged, cautious but accepting. I sat on the mats among the children, telling them a simple story. Laughter quickly filled the tiny space, echoing warmly off the bare walls. This became our daily ritual.
Every afternoon, their eyes lit up when I arrived, hungry for the stories that let their imaginations soar beyond the garage walls.
Until one day, everything changed.
A new child had joined—barely two and a half, small and trembling. Her tiny fingers clutched a frilled dress, the kind mothers choose to make their daughters feel special. She clung to the wall, softly crying.
The teacher arrived later, already irritated.
“Stop crying, or you’ll be burnt in the Anganwadi!” she snapped.
My heart stopped. Surely, this wasn’t real. Yet the child’s widened eyes told another story—one of fear she shouldn’t know at her age.
The next day, the little girl was still crying. Frustrated, the teacher marched over to the kitchen, grabbed a gas lighter, and pressed it near the child’s trembling lips.
“Will you still cry now?” she mocked.
In that instant, something inside me snapped. I rushed forward, pulling the girl safely into my arms.
“What are you doing? Stop!”
The room fell silent. Wide-eyed children stared, motionless and pale.
My voice shook, anger and fear entwined.
“This isn’t teaching. Hurting a child won’t solve anything.”
The teacher glared defiantly.
“This is how it’s done here, madam. Don’t interfere.”
“I will interfere,” I said firmly. “If you hurt these children, people will know.”
“Leave my Anganwadi right now!” she shouted.
I left, heart heavy and bruised. As I looked back, the little girl still stood clutching her special dress, tears streaming down her cheeks.
That night, sleep eluded me. Her fear-filled eyes haunted every thought. The damage done to her tender heart felt irreversible.
And that was the night the Prapti Foundation was born.
Prapti—a promise made in darkness, a wish fulfilled with hope. A commitment that no child would ever experience such cruelty again.
We would build safe spaces where children learn without fear, train teachers to nurture them and guide parents to support them lovingly.
It wasn’t just an idea—it became our mission.
Months later, I entered another Anganwadi we had recently transformed. A child ran towards me, eyes sparkling, clutching a bright storybook.
“Akka, look! New books!” she exclaimed.
I knelt beside her, smiling. “Yes, and there’s much more to come.”
Prapti Foundation is a journey from heartbreak to hope—one child at a time.
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