In our part of Uttar Pradesh, Makar Sankranti means khichdi — rice and dal cooked together, shared with everyone. A few years ago we decided the festival should reach the people who had no kitchen to cook it in.
Volunteers cook in the morning; by noon the vehicles are moving through the settlements near Gaur City and the labour chowks. Hot khichdi, served with respect — no queues in the sun, no photographs of anyone eating. It has become our most loved drive: children now recognise the vehicles and come running.
Food distribution stops being a festival and becomes a lifeline during disasters. When the Yamuna flooded and hundreds of families were displaced to relief camps in Delhi, our teams carried ration kits and cooked meals to the camps — because in a crisis, the first question is never about documents or deserving; it is simply "have you eaten?"
Serving food teaches you to see. You learn which family sends children to collect because the parents are working; which elderly man takes half a plate so his neighbour gets some. You learn that hunger in our cities is quiet, and closer than you think.
₹5,000 puts ration kits in the hands of 15 families. Or volunteer for the next drive — the khichdi tastes better when you've helped serve it.
When the temperature drops below 5°C, our volunteers head out after midnight — because that is when you find the people the city forgets.
What began as a simple idea — one sapling planted in your name — turned into thousands of trees across Gautam Buddha Nagar, planted by residents, children and even the local police.
