In this conversation with Sohaila Kapur, social worker Anurag Chauhan reflects on menstrual hygiene, education, transgender inclusion, cultural preservation, filmmaking, and how sustained community work can turn empathy into meaningful, lasting change for future generations.

He was only 14 when he decided to help empower women. Though just a boy, he took up the task of teaching menstrual hygiene to rural women. The organisation he started attracted international attention and actor Twinkle Khanna joined the initiative.  Her husband, Akshay Kumar's hit film, Padman, was ostensibly inspired by that effort. Later, many celebrities and brand names began supporting his initiatives, whether it was social work, or cultural activities. Thirty-two-year-old Anurag Chauhan has achieved in a short span, what others take a lifetime to do. Sohaila kapur interviewed him.

A Childhood That Sparked Change

How did your journey into social work begin?

I was 14 when I entered social service. My first inspiration came from Pandit Birju Maharaj. He had come to my school and performed. I remember wondering why a man who was about the same age as my grandfather would leave retirement and still perform.

After the performance, I went up to him and asked him why he did it. He told me that India was once called the “golden bird” and that he was trying to preserve whatever remained of that heritage. He told me I should start volunteering.

That is how I joined SPIC MACAY, which was exposing young students to music, art and culture.

My early projects included garbage disposal and waste management. Then, in 2011, I read an article about menstrual hygiene. It contained an estimate that around 180,000 women in India were dying because of poor menstrual hygiene. I want to stress that it was an estimate; I don’t know whether the figure was 100 per cent accurate.

But it made me think. We talk constantly about women’s empowerment, but we don’t talk enough about women dying because of something as basic as menstrual hygiene. I decided that this was something I wanted to work on.

Your understanding of women’s empowerment actually began much earlier, didn’t it?

Yes. When I was a child, I came home from school having learnt this new phrase, “women empowerment.” I told my mother, “Mama, when I grow up, I’ll empower you.”

She looked at me with disgust! Then she tied bricks around my waist and told me to take 20 rounds of the garden. I thought I was being punished for saying something good. Afterwards, she explained why. She said, “I carried you for nine months. I went through childbirth. You cannot empower me. I brought you into this world.” She told me, “What I need from you is acknowledgement, not empowerment.”

Then she asked me how often I had thanked her for everything she had done to make my life smooth and comfortable. That changed my understanding completely. I realised that sometimes we use big words without understanding what they actually mean.

And eventually you started your own organisation?

Yes. I started Humans for Humanity. I was a minor when I began, so it was formally registered only in 2017. Before that, I had volunteered with several organisations, including Maneka Gandhi’s PFA. The first village or slum I remember working in was in Dehradun. We were actually making sanitary pads ourselves out of cotton. Eventually, international interns from 17 countries came and worked with us.

How did you manage to get international interns?

Through different platforms. People would read about our work online and on social media. Papers were being published internationally. AIESEC was also publicising our work on its website. International students would come and stay with us for three to six months, sometimes even longer than six months. They brought completely different perspectives. One of them was Sharifullah from Afghanistan. He spoke fluent Hindi and would go into villages and slums and collect information.

At one point we were in Delhi working on a report called Slums of Delhi. The interns brought in fresh ideas about garbage disposal, recycling and possible solutions. We spent days and months analysing the areas, visiting them, talking to people and documenting the problems. We weren’t living there; we were doing detailed fieldwork.

We identified about 15 slums and bastis, including Kathputli Colony, Nizamuddin, Anna Nagar basti and Priya basti in Vasant Vihar. In Kathputli Colony, for example, we found that around 4,200 families did not have toilets.

We put all of this together in a report and sent it to the government around 2014. According to what we understood, some of the recommendations were subsequently acted upon under the Swachh Bharat Abhiyan. We also had letters of support from ambassadors of some of the countries whose students had worked with us. That gave the report credibility.

Did you get any recognition for that work?

It appeared in the papers, but honestly, I don’t chase credit. The communities knew that we were working for them. That matters more to me.

Initially, people in the slums didn’t even trust us. Many NGOs and individuals had gone there before, taken photographs or made documentaries and then disappeared. There was a feeling that people were being exploited.

I have always had a problem with the way poverty is sometimes presented as something exotic. Dharavi, for instance, is often used as a backdrop because it looks interesting to people who don’t live there. I wanted development that would actually allow people to thrive.

Many of these bastis were on encroached land, but that doesn’t mean the people living there don’t deserve to live like human beings. Sometimes people were displaced into transit camps. At least there they had toilets and food. We tried to create employment, particularly in Kathputli Colony.

Reviving Traditional Arts And Livelihoods

Tell me about Kathputli Colony.

The people there traditionally worked with puppets. They would perform stories like Heer Ranjha. My grandfather used to tell me that before television became popular, katputliwalas would come to people’s homes. Families would sit together, have chai and snacks and watch the performances. Then television came, followed by everything else—Netflix and all the other forms of entertainment—and traditional artists were forgotten.

There was a man called Bhagwan Das and his family. He was a nationally reputed artist who had travelled to around 120 countries. But eventually, because there were no opportunities, he was running a tea stall, selling chai, samosas, biscuits and rusks. His sons were playing the dhol at weddings.

When there is no employment, other problems also emerge. There was crime in Katputli Colony—chain snatching, pickpocketing and so on. We thought: how can we use the skills these people already have and create employment?

We redesigned the puppets using popular Cartoon Network characters, including Chhota Bheem, and sent performers to children’s birthday parties.

During the lockdown, children were stuck at home and spending enormous amounts of time on screens. Schools were monotonous. So we took stories from Hindi literature that were part of CBSE and ICSE curricula and converted them into puppet performances. We recorded them so that children could actually learn the stories through the performances.

We also used their skills to make other products—keychains, home décor, miniature elephants and birds that could be used as napkin rings, and designer latkans for blouses and ghagras. Designer Vidhi Singhania helped promote the concept. We put up stalls at exhibitions and events and asked people in our own networks to buy the products. It created small streams of employment.

Education seems to have been another major part of your work.

Yes. In Nizamuddin, I saw how poverty creates a chain of problems. Parents were often daily-wage workers. The older children had to look after their younger brothers and sisters while the parents went to work. So the older children couldn’t go to school. Even government schools involve expenses—transport, uniforms and other things—which can become unaffordable.

We started preparatory schools called “Each One Teach One.” It was difficult initially because some families were dependent on children begging or working. So we created a crèche in every school. The older children could come and study while their younger siblings were looked after there. Parents liked that. Their children were being educated, fed and cared for, and the younger ones were getting milk and food. We also arranged doctors and medicines when families had health problems.

For children around 14 or 15, we introduced art and craft, including block printing. Brands such as FabIndia and local brands came on board. The children could earn ₹100 or ₹200 depending on the work they did. That was important because otherwise a parent might say, “Why should I send my child to school when the child can earn ₹400 or ₹500 by begging?”

Once the child began bringing home some money through a skill, the parents became much more supportive. In the areas where we ran these schools, we saw crime and begging decline. Drug use also declined. The children would be tired after school and work, go home, eat and sleep. These weren’t legally recognised schools. They were preparatory schools.

Some children didn’t even know how to write their own names. We taught them letters, language, reading and writing, extracurricular activities and, for older children, computers. Then we got them admitted into MCD and other government schools.

After about ten years, some of those children had reached college and some had found jobs. That is one of the things I am most proud of. Some of them still stay in touch. Their mothers often call me.

You used to get calls from people in the villages and slums for all sorts of problems.

Yes. They would call about the police, water, electricity—everything. Once, someone called me at 4:30 in the morning because there was no water. I got irritated and asked my mother, “Is this really my responsibility?” She said, “If you had an accident, wouldn’t you call somebody you trusted to help you?”

She explained that these people were calling me because they trusted me and had hope that I could help. That changed my attitude. I realised that what I thought was an irritating phone call was actually an expression of trust.

Breaking Menstrual Hygiene Taboos

Let’s come back to menstrual hygiene. You called that project “Breaking the Bloody Taboos.”

Yes. I wanted men to be involved because women often say, “Men don’t understand what we go through.” But how will boys understand if we exclude them from the conversation?

Schools teach menstruation in biology. But often the teacher just rushes through that chapter because everybody feels uncomfortable. A boy grows up with his mother hiding sanitary pads and his sister never discussing her period. So later, when he has a girlfriend or gets married, how is he supposed to understand what women experience?

We began conducting workshops for boys and girls in schools and colleges. In schools in Dehradun, we would make reusable cloth and cotton pads during SUPW or art-and-craft periods. The students would then distribute them to women in nearby slums.

I believe privileged children also need exposure to these realities. They need to understand what other people go through and appreciate what they themselves have. The project expanded from village to village, slum to slum and city to city.

Over about 12 years, we have worked in around seven states and, according to our figures, reached about five million women.

You have also worked with transgender people.

Yes. Transgender is an umbrella term. It includes trans women and trans men. A trans woman is someone who was assigned male at birth but identifies as a woman. A trans man is someone who was assigned female at birth but identifies as a man.

We have worked particularly with trans men. Some cannot afford hormone treatment or surgery. They may identify completely as men, dress as men and live as men, but because their physical body is female, they may still menstruate. Many don’t want to use products marketed as “feminine hygiene” because everything is gendered—the packaging is pink; the language is about women.

We approached brands and said that if you’re talking about hygiene, you need to include trans men too. Products can be gender-neutral. Society still has difficulty accepting transgender people as they are. There are men who bleed—men who menstruate.

And toilets are another problem.

Absolutely. A trans man may identify as male, but he still needs a proper toilet. He cannot simply use a urinal. I remember an incident in Khan Market where a trans man was beaten by another man while changing a sanitary pad in a toilet. He may not feel comfortable using a women’s toilet, but a men’s urinal isn’t suitable either. We need normal, gender-neutral toilets that anyone can use.

Responding To Urgent Community Needs

During the lockdown, you also did a huge amount of food distribution.

Yes. During the lockdown, many transgender people were thrown out of their homes and had no food. Over two years, Humans for Humanity fed more than 8,000 families, according to our records. It wasn’t only transgender people. It included drivers, domestic workers, daily-wage workers and people suffering from serious illnesses, including cancer, who didn’t have food.

Normally, I don’t believe in food charity. I believe in teaching somebody to fish rather than giving them a fish. But the lockdown was different. People literally didn’t have food. So we distributed rations and cooked meals. Kathputli Colony was in a transit camp where people didn’t have gas cylinders or proper kitchens, so we sent cooked food there.

What about your work in the arts and culture?

Art and culture have always been a huge influence on me. SPIC MACAY played a major role. I felt that my generation had developed preconceived notions about classical art. People will sometimes go and watch a terrible Salman Khan film just to confirm that it’s terrible. But if there is a classical performance outside the Habitat Centre, they may say, “Indian classical art is boring,” without ever having experienced it.

Kiran Seth, the founder of SPIC MACAY, once explained it to me using an ice-cream analogy. He said, “How do you know which ice cream you like? You have to taste different flavours.” The same applies to classical art. You have to experience different forms before deciding whether you like them.

That led me to start Breathing Arts. I wanted to take performances to students in a more contemporary way. I also felt that artists and art forms could become suffocated by rigidity. Art evolves over decades, but sometimes artists don’t want to accept contemporary approaches.

I believe in bringing traditional and contemporary forms together for younger audiences. Take Dhrupad. If you put an eighth- or ninth-grade student in front of a very long traditional performance, they may not understand it. But what if you have contemporary clothes, a contemporary backdrop, different music and a different venue?

I began taking classical performances out of the traditional spaces—Habitat Centre, IIC and similar places—and into schools, colleges, public spaces, cafés and clubs. For many young people, Habitat or IIC can feel like places “for oldies.” But when you bring the same art into a university or café, students respond differently.

Breathing Arts eventually collaborated with institutions such as the Nita Mukesh Ambani Cultural Centre. Sanjukta Sinha, who is a dancer and also a friend, performed Leela in collaboration with Breathing Arts. It premiered in several cities, including Ahmedabad and Bombay.

We are also working on another large production which could potentially be presented in the main theatre at NMACC.

From Social Work To Documentary Filmmaking

You also moved into filmmaking through Ma Anand Sheela.

Yes. In 2019, I was in Delhi. I had been disappointed because a project to bring Michelle Obama to India had fallen through because of a friend’s mistake. Then I watched the Netflix documentary series Wild Wild Country about Osho and became fascinated by Ma Anand Sheela, who had been Osho’s secretary and president of the commune.

I thought, “I want to bring her to India.” I sent her an email at about four in the morning. I wasn’t even sure which surname to use because she had had three surnames from three marriages. She replied the next evening and said yes.

She had not returned to India for around 35 or 40 years. At that time I was running a literary festival and had originally planned an eight-city tour for Michelle Obama. I used the same model for Sheela. She came for an eight-city tour, including the literary festival. She wanted an opportunity to address some of the misconceptions and negative perceptions around her.

Netflix came on board while she was confirming the tour. I thought that if we were going to do this, I wanted the biggest possible interviewer. So, I approached Karan Johar. His first response was, “Are you talking about Ma Anand Sheela?” Karan became the first interviewer and also a producer. We filmed across eight cities, with Netflix following Sheela throughout the tour.

One of the cities was Baroda, where she was born and raised. There were interviews with Karan Johar in Gurgaon, Shobhaa De in Pune, a journalist in Delhi, Ashwin at Zorba the Buddha, Faye D’Souza at Soho House, Barkha Dutt in Dehradun and others.

It wasn’t eight separate documentaries. It became one documentary, with the eight-city journey providing the structure. It was my first film project, and it was successful. The film came out on Netflix in 2021.

I learnt a lot from that experience. I realised that although I had a lot of ideas and stories, I didn’t really understand the Bombay film industry. I now want to find people who can take my ideology and creativity and help bring it into mainstream projects.

You have always had a very unusual relationship with education. Tell me about your childhood.

I was always very busy. I did my Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in Social Work. Many schools and colleges might not accept a student who was involved in as many extracurricular activities as I was. But my school in Dehradun—Summer Valley, which was then known as Riverdale School—was very supportive. My father was very clear that school could not be missed because of activities. The school would send a car and driver for me, as long as I was in school uniform and representing the school.

When my Class 12 result was due, I was at an inter-house music and dance competition. I had invited Dr Sonal Mansingh as the chief guest. The school principal and director were more worried about whether I would actually pass than about the overall school results.

You could not focus totally on studies, because of your activities and that upset your father.

There was a press conference at the school at graduation, because many students had scored above 90 per cent. I had scored somewhere around the 60s or 70s—I don’t remember the exact figure. Our principal, Dr Vasu,  said those students would go on to work for the top corporations and have great careers. Then he spoke about me. He said I could one day become the CEO of the companies those high-scoring students joined, because of my leadership qualities and extracurricular experience.

That was the first time my father told me he was proud of me.

You also gave up a lot of normal teenage life.

Yes. I used to save money for my social work. When my parents went to the cinema or on holidays, I would calculate how much the tickets and food would cost and ask them to give me the money instead of taking me. My friends were partying, travelling and eating at McDonald’s. I would save those small amounts in a piggy bank.

Once I asked for a fairly large amount of money instead of going on a family holiday. My father became suspicious. He thought perhaps I was taking drugs or doing something else because he didn’t understand what I was doing. Someone eventually told him they had seen me in a slum. My father then thought perhaps I was in a relationship with somebody from the slum because I was going there so often and was around women and girls.

Did you feel you had missed out on a normal childhood and teenage life?

Yes. I remember attending an award ceremony organised by the Ministry of Women and Child Development at the Ashoka Hotel. There were people like P. T. Usha, Bachendri Pal, Sushma Seth, Raveena Tandon and Kirron Kher among the awardees. A journalist asked me what I had done to deserve the award. What I was thinking internally was: I had sacrificed my childhood. I missed a lot of teenage life—friendships, parties, normal experiences. Even when I turned 32, people close to me would tell me that I was childish. I think the child in me never died because I missed the normal teenage years.

I don’t regret what I did. But yes, sometimes I miss those moments and those friendships.

You met the Dalai Lama when you were very young.

I was about 15 or 16. A friend, Ruchita, who has since passed away, introduced me. I was sitting across from His Holiness the Dalai Lama and suddenly I began crying. I don’t know why. He told me that when there is a smile on somebody’s face and you are the reason for that smile, then for that fraction of a moment you become Buddha. You don’t have to go searching for Buddha.

I was only 15. I didn’t really know who the Dalai Lama was. I knew almost nothing about Buddhism or Buddha. But that idea defined my life. I wanted to bring smiles to people’s faces through my work.

At 24, I spoke to the Dalai Lama again, on his birthday. He told me that doing good work is meaningless if you cannot take care of yourself. That was a very important lesson. I realised I had to look after my health (I had put on weight), travel, enjoy life and live like a normal person as well. It was about finding a balance.

Would you describe yourself as religious?

I’m more spiritual than religious. I’ve been drawn towards spirituality from a very young age. I don’t know exactly how it happened. I don’t have a spiritual guru at the moment. Nature is probably my greatest teacher. A few days ago, when I was feeling very low, I went and sat beside a river. I sat there for an hour or two. I watched bubbles hitting the boulders. The bubbles were beautiful, but they disappeared quickly. The boulders were strong and resisted the force of the water. I suddenly thought: I want to be like the river. I want to keep flowing and eventually merge into something vast, like the ocean.

It made me think of the atma—the soul—merging with the eternal. I watch flowers. I watch the routines of nature. Nature doesn’t become lazy. It continues doing what it is meant to do. It helps me grow and become a better person.

Identity, Dignity And Inclusion

You have also spoken about sexuality and identity.

People ask me why I don’t openly discuss whether I’m gay, bisexual or something else. I consider sexuality private. I don’t necessarily subscribe to identity labels in the way some people do. I prefer simply being a man. Other people have their own schools of thought, and I respect their right to have them, even if I don’t agree with them. Unless I’m in a relationship with somebody, I don’t see why other people need to be interested in my sexuality.

Let’s talk about your filmmaking ambitions now.

I’ve always had stories around me. I’ve been inspired by individuals and by real people. Many of the stories I tell are real stories. Whenever I see a need or an opportunity, I tell the story in my own way. After the first film appeared on Netflix in 2021, I realised that I had the power to tell stories on a platform that could reach thousands or lakhs of people.

I think of that as a superpower. I want to create more stories that lead to betterment, awareness and knowledge. One of my current projects is a documentary about Vandana Shiva, the internationally known environmentalist.

She has an interesting way of looking at the environment. She doesn’t believe humans can “save the planet.” The Earth existed before us. It survived the dinosaurs and enormous changes in climate. Humans are dispensable. What we really need to do is save our homes and save ourselves. I was influenced by her from around Class 7 or 8. I first visited her farm, and I want to tell her story because I believe it can inspire people.

I also have another documentary project with a singer from Nepal. I want to tell the story of Sunderlal Bahuguna and the Chipko movement.

I want to tell Lakshmi Narayan Tripathi’s story as well—the story of a transgender person from a Brahmin family in Mumbai who went on to represent transgender people internationally and at the United Nations, became a religious leader and was involved in the creation of the 13th Akhara.

I prefer real stories about real people to fiction because real stories can influence future generations.

Rethinking Charity And Social Work

Your understanding of charity has also evolved.

I think the definition of charity has changed, and people often confuse charity with social work. For example, if you have a kurta that you no longer want and give it away, you call that charity. I find that strange. During the Kerala floods, people sent old sarees because they thought poor women needed clothing. But clothing is also about dignity. You cannot simply send people your leftovers.

The same applies to food. If you have leftover food from a restaurant and give it to somebody on the street, that’s better than wasting the food. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you have given the person what they need. Maybe they need money. Maybe they need medicine. Maybe they need something else.

Traditional charity is actually about sacrifice. Suppose you earn ₹100. If you save ₹10 by cutting down on something you would otherwise have bought and give that ₹10 to someone who needs it, that is charity. That’s the idea behind concepts like zakat in Islam, tithe in Christianity and similar concepts of charity in other religions.

What, according to you, is the difference between social work and charity?

Social work should be recognised as a profession. In India, it is still often treated as charity or a pastime. In other countries, social workers can be respected and properly paid. A person with a Master’s in Social Work may earn only ₹20,000 or ₹30,000 in India. Eventually they leave the profession.

We need to recognise social work as a profession. I was once approached by the Australian High Commission and offered citizenship along with 13 other people. I refused. It made me think about how other countries sometimes value people working in social sectors more than we do here.

Why do you think social problems continue despite so much awareness?

Because people often refuse to recognise something as wrong unless it affects them personally. If a man is teasing a woman on the street, people should intervene. But many people simply walk away. At the same time, we also fail to appreciate good things. We need to challenge what is wrong and appreciate what is right.

If you had to leave people with one message, what would it be?

One man cannot change the world. One man can only begin to change the world. I see myself as being on a journey of beginning that change—first within myself and then around me. You don’t necessarily have to join my movement. You can start your own movement. You can do something in your own way. But if each of us begins to make a difference, then together we can change the world. 

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