In February 2025, Henriikka Pastila and Andy Denny from Initium travelled to Kakinada, India, as part of a 10-day volunteer trip with The Snowdrop Foundation. The visit was focused on supporting and witnessing the Foundation’s local initiatives – from teaching English at St Mark’s School to assisting in medical camps and outreach work with orphans, widows and marginalised communities, including those living in a leper colony.

Here, Henriikka shares her personal reflections on what became a truly eye-opening and life-changing experience.

Some experiences leave a mark so deep that you know you’ll carry them forever. My time in Kakinada, India, was one of those. It was overwhelming, eye-opening, heart-wrenching, and yet, at the same time, deeply beautiful. Over the course of ten days, I witnessed extremes – heartbreaking poverty and incredible generosity, unbearable suffering and boundless joy, unimaginable hardship and deep gratitude. I left with more questions than answers and more emotions than I knew how to process.

Arriving in India was a full sensory overload. I had seen videos of the chaotic traffic, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it – the relentless honking, the amusingly melodic lorry horns, the constant weaving of cars, motorbikes, bicycles, tuk-tuks, pedestrians crossing wherever they pleased, and dogs and cows meandering through spaces that hardly seemed wide enough for one vehicle, let alone several. You would instinctively expect another vehicle to stop and give way, yet somehow, it all worked in a kind of organised chaos.

Roundabouts operated both clockwise and anticlockwise – drivers simply took the shortest route. The rules, or rather the lack of them, were fascinating and unnerving at the same time.

The air was thick with dust and pollution, heavy in a way I had never experienced before. The smells were ever-changing – spices, exhaust fumes, open sewage, fried street food and the earthy staleness of dirt and waste – all blending together in a whirlwind of unfamiliarity. The most jarring sight was the constant burning of rubbish, including plastic. Thick, acrid smoke filled the air as piles of waste were set alight – an attempt at disposal that only worsened the pollution.

And then there were the sights. The sheer volume of people, everywhere. The homeless lying on pavements, curled up on traffic separators, bodies blending into the dust, some lifeless in a way that made me wonder if they were even still breathing. Mothers holding newborns, begging for survival outside shops, their eyes pleading. And yet, amidst all of this, there was colour, vibrancy, laughter and a warmth that is hard to put into words.

One thing that stood out painfully was just how dirty everything was. Roadsides were littered with waste, and it was heartbreaking to see such a beautiful land treated with such little care. It was hard to reconcile – a land of breathtaking coconut groves, endless rice fields, and serene waterways, yet drowning in waste.

One image that will forever haunt me is that of a young man I saw on the drive from Rajahmundry airport to Kakinada. He suddenly appeared in the dust, in the middle of the chaotic road, struggling on crutches, his legs severely deformed. He was holding a piece of paper – most likely begging for money. He could barely walk, yet the traffic didn’t stop for him. Cars swerved around him as if he were just another obstacle in the road. He looked exhausted, as if he might collapse at any moment.

I remember staring, feeling deeply sorrowed and helpless. How does someone end up like this? How has the world failed him so completely? And yet, no one around seemed shocked; it was just another scene in everyday life. But I couldn’t shake it, and still can’t.

I’ve always known poverty exists. I’ve seen images, read stories, and even donated to charities in the past. But knowing is one thing – seeing it, standing in the middle of it, meeting the people affected by it, is something else entirely. It was humbling to realise how little I had truly understood before.

Seeing people sleeping on the streets, lifeless and forgotten, broke me. Seeing the frail elderly , abandoned by their families because they could no longer be cared for, was gut-wrenching. Meeting people in the leper colony – ostracised, untouched, unseen – was heartbreaking. And yet, despite these unbearable circumstances, they smiled. They found joy in our visit.

One of the most impactful moments was the medical camp we helped run in a remote village, where 350 people came seeking help. I don’t think some of them had ever seen a doctor before, and for some, a simple consultation, dental check-up, eye test, or even a small packet of medicine made an enormous difference. What seemed minor to us was, for them, life-changing.

It made me aware of how vast the world is and how much I still have to learn.

From the moment we arrived in Kakinada, we were met with a level of hospitality I have never known before. Vara and his family, who run The Snowdrop Foundation’s projects on the ground, welcomed us as though we were royalty. We were showered with flowers, draped in garlands, and greeted with warm smiles and open hearts. Their generosity was overwhelming – not just in material ways, but in the way they made us feel honoured, valued and loved.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel that it should have been the other way around. We had come to serve, to give, and yet, they were the ones lavishing kindness upon us. It was a powerful reminder of how deeply generosity is ingrained in their culture – how giving isn’t about how much you have, but about how much you’re willing to share.

We also met the widows the Foundation supports, both on our welcome and farewell nights, standing alongside the orphans. Their presence was deeply moving – these were women who had lost everything, cast aside by society, yet they carried themselves with such quiet dignity. What struck me the most was how much a simple hug meant to them. Just embracing them, holding their hands, giving them even a few moments of warmth and human connection – it was overwhelming how powerful that was for them, and a humbling reminder that sometimes, the greatest gift you can give is simply showing someone they are not forgotten.

We also got to experience this generosity firsthand when Sunitha (Vara’s wife) and Dulcie (Vara’s daughter) took us on a shopping trip to buy sarees for the widows and the elderly at the old age home. It was a lovely outing, exploring the colourful fabrics and carefully selecting sarees for each of them. Later, we had the privilege of personally handing them out – and seeing their faces light up with joy was unforgettable. They cherished their new sarees, holding them up with pride, beaming with gratitude. It was such a simple gift, yet it clearly meant so much to them.

On Saturday night (15th Feb), we had the privilege of attending St. Mark’s School 21st Anniversary Celebration, and it was nothing short of spectacular. The scale of the event was lavish – a grand showcase of talent, hard work and school pride.

As honoured guests, we had the opportunity to hand out certificates to the students, taking turns to present their achievements. It felt incredibly special to celebrate their hard work, knowing how much effort and dedication each child put into their education.

The performances were breathtaking – each year group had prepared elaborate dance routines, complete with stunning costumes and beautifully choreographed moves. The energy, the joy, and the sheer talent on display were unbelievable. Even the youngest children took part in an on-stage IQ test, answering questions in front of an audience. It was clear how much the school valued academic excellence alongside creativity and performance.

After the ceremony, all the parents lined up, eagerly waiting to take pictures with me and their children. It was overwhelming – I felt like a bit of a celebrity. I think a lot of it came down to how I looked: my blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin stood out in a place where people rarely see foreigners. A few days later, on a beach trip with Vara’s family, it happened again – crowds gathered, people asked for selfies, and I was showered with compliments. Even Vara, in every speech he gave, introduced me with such warmth and admiration, often calling out how beautiful I was. It was clearly their way of showing respect and appreciation – a way of honouring a guest and expressing warmth – and while it made me feel incredibly welcomed, it also left me a little bashful: surreal, humbling, flattering, and a little embarrassing all at once.

It was an unforgettable night – a true celebration of everything St. Mark’s School stood for: education, talent, and the relentless spirit of its students.

Every weekday, we taught English at St. Mark’s School, a place that now holds a piece of my heart. Around 300 children attend this school, including 60 orphans who have been taken in by Vara’s family. Many of these children come from the most desperate circumstances, yet they approached their education with a hunger I had never seen before. Seeing their faces light up as we taught them English through blackboard exercises, games, songs, and dance truly melted my heart. Their enthusiasm was infectious, their joy in learning so pure and unfiltered.

We didn’t get to spend much time with the oldest students, as they were preparing for their exams. Daniel (Vara’s son) explained that their study schedule was intense – starting at 5:30 AM and finishing at 9 PM, sometimes even midnight. But what really struck me was that this dedication to work wasn’t just limited to the older students; it was part of the culture. School runs six days a week for all children, with Saturdays being a half-day. And it’s not just schools – society as a whole operates on a six-day workweek, with only Sundays off. The expectation to work hard is deeply ingrained, and despite the school’s limited funding, academic success is crucial, as high rankings in national results can bring more recognition and opportunities. The students take this seriously, and last time, St. Mark’s achieved the highest ranking in all of Southern India.

In the West, school is often seen as an obligation. But here, education was cherished – seen as a gift and an opportunity rather than a burden. The children were incredibly engaged, eager to absorb every lesson, and their discipline was humbling to witness. Respect for elders was deeply ingrained in them, something that stood in stark contrast to what I was used to. Morning assemblies were almost militant in their structure, yet beneath the formality, there was a deep reverence for learning, a quiet understanding that education was their key to a better future.

The conditions the orphans lived in, however, were heartbreaking. Their dormitory (or the ‘hostel’ as they referred to it) was a tiny, cramped space where they slept, studied, and played. Their beds were hard, industrial-looking frames with no mattresses – some of the children even chose to sleep on the floor. They were grateful for what they had, for the chance to be in a safe place, to have food, shelter, and an education.

One evening, we took all the orphans out for a meal at a restaurant – a rare treat for them – and seeing their excitement and joy was incredibly moving. They dressed up for the occasion, with the girls even putting on makeup – it was clearly a truly special night for them.

On our last night, I painted the orphan girls’ nails – such a small, simple moment, yet it hit me hard. They don’t have mothers to do this for them. Something I would never think twice about was meaningful to them, and in that instant, I felt the weight of everything they were missing. It made me reflect on the little things I have always overlooked in my own life – the small gestures of love and care that I have taken for granted.

Saying goodbye was brutal. Before the farewell, we did a final tour of each classroom, giving high-fives, sharing hugs, and exchanging last smiles with all the school children. It was such a joyful yet bittersweet moment – one last chance to connect with the kids who had made such a deep impression on us. After that, we changed into the beautiful traditional Indian outfits that Vara’s family had gifted us and made our way to the church for our final farewell and goodbyes.

The moment we walked in, the children erupted into wild cheers, their excitement filling the room. It was overwhelming – hugs, laughter, heartfelt tears, and the raw emotion of knowing this was goodbye. There were no words to truly capture the feeling of that moment. The love and connection we had built in just a week were reflected in every embrace, every tear-filled smile.

After this emotional farewell, we had the honour of blessing Dulcie, Vara’s daughter, for her upcoming marriage. She was about to get married just a few days after we left, and the family had beautifully decorated the space with massive floral arrangements, ribbons, and intricate details that made it feel like a grand celebration. It was an arranged marriage, as is traditional and customary in their culture, a practice deeply rooted in family, faith, and heritage. Surrounded by love and tradition, we prayed over her, wishing her happiness and blessings for her new life ahead. It felt like such an honour to share in this intimate moment with Vara’s family, who had given us so much during our time in Kakinada.

Before we left for our first flight from Rajahmundry to Hyderabad, Vara’s family treated us to one final homecooked meal at their house – and it was the loveliest meal ever. Everything was so delicious, each dish bursting with flavour and care. Sitting around the table, sharing food and laughter, it was a beautiful, comforting moment – one final act of generosity before we set off on our journey home. Then, the entire family – Vara, Sunitha, Dulcie, Daniel, Rachna (Daniel’s wife) and Jess (Daniel’s son) – gave us a lift to the airport, just as they had all been there to greet us when we first arrived.

How do you walk away from something like this? How do you return to the comfort of your own life, knowing what you now know?

I don’t want this experience to become just another passing memory. It was too meaningful for that. Instead, I hope it stays with me, shaping the way I see the world and reminding me of the lessons I’ve learned.

Returning home, I found myself experiencing a bit of reverse culture shock. It felt like the colour had faded – the loudness, the vibrancy, the chaotic energy of Kakinada had suddenly disappeared. People felt a little more reserved, the atmosphere quieter and more subdued. Even the traffic felt eerily calm and quiet in comparison. But, of course, it was still wonderful to return home to my fiancé, my excited dog and the beautiful, colourful bouquets of roses and balloons waiting for me.

I may not personally be in a position to donate large sums of money, but there are still ways I can help. I can share this story, raise awareness, and support The Snowdrop Foundation in any way I can. I can fundraise, continue working hard to help these children through my job, keep remembering their faces – their smiles, their eagerness to learn, their resilience. And when the opportunity arises, I will find a way to volunteer again.

The people I met, the things I saw, and the kindness I was shown have left a lasting impact. Kakinada has given me a new perspective, and I hope to carry that forward – not just in big ways, but in small, everyday choices as well. I don’t want to take things for granted. I want to remember the joy in simplicity, the strength in gratitude, and the importance of giving back, however I can.

Before this trip, I knew The Snowdrop Foundation did important work in Kakinada, but seeing it in action made me realise just how vital it really is. Everything – the school, the teachers who dedicate their lives to these children, the meals provided to the leper colony, the medical camps for those who would otherwise never see a doctor – all of it depends on funding.

At St. Mark’s School, the teachers work incredibly hard to give these children a proper education, knowing it’s their best chance at a better future. Yet, it became clear that funding is tight – these teachers are paid next to nothing compared to other schools, and yet they pour their hearts into their work. They deserve so much more.

The same goes for the Foundation’s other projects. Whether it’s feeding the orphans, supporting widows, or running medical camps, every initiative relies on donations. Kingsbrook and Initium send a monthly contribution, but while it helps, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it’s not enough. There’s so much more that could be done if more funding was available.

Since coming back, I feel a new sense of purpose in my everyday work. Whenever I think of those smiling faces – the eager children at St. Mark’s, the orphans who clung to us on our last day – it reminds me why every bit of effort matters. The more we grow, the more we can support The Snowdrop Foundation, and the more lives we can impact – not just now, but for generations to come. That’s what keeps me motivated.

If you’d like to support the incredible work The Snowdrop Foundation is doing in Kakinada – from education and healthcare to supporting marginalised communities – you can donate via their Stewardship page here. Every contribution makes a difference.