Ruhi arrived on a quiet morning in a small village in North 24 Pargana, West Bengal, when the air was still cool, and the world felt unhurried. She was the second daughter in a humble home, and her parents had walked into that day carrying the memory of their first child’s easy birth. They expected the same gentle beginning.

But when Ruhi was placed in her mother’s arms, the room changed. The joy that had been rising like a song caught in the throat. Faces tightened, voices softened, and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, her parents realised something was not as they had imagined. Ruhi had been born with a cleft lip and palate.

They didn’t have words for it. They had never seen anything like this in their family, in their neighbourhood, in their lives. Questions rushed in all at once –

Will she survive?
Will she ever be able to eat properly?
Will she live a normal life? 

Each question felt heavier than the last. With no answers to hold onto, both mother and father broke down, caught between love for their newborn and the helplessness of not knowing how to protect her.

Doctors and nurses where Ruhi was born, they tried to steady them. They spoke about the treatment, about surgeries, spread across time and assured them that Ruhi’s condition was treatable. Yet those words, however kind, felt impossibly far away. Ruhi’s father was a daily-wage labourer at a local tiles workshop, counting every rupee. Her mother had rarely stepped beyond the boundaries of her home. In their world, “multiple surgeries” sounded like a distant city they could never reach. 

Where would they go?
How would they afford it?

Days went by in a restless blur, feeding worries, sleepless nights, and whispered conversations that always ended the same way: with fear. And then, quietly, hope arrived not as a miracle, but as a human hand reaching out.

EBMA Foundation community volunteers connected with the family and introduced them to the EBMA Foundation’s programme team. Soon after, the EBMA Foundation team came to their modest home. They didn’t arrive with just pamphlets or instructions; they brought calm, clarity, and the feeling that Ruhi’s parents did not have to carry this alone.

They sat with Ruhi’s mother and, step by step, showed her how to feed her baby safely, how to angle her gently, how to pause, how to prevent choking, how to make sure each small feed became strength. They spoke about hygiene, about guarding Ruhi from common infections like cough, cold, and fever, small illnesses that could slow her path to surgery. They checked her growth, supported her nutrition through EBMA’s free nutrition programme, and guided the mother and the family whenever doubt returned.

Life remained hard, but something inside the family shifted. Ruhi’s parents began to move with purpose instead of panic. Her father worked long hours, carrying more than tiles and tools, carrying the quiet hope that one day his daughter would smile without pain. Her mother poured every moment into Ruhi’s care, learning new ways to hold her, feed her, soothe her, becoming braver with every sunrise. And then the day they had been counting down to through worries, through prayers, through careful routines finally arrived.

At just six months old, Ruhi underwent her cleft lip surgery at the EBMA Foundation’s Kolkata centre, supported by Muthoot Finance Limited under the Muthoot Shape a Smile project. What had once felt unreachable became real in a single, trembling moment: hospital lights, waiting-room silence, and two parents holding onto faith because it was all they had.

When Ruhi came out of surgery, her tiny face carried the softness of a new beginning. The gap that had held so much fear and uncertainty was now met with healing and with hope that finally had a shape.

In that moment, her parents stopped seeing only what had frightened them at birth. They began to see the possibility that Ruhi as she could grow, learn, laugh, and belong in every place a child deserves to belong.

Today, their home feels lighter. The air holds more laughter than silence. Where worry once sat at the centre of every conversation, new dreams have begun to take its place.

Ruhi still has a journey ahead her cleft palate surgery is yet to be done. But this time, her parents no longer feel swallowed by fear. They have a path, they have support, and they know deeply now that they are not alone.

And in Ruhi’s quiet, growing smile is a powerful promise: a future shaped not by what she was born with, but by what she is surrounded by dignity, confidence, and endless possibilities.

Prerna’s Story: From Hiding to Hope

In a small village in Bihar, a little girl named Prerna Kumari was born.

She should have been welcomed with songs and blessings. But when her family saw her face, silence filled the room. Prerna had been born with a cleft lip and palate.

Instead of celebration, there were whispers. In a community where myths run deep, people looked not at the child, but at the mother.

• “She must have broken a ritual.”
• “This is a curse on the family.”

Her mother carried the weight of blame she did not deserve. Feeding Prerna was a struggle. Milk spilled through her nose, and every meal became a battle between hunger and exhaustion.

Her father, a farm laborer, worked hard but earned little. The thought of expensive treatment in the city seemed like a dream too far away.

For five years, Prerna grew up with her family shielding her from the world, hiding her from curious eyes and cruel comments.

The Journey: A Ray of Possibility

One day, a relative told them about a free cleft surgery mission in Kolkata.

It sounded unbelievable. Could there really be people who would help children like Prerna without asking for money they did not have?

Her parents hesitated but finally borrowed what little they could and began the long journey from Bihar to Kolkata. They carried simple food for the train ride and hearts full of fear.

When they arrived, something unexpected happened. The doctors and volunteers greeted them with kindness, not pity. For the first time, Prerna’s mother felt her daughter was seen not as a curse, but as a child full of promise.

Surgery: The First Smile

In November 2024, Prerna underwent her first surgery.

When her parents saw her after the operation, they were speechless. The tear on her lip was gone. Her face now carried the smile they had always dreamed of.

Her mother held her tightly, crying tears she had been holding back for five long years. “You are my Prerna,” she whispered. “My inspiration.”

Back in the village, everything changed. Neighbors who once avoided them now came asking questions. The whispers were no longer about blame, but about hope.

Recovery: A New Beginning

A few months later, Prerna returned for her palate surgery. Once again, the team treated her with dignity and care, restoring not just her smile, but her ability to eat and speak with ease.

Today, Prerna is thriving. She enjoys her meals, plays outside with the other children, and is beginning to speak words clearly. She laughs often, smiles freely, and no longer hides behind her mother’s sari.

Transformation: A Family Reborn

For her father, who once bowed his head in shame, there is now pride.
For her mother, who once carried the burden of blame, there is now joy.
And for Prerna, there is a future filled with possibility.

This is not just surgery. It is dignity restored. It is shame broken. It is the freedom to smile.

Be Part of the Change

You can be part of this change. For every Prerna, there are hundreds of children in Bihar and across India still waiting – still being blamed, still suffering, still hoping someone will come.

When you give, you don’t just fund a procedure. You change a life. You change a family. You change a community.

Support us and give every child what they deserve – a chance to smile.

Have you ever stepped into a place full of strangers and walked out feeling like family?That’s what happened to me on a crisp November morning in 2024.

I was volunteering at my very first cleft medical mission.
I’d just had a quick breakfast and reported at 8 AM, not fully sure what to expect.
I started at the registration desk, and within minutes, it was a flood — babies, toddlers, anxious parents, files, forms, questions.

The rush was intense, but every single child had a story worth slowing down for.

We weren’t just collecting data.
We were piecing together puzzles:
Was this the child’s first surgery?
Were there any complications at birth?
Any feeding issues?
Every question had weight, because the answers could shape the safety and timing of the surgery.

That’s when I met Razak’s mother.
She stood quietly in the line, her tiny baby wrapped in a thin towel.
She told me — almost apologetically — how feeding was nearly impossible.
She had to sit upright and feed him drop by drop.

I listened, noted everything, and gently told her our pediatrician would be able to guide her.
That moment, small as it seemed, stayed with me.
Her patience. Her exhaustion. Her hope.

Midway through the morning, I was asked to assist Dr. Matt, an American maxillofacial surgeon who needed a translator.
Suddenly, I found myself shuttling between medical lingo and village dialects.

It was surprisingly tricky — some spoke deep rural Bengali, others tribal tongues — but I managed.
What started as translation quickly turned into comfort-giving.

I explained procedures, reassured parents, and sometimes simply nodded when they cried, because that too is a kind of language.

We all paused around 1 PM for lunch.
I helped hand out food packets to families who had been waiting for hours.
I still remember the way one child hugged the packet like it was a toy.
That was the kind of day it was — full of little heartbreaks and unexpected joys.

After lunch, I moved to the photo imaging station, where I helped take photographs of the children.
These weren’t just for records. They were part of the surgical planning.

I clicked dozens of pictures, trying to capture not just faces — but the hope in their eyes.

In the afternoon, I went looking for Razak and his mother.
She had just finished her consultation with the pediatrician and was beaming.
“He showed me how to feed him,” she said, her voice trembling with relief.

It was such a small thing — a few minutes with a doctor — but it shifted her entire world.
She wasn’t sure if Razak would be approved for surgery yet,
but she left that room more confident, more hopeful.

I felt lucky to have witnessed that transformation.

By evening, all the children and parents were waiting again — this time, to hear if they’d been cleared for surgery.

Some were approved, others were asked to wait.
Some kids had colds, others didn’t meet the weight requirement.
A few had serious underlying conditions.

It was hard to watch — the disappointment, the tears.
But the medical team was clear: safety first, always.

At 6 PM, the center began to quiet down.
I gave out hugs, took a few selfies with the kids, and promised I’d be back.

And I meant it.

That day, I had come to serve.
But somewhere along the way, I had been changed too — by the children, the parents, the doctors, the stories.
I left with sore feet, a full heart, and one clear thought:

When’s the next mission? Count me in.