There are people who collect diamonds, and then there are those who let go of them to bring water to dry lands. Jeram Thesia, once soaked in the sparkle of Gujarat’s diamond trade, made a decision that didn’t fit into the playbook of any ordinary businessman.
His life, cushioned with success, ran smoothly in Surat’s buzzing market lanes, where the gem trade thrived. Cars. Suits. Business class tickets. He had it all, like many who’d cracked the code to wealth in India’s fastest-growing industry.
However, below that polished exterior lived a restless soul. now not due to a deal long past incorrect, however due to a memory that would not fade. Every time he visited his native village, Nana Kothasana, something shifted. It wasn’t the odor of the soil or the sight of antique banyan timber. It changed into the sound—or rather, the silence—of empty wells, of dry faucets, of cracked lips soliciting for water.
You see, in towns like Surat or Ahmedabad, water is only a twist of the wrist away. But back in his village, every drop came with labor. Hours of walking. Queues near borewells. Buckets filled with mud and hope. And one day, Jeram looked at his bank account and thought, “What’s the point of all this shine if your people can’t drink?
Goodbye Gold, Hello Groundwater
People thought he’d lost it. Really, they did. When news spread that Jeram was selling part of his assets—prime real estate, stock holdings, even shares in his diamond firm—just to fund water projects, many around him were confused. “Invest in a hotel instead,” said one.
At least build a factory,” said another. But Jeram wasn’t looking for ROI. He wasn’t building a brand. He was digging for dignity. He started small. Surveyed the land. Consulted geologists. Not the fancy kind from abroad—but homegrown minds who knew the Kutch and Mehsana belt like the back of their hand. What they found was both frightening and fixable. Water sources were there, but unreachable.
Technology existed, but no one wanted to risk money on such uncertain soil. That’s when Jeram took the leap. 6 crore went in—just like that. Not for his name on a plaque. Not for a political seat. But so villagers could open a tap and fill their metal pots without tears.
Huge pipelines were installed. Reservoirs built. Solar pumps introduced. Filters set up. Every nail, every screw, every grain of sand that moved was watched by him. He didn’t fund and forget. He stood under the harsh sun with the workers, sometimes eating lunch with them on overturned cement bags. You don’t often see that—a man once draped in blazers wiping sweat off his brow with a torn gamcha.
Not Just Water—Something Deeper
By the time the first taps began running, the village had changed. Not just physically—but in the way it breathed. Schools saw better attendance. Women had more time, less fatigue. Crops stood taller. And children didn’t have to miss class just to fetch a few buckets. You’d expect Jeram to stop there, right? Job done. Money spent. But no—he wasn’t finished. He began teaching the village about conservation.
Rainwater harvesting, rooftop tanks, canal channels—ideas started flowing just like the water now did. He turned a personal gesture into a system. Every family was made aware of usage limits. Old ponds were revived.
Drainage lines repaired. He held meetings under open skies, explaining how even one leaky tap could waste 100 liters a day. And the villagers listened, not because he shouted, but because he showed up. Week after week.
With no media, no photographers, no quotes. Just action. And quietly, his own life shifted too. His clothes became simpler. His home, once filled with glitz, now echoed with conversations about water levels and monsoon cycles. His family adapted too—proud, supportive, learning alongside him. This was no temporary passion project. This was life now.
Beyond Boundaries, A Ripple Ignites
What Jeram didn’t anticipate was how far his actions would travel. Neighboring villages started showing up. Not to ask for funds—but to learn. “How did you choose the pump motor?” “Where did you find such honest contractors?” “Can we see your pipeline map?” The questions poured in.
And Jeram answered every single one with patience. Slowly, a movement began to form—not organized by NGOs, not curated by celebrities—but born out of word of mouth and genuine change. Other businessmen began calling. Some skeptical. Some secretly inspired. A few sold off their luxury watches and pitched in to create their own water stories in places far from headlines.
Jeram never lectured. He never moralized. He just told his story—and let the ripples speak for themselves. He also started inviting young engineers from small towns—students who couldn’t afford fancy internships—to work on the field with him.
No classroom can teach you what cracked soil and a broken borewell can,” he’d say. And slowly, a new generation of water warriors was born. Not because someone paid them—but because someone showed them it could be done.
Water Over Wealth: A Legacy That Breathes
Years have passed since that first tank was built in Nana Kothasana. And the wells? They’re no longer dry. In fact, they're watched closely now, guarded not by locks but by love. The villagers don’t take a single drop for granted, because they’ve seen what it costs—what it really costs—to bring rivers to a thirsty land. And Jeram? He’s still around. Still visiting. Still fixing the occasional leakage.
Still shaking hands with little boys who now dream of becoming hydrologists, not just diamond cutters. There are no awards in his living room. No statues in the town square. But every full water tank is a standing ovation to his efforts.
He once said during a small village gathering, “Gold glitters, but water gives life. I just chose the better one.” And that line, in its humble tone, captured the heart of what he did.
Jeram Thesia didn’t build a bran. He built a belief. That giving isn’t about surplus—it’s about priority. That wealth isn’t always currency—it’s impact. And that sometimes, to truly shine, you’ve got to let go of what sparkles and chase what flows.