Masala 2016

With the passing of another Roman calendar year comes prescribed moments for reflection. 2016 brought tremendous upheaval. Ongoing slaughter in Syria, a mounting refugee crisis, a rise in xenophobic and nationalist movements, Brexit, demonetization and the continued politics of thievery in India, continued murder and criminalization of  human rights defenders across the globe, and certainly not least, the election of Donald Trump.  

This past year also saw the passing of an inordinate number of cultural icons. In my own life, the significance of Muhammad Ali and Prince must be noted. As a kid I remember my dad – who was a boxer himself in his youth – tell me, “Whatever it is you do, remember to leave your mark on this world – just like Muhammad Ali.”

Personally, 2016 brought more opportunities to lend my voice in support of struggles for democratic expression, climate justice, and community land and forest rights.

Some highlights from the year: 

February – Hindustan Times: As with Bush in US after 9/11, so with JNU now

The arrest of Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) student president Kanhaiya Kumar on charges of sedition, and the larger debate around anti-nationalism in India, triggered country-wide protests. In Delhi I spoke with students at JNU, listened to rallies on campus, and participated in a march in favor of democratic expression.  The myopic discourse on patriotism and dissent was all too familiar, reminiscent of the days of protest and anguish after 9/11 in the US.

July – The Guardian: India should follow China to find a way out of the woods on saving forest people

Over the past year there have been intensified efforts by local communities, activists, and civil society organizations to implement India’s landmark – yet poorly utilized – Forest Rights Act.  It has been shown that forests are better sustainably used, managed, and conserved when in the hands of local communities – as compared to governments or private entities – and therefore an effective strategy for climate change mitigation. December 2016 marks the tenth anniversary of the FRA.

August – Vice: Liberia’s Land Law Could Protect Forests, People, and the Climate

Liberia’s legislature had the opportunity to pass a new law – the Land Rights Act – which would recognize the land rights of communities across the country. After spending a year on the ground in Liberia from 2012-2013 collaborating with local communities to document, manage, and govern their traditional lands and forests, it was with an open heart I returned to support my friends and colleagues in their ongoing struggles. The Land Rights Act will be in front of the legislature again in January 2017.

October/November – The Wire: How Gujarat’s Maldharis Are Asserting Their Rights Over The Banni Grasslands

Towards the end of 2016 I had the opportunity to visit pastoral communities in the Banni Grasslands of the Kutch region of India.  The Maldharis have been organizing to have their rights to their traditional grasslands recognized through theForest Rights Act. My trip coincided with the annual pashu mela (livestock fair). The result was an enriching and eye-opening journey into a unique culture navigating their path to maintain their traditional way of life.

December – Knife At the GunFight: Episode 1 – The Struggle for the Future

After much persistence from the homie Dr. Fitz, we collaborated on a new podcast: Knife at the GunFight. The inaugural episode features a report back from Standing Rock, where indigenous communities in the US have been resisting the construction of an oil pipeline through their ancestral lands, and discusses the larger struggle for indigenous and community land rights around the world.

To new friends and old, 2017 will certainly require renewed dedication for greater coordination, organizing, and resistance in the face of new threats to marginalized communities at home and abroad, sexual and reproductive rights, and the larger environment upon which we all depend. Looking forward to seeing you out there.

Masala Justice 

Dilli without the Rains

Delhi without the rains is deserted dust rising from the asphalt. A stifling heat so complete it bears down without discrimination or mercy. Hotter than an eight percent growth rate, it is a blinding white light that reflects a city on its hustle. All at once fighting to eat and chasing every latest fashion with a consumerism that would put New York City to shame.

Delhi without the rains is coming home the first night to find the plastic of your toothbrush melted.  Its three baths a day, where the water from the tap is always hot – percolating in metal pipes for hours at a time. It’s the ruin of the Fair and Lovely – and once more turning the color of the earth from the sun kiss, a welcome reminder to confused travelers returning from distant shores.

It means walking through a ceaseless cloud of hot air expectant with humidity. In an ancient city the monuments from the past pop up without warning. And despite the ubiquitous warmth, the beads of sweat that suddenly appear take you by surprise. They trickle down your forehead in a perpetual stream, tracing the shape of your upper lip. You never realized your body could pour buckets of sweat. Sweat that stealthily runs down your back, clinging to your clothes.

Perpetually damp, it’s only the privilege of air-conditioned rooms that bring the controlled climate you have known. And when then electricity goes, it means sleeping on the terrace like you did as a child on strange summer adventures in the houses your parents told you they grew up in. The distant hum of generators reverberating off the cooler stone below, gently lulling you to asleep.

Delhi without the rains is the buildup before the burst.  Above, the clouds quietly congregate. With eyes tilted skyward our gaze carries the hopes for our collective stupor to shift: from an intense malaise to an outpouring of gratitude.

And with these final keystrokes, it begins first as a drizzle. Yet within minutes the downpour has become torrential. Before you know it, the rain has ceased to fall downwards. It whips like the wind, horizontally pulling everything in its path, bringing down trees and telephone poles.  If only it will last. If only it will return again tomorrow.

And so Delhi remains what it was and always has been.  A house where my Nanima consistently chastises me for not taking one more roti, not having one more spoon of dal, for never eating enough.  A resting place along the journey where I ensure the flicker of the TV alternates between reruns of the Mahabharat and kitschy Bollywood music videos. It is, amidst the chaos, a repeated site of reflection. A reminder of yet another opportunity to make sense of these thoughts and these words and these footsteps that only move forward.

An Evening Revisited

I arrived at Kanpur Central a little before my train was scheduled to leave. A confused 23 year-old, struggling to negotiate ego with destiny, I was more than ready to be on my way. Joining the crowd of skyward titled necks, I peered through the rust of my heart and the dust of days past to see my train was delayed until 3:35 am.  Feet planted, I stood there for half an hour in the hopes that my departure time would miraculously change. But this was no time for miracles – at least not yet.

Accepting my fate, I paced around the station becoming familiar with my new home. Eventually I walked to the platform from which my alleged train was supposed to leave. Almost every semi-clean spot was taken: by someone’s luggage, someone’s child, or someone’s body. Underneath the stairs the situation was much the same. Hundreds of people resigned to their wait, smiling and chatting, furiously eating, or simply taking the moment as it was just then and there – their thoughts taking them to other realities far from the platforms of Kanpur Central.

Here I could admire more people than one could imagine fitting into one space comfortably. Migrant laborers, traveling college students, farmers, wide-eyed foreigners, and businessmen and women. The young, the old, the rich, the poor.  Polite, congenial, passing one another by, with a host of exceptions included.

I finally found a spot on the walkway above the platforms, spread out my chaadar on the least paan-stained part of the floor, took off my chappals, and lay down. So this was my fate for the evening. It could be worse; I tried to reason, as I stuck out my head in an attempt to swallow as much breeze from my vantage point above the rail tracks. 

Below the trains continued to come and go, as people hopped on and off navigating the sea of humanity. Above was the non-stop racket of the announcement system, alternating every two seconds in Hindi and English, proclaiming the further delay of my train until 5 am.

It was almost funny that I was stuck in this station. Almost. 

What could I do? The whole walkway was lined with sleepers and dozers, watchers and listeners, just like me. When I got tired of watching my comrades at my side, I would examine those with purpose rushing by: a blur of saris and dhotis, jeans and t-shirts, kurtas and pyjamas. Between my musings I fell asleep only to be awoken by the incessant chatter from above, kindly informing me my train was to show up at 6 am. 

By this point I reckoned there was no rational reason to believe this train was going to arrive any time soon, if at all. Maybe it didn’t really exist. Maybe all of the other passengers smartly hopped on other trains much earlier instead of lounging on the prosperous floor of Kanpur Central. It was 3:15 in the morning. It was time. 

I hopped to my feet, collected my things, and strode with a self-righteous sense of purpose to the ticket counter. As I walked down to platform number one I saw a train slowly pulling away. Running alongside in my half-conscious stupor I desperately called out to the man standing in the doorway of the moving train, “Ye gaadi Dilli jaarahi hai?” He said yes. I jumped on.

I was woken up at quarter to nine by the prodding fingers of the TT. “Ticket” he demanded, holding out his hand. I fumbled sleepily for my glasses and stared at him, thinking about what to do next. I handed him my ticket, bracing for the impending cataclysm. “Did you switch your seat from another car? This ticket is for compartment S11,” he asked routinely. 

I had no clue where I was, but I quickly snatched the ticket back. He must not have noticed it was for a completely different train. “I am sorry, sir. I can go back to my section,” I blurted out, grabbing the bag I was using as a pillow. 

He shuffled through the unending list attached to his clipboard going over each name. “What is your name? Khan? Are you M. Khan?”

I didn’t want to lie to him. I wasn’t M. Khan. But now was not the time to share such revelations. I was waiting for it, for something, something that was going to bring about the eventual realization that I didn’t belong. He grunted, “Thik hai. Bat jao,” and continued on his rounds. 

I smiled. The hustle was complete.

I breathed in the villages of Uttar Pradesh, hanging out of the train as it whipped through the countryside on its way to Delhi. The past few days flew through my head: the story of the weavers, who enthusiastically told me about the cooperative they had started, the proud women who had organized themselves into a Self Help Group, the family who insisted I first tell them my story as I munched on fresh tomatoes from their fields. The laughter between strangers who know they will never meet again, yet engage each other fully without formality or hesitation. And the site of the Ganga, black, full of sludge from the countless tanneries that inhabit her banks.

I arrived in Delhi around noon. I was happy to rest my ego before my journey of service continued. As I carried my bags up the stairs towards the exit, I heard from my good friends over the announcement system my train was further delayed, and would now arrive at 5:30 pm.

As I listened closer, there amongst it all were the unanswered questions I was too frightened to confront. The answers I could not have discovered, for they were only to be found in the desperation of my discomfort on the floor of a train station at three in the morning. 

Those lessons learned remain relevant today as I attempt to keep an open heart to all that is still to be revealed in the jungles awaiting me. 

Rock These Bells

In the richest temple in the world, the clamor of bells is deafening. Dozens of tiny diyas ricochet light off of gold pillars and walls in all directions. Shoulder to shoulder, pilgrims and priests – jam-packed – jostle their way to get a glimpse of the altar. The clanging surrounds the deity, a manifestation of the Lord Vishnu reclining on a hooded serpent.

Amongst the commotion, the dim chamber takes on the feel of a time machine. The constant shift in lighting plays tricks on your eyes and on your mind, as if you have entered an almost-parallel dimension.

You cannot help but try and prolong every second in that deep chamber, if only to simply absorb the feeling .The vibrations are both ancient and kinetic down on the coast of Kerala. It is only a matter of moments, but the uniqueness of the forces around you cement themselves somewhere in your being – not so much as a memory, but as an imprint of experience.

It’s not the most familiar form of expression, yet not the most foreign. But you get it. You get that the ritual and worship is significant for many. Contained in the constant flicker of tiny flames are meanings left to ponder. Despite the prejudices that still permeate society, from unequal social hierarchies to differential power relations, we assert claim to our own definitions from fire and flames.

In those moments and the ones after, your mind takes you back, trying to understand the articulation of culture witnessed. Exiting back outside to the streets of Thiruvananthapuram, you cannot help but wonder whether that indeed was another dimension, where the sound of ringing never ceases.

***

Behind the Nizamuddin Auliyah dargah there is another, smaller dargah. Upon ascending the stairs, I am immediately greeted by a tree that reaches through the floor from the ground below. On the wall written in Urdu, Hindi, and English are prayers and recitations, reaffirming the equality of all human beings and all faiths in a spirit of plurality. As I take my seat on the marble floor, the music begins. The beats, sounds, and rhythms from centuries passed on echo the Sufi tradition of unity, love, and harmony between this world and the divine.

And there are moments, moments where I lose myself in the tunes of tabla and harmonium, in the potency of Saqlain and Jamal’s voices, which belong to a tradition that spans generations. Saqlain and Jamal’s family have been singing qawwali for over 700 years. There is something in that setting that blurs this world with another.

For some it is about personal connection to inter-connected cosmic forces, for others simply a cultural experience, but for me evenings at the dargah are all of these, as well as a reaffirmation of spiritual expression. Over the next days and weeks I will crave a return to that place of solitude within, and mystical discourse abound, all around me.

***

From South Ferry we climb aboard the boat that takes us to the stage of hip-hop culture and community. From the tip of Manhattan we have set out with style and swagger to celebrate rap legends rhyme a hardened street existence with obscene material success. We grew up watching flashing images from music videos, and listening to the clever manipulation of poetry, prose, and profanity that mocked what authority held sacred. It is the playfulness in rhyme, the nuance in satire, and the truth beyond what news reports or textbooks ever chose to reveal that constituted a large part of our education.

We have come for the soulful journey with Erykah that takes us on (and on), as part of a gathering of the masses to pay respect to the Wu-Tang Clan (amongst others). But the highlight of the evening must be Ms. Lauryn Hill. We can’t help but sing, dance, and smile along to the Miseducation that we first received as teenagers. Witnessing classic Fugees tracks performed live, our youth is resurrected in front of our very eyes. And as the curtain closes with “Killing Me Softly” it’s sorta like – “I can die happy now.” With the soundtrack in our heads, we make our way back to the city – exhausted, full, and satisfied.

***

From Hinduism to hip-hop, whether in temples or dargahs or rap concerts, whether religion or poetry or music, each setting and form holds the potential sparks for learning, sharing, and creating. While the methods and means are often co-opted by reactionary forces committed to mere consumption and soul destruction, our creation should not be compromised. The liberation of creative expression is not only a celebration of the spirit, but formation of the education and culture of tomorrow.

As the thirteenth century Persian Sufi poet Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi is to have said, “There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the earth.”

So whatever you do – whether it be a prayer to the gods, a lament from the heart, or an occupation of public space for human dignity and against corporate greed– let your song be heard. Rock these bells.

Monsoon in Four Parts

I

The fattest drops made the biggest splashes. Rolling, dark clouds creeping over the hills were the first sign. The gusts of wind followed. Every other summer or so, me and Vikram found ourselves transplanted to our grandparents’ home at the foothills of the Himalayas. Every other summer or so, in a village in Himachal Pradesh, our dreams were watered from above.

The isolated existence those few weeks brought meant constantly having to find different ways to pass the days. Buried in a family album somewhere there is a picture. There is my brother, and there am I. We are only children. In Montgomery County Recreation Department t-shirts and baggy basketball shorts, we squish mud between our toes as our education takes form through dance and laughter. There we stand soaked, smiling, and without knowing it building a relationship – with land and soil, trees and roots, mountains and sky, heaven and earth.

II

After days and weeks of unrelenting sun, what we have all been waiting for has finally come. And the sudden downpour leaves the city pacified. Not so slowly the roads turn to ponds and lakes. The brown water lagoons emerge as if they were from the soil beneath the asphalt, instead of the visible manifestations of sewage, pollution, and unsustainable living. But the monsoon’s message is lost upon us, as we continue on unaware of what the puddles are trying to relay through frantic vibrations of splashes and ripples.

The morning downpour makes Delhi’s traffic only more hectic. But no one complains. We are each lost in our own reflections as we gratefully accept the shower, simply thankful for nature’s offering.

The auto-rickshaw drivers maneuver in a dream-like state, weaving their ships across the sea. The on-lookers standing beneath awnings and gazing atop balconies stare as if they are lost in thoughts belonging to another dimension. And those rushed souls, who have forgotten their umbrellas look silly compared to those others who have also forgotten their umbrellas, or perhaps never intended on bringing them, indifferent to, or unaware of, the washing taking place.

III

In another portion of Himalaya, the precipitation never ceases. It has been weeks now. The peaches have spoiled. The landslides increased. But homecomings are well worth whatever mild inconveniences that must be incurred. Upon hilltops the entire valley glows neon green. The clouds hang in arms reach. Once more I reacquaint myself with mountain trails and unending forests, walking like my legs never forgot.

In rapidly changing villages, a new generation seeks the gains of development and progress. Land is bought and sold as hotels and summer homes sprout like specially engineered grains. But it is the people and places that taught me so much that make it all worth it. The love, and hard work, and reminder that our lives still remain dependent on a healthy relationship with the earth, shapes the form of reflection and reconnection. And as I feel humbled by it all, I know that thick jungles and fat layers of moss are worth worshipping.

IV

After the rain, after the stickiness sets in and summer passes, when seasons eventually change and the journey must continue, what will having our dreams watered by the monsoon yield? We can only hope that in some way our memories will remember: what it sounded like when our laughter splashed against stones and when the streets turned to rivers and when the village reclaimed one of its own. We can hope that these memories will continue unconsciously informing our choices and unknowingly shaping the dreams we continue to dream when the chaos and strange beauty of New York City returns.

From Kumaon to Kerala: Adventures from The Cut

There are some things that don’t change. Wandering through random villages in Kerala, it feels as if I know a part of this. Greeting villagers along the way, having the same conversations that I have had all year – about who I am, and what I do, and why I came to India. And while this place is completely new, there is something that anchors me in the lives of the people I am passing through. Whether it be for a few hours, or only a few minutes. The reality, however, is that I have never been here. To this place where Christianity, communism, and social conservatism all mix. Being invited to share a cup and join stories for some time. And sure, some things do change, the milky chai of the North is many miles and states away from this clear, unadultered Kerala tea.

A whole lot of the travel that has facilitated the adventures of the past couple weeks has been on buses. I never ever thought about seeing so many bus stations in this country. But being on buses and surrounded by people at all hours of day and night who are also into examining reality from masala-justice-seeking lenses there is a lot that comes up, inside and out. From the people you meet to the observations you make. On a bus going through Goa, I witnessed a side of India I had never imagined. From the clothes to the churches to the relative wealth. And as we passed mandirs along the road I noticed the different handsignals in prayer that fellow passengers would offer up. Combinations of touching one's head and ears and chest. A variation from the Himalayan region I have spent the last year in. An observation that would have not been as interesting a year ago. There are countless thoughts and conversations as the frames roll by on the other side of each window. On wealth and privilege, urban and rural, travel and tourism, gender and class, language and bonds.

There is a connection I feel with rural India. After a year of living and working in Himalayan villages there is an understanding that exists of what that world is like, a rural one. An understanding better than any I have ever had in the past. And while there is no way I can say I know what people’s lives are actually like, there is something I feel. About people, and those that work the land, and what life is about. And maybe it’s just my own ignorance breaking in front of me. But passing through villages and meeting people from all sorts of different backgrounds, there are bridges that I have learned how to cross, from Kumaon to Kerala.

It is a strange thing being so mobile. The freedom and fluidity of movement that is allowed to me and my comrades as we traverse this country is for sure, new and exciting. After being in India for over a year and spending the overwhelming majority of that time in one place, to be able to travel (a whole lot) and see a whole lot is beautiful. But it is also a reminder of other things. Of social status, and opportunity, and where we are coming from, things that I was certainly aware of before, but comfortable with in my role as community organizer. To be able to walk into bars and clubs in the wealthier parts of Bombay, and still be able to relate to folks in rural settings. To be able to sit down in any village and have that cup of tea and know this time around that this is what it is really about. From run-ins with the police to trying to hitchhike a ride, to know when to say I am from Delhi, we are from India, and to know when to say I am from the US, we are NRIs. The fact that we can go back and forth. from villages, to bars, and clubs, and restauraunts, and back. And what's the deal with such intense airconditioning? I won't even go there. But how to reconcile all of the above worlds, all of what has been opened up this past year? And how to seriously navigate living with contradiction?

On of the most touristy beaches I’ve been to in my life, in southern Kerala, the constant question came up, “Are we still in India?” Allusions were made to apartheid South Africa, maybe not in full seriousness, but the juxtaposition of white women in bikinis and Indian women in saris posed more than enough fodder for discussion. For gender norms in a place like India, after a year in the village, on a beach catering towards Europeans, well... need I say more? And the discussions never seemed to stop. They would be picked up and left off impromptu, whenever the thoughts sprang to mind. And to discuss with other Indians and NRIs alike, who feel passionately about the choices they have made in their lives. About engaging on a different level, about the opportunies and access allotted to us, yet denied to so many more. From the recognition of the untapped potential of Indian youth, to the criticisms and passionate discourse on elite Indian society and the value placed on the abundant Westernization of Indian cities, towns and villages. To hear it from those these folks who are coming from a space of greater understanding has been just as enriching as the sites, smells, and sounds of the subcontinent.

The venues of adventure have certainly been striking, and diverse. There were the beaches of Karnataka, empty and peaceful, anything but the hullabaloo of Varkala.The fishermen and fisherwomen on the beach. Their bodies worked with work. Uncasting nets. Tourism doesn’t seem to fit into this, that is claiming spaces without interaction or understanding. In the forests of Kerala, pondering the sickle and hammers flying from every other corner or store from the city of Cochin to backwater villages. And this state that has successfully been able to provide quality education to its youth, to successfully battle illiteracy, and provide better healthcare than most states in India. Comparing the cities of the South to the North, and feeling the connecting threads of India weaving it all together. It has been amazing. And I feel pretty good to have done it the way we did. Rocking the public transportation system. Breaking out seven different languages when we needed to make our way out of a jam, or just onto the next destination. A group of eight, ten, twelve Indian youth, who look not from around these parts, yet simaltanueously break into Kannada, Konkani, Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi, Malyalam, and everyone’s favorite English. I was constantly amused by the bewildered look of those on the receiving end of the verbal assault. Going from north to south trying to break down all of these changes in culture and attitude and language and food, and being able to see it freshly from each others eyes.

And still, there are still many more trains to catch and people to catch up with. It just keeps going on, as if coming down from the Himalayas to the coasts of Kerala is only one part in everything that has already constituted adventure this year. And so do the thoughts and visions of what it all means. But the next steps for now, are for family, and friends, and all those we meet along the way.

From Kanpur to Delhi: An Evening with Indian Railway

I arrived at Kanpur Central Station a little before 10 pm. My train was scheduled to leave at 10:45 and I was ready to be on my way. I approached the board with all the trains and departure times and such to see that my train was delayed, until 3:35 am. I stood in front of that constantly flickering board for half an hour in the hopes that my train’s departure time would miraculously change to some time before 3. But this was no time for miracles, at least not yet.

As I paced around the station and kept checking the board all that happened was I became more familiar with my new home for the next several hours, and my train got delayed even further, 4:35 am. So I paced around some more. Eventually I walked to the platform that this alleged train was supposed to leave from and, well, I sort of walked around for a bit longer… Almost every semi-clean spot was taken, by someone’s luggage, someone’s child or someone’s body. Underneath the stairs leading up to the walkway the situation was much the same with hundreds of people resigned to their wait – smiling and chatting, furiously eating, or simply taking the moment as it was just then and there, staring off, their thoughts taking them to other realities far from the platforms of Kanpur Central.

Train stations in this country are a unique place, unlike no other. I guess that’s what unique means. More people than you could imagine fitting into one space comfortably, from all sorts of backgrounds – religious and economic, social and cultural, speaking different languages, carrying all sorts of things, going about their own business. Polite, congenial, passing one another by, with a host of exceptions included. It’s a sort of glimpse at the cross-sections that make up this masala called India. Migrant laborers, traveling college students, wide-eyed foreigners, farmers, and businessmen and women. Saris, dhotis, jeans, t-shirts, kurtas and pyjamas. The young, the old, the rich, the poor, the people who look happy to be on their way, and those resigned to whatever fate awaits them. In-credible India.

I finally found a spot for myself on the walkway above the platforms. I spread out my chaadar on the least paan-stained part of the walkway, took off my chappals, and lay down. So this was my fate for the evening. To be honest I was pretty annoyed, and tired. I had been counting down the hours until my train was to leave and it would only make sense that my train was delayed in this “lets-push-Gaurav-to-the-brink-of-his-limits” type way. It could be worse, I tried to reason, as I stuck out my head in an attempt to swallow as much of the breeze from my vantage point above the rail tracks. And honestly what else could I do? Below I saw the trains come and go, people hop on and off, shove themselves and their luggage through the crowds, and carry everything and anything imaginable along with them. Above was the non-stop racket of the announcement system, alternating in Hindi and English, informing all of us, every two seconds, which trains were arriving when, on which tracks, and which trains were further delayed – mine included, until 5 am now.

It was almost funny that I was stuck in this station, until who knew when. Almost. It was sort of like just what I deserved for spending so much energy anticipating my departure. In any case I figured if I was planning on waiting till 4:35, another half hour wasn’t so bad. The reality was that I really had no choice. So there I was, one of the huddled masses (the huddled molasses, my new band name) taking it all in, with no rush to be anywhere, because right there and then, I really had no realistic place to go. The whole walkway was lined with sleepers and dozers and watchers and listeners like myself. I quietly absorbed the scene around me. People were covered from head to toe, like mummies, underneath their shawls. Some were passed out on top of their luggage with no regard for whatever may be on the hard and dirty floor beneath them.

When I got tired of watching my comrades at my side, I would examine those with purpose rushing by. Here once again was the intersection of badly dyed blonde heads and vibrant traditional outfits. From time to time I would read my book, then stop to once again gaze at the travelers throughout the station. Somewhere between all of these musings and activities (we like to call it time-pass) I dozed off for a bit only to be awoken by the incessant chatter of the announcement system, which kindly informed me that my train was now only to arrive at 6 am.

By this point I figured there was no rational reason to believe this train was going to arrive any time soon, if at all. Maybe it didn’t really exist. Maybe all of the other passengers smartly hopped on other trains much earlier instead of lounging like myself on the prosperous comfort of the floor of Kanpur Central. It was 3:15 in the morning, it was time. I hopped to my feet, collected my things, and strode with a sense of purpose to the ticket counter. I was going to create a hulla, I told myself (more realistically, I also told myself, I was going to try and buy another ticket). As I walked down to platform 1 I saw a train was slowly pulling away. I saw it was going to Delhi. I needed to go to Delhi; this train was going to Delhi. I ran up to it and asked the guy standing in the doorway of the moving train, Ye gaadi Dilli jaarahi hai? He said yes. I jumped on. I found myself in a sleeper compartment, with an open berth. I quickly locked up my samaan below the seats, and went to sleep.

I was woken up at quarter to nine by the prodding fingers of the TT. He asked me quite routinely whether I switched seats from another compartment. I fumbled sleepily for my glasses and stared at him, thinking about what I should do. He asked for my ticket. I handed him the one I had, braced for the impending cataclysm. He told me my ticket was for compartment S11. I had no clue what compartment I was in, but he did not seem to notice my ticket was for a completely different train. I quickly snatched it back, and apologized. Naam kya hai? Khan? Aap M. Khan hai? I didn’t want to lie to him. I wasn’t M. Khan. The TT was shuffling through all his papers checking the names on the list. I told him I’ll go back to my compartment and started grabbing the bag I was using as a pillow. Thik hai, bat jao. The TT stared at me for what seemed like a little too long, but was probably no more than several seconds. I was waiting for it, for something, something that was going to drag this out to the eventual realization that maybe I didn’t belong there. He told me to sit down below and continued on his rounds of the compartment. I smiled.

If you must know, it was a comfortable ride back to Delhi. I made a point to spend time hanging out the doorway as the train whipped through the countryside (one of the best ways to spend a train journey), simply breathing. I took in the villages of Uttar Pradesh as my mind engaged in trying to catch up to speed in processing the last eight months. From my work in the rural hills of Kumaon with Gram Panchayats and the public health system, to my experience as an Indicorps fellow, to the thoughts of my home, my family, my friends and the indulgent lifestyle I was living.

This processing included the past few days, which encompassed visits to the villages surrounding Kanpur and the slums within the city. It was all flying through my head. The story of the weavers, who enthusiastically told me about the cooperative they had started a year back, as I accompanied them to open the group’s bank account. The group of women in the slums who were running their own SHG and proudly explained their history. The family who insisted I first tell them who I was, and about the public health work I’ve doing in the mountains, and insisted I tell them as I munched on fresh tomatoes from their fields. The laughter between strangers who know they will never meet again, yet engage each other fully with no formality or hesitation. And the site of the Ganga, black, full of sludge and pollution from the countless tanneries that inhabit her banks.

There is still so much more to mentally document from these past eight months that I am sure there is a lot I have already forgotten. A number of people, both young and old, kept getting on and off the train, many still bearing the purples, blues, and greens on their hands, faces, and clothes, displays of a well-celebrated Holi a few days before. A family around me took turns reading religious poetry and discussing their interpretations. My Hindi was certainly not up to pace, but it was entertaining nonetheless. I chatted with those around me as I inched closer to my destination.

It was just another part of my journey, the larger journey – through India and Indicorps, one I have resigned myself to not fully comprehending just yet. Another story I may or may not recall, another piece that adds to this imperfect puzzle, and imperfect understanding of what this country, and this year, means to me.

I arrived in Delhi around noon. I was happy to be headed home for a day or two as I continued on my journey of seva. As I carried my bags up the stairs towards the exit, I heard from my good friends over the announcement system the train I was supposed to come on was further delayed, and was now to arrive at 5:30 pm.