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 

Masala Journalism

I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Polluters or protectors? Farmers in Himachal Pradesh fight for their rights over forests
August 16, 2015 || Scroll.in

Farmers are rallying for the implementation of the Forest Rights Act, which gives them the right to govern forest resources, as a High Court order brands them 'polluters'.

On July 25, around 2,000 farmers gathered in Himachal Pradesh’s remote tribal district of Kinnaur to highlight the threat looming over their land, forests and livelihoods. Against the background of green hills, they thundered chants as local leaders gave rousing speeches. When the assembly dispersed, the farmers were still unsure if they had been heard, whether their demand for the implementation of the Forest Rights Act of 2006 would be met, particularly after a recent High Court order. || Full article

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Odisha diaries: the struggle for community control over land, forests and natural resources
April 25, 2015 || Down to Earth

No matter how much compensation is promised, companies will need ‘a social licence’ to conduct business on the land of the people

For the past 20 years, local communities across the eastern Indian state of Odisha have engaged in numerous movements to protect their customary lands and forests against industrial and government interests. Several have captured global attention, documenting resistance from some of India’s most marginalised communities in the face of dispossession and displacement. Now, Odisha’s communities are mobilising once more to assert their rights over the resources that define their culture and survival, using modern technology and India’s Forest Rights Act of 2006 (FRA). || Full article

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An Opportunity to Get Conservation Right
February 25, 2015 || Thomas Reuters Foundation

At People’s Rights Conference, Nepali communities affirm their rights to resources in a recently declared conservation zone

The hall burst into applause as the final declaration was read out. The audience, composed of community forestry user groups from Nepal’s Chure region, Indigenous Peoples, women’s rights groups, Dalit advocates, and youth vowed to continue the movement that had brought them together over the course of the past seven months.

Echoing in the hall was the demand to start including Chure’s people in determining the policies that govern the fate of the forests, land, and water they have depended upon for generations in the Himalayan country. || Full article

Return of the Himalaya

All I want to do is walk. Any chance I get, I take off. It doesn’t necessarily help that six seven hours a day are spent bumping around in a bus or in the back of a jeep. We ride parallel to rushing rivers that are voraciously being dammed. Beside, the headquarters of hydro and cement companies sprawl. It isn’t long before the asphalt disappears and gives way to more humble tracks upon which to tread. We slowly climb up and eventually back down lush green hills. And while the winding dirt roads mean travelling at the snail’s pace, it still feels like I’m going too fast.

My eyes try as best they can to feast on my surroundings, but more often than not they are fixed upwards, glued to snowcapped peaks. I can’t help it. There is something about those sharp, jagged edges that arrest, keeping me in awe, aware of my size. When they move out of view, I take in the breadth of the landscape. Another world defined by a direct relationship with the land comes into focus. As soon as we stop for tea or reach our destination in Kinnaur, in Kullu, in Mandi, my legs take over. Every free moment I can steal away, I want to take in these hills and streams and staircase villages.

So every evening after heated discussions on community forest rights, I leave my new activist friends behind and begin to wander. It’s only on my own two feet that I feel like I can move slowly enough to feel everything that this place stirs inside. My mind is engaged in constant conversation with itself; I am only a bystander at this point, quietly listening to the back and forth banter inside my head.

Climbing up worn pathways, I quickly get lost trying to find my way to an arbitrarily picked destination way above where I stand – a temple, an orchard, a waterfall. Amused villagers ask where I am going and I excitedly reply that I’m simply going for a walk. It’s not long before I am again sitting down with strangers, drinking tumbler after tumbler of sweet pahadi chai.

I know these moments mean more because of those summers I spent as a kid exploring a similar setting in Kangra. Sent to my Nanaji and Nanima’s house, the monsoon welcomed me.  I know it’s because of the memories that come back from that year in Kumaon that makes it all the more meaningful. And now, with a few more years on me and a (relatively) more stable head on these shoulders, I keep my ears open, attuned to the secrets being whispered.

I no longer try to compartmentalize or label the feelings that arise. Rural life with all its beauty, generosity, and hardships stands directly in front of me. Not asking for anything, yet still demanding all of my attention.  The smell of wood-fed fires brings waves of nostalgia and inspiration that wash over me, making it all so dangerously easy to romanticize. Standing atop of a world that at once seems familiar, and yet one I know I cannot claim to fully understand.  It is here I recognize there is too much upon the hills and below the surface that I am unable to put into words.

But just as is with every return to the Himalaya, internally there is work being done. Inside, I can only hope my heart is being soaked, and wrung, and washed anew. That somewhere, though I cannot see it – only vaguely feel it – there is a realignment taking place.

The Air Up There

The air up there is thin. Struggling to reach 15,000 feet, my heart rapidly knocks against my chest, rattling my ribs and threatening to smash through my sternum. The dry climate reflects itself in the jagged brown mountains that stare all-knowingly. Rising up to meet the clouds they are only dwarfed by even sharper edges – snowcapped and silent – towering above. At these heights the oxygen is increasingly scarce. And the air, parched and crisp is poised to pierce through any ego.

Bouncing around the backseat of a van, the ceremonial is passed to me as we make our way along winding roads to the departure point. My handlers are young, hip Ladakhis, continuously on their hustle to make the most from the steady flow of the tourist season. These months bring the height of their income; for the rest of the year the region is largely cut off and buried in snow. Eyes glued to the other side of the window, at any given point the mountains encompass us circling 360 degrees of the horizon.

My companions are two 22 year olds. Another NRI who has also come to this corner of Kashmir on vacation, and our guide, a local college student whose summer climbing supplements his tuition fees. Before we set out, we sit with our handlers at a makeshift tea stall planted at the foot of a small stream. Once more the ceremonial is passed around, this time with the first of many bowls of Maggi which will mark the journey through high mountain passes. The masala stings my already weathered, chapped lips nearly 12,000 feet above sea level.

All week I’ve prided myself on my ability to adjust to the pahadi culture and high altitude. In the cutest Hindi imaginable, I repeat, “Chalne ke adat hai pechle janum se.” My certainty brings laughter and skepticism from my new friends. And with the final slurps we are off – to conquer or be conquered by the Himalayas.

Our first day is four hours of steady climbing. By early evening we reach “base camp” – a series of tents set to house wandering tourists, and the locals accompanying their adventure tourism. It seems as if this site is a staple of the trekking economy. Unable to keep my eyes off the imposing view of Stok Kangri, I begin to meet my fellow travelers.

There is the French physiotherapist who has quit his job to wander India for the next six months. He has taken to Buddhist philosophy and provides surprisingly good advice on watching where impulses and desires come from. His girlfriend is off practicing yoga poses. In full Surya Namaskar, she intermittently appears prostrating in front of the Himalaya. Soon enough they both wander off amidst some boulders to meditate.

There’s also the Tibetan immigrant who has made India his home. Over the subsequent hours, accompanied by several glasses of rum, he tells his incredible story. After fleeing Chinese occupation of Tibet, he made his way to Nepal where he climbed with the Sherpas for nearly a decade.  Following his time in Nepal, he came to India and has subsequently travelled the subcontinent north to south, east to west, even venturing out to remote islands. Now, Ladakh is home where he has become a self-made anthropologist, geologist, and historian of sorts. Scrolling through his digital camera he explains how he wants to bring scientists to see the isolated parts of the region he has explored, where he has discovered fossilized remains, as well as documented local traditions and practices.

At night, the stars shine ferociously. Like a million tiny specks of silt burning through the sky transmitting the Light we are searching for.  In between those aerial fires are wisps of the Milky Way, like curling smoke upon a nocturnal canvas.  At the rooftop of the world, the villages are few and far between to cause any type of light pollution. Once again I tilt my head backwards as I brush my teeth, inhaling starlight.

All was well that night, that is, until that sudden 4 am wake up. You know the one where you get up with a start and sense of purpose. Unzipping the double layers of my tent, I quickly zigzag between the dozen or so encampments sprawled across the cold ground. I shine my flashlight up the hill, illuminating my destination. The makeshift structure is three walls of neatly stacked, level, rounded stone. I dart around to the open face to gratefully find smooth ground with a single hole in the center.

***

I swear I died at least twice that day.  With nothing left in my system, the lack of oxygen became even more noticeable along the steep hike. Over two hours of incline, I was forced to stop literally every twenty steps. My heartbeat – pounding – ricocheted off my eardrums making each lumbering step thunder in my head.  Sucking wind, I bargain: if the sins and substance abuse of the past years can be released through my pores then this is all worth it.

My pride gets me through, refusing the assistance of any man or pony. Atop the Ganda La Pass, prayer flags flutter in the cold wind. Below, the valley is illuminated by the still rising morning sun. The Himalayas stand stoically, asserting their stature, ignoring our minute achievement. Besides me, a group of American college students pull out a bottle of Old Monk to celebrate the ascent. I decline as shots are taken of the sweet-syrupy rum to mark the occasion. And then down we go.

The remainder of the day is spent walking through the stark and beautiful landscape. Jumping through streams, walking into narrow rock corridors, and marveling at the majesty.  After a few hours, I lodge my protest at taking a step further while the sun is at its highest. Finding a collection of bushes I drop down, immediately falling asleep for the next hour.

By evening we reach the village that will be home for the night. The local monastery stands on top of a small hill and we once again climb up to pay our respects. In Ladakh, the cultural and religious dynamics are defined by Tibetan Buddhism, which has been predominant for well over a thousand years.  Our home-cooked dinner is momos stuffed with local vegetables – the antidote needed for deep sleep.

Returning down through the evolving landscape brings us face to face with the dust and concrete of new construction. Roads and bridges are slowly coming to connect the trekking routes and villages that are becoming popular. Reaching the River, I jump in a raft alongside scores of Israeli, European, and Indian tourists as we battle rapids to where the Zanskar meets the Indus. Jutting up to kiss the sky are the brown and unmoving mountains, keeping steady, watching all along. 

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.

And God Laughs

Exiting the Foggy Bottom Metro Station, I instinctively double my pace. Ahead of me lies the last leg of my morning commute.  It’s my favorite. With dirty break beats and bass lines blasting in my brain, I bob and weave through the vanilla ice cream stream leading deep into the heart of Georgetown. Channeling my New York City legs, I am that animated walker – led forward by an overly-enthusiastic stride, rhythmic hand motions, and a flickering wave of lyrics escaping my mouth aimed at startling more subdued passersby.

Over the past weeks the blanket of snow has ebbed and flowed depending on Old Man Winter’s whims.  Dwindling down it leaves a constant streak chasing after me. It’s like the streets are doing their best to imitate a babbling brook. But when the fat flakes fall the cold reasserts itself, arresting the sedentary puddles of water and encasing them in a fragile, splintered sheath – not so different from the one that may surround my heart.

Avoiding the mounds of dirty snow and cracked ice I pass the expensive boutiques that comfortably assert their stature. I can’t help but think that this isn’t the DC with which I am familiar. Then again, even that DC has probably been re-claimed.

Approaching my destination, I start to turn the music down. I can spy my office amongst the Abercrombie & Fitch, Banana Republic and United Colors of Benetton. These sanitized streets are starkly different from the chaos of Monrovia, New York, or New Delhi. And I can’t help but think: How did I end up here again?

It wasn’t an easy decision. After a year in Liberia, the DMV was only supposed to be a pit stop. The East was calling and there were more adventures waiting in Africa and India. But just as soon as my plans were imminent, they disintegrated like the fleeting ash falling from a lit stogie.

Wiping away the dust from still burning embers, it really is like they say: We make plans, and god laughs.

So when I was offered an opportunity to continue the community land rights work I started in Liberia  from an office in DC, I embarked on my own skittish decision-making process. Lists were made, mentors were tracked down, and advice was sought. Did I really want this? Couldn’t I just show up on the spot and do the same thing?

While my pride pulled me to  find my own path on the other side of the globe, my mom insisted: A bird in hand is better than two in the bush. She asked what I would say I did with my time when she introduced me to mythical girls at unspecific weddings. A bird in hand…

Nearly a month into it all it looks like most of my fears have not been realized. The learning has accelerated, as I collaborate with community forestry networks in Nepal seeking to enshrine their natural resource rights in the country’s new constitution, Indigenous People in Indonesia trying to implement a court ruling recognizing their ownership over their customary land, and grassroots activists in India fighting land grabs.  However, my heart did break a little when I saw my first paycheck – taxed and debilitated.

As the momentary rage passes, I remember to realize this stepping stone seems springier than first imagined with opportunities to return East on the horizon.  I can feel the excitement building inside. If only I knew better than to start making plans in my head.

Reversing the steps that brought me into Babylon I head back home. It is only when I finally reach my car, unplug my earphones, and deeply inhale Suburbia that I can sometimes hear Her laughing. I am trying to learn to laugh along. After all, it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the leaves returning to the trees as that cackle edges my dreams closer.

Sundays Aboard the Hari Om Express

Growing up in our house we had a ritual every Sunday. It was a weekly battle that would involve physical combat, divine incantations, and ancient Indian guilt trips.

My mom would wake us up, drag us out of bed, and insist we to go to the Chinmaya Mission, the Hindu spiritual center around the way. My resistance in the name of slumber won out now and again; but for the better part of a decade I would attend the Sunday classes on Hindu spirituality, philosophy, and symbolism.

While we spent our Sunday mornings donning kurtas and churidaars trying to relate the knowledge of subcontinental scriptures to our suburban-born realities, my dad had his own Sunday routine. In fact, I can’t remember a single time he joined us. I’m pretty sure he had his own beliefs in the divine; he simply was not willing to come even close to ascribing them to any institutional form. I have a feeling his experiences in India with a culture of god-men, false promises, and pie-in-the-sky hustles gave him enough insights into that world.  I remember he would joke, “Religion is the only thing keeping the poor from killing the rich.” His Sunday mornings, instead, were spent on the golf course.

By afternoon, we would all reconvene for another form of worship: fervently rooting for the Washington Racists Football Team with a fanaticism that would make the most zealous, jealous. It is a devotion that continues to date.  

Last week when I found myself gazing out the window of the second-story Hindu temple in Monrovia, the memories came rushing back. Outside the sun was setting. People were jostling into packed mini-buses for the journey home. The streets were full of grime and massive puddles – a testament to the ongoing rainy season, reminiscent of past monsoons. And I remembered how those past Sundays dug roots for me, revealed perspectives from other worlds, and reinforced a love for storytelling. 

The cultural connections that were built those mornings have proven enduring. And lasting lessons have been learned from my parents too. Like understanding the role of faith and sharpening a sense of humor. Both of which have proven necessary for navigating modern jungles from West to East – especially in places where daily life proves to be consistently unpredictable.

In addition to faith, laughter, and heart, I would add:  the search to reach a higher level of consciousness should not be divorced from everyday struggles for social justice. After all, how could we begin to talk about conquering ego, letting go of desire, and glimpsing humility without addressing the circus abound. The flashing lights of the gleam are calling. Being able to enjoy them without getting lost is the challenge.

The internal hard work involves a journey. And at the center of the movement is a love for the people strong enough to support self-improvement projects. The insanity of unsustainable consumption, the violence of unfettered capitalism, and the arrogance of empire are what surround us. And with it, religious nationalism manifests its ugly face through communal hatred, violent sexism, and misguided xenophobia.

Sitting on the floor in Monrovia, I spy the familiar gods and goddesses shining their light on my path. Looking around I see that everyone here, like me, has left their home to build another life on unaccustomed earth. But unlike me, everyone else has come on a separate hustle. I am the only one who wasn’t born in India. I suppose I can only embrace my identity crisis whose many layers were starting to develop on those Sundays. As my brain switches over from English to Hindi, my mouth obeys, joining in with the bhajans my mom used to lull us asleep with many years ago.

But the train of existence barrels forward. I’ve become accustomed to enriching the journey by circulating between different classes and compartments.  I’ve learned the value of hanging out the side to witness the heart of the countryside. It’s okay if I haven’t found my seat yet on the Hari Om Express.

Notes from the Cut

The fading light brings relief to another hot day. Four triangles of thatch consistently meet at the tops of homes and outdoor kitchens. A pot sits precariously balanced on two mud-bricks sending up smoke over fire. The glowing wooden sticks burn bright orange before turning to the ash we all eventually become. Children howl as their mothers bathe them under the evening sky with water collected from a nearby creek.  Straight from God to Man the trees are tapped for wine.

Walking through the bush has become a daily observance. Surrounded by forests, echoing many shades of green – bamboo reed, palm tree, cassava leaf – I am reminded of summers at my grandparent’s house in India. It was at the foothills of the Himalayas where I first fully explored dense green hallways and corridors. On these journeys memories come rushing back and I quickly get lost in my own jungle of thoughts.

This is my eighth – and at two weeks, longest – trip to rural Rivercess County. Leaving my insecurities behind in the city, I find myself surprisingly more at ease now for the first time in Liberia. With no electricity, phone signal, or means of communication, being cut off forces a mindset of complete presence. Willingly or not, I am discovering discipline in daily practice – controlling the mind and enjoying the little things.

The days revolve around our mission to organize rural communities to protect, document, and govern their land and natural resources. Calling meetings between clan chiefs, community people and traditional elders we seek to establish local ownership over the process. With large-scale land acquisitions(land grabs) on the rise, rural communities’ abilities to retain control over their customary land is being comprised. Building connections with our collaborators on the ground, I am starting to find my feet by stressing the importance of strong organizing practices, dedicated workplans, and a commitment to the land – and the People.

But operating in the cut means being flexible to the schedule of farmers. Between community meetings there is plenty of time to read, write, and explore. There are also the lively debates that rage between our teammates. Sitting under a magnanimous mango tree or thatch-roofed kitchen the loud, spirited – and sometimes, heated – discussions are endless. We cover nearly everything: competing conceptions of love, the impact of colonialism on Africa (and India), and War.

It helps that I have picked up enough Liberian English to sharpen my arguments. Our banter reflects the diversity of our life experiences. The phrases and colloquialisms roll off the tip of my tongue as I joke with friends and strangers alike with an ease built up over the past six months.

Deep in the cut, the adventure don’t seem to stop either. Like the other day when our jeep’s wheels fell through a bridge, getting stuck for hours. Or the night when a giant scorpion scurried in our midst sending grown men screaming to go home. And the mice that occasionally fall on top of me from the thatch-roofs while I sleep.

Despite my awkward screams in the night, I have grown accustomed to the environment, using the generous spaces of time for self-reflection and self-improvement projects. There is nothing like fresh pineapple or coconut on a blistering day. And while I do not eat everything around, I can devour fried plantains cooked with pepper and ginger, and swallow fufu until my stomach is satisfied.

Making a conscious effort to bond and build relationships with community members has added color and context to the journey. Sometimes I can’t help but smile and shake my head at the scenes and stories playing out in front of me. But as each day passes it lets me know that I am growing with it.

Half-way into my time in Liberia I have found a new sense of comfort. While acknowledging the fragility of this feeling, there is a familiarity between me and the people and the trees. Deep down I understand that each moment I spend in the bush I am building strength.  Strength that will not only see me through the rest of this journey, but will inform everything to come after. The releasing tension in a handshake culminating in a snap of fingers – the ubiquitous Liberian greeting – helps put the pieces together inside of me. Finding their way I can sense they are cementing lessons learned – and in the process forming the foundation of something like  greatness.

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. 

The Movement Continues

The path over the past two years has taught me that there are always unexpected twists and turns along the way. From mountain passes to Sufi shrines, in the classrooms of the elite and protests in the streets, through the jungles of New York. Along dirt roads and crowded concrete. there has been heartache and victory, love, loss, and adventure, and at the end of it all a greater understanding of self. Two years. And on a sunny day in May upon the lawn of the “Ivory Tower,” we were already hailed as the champions of tomorrow.

While graduate school came to an end, the learning will undoubtedly continue. I shall return to my classroom before Columbia – rural villages, thick forests, and dusty trails. It will be on the soil, which for so many, is the single most important facet of daily life. Rural Liberia, the settler colony and nation-state once-carved in the image of the United States, will be where I search for answers.

Across the giants of Africa and Asia, vast tracts of land have been ceded by state governments for agro-industry and resource extraction. The justification is growth, progress, and development through direct investment in aspiring economies. Natural resources lie at the center of these projects from bauxite to timber to platinum. For those who reside in the countrysides, land, which has been passed down for generations, is often the most valuable resource: “the source of their sustenance, the site of their livelihoods, and the locus of history, culture, and community.” 

Land plays no small portion in the on-going struggles for sustainability, self-determination, and survival. It is often a complex, tenuous issue at the heart of conflicts. Yet too often, mainstream development discourse myopically focuses on simple economic expansion without paying due attention to the fibers that bind communities. What does development look like beyond the growth of capital and what do rights mean beyond the declarations of any state?

Beginning in the early 19^th century the American Colonization Society, sought to rid America of its’ blackness. Bolstered by the likes of Monroe and Jefferson, the “Back-to-Africa Project” believed that co-existence would never be peaceful, feared mixture, and were steadfast that a black homeland could not be established on the very land where slaves had shed their own blood and tears. There was also the danger a free black population posed to the institution of slavery. Thus a new civilizing mission to West Africa began, accompanied by the inherent hierarchies of identity that mirrored the superiority complex of white supremacists in the takeover of North America.

The result: a cycle of violence between indigenous and settler, where victim and perpetrator alternated roles over the next 400 years. Fast-forwarding to today, Liberia evokes connotations of civil war, profound loss, and amazing resilience. But alongside history and politics is the question of how can a country rebuild while respecting its rural realities? When land is at the heart of a conflict how can it be surrendered without the input of its inhabitants?

I am preparing for the challenge, the perspective, and the humbling that is sure to come. In anticipation I’m staying on my grind to be mentally sharp and physically fit. I try to picture the open expanses: the bright red of the mud, the black of the night, and the green of the trees. The inevitable tears will fall when frustration and loneliness hit hard. But I pack with me the lessons learned from solitude and service in the Himalayas. I draw strength from the wisdom of family, friends, and comrades, remembering to trust the process and having faith in the script that leads me forward.

And so the movement – for community ownership, against corporate domination – continues. In a handful of weeks my journey will take me to the forests of Liberia. The excitement and fear roll together as a creeping anxiety arises deep down from my core. And while it’s true we all must walk our own path; I continue to remind myself that we never walk alone.

Roots Run Deep

“If you know your history, then you would know where you are coming from. Then you wouldn’t have to ask me who the heck I think I am.”

From the moment I stepped off the plane there was something familiar in the air. It was the smell in the streets; it was the smiles on people’s faces; it was the feeling inside my heart. I left Babylon lost and looking – for the clarity and strength necessary to navigate modern jungles. It would be Ethiopia that would remind me of the depth below the surface. But Africa has always been good to me.

The entire country is holding its breath for the rains. But each day brings the unrelenting gaze of the sun and more dryness, in this land of 13 months of sunshine. I walk around with a constant smile on my face. It’s the intangible that speaks to me; the understanding that cannot be gained from textbooks but must be breathed in. For some of us the blood that flows in our veins carries culture that dates back to other times. For those of us whose affinities lie in songs, stories, and struggles, our journey inevitably leads us off the beaten path.

In nearly every bar if you stick around long enough you can hear a 2pac song. Along roadside stalls, in barber shops, and cinema halls you can sneak a glance of a Shah Rukh Khan poster. And I knew I couldn’t be too far from home – metaphysically speaking, that is. It doesn’t hurt that you can hear Ethiopians singing Hindi songs, loving the Bollywood jams, and breaking it down on the dance floor. It all feeds the flames of my enthusiasm.

As we crisscross Addis Ababa interviewing youths, doctors, teachers, and social workers the city comes to life. Everyone has a story. The fresh juice is delicious; the bunna (coffee) – heavenly.The dust becomes a part of your being. These days the city is the site of constant construction with Chinese and Indian money paving the way. Here too life is a hustle. In the markets the smiles and greetings are infectious. 

Leaving the city, the countryside opens up to the heart of this land, and with it, the plurality in perspectives that defies simplistic portrayals of giants like Ethiopia, Africa, and India. The mud huts, the mango trees, and the dry fields are reminders of the dangers of romanticizing lives that we claim to understand.

The friendliness and pride is more than apparent. In the only country in Africa that was never colonized (the Italians were defeated), the same colonial hangover that is present elsewhere in the world is oddly missing. There isn’t the obsessive desire to copy the West nor is there the backlash against what is foreign. There is a strange acceptance of, or indifference to, it all.

That’s not say to say otherwise. Millions struggle to have their basic needs met. The heavy hand of the government has been known to restrain civil society. No doubt, the pursuit of social justice remains in realizing the chaos of a vibrant, third world democracy.

But black and brown pride is always a reason to smile. While the world grapples with the potentially destructive practices of Western interventions, there are lessons to be learned – from the past, for the future – from people who live and struggle on ancient soil.

Mama Africa and Mother India have schooled me on the depth below the surface. She has taught me patience, showed me magic, and brought me love. It has been my experiences with habeshas and desis that have allowed me to disable fear and walk tall with an open heart. Since food is love, it has been Ethiopia and India that have nourished my vision, and guided me through what I cannot always see or understand. It’s been that injera and chapatti that has fed my soul, namsayin?

When that which exists in the air is older than the cities we visit, we must dig deep to get the full story. Such journeys require an intentionality and mindfulness – to wander the backstreets, where the signs are not the same and the neighborhoods change. It’s in the villages that don’t necessarily fall along the highways where the answers lie. It’s life lived daily beyond the palaces, churches, and mandirs of tourist fame. If you can tap into the currents that run below the surface you may realize how far back the story goes. You may begin to find that roots run deep.

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.

Secrets of the Himalaya

It was all a dream. I was back; back at the foothills of the Himalayas, many moons since that first year when the lens shifted and the whole world began to look a little different. Walking like my legs never forgot I took each hill in stride, plucking peaches, apples, and grapes fresh off of trees and vines. I lost and found myself in mountain jungles as I made my way back, to the village that was my first home, and to the people that opened their lives to me.

From the vantage point of higher hills, smoke rises up from the houses below. The smell of burning fires and fresh gobar, the sight of warm cups of chai and familiar faces, and the sounds of animals and laughter are enough to overtake you. Everyone has jokes. And while the mountains unceasingly define the backdrop and claim the horizon, it’s about more than just the view. The purpose, dedication, and natural surroundings all add up to something that is powerful, yet not tangible.

Maybe that is the secret of the Himalaya.

Being in the presence of such natural power means going beyond what simply meets the eye. After all, what is immediately striking about mountains is their enormity. There, towering in the horizon, reminding us of forces much stronger and permanent than ourselves, lay peak after snowcapped peak, cut with sharp edges, reaffirming the meaning of earth, mud, and stone. But is it simply the sheer magnitude of mountains that move us? Or rather, is it what is inside those hills and what is inside us that meet and take us beyond the earth, mud and stone that is this body?

From such altitude, the busy streets of Babylon seem far, and all seems safe. One cannot imagine that concrete jungle as a place where we lose ourselves and become so easily distracted that we are consumed from the inside without even knowing it. That is, of course, if we do not remember secret Himalayan recipes.

That evening we sat around the wood-fed fire, in conversation and silence, once more crossing barriers of language, class and culture. The reflection and reconnection flowed in and out of me as I remembered the days when this was my home – and my classroom. Amongst people and panchayats there are always lessons to be learned about strength and bonds and struggle. Catching up on new developments of the village, discussing the never-ending work required for daily life, sharing arbitrary details of the days in between our brief time together – we added the ingredients of the night – organic vegetables, freshly-ground spices, and mutual respect and affection. They say food is love and in these parts it always tastes better.

In the morning when it was time to leave, ten year-old Jyoti walked me to the forest where I would spend the next couple hours searching for the right path back. After we began going our separate ways, she quickly turned around, and with a frown on her face she scowled, “Next time you come, you come and stay for a week, you hear me?”

How do simple words pierce organs? Why is it so easy to connect with what remains so radically different? What does it mean to melt? We want to grasp what cannot be held; we want to know for sure what we don’t understand; we want it all to make sense some day.

The questions come much easier than any answer. But I suppose some secrets are better worth keeping.

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.

Journeys in Service Captures an Indicorps Decade

Journeys in Service Captures an Indicorps Decade

Shezeen Suleman’s project was to help ensure the availability of safe and adequate drinking water in Ludiya and surrounding villages. “I brought my thousand page hydrology book from college thinking it would be the best resource I had, and it was utterly useless. I had to re-learn how to learn,” she remembers. Starting with what she describes as “a thousand cups of chai” with people across the area, Shezeen learned the value of the knowledge that does not always appear in textbooks or Western universities. – “Beyond Relief” – Journeys in Service, p 11

Looking back, one of the greatest lessons I have learned is to hold nothing back and trust the process. A part of this trust is the realization that just because you cannot see the change you are looking for does not mean it is not there. In a place where everything is so unfamiliar, why would change be so easily recognizable? – “Service for the Soul” – Journeys in Service, p 112

Indicorps excitedly announces the release of Journeys in Service, a new book which commemorates a decade of innovative experiments in social change. Indicorps runs a one to two year intensive, grassroots fellowship program which challenges Indian youth to reconnect to India through hands-on development projects. Over the years, hundreds of fellows were willing to throw their belongings in a backpack, live under any conditions, and embark on a journey to change themselves and the world.

In an effort to document the impact of the Indicorps experiment, alumnus Gaurav Madan criss-crossed India and re-visited a diverse array of projects. The projects range from a maternal health initiative in the unforgiving desert of Rajasthan to a critically-acclaimed play featuring youth from the slums of Bombay. Journeys in Service shares ten stories that provide insight into Indicorps’ journey, our local partner organizations across India, and the communities that are the backbone of our learning. He penned these narratives based on his research, personal interactions, and hundreds of interviews.

Journeys in Service brings to life Indicorps’ unique approach to service and development. The cuts are deep, the edges sharp, and the learning profound. Come join us in our journeys in service.

Individuals and organizations interested in ordering copies of Journeys in Service should contact Gaurav and Vijay at book@indicorps.org.

Indicorps is a non-partisan, non-religious, non-profit organization that encourages young Indians throughout the world to give a year of dedicated service to the country of their heritage. Indicorps is a US-based 501(c)(3) organization.

Just Like Alloo

When I was younger I was terrified of train stations in this country. The sheer number of people was enough to overwhelm my ten year-old grasp on reality. The mixture of prickly smells colonized my Western-adapted nose with utterly strange odors. And the teeming and seeming chaos, the proximity to poverty I was used to only witnessing from the other side of a car window, was a spectacle that was incomparable to the sanitized environment in which I had grown up. In short, it was crazy. But what could I do? I was there on the platform; I had to take the next steps forward.

Traveling has always made me a little nervous. In the Indian context, when I was a child this fact was even more pronounced. I remember one instance, sitting on the train between the blue train berths I would become so familiar with later in life, crying in my grandmother’s lap. I was convinced that I would be separated from my parents in a sea of people and never see them again. The squawks of the vendors walking through each compartment were almost equally unnerving. “Snakes! Drinks! Snakes!” I couldn’t understand what strange place I was in where people would be selling snakes along with soda. My grandmother, who was thoroughly amused by my hysterics, explained these “snakes” were actually snacks. Over the years as my understanding grew my fears eventually subsided, and a connection to this place was well underway.

Recalling all the drama, its ironic the project I find myself engaged in today. I have been on the road visiting NGOs all over the country penning the stories of individuals and organizations dedicated to the transformation of Indian society. Over the last three months, let alone the last two years, I have lost count of the number of trains and buses. The means of the journey have certainly added layers of value and tribulation to the experience. From sleeping on the floor of platforms (gross) to sleeping on the floor of trains (so much grosser), the way has not always been the most comfortable.

So when my recent train journey happened to by an AC ride, it almost threw me off. I will save you dear readers from the constant grappling and reflections on wealth and privilege. However, I will say this, it seems like there is a certain segment of the population in India that is totally clueless about how everyday people exist.

Continuously oscillating from urban to rural, air-conditioned to sweltering, and slums to villas to villages, a conversation from the year I spent in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand keeps coming back to me. One day, during a visit to a field office I was working in the cook turned to me and said, “You know what? You’re just like alloo (potato). You go with everything” (Potato is a common vegetable that is cooked with almost every vegetable dish). I didn’t realize he would be so right, and how much like alloo I would have to become.

Living in India, for the better part of the past two years in such a manner, at times conjures up a strong love-hate relationship. There have been moments when I have felt such intense anger. I went into a tirade about how I don’t even have to be in this country after being asked for a bribe to get a seat on a train. Seeing tiny children defecate openly on the streets brings such feelings of despair, not because it’s unfortunate, but because it will only add to the cycle of disease and poverty. And yet, there is something magical here as well, – the freedom from the nagging insecurity and superficiality that bombards suburban youth back home. The camraderie between strangers. The subtle, yet unmistakable, familiarity in the air.

But perhaps what encompasses the love-hate feeling most is hanging out the door of a train. With the breeze whipping your face, you can take in the beauty of the countryside. The heart of India is exposed in its villages, and the simplicity and mindfulness behind each day. Look to one side and the perpetual rain of litter and plastic pours out of the side of the train. How does one convey that infuriation is an understatement? And it’s like, “What am I even doing here?” But each step must be taken forward. There is another stop to reach, a different reality to understand, and the challenge of remaining the same person throughout it all.

Truth and Reconciliation

I have consistently failed to be able to reconcile the different realities that have been the setting to my recent experiences. Returning to India I spent the first few days in Delhi, with my family. At first it kept me restless. I didn’t know how to reconcile this reality, my background, with the other I was living for most of my time here in India last year. Working in rural Himalaya, the villages I lived in became almost as familiar to me as any other home. In comparison, these villagers have less, their lives harder, their opportunities fewer. Yet engaging in these communities, working together, there was meaningful action towards a common goal.

When I returned to the US last September I found myself in a similar predicament. I struggled to make sense of the different realities I had so intensely given myself to, and what it meant to be back home. So far I have found myself resigned to the idea of not being able to reconcile such different worlds. While they both exist, both very real and indeed connected, I have accepted that my interactions in these places are different, and can be at times contradictory. I understand that I must carry on in each however, having a foot in each world, struggling to understand my role as I pursue my own passions and search for my own meaning. And this too is a privilege, but one I reckon I should embrace.

These recurring discussions come as I barrel through the countryside, packed ever-so tightly on a train towards Ahmedabad. Michael Jackson in the headphones, I smile whenever a glimpse is afforded of the blue seats filled with my countrymen and women. We joke, in a way that makes me feel we all are actually in this together. India and its people, always vibrant and full of commentary. It’s already sweaty and sticky, and only February. The heat hasn’t kicked in yet. Just give it another week. And as I sit here squashed between more bodies than I can see or count, maybe the key is embracing the best of all worlds, wherever we may come from, and wherever we may go. There is value and wisdom wherever one is open to finding it.

And while certainly not nearly as serious as genocide in Rwanda, civil war in El Salvador or apartheid in South Africa, truth and reconciliation remains an ongoing process in this journey. The truth remains I am privileged, I believe in working for justice, and I love to revel in the comfort that at times seems like many of us are born addicted to. They all partly define this journey and are never new thoughts. For me personally, it’s about striking a balance in a world of extremes. And hopefully finding new insights.

The Return of Masala Justice

In a matter of days I will be returning to the motherland to once more dive into the masala. And while it won’t exactly be the India that most of us see from abroad, the India crystallized through Bollywood scenes, the magic that permeates the air (real and on the screen) originates in the country’s heart.

Flowing through the veins and arteries in the fields and villages, through the urban centers amongst the throngs, that’s where you can find the magic. The stuff both dreams, and reality are made of. Over the next five months I hope to once more be taken hold by that heart.

Partnered with Indicorps, I will be embarking on a project that will take me across the subcontinent. I will be visiting ten NGOs Indicorps has partnered with over ten fellowship classes. Conducting an assessment of sorts, I will be penning narratives from each. By capturing stories from each organization, reflecting on the Indicorps philosophy and experience, and interacting with communities across the country I hope the culmination of this project will help to engage the development community and Diaspora in a discussion regarding the importance of youth service and leadership in India’s development. I hope to further explore the transformative nature of intense service, and the value of collective struggle.

It’s another journey into the true heart of India and into the hearts of those who believe in something more than your average Bollywood/Hollywood film. So this is the preview. Picture it as well as you can, choreographed dance scenes included. Of countless hours on trains, and more villages than I can name. The changing landscapes and unexpected plot twists. But really it’s the people that make the film worth watching. All of those who aren’t our average Bollywood heroes and heroines. There is much to be learned from these places and people, about humility, and struggle, and laughter. What keeps us going is the inspiration in the air, the belief that there is something more out there beyond material comforts and packaged re-affirmations. Oh yeah, and it’s going to be hot.

This past September, after spending 14 months in India I returned home to the United States. Five months in suburbia have certainly highlighted the disparities in mindsets from one place to another. It is these changes in mentality that are much more interesting than any sort of difference in standards of comfort. The next five months on the move will certainly present another reality. These two extremes have come to define my life over the past couple years, but the opportunity to once more embrace the struggle excites me. It’s not just breaking out of my own comfort, or navigating living with contradiction. It is also the larger, more pressing idea of struggle; the struggle for dignity, for justice, for sustainable, inclusive communities.

In a matter of days I will be returning. What guides me from still so far is the film’s tagline. It’s the tagline for the struggle, the personal, the public, the belief that another world is possible. It reads below the glossy cover image (you choose, the dark, mystical rural landscape that holds all your deepest fears and hopes, the blurry train in motion on its epic journey , or the rain drenched hero with his dismantled ego beside him). “The heart is a muscle the size of your fist. Keep fighting. Keep loving.”

It’s just a matter of hours now. It’s time. Keep reading.