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. 

Of Bankers and Beggars

My dad grew up in one of the wealthiest parts of Bombay. The son of a successful and world-renowned economist, he spent his formative years living on Marine Drive. Given the freedom many teenagers dream of, my dad spent much of his time outside of the house. It was on these streets, I have been told, that my father made many friends playing with the children of bankers and beggars. He was a graduate of Cathedral High School, and knowing what I do, I can only imagine portions of the lifestyle he led.

My own experiences in India have already led me to many diverse parts of the country, interacting with people from a cross-section of the population, from rural, rain-starved villages to the sprawling cities of Delhi and Bombay. I have had many conversations and seen many different sides of this vast land. I have found answers and even more questions, as reflection has become a natural part of my regular thinking. This has included being so profoundly impressed with youth from the slums over a cup of chai, and bonding with family in some of the wealthier areas of the same Bombay, over Chinese food.

Bombay is a city of approximately 20 million (including the surrounding suburbs). This is roughly almost the same population as the continent of Australia. It is here that I have been gathering information about the work of Akanksha, an organization dedicated to the education and empowerment of underprivileged youth. Specifically, I have been piecing together the story of a musical that was put on in 2003 and the lives of some of those individuals involved. It has been my interactions and conversations with some of these individuals my own age, which have really struck me. It is not the fact that Sangeeta and Prashant speak flawless English, nor is it that Mohar and Devdas are able to articulate so much, about their hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations, that amazes me. I cannot say enough about the people they are with the worldview and values they hold. Listening to their stories, meeting their families in the slums they live in, has been truly humbling. From Devdas’s dreams to act, to Sangeeta living her life as a strong, independent woman, each day has left with a wave of inspiration and plenty to reflect on.

Today, each of the Akanksha graduates I spoke with have their own dreams and face their own challenges. Each of them is almost solely responsible for their family’s economic situation. But despite such challenges, many of the Akanksha graduates I met have an attitude of self-confidence and positivity toward the future. There are way too many bits and pieces of conversations I could relay about their backgrounds and journeys for me to even begin here. Prashant, who went through the Akanksha’s non-formal school system and is now a social worker with the organization, tells me, "Most kids don’t get the opportunity to excel the way we have [from Akanksha]. We are the lucky ones, who get this opportunity. You see so many people who struggle in life, and then you realize you don’t have that much to crib about."

As I sit and look over the cityscape I think about the life I have been given. The choices I have made that have continuously brought me back to the country of my father and mother. This city is huge, this country huger. Walking along Marine Drive, visiting Cathedral High School, I think about the fact that if my parents did not leave, is this where I would have grown up? Regardless, it is the values that my own parents have passed on to me that have brought me back to India. It is the encouragement I received from my father when I was trying to organize high school students back in Silver Spring. And it is the support that I still receive from my mother as I take a path that most NRI youth do not, that have allowed to continue on this journey. My mom tells me that it is my vasanas, my deeds from my past life, which have led me to take the path I have. But I don’t think it has to be so intense to want to serve. There is so much I have already received from my own experiments with social change, and exposure to change-makers that has enriched my own, comfortable life. But the world we seek is still something we are reaching for. What are you willing to do for change?

Journey(s)

Journeys. Much is made of the word and its’ associated meanings by the Indicorps brigade. At this point, any further attempt by me is certainly certified clichéd. And as I sit on this train and journey on, this time towards Nagpur, it all seems fittingly framed through the horizontal metal blue bars across the window.

Some of the paint is chipped, some of the dust is still settling, but it all keeps moving. I see the traffic of the city flowing by, kinda insane, but at the same time normal. The city lights pass, as do the slums. The heaps of garbage, the congregations of rag pickers next to the pristine walled-in green, green lawns. Soon the urban landscape fades and it is back to the khet – and rural India. This time in the plains, far away from the villages I know in that corner of Himalaya.

And so the recurrent conversation of this year (or is it this lifetime?) returns – of journeys, and understanding, or rather struggling to make sense of it all. Of wealth and privilege, and urban and rural, and where I’m coming from, and truly where I’m going. Not simply Anandwan or Sewagram, but where will it all lead? When do the answers come? And where do we go to find them when questions only become a little sharper? Cut a little deeper?

The moon is full. It shines light down on the setting below bearing witness to the journey. The singular and the plural – weaving in and out of one another, like the strands of a double helix. Connecting and disengaging. And I told you so. Totally, certified clichéd.