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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.