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.

Departing Harlem: Celebrating Malcolm X's 86th Birthday

“Malcolm! X! Malcolm! X!” As I walked up to 1-2-5 one last time before I left Harlem for the summer, I was quickly drawn to the chants and critical mass of marchers. After a year in Harlem studying international affairs and human rights “up the hill”, the opportunity to honor the legacy of an American civil rights legend seemed a fitting way to spend my last day.

The lasting impact Malcolm X has had on American society cannot be understated. Many a teenager reads The Autobiography of Malcolm X at one time or another, following the incredible transformation and development of a man fighting for dignity in a vicious society. Malcolm’s ever-evolving philosophy and the story of his struggle for civil rights, social justice, and human dignity is not only a story of the United States of America; it is one that characterizes the complex nature of the turbulent times that often surround revolutionary movements.

Malcolm’s own evolution from hustler to community organizer to political leader, and his eventual split from the Nation of Islam and later political vision, no doubt form many parts of a captivating narrative. Malcolm’s scathing critiques of the violence, racism, and hypocrisy, that pervaded his time have never failed to be thought-provoking, even decades after his assassination.

In the words of late Columbia Professor Manning Marable:

“Malcolm X was the most remarkable historical figure produced by Black America in the 20th century. That’s a heavy statement, but I think that in his 39 short years of life, Malcolm came to symbolize black urban America, its culture, its politics, its militancy, its outrage against structural racism, and at the end of his life, a broad internationalist vision of emancipatory power far better than any other single individual...”

Transitions often mark appropriate opportunities for reflection. As I followed the red-black-and-green flags through Harlem, and looked back at the past year, Marable’s assessment of Malcolm X seems more than relevant. Malcolm’s intentional efforts to connect the struggles of black Americans to the struggles of liberation movements in Africa and Asia embodied solidarity in the most practical sense. His commitment to emancipation and ability to understand the importance of connecting movements at home and abroad could not be more salient at the moment.

Today, Malcolm’s message continues to resonate with a diverse array of people: from high school kids in Harlem, to Black Panthers, to African storeowners, street vendors, random passer-bys (and at least one bougie grad student with his fist held high). To witness this plurality in celebration is both encouraging and endearing.

However, we also see Malcolm’s beliefs in basic human dignity, human rights, and freedom, across oceans. We see a similar fire in Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation and the revolt that literally shook the stones in Tahrir Square. The revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt, and the continued uprisings, embody the potential of true people’s power.

In the words of (another) Columbia Professor Rashid Khalidi:

“Egypt is now thought of as an exciting and progressive place; its people’s expressions of solidarity are welcomed by demonstrators in Madison, Wisconsin; and its bright young activists are seen as models for a new kind of twenty-first-century mobilization. ... The Arab states have a long way to go to undo the terrible legacy of repression and stagnation and move toward democracy, the rule of law, social justice and dignity, which have been the universal demands of their peoples during this Arab spring. The term ‘dignity’ involves a dual demand: first, for the dignity of the individual in the face of rulers who treat their subjects as without rights and beneath contempt. But there is also a demand for the collective dignity of proud states like Egypt, and of the Arabs as a people.”

The Arab Spring in its most inspiring forms is a manifestation of the potential of collective action aimed at re-shaping societies in line with values of social justice, freedom, and dignity; as well as an unequivocal rejection of violently repressive, morally corrupt, and illegitimate regimes that, as Khalidi explains, hold their own citizens with contempt. The battles against oppression that are igniting hearts and minds across the world, are the same that Malcolm and many others before and after him have fought in this country. Malcolm’s message of solidarity to connect what is happening overseas to our struggles at home cannot be lost on us now.

Marching through Harlem, invoking the legacy of Malcolm X, reminded me of the days of our youth. It reminded me of the rallies we organized, teach-ins we set up, concerts we held, and indeed the marches in which we took part. But today with a large portion of the world on fire, and the first year of a graduate degree under my belt, it is those months leading up to the United States invasion of Iraq and the palpable despair following “shock-and-awe” that still burns vividly in my memory.

It was then that we recited many of the same chants echoed today about people’s power before our country illegally, immorally invaded Iraq and forever changed the way many youth in this country viewed their own government, and certainly how millions all over the world viewed the United States. Those days that were characterized by blatant lies, largely regurgitated by a spineless media machine, made many of us feel like the Bush administration viewed us with contempt. And we should remember, Malcolm X and Dr. King, and all those that opposed aggressive military interventionism, connected the struggle for racial equality at home with the movement against war in Vietnam.

As the chants of, “Power to the people!” “Black Power!” and “Shut it down!” echoed past the Apollo, I noticed that the whole street indeed had been shut down. In fact, from 1-4 pm every single store on 125 was asked to close to honor Malcolm’s legacy. (Yes, even the H&M and Starbucks complied). “How are we going to do it? The hard way!”

Maybe this is what we can take away on this 86^th birthday celebration. Our struggles for human rights such as universal health care, quality education, and affordable housing can be connected with other struggles at home and abroad. Just like Malcolm, just like Egypt, we are willing to do it the hard way.

On a sunny day in May, these are the whirlwind of thoughts I leave New York with to make my way to another world. Once again, I will be migrating briefly to the world’s largest democracy; a place where the values of social justice, freedom, and human dignity are in need of being invoked in the face of crushing poverty, gross inequality, and rampant corruption. Departing Harlem on Malcolm X’s birthday seems like favorable auspices to be leaving under. It is a reminder of the work that is still needed to be done, the plurality of perspectives to draw from, and the beauty of community-centered living. From New York to New Delhi, I personally wish to find within the strength, foresight, and heart necessary to continue to connect the dots.

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.

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?

From Kutch: Reflections on Change

A few weeks ago I was in the Silver Spring, counting blizzards as the feet of snow piled up. Today I sit in Kassam Kaka’s home, in the village of Tugah. I’m here to reflect on change, social change to be exact. Projects and experiments, that began nearly a decade ago, initiated to work alongside communities in earthquake (2001) affected villages. I’m here to piece together the stories of Mana bhen and Rava bhai, of Indicorp fellows – Shezeen, Anjali and Samina, and try and weave together a narrative that tells one part of a larger story.

As I interview women who work with Gram Shree, a women's empowerment organization, I can’t help but steal glances at their striking dress and amazing jewelry. The aesthetic is inescapable. The vibrancy and color of life is in sharp juxtaposition with the arid, barren landscape. The earth below is cracked, dry. The blinding afternoon sun leaves moments like these, to embrace the shade, and reflect. And even still, it’s hot, like red hot.

It’s hardly been two days in Kutch. There is a certain pride that is apparent here amongst people. Despite such a harsh climate, a lack of water and significant isolation there is a sureness of the way of life and existence in a way that expresses no feelings of threat from outside. As Kora bhen says, “What works for us, works for us. What works for others, is good for them.”

It’s strange to be here so temporarily. It’s almost as if I am simply taking, with nothing to really offer. But it reminds of something Jayesh bhai once said, “Those who want to give must also be ready to receive humbly.” And it’s sort of ironic, that even after a year of service in villages at the foothills of the Himalayas, with a Western education, and an exciting project here in India, I am still receiving.

Last night I slept so well, outside, under the stars. They were beautiful. Even though it is blazing hot here throughout the day, the nights are cool and early morning hours cold. I suppose that’s the desert for you. The snow and streets of Washington, DC are far, far away. And it seems that in just a few weeks – from Delhi to Ahmedabad to Kutch, these reflections on change are only beginning.

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.

So What’ll You Do Now?

After 14 months in India, an intense year of service and discovery, and living and working in the most rural area I have ever been to, I have returned back to the United States of America (YOU-ES-AY). This has included returning to the beacon of light that is suburbia and to the constant questions of: “What are you going to do now? How does this all fit into your career?” Inevitably, the advice comes that enough is enough already, and it’s time to settle down…

It hasn’t always been easy having the same conversations, being asked the same questions, telling the same stories. It’s hard trying to express depths of emotion, by request. It’s not something that can be switched on and off. And there are times when I can’t really go there.

The challenge is getting it across in a way that isn’t regurgitating a myth I have created in my head, but more so being aware that I actually did this, and it has had a profound impact on me. It’s hard to be able to switch on something so enormous, and dynamic, especially when it’s something you are still processing. My answer has been to live in the present so completely. But what has grounded me these past two weeks is knowing what I have just done, where I am coming from, and where I want to go from here.

So what next? Beyond the clichéd answers of jobs, and GREs, and grad school applications. Beyond the compost pile out back and trying to live all the thoughts that perspective brings, the real answer is one that goes to the heart of the question. That is if you really wanna go there. So in the words of Bob:

I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

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.