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. 

I, of the Storm

The sun’s rays crackle through branches of green. In this soft, yellow light an unusual calm washes over the scene. The trees sway ever so gently. The leaves flutter.  Through the crickets’ sirens, I try and listen to what the wind is saying.

There is no moment other than this (for every moment is one and the same – not separate – forever connected).  I struggle to remain still, following my breath. Shedding all pretenses and self-consciousness, right now it all makes sense. And I want to burst.

In stillness there is the reminder that the wind is worship.  Closing my eyes all I see is the brightest red.  Like Krishna if only I could inhale the sun. But I’m not searching for an additional god complex. Instead there is consolation in the rise and fall of my chest.

The wind whispers there are many changes to come. And while peace reigns, the reality is that moments are fleeting with a muddled mind at work. I must improve my practice for there is a nervousness bubbling deep down in the dark of my being that will claim me in the days to come if I do not tend to it.

I have found that in a life of extremes finding balance is the continuous challenge. If only I could be as still as the trees – taming the riot raging within me, weathering the storms that will rock my heart. The fading light bears witness to the sensations of breathing, as each coming moment ensures the movement continues.

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.

Panther Baby/The Human Condition

I arrived at the party inspired, optimistic, and moved by revolutionary love. The gathering, however, was not what I hoped. It largely consisted of me shouting about the lecture I had just attended: a Columbia professor, and former Black Panther, speaking on the release of his new book documenting his coming of age with the black radical community-based organization.

I left the party fiending, unsatisfied, and alone. It was as if the entire evening I was searching for something that's time hadn't come. Quickly exhausting my options for a fix, I resigned myself to the fate of going home at 2 AM empty-handed.

Ahead was the public safety bus. At least I wouldn’t have to walk the short 12 blocks home. Accepting consolation in quick travel, I boarded the empty bus, greeted the driver, and took my seat.

Looking in her rear view mirror, she said, “Please flash your ID so I can see it.”

“Right on,” I said as I took out my ID from my wallet.

“Where are you going?”

“One-oh-six.”

“One-oh-six?”

“Right on.”

After some moments passed, she looked up and asked, “Are people saying that again?”

“What?”

“Is that something people are saying again? ‘Right on.’ Do a lot of people you know say it?”

“I mean, I say it all the time.”

“I know people from the ‘60s used to talk like that. I don’t hear people saying that anymore.”

I thought about what she said. I thought about what I had been shouting about all night –the need I felt to connect to the world around me. The fire I was trying to keep going in my own heart; the reminder that it was beating.

“Well you know, actually, I went to this event tonight,” I began. “I’ve been talking about it all night. You see, there’s a professor here and he just wrote this book. He was telling his story of how he joined the Panthers when he was 15 years old. After Dr. King was assassinated, sharing his grandmother’s tears. He spoke so beautifully about the struggle.”

She seemed to be listening. And I was just getting started. I continued on excitedly explaining the jewels of wisdom I had heard that evening. “There was an understanding of community and connection. It was about the breakfast programs and health clinics. In the face of infiltration and repression, the motivation was serving the needs of the people. It seemed so right –just before I graduate, to hear Jamal Joseph break it down tonight.”

She was silent. But by this point, I wasn’t expecting anything. After all, I had been telling the same story all night and except for a few friends, no one was really trying to hear me.
I stopped talking. She reached into her bag on the ground next to her and pulled out a book. There it was. The stories I heard and been trying to re-tell all evening. There in her hands I read the cover – Panther Baby.

“Were you there this evening?” I asked.

“No. I had to work,” she said.

As we sat there, parked in front of the gates of the University she asked, “How do you think you will translate what you heard tonight into your life?”

I talked about my student activist days and what the Ten Point Program meant to me when I was a teenager. How the journey that started somewhere with disrupting high school hallways took me to villages in India as a community organizer. I talked about how roots run deep.

And then, all of a sudden, I caught myself. All I had done the entire evening was rant and rave about human dignity and social justice and knowing history and where you are going. “What is your connection to all of this? Where does your interest lie?”

“The human condition,” she responded point-blankly as we drove down Amsterdam Avenue. “The way we choose to interact with each other.”

My stop had come. As we shook hands and exchanged contacts on ripped out pieces of magazine paper I realized what I had been searching for all evening had finally been willed into happening on a ten-minute bus ride.

Throughout our lives we attract certain people. Sometimes in order to reach out across the abyss of our alienation, to share the stories that were shared with us, we need the frustration, the struggle, the persistence to find what we are looking for. And when we have nearly given up, in the places we least expect to find it, there is a reminder of what it’s all about.

An Education in Itself

It's unseasonably warm for winter in the city. A breeze that would normally sway the icicles hanging from my ribcage, instead brushes against warmer bones. I round the corner of 116^th and nod to Nabil, who is busy with a line of hungry customers congregated around his halal cart. I keep walking – past the masjid where evening prayers are ending. The street is crowded with smiles and I weave through the enthusiastic exchange of African and French greetings. Turning the next corner, I cross paths with the youngsters who make their cash on these sidewalks. An exchange of glances, an acknowledgement, and it's back home.

When I moved to New York I thought it important to be rooted in a community. To know my neighbors. To have a sense of reality. My neighborhood was the eclectic Uptown mix. From the Moroccans at the cart, to the Yemeni stores on each corner, to the Dominicans who insisted on calling me 'Primo', to the West Africans who had come from Senegal, Mali, Cote D'Ivoire, Guinea Bissau and elsewhere – it was nice to be surrounded by brown people.

Over the next year and a half, I would learn from all of them – looking, listening and absorbing life lived daily on the streets of the concrete jungle. This process would require figuring out the ins and outs of the neighborhood – reminiscent of discovering much of the same during those years spent in Himalayan villages and on continuous train journeys. Uptown, with its changing face, would become the setting of all my adventures and misadventures, and it would be Harlem that would become home.

Every day, I would attend one of the premier educational institutions of the country (with its self-proclaimed prestige, dynamic academics, and absurd tuition), but every night return to 115^th. My time in Harlem has constituted an education in itself. My experiences added texture and a dose of reality, to what I would hear about human rights, development, and poverty in the classroom. My roommate, who had grown up in the neighborhood, would tell stories about how he saw it all change. How crack had decimated the community and how the effects of addiction became part of daily life. And there remain the on-going debates over gentrification and the continuing battles over land and property.

For me, the affluent and working class cultures of Harlem have been uplifting. The legacies of past residents: Hughes and Ellison, Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey, and Baldwin, Belafonte and Robeson remain powerful. And on top of all that, the crowds on 125^th street, the bazaar-like atmosphere, and the street hawkers selling everything from scented oils to incense to bootleg DVDs would never fail to invoke memories of India. I often asked nearly everyone I met where they are from, trying to draw out their stories. However, it was those young men on the corner, who provided the sharpest and realest points of reference.

Education takes many forms, if we are open to learning from all that we see and do. On my block, there were also the addicts, the junkies, the sirens and arrests, and the not-so-nice landlady downstairs – who would blast her radio at 8 am sending shockwaves through my bedroom floor. Each has added layers to my own growth and understanding. As the pages turn to another chapter, the plan is for Harlem – the only home I have known in New York – to remain home for now. In all its ups and downs it has remained a place of learning, and in the end, what more could you ask for?

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.

Democracy is Not a Spectator Sport

On a sunny afternoon in October, a student contingent that constituted one part of a critical mass of concerned citizens, stepped off from 116^th Street and the gates of the Ivory Tower. Downtown Manhattan was flooded. The drums provided the beat to the peaceful insurrection fomenting in the streets.

Last Wednesday, I joined tens of thousands of people near Wall Street in a beautiful display of direct democracy. Marching alongside the New York State Nurses Association, the message was clear: We the people – the students, workers, and teachers; the nurses, social workers, and veterans; the tired, fed up, and ignored – the 99% had joined hands in our common struggle. The gross concentration of economic and political power in the hands of a tiny class of elites was cause enough to take leave from whatever class we had, job we worked, or hectic life we lived.

A high school social studies teacher from Long Island, who took the day off to join the protests, explained, “This is the most exciting thing that has happened in this country in a long time. If there is going to be any change it’s in the hands of the youth. They have to make it happen.”

Downtown the air was electric, the optimism palpable. Organized labor was out in full effect. You know you must be on the right side of things (or things are just that bad) when you are marching alongside nurses, librarians and teachers. And from corner to corner, street to street, a plurality of voices had occupied every square foot of concrete.

But despite the strong showing, one critique I repeatedly hear in the halls and classrooms of the Ivory Tower is that the Occupy Wall Street protests remain unfocused and unclear. There are too many issues, too many voices, and no clear demands.

Really? Do we really need to kick the economics of it?

Over the past decade we have witnessed our taxpaying dollars being wasted on unnecessarily large defense budgets that have often been used for imperialistic misadventures across the globe. In turn, we have seen private contractors and private corporations profit through no-bid contracts, no accountability, and no end in sight.

We have been criminalized and attacked through a racist war on drugs that strains our justice system wasting significant amounts of time, energy, and money. And when our country faced a dire financial crisis many people felt large banking institutions were bailed out, while everyday Americans were sold out, as they lost their jobs, homes, pensions, watched their health care costs rise, and their (student loan) debt soar.

The Occupy Movement targets a system which prioritizes corporate interests over national ones, places profit over people and is inconsistent in upholding basic human rights. However, the concentration of wealth and power are bigger than bailouts.

We cannot look at the struggles for economic, racial, and social and political justice as separate. Each reinforces the other. Claiming a movement that identifies each of these interconnected issues is unfocused and without clear demands, is frankly shortsighted and unimaginative. And those who have worked hard enough to earn their seats and scholarships in the Ivory Tower cannot afford to be shortsighted or unimaginative. Without an imagination the whole history of human progress would be left abridged and obsolete.

Last Friday, I joined the Occupy DC movement and marched from Freedom Plaza to the headquarters of the International Monetary Fund – continuing to connect the dots for economic justice at home and abroad. In both New York and Washington there were more than some who could not help but draw inspiration from this year’s revolutions in the Middle East and North Africa.

Although others are hesitant to invoke Tahrir Square in fear of detracting from the struggles of those who overthrew repressive dictatorships, for me it was about drawing strength, and showing solidarity, with the struggles for human dignity and social justice that have resonated across oceans. While where to draw inspiration from is not limited to the post-colonial kids of Cairo, the movement is infectious. In the past few weeks alone, the Occupy Movement has spread to hundreds of communities across the United States of America.

What is striking about these protests that have captured the hearts and minds of everyday people across the country is that there is no allusion to any sort of mainstream political party (spineless or otherwise). Maybe we have simply learned that democracy is not a spectator sport. And who would have ever thought that tens of thousands of people resisting repressive regimes and struggling for human dignity on the other side of the world – the Arab Spring – would inform the American Autumn.

Despite police intimidation and city orders, the movement will continue. But not only through protests and marches. It will be the tough conversations and the community organizing on the most basic level. It will involve asking challenging questions and encouraging the individual and collective expression of our hopes and dreams. It will be with those who are tired but do not stop, for those voices are hardest to hear but still have something to say, for those who only have bones to show for their struggle.

So to all those in the Ivory Tower who see this latest manifestation of resistance as unfocused or unclear and continue to become paralyzed by the question, "But will any of this really amount to anything tangible?" You will never know unless you join in. And the truth is – it has to. The current system of unfettered consumption is simply unsustainable.

Our hearts are big, and so is the amount of love we have to give. On a sunny day in October, perhaps the collective feeling that pervaded Foley Square could be summed up in the sign that read, "This is the most hopeful I have felt in a long time."

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.