Dilli without the Rains

Delhi without the rains is deserted dust rising from the asphalt. A stifling heat so complete it bears down without discrimination or mercy. Hotter than an eight percent growth rate, it is a blinding white light that reflects a city on its hustle. All at once fighting to eat and chasing every latest fashion with a consumerism that would put New York City to shame.

Delhi without the rains is coming home the first night to find the plastic of your toothbrush melted.  Its three baths a day, where the water from the tap is always hot – percolating in metal pipes for hours at a time. It’s the ruin of the Fair and Lovely – and once more turning the color of the earth from the sun kiss, a welcome reminder to confused travelers returning from distant shores.

It means walking through a ceaseless cloud of hot air expectant with humidity. In an ancient city the monuments from the past pop up without warning. And despite the ubiquitous warmth, the beads of sweat that suddenly appear take you by surprise. They trickle down your forehead in a perpetual stream, tracing the shape of your upper lip. You never realized your body could pour buckets of sweat. Sweat that stealthily runs down your back, clinging to your clothes.

Perpetually damp, it’s only the privilege of air-conditioned rooms that bring the controlled climate you have known. And when then electricity goes, it means sleeping on the terrace like you did as a child on strange summer adventures in the houses your parents told you they grew up in. The distant hum of generators reverberating off the cooler stone below, gently lulling you to asleep.

Delhi without the rains is the buildup before the burst.  Above, the clouds quietly congregate. With eyes tilted skyward our gaze carries the hopes for our collective stupor to shift: from an intense malaise to an outpouring of gratitude.

And with these final keystrokes, it begins first as a drizzle. Yet within minutes the downpour has become torrential. Before you know it, the rain has ceased to fall downwards. It whips like the wind, horizontally pulling everything in its path, bringing down trees and telephone poles.  If only it will last. If only it will return again tomorrow.

And so Delhi remains what it was and always has been.  A house where my Nanima consistently chastises me for not taking one more roti, not having one more spoon of dal, for never eating enough.  A resting place along the journey where I ensure the flicker of the TV alternates between reruns of the Mahabharat and kitschy Bollywood music videos. It is, amidst the chaos, a repeated site of reflection. A reminder of yet another opportunity to make sense of these thoughts and these words and these footsteps that only move forward.

And God Laughs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sundays Aboard the Hari Om Express

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What They Tell Me

It’s like I’ve been running a marathon. I know this ground beneath my feet. I know it well. I’ve run and walked and crawled through these forests and villages and hectic city streets. I know where I stand. At least, I think I do.

I can see I’m approaching the end. In front of me is a really steep hill – going down. And I’m running; because either I don’t know how to stop or I don’t want to slow down. My feet are carrying me forward, acting independently – or rather ahead of – my mind.

The finish line looks close. Closer than it actually is. I’m so focused on that finish line that I’m starting to stumble. I can no longer pay attention to the mud and the dust below. I can’t see the setting sun draw orange and purple streaks on the clouds. I can’t see the proud silhouettes of palm trees waving in the wind.  I want to look around, but temptation is winning. My eyes stay glued ahead of me. 

I’m losing my footing. Down the hill I go. I’m scared I’m going to fall. Crash and burn.

***

I’m blessed. I have this amazing team of supporters and soothsayers behind me. They watch and they listen. They counsel and they guide. Their words and arms and prayers prop me up from across continents and oceans. They love me for who I am, and forgive me all the same. Before I ever stepped on Liberian shores, I knew that we all have to walk our own paths. I tried to remember that we never walk alone.

They tell me I can’t run away from here and now.  I’m not that fast. But more importantly they tell me, I shouldn’t want to move so quickly. This time will never come again. The twists and turns that have shaped the road over this past year will inform my future. And the truth is I’ve learned so much: about land, struggle, and injustice. Such things are not meant to be taken for granted. 

They remind me of what I have. They say just look around. They point to Egypt, Syria, and India.  Perspective enriches eyesight like carrots. 

So, while I plan to return from Liberia slightly bruised, somewhat stronger, and hopefully a little wiser, this opportunity will never come again. Despite the ups and down of the day, the people, places, wide-open skies and ocean breeze remain to see that the learning takes place. Each moment is precious and nearly perfect in its own right.  At least that’s what they tell me. 

Song of Sorrow

It was pitch-black outside. Aside from the wood-fed fires flickering and the occasional flashlight passing-by, I was alone with the bucket of hot water in front of me. Between two mud houses I stripped down naked, balancing my towel and recently discarded clothes on the low-hanging thatch roof. I squatted low to begin to wash the day from me, once again feeling the clay that makes up this body.

Taking off my glasses the world took on the blurry facade those of us with poor eyesight are accustomed. Feeling around for the soap, I began to hear her wails. Perched atop the wet mud ground I tried to make out what she was saying.  Her sorrowful incantations would rise and fall over and over again. It was clear. Someone had died. Her cries of grief (were they in Bassa or English?) took form as a near-song – hallucinogenic and heavy.

Over and over she was asking a question. It is the same question we all ask, in despair: “Why?” And it kept coming. “Why? Why him? Why me? Why God? Why?” Her frequencies, addressed to this world and maybe another, were stirring the air all around. There was no respite, like she was whipping up a storm.  In demand of an answer, her voice – vibrating – set to shatter the fragile night.

Listening, I couldn’t help but think: isn’t this repetitive cry, this call into the darkness, this sad song, a way to make sense of a world turned upside down? Were her echoes questioning His plan, or trying to understand the profound loss that inevitably strikes us all? Perhaps we are all programmed to think there is some comfort worth looking for in hearing our own reprise. That in our darkest moments we can seek refuge in something like song.

Tracing the clay with my fingertips I bathed in silence, her ululations carrying me into the night. 

Notes from the Cut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

State of Concessions

Logs are strewn across a barren field like bones in an elephant graveyard. These trees, recently part of a virgin rainforest, were cut down by a logging company under a dubious contract. In the past months further details have arisen of fraudulent deeds (Private Use Permits – PUPS) used across Liberia to grant logging contracts to foreign companies. The PUP scandal has only fueled the discussion over how the country’s resources are being tapped.

Today, Liberia has one of the highest rates of land concession in Africa. Various reports estimate that anywhere between 45 and 65 % of the country’s total land area has already been granted or promised to foreign investors. This reality stems, in part, from the ideological orientation of the State, which sees land and natural resources as a commodity to be leveraged in order to fuel the country’s growth. The belief is that not only will capital be generated through such projects, but jobs will also be created in the process.

Following this ideology, Liberia’s immense natural wealth – including her land – is steadily being granted to foreign companies through logging, mining, and agricultural plantation contracts.  In recent years around 661,000 hectares were given to two foreign corporations for oil palm production. The same language of foreign investment and economic prosperity that was used in the 1920's to bring Firestone to Liberia (which has faced decades of accusations of violating workers' rights) is being repeated today to justify large-scale agricultural plantation.  

In agrarian societies land is the most important facet of daily life for most people. Threats to rural people’s land tenure bring along the dangers of displacement, dispossession and division.  While many across the world struggle for basic social services awaiting the trickle-down, perhaps it is time to re-examine the prescribed path towards progress.

As vast tracts of land are allocated for concessions, serious questions are being raised about this strategy towards development. What say do local communities have in the allocation of their customary land? How are benefits from these projects being distributed amongst affected communities? And, what will the long-term impacts be of increased competition for land between communities, companies, and government? The deeper you go in the forest, the more blurry the view becomes.

There are those who insist that selling off the country’s resources won’t be an effective way to achieve inclusive development. They claim that no country has successfully risen out of poverty by simply allowing multinational corporations to take over the land. There are also concerns about the impact of large-scale monoculture plantation when it comes to food security and local agricultural improvement. 

It is worth noting that the argument isn’t one for or against investment. It makes sense for a country as naturally wealthy as Liberia to use her resources towards her own progress. However, those who seek to reduce the debate to a binary one – either you are for foreign investment or anti-development – are myopic in their assessment. The issue is how that process of investment takes place.

Instead of ceding large land areas for decades at a time, the goal should be to empower communities to reimagine themselves as the owners of the development process instead of simply the eventual beneficiaries. Just as Gandhi imagined self-sufficient village republics, the modern manifestation of such an idea may be worth exploring. By building the capacity of grassroots governance structures and protecting customary land rights, over time a more equitable and sustainable path forward may be found.

Even the World Bank, historically a driver of policies that prioritize the market, recently released a report which states that when communities manage their lands, resources are protected and a higher rate of economic growth exists.

With the reigns in their hands, local communities can directly manage some of the most important aspects of their lives, from water conservation to irrigation to the shared use of forests. Additionally, they could have more say about which benefits of modernity they adapt, while protecting the important parts of their culture, practices, and tradition. The assistance of the State, and other institutions, in establishing a collective vision would be useful in places where capacities are low. However, the ability of localized decision-making to achieve success and prosperity is already being found in villages and towns, globally. 

Such a vision may be worth considering alongside the current state of concessions. After all, these decisions are not unique to Liberia. They remain relevant for developing societies across the world. Which path countries take will have profound reverberations on the lives of millions for generations to come.  

A Pocket Full of Seashells

With a pocket full of seashells jangling, we tread over sand and surf. With each step, our surroundings come alive. To one side is the Atlantic Ocean – waves crashing – undeterred by human existence. To the other – the world turns with breezy palm groves, busy villages, and new millennium homes. My eyes swallow their share of Liberia’s beauty.

Grinding bare feet into wet sand, I quickly lose myself in thoughts of the future. In a walking daydream, I marvel at the grand structures in front of me. I picture my own home one day: there are rooms with bookshelves, large windows filter the natural light streaming in from outside. Perhaps, I too will boast a balcony towards the sea.  After all, dreams are free to be dreamt by the many. 

Every so often I stop to pick up a glint that catches my eye.  My comrade laughs at me, wondering what I plan on doing with my newfound treasures. Little does he know I haven’t thought this far ahead.

We walk mainly in silence, steadily maneuvering stretches of sand. Soon we come to a giant excavation site with tire tracks leading away. Illegal sand mining: a reminder that despite the luxury of a few, life remains a hustle.

We don’t break stride climbing over sand dunes to higher ground. For the first time since arriving in Liberia, the immediate sense of urgency about my mission is elsewhere. Land grabs, community titles, and unfair agreements take a backseat for a few hours. Right now, the sun beats down on my back, the sound of children plays in my ear, and a feeling of triumph washes over me.

But it all keeps moving. Tomorrow brings a public forum on land rights at the University. And then a return to Rivercess – a place where my dreams can be their most vibrant. Deep in the forest, there are questions of how a country so naturally rich can struggle with providing basic social services? It’s then I remember the lyrics that played non-stop during my youth: “What we don’t know keeps the contract alive and moving.”

The setting sun signals our return. Through neighborhoods of thatch and zinc, we pass the skeletons of unfinished homes. Tall, green grass guards these concrete shells. Outside, big walls separate one reality from another. But dreams of the future don’t know the meaning of such boundaries. Instead, they seep through the cracks, connecting the realities of today with our hopes for tomorrow.

As my pockets hang low with treasures, I return home to see what I’ve collected. Scattering shells, seeds, and stones on my dresser, I try and translate what is front of me. I shift around these un-deciphered hieroglyphics, searching for some message.

Maybe it is as simple as realizing that the natural wealth and beauty of the world belong to everyone. That land – the single most important resource for agrarian societies – should benefit the people.  And those benefits should be distributed to ensure prosperity and dignity for all. 

Deep in the Cut

Deep in the heart of Rivercess County, the mud homes stand completely illuminated by the scorching sun. Their thatch roofs consistently prove match for the daily rains.  Above, the blue sky plays backdrop for the treetops that surround each village. The forests and trees act as a frame, allowing another world to come into focus.

It is in this corner of Liberia where I've been getting my NGO on. Baseline surveys, questions lost in translation, smiles at accents not completely understood. Under the unforgiving afternoon sun, it can be slow and tedious work. But there is something like strength in embracing the unfamiliar, trusting the process, and fighting to win.

The goal: organize local communities to receive formal ownership papers from the State for their customary lands. Land that has no title or deed, simply worked and lived upon for generations. As we seek to build the capacity of communities to manage their land and natural resources, establish community governance structures, and harmonize boundaries with neighboring clans, I realize we are talking about something revolutionary.

The importance of protecting rural land ownership rights rests, in part, on peacebuilding. These efforts are equally tied to sustainable development, social justice, and food security. The larger context is a national and global land rush with community land being sold off to foreign investors, with claims that few benefits are being distributed locally. The added nuance is that communities rightfully want basic social services – roads, schools, clinics, latrines, and employment – and are at times quick to sign agreements with companies.

The journey to the bush is an adventure in itself. Leaving Monrovia behind, the asphalt quickly turns to mud as the countryside extends its open arms. Wrestling the road ensures a constant jostle – back and forth, up and down. Any moment could mean being stuck in six feet of mud for who knows how long. There are times when the bush swallows the dirt path we are passing along, leaving green simply everywhere. After six hours my lower back begins to howl, thankful for our arrival.

The simplicity of life is tough, captured through clichés of young children carrying water along blazing paths. Here your cell phone is of no use. Electricity and sanitation are virtually nonexistent. Such realities demand reflection on the inequalities that persist in our modern age, and the benefits of balanced living.

I can remember the first time entering remote villages in the Himalayas: the sweeping sense of estrangement I felt. This time village life doesn't seem so stark or particularly romantic. This time it’s just life lived daily.  Here there are village elders, town chiefs, and forefathers to consider. At times, the bushmeat can seem excessive, the war stories – jarring. But the constantly candid conversations, strong social commentary, and laughter, ensure that the learning is endless.

The setting sun signals people’s return from their farms. Hearty smiles and handshakes initiate our gathering as we once again re-engage communities on our joint land protection efforts. As our discussions go into the night, I tilt my head all the way back to be assaulted by an unending canopy of stars. Deep in the cut years are added to the spirit. Providing guidance from above, they remind me I am here in Liberia to learn certain life lessons. Lessons I do not understand right now, but will prove invaluable in years to come.

Under the night sky, my thoughts try to keep up with all that has happened in the past few days. The kindness shown from strangers, the impassioned pleas against promises not kept, and the changing face of rural existence. Exhausted, I am given a bed that will be my refuge for the next few hours. I take comfort in knowing there is value in all that has passed, and everything yet to come.

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.