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.

A Letter to India

When I came to you last year one of the things I asked of you was to grow me up. I’d always known you, a part of you at least, but never like this. You see, my parents left your shores, but never left you. And when I was born you were not there.

I had gotten to know you from afar, seen you through only a handful of lenses, never staying in your borders for more than a month or so. I knew so many stories about you. Stories about your past, stories about gods and heroes, stories about love and hate. They were sad stories, scary stories, stories I didn't always understand. But I was always proud to know you. And those stories never left me.

This year I got to know you in your home, in your neighborhoods, in your villages. I tasted your salt, wept underneath your sky, and played in your dirt. This year you kicked my ass. And I am so much better for it. It is the relationship people have with the soil. The love and affection people are so willing to give. It is life lived daily that has schooled me. These lives they are hard, no doubt, and I marvel at all the lives you have birthed. How are your children by the way? Do you know all their names? It’s amazing how sharp they are.

I wonder about all your wonders, the ones you hide away from passing cameras, cable TV networks and quick-fix development experts. There are so many different sides to you, you confuse me. I am still not able to reconcile all your different faces. Sometimes, you know, you make me sick. You make me angry in ways that make my blood boil. And we all worry about where you will take us.

There is too much to say, so I’ll guess I say, “Thanks,” though they tell me there is no thank-yous between family. Thank you for opening up to me, though really you were always there. It was just me who needed to come find you. Thanks for the cup of chai that was always surely waiting behind every open door and after every awkward moment. It has been real in the truest nature of the word. And it’s true, I don’t know you like that. But maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I can say I do really know you as if I had known you all along.

Bringing It All Back Home

This past May I had the opportunity to visit Anandwan and Somnath, two project sites of the Maharogi Sewa Samiti, popularly known through the work, efforts, and dynamic personality of Baba Amte. Built and run by cured leprosy patients and others, the two places provided interesting examples of some of the uplifting work that has been going on by dedicated people under the radar of the mainstream. As my fellowship year comes to an end, and next week brings about the final Indicorps workshop, I hope all that I feel can be laid out there – the successes, the frustrations, and all these thoughts on the brain.

As I look forward to continuing my own pursuits of creative expression and social justice there are things that I have seen, and done, and been a part of over this year that I would like to firstly understand, and then begin to apply in my own life. For sure this work, this year has straight up been one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. From living and working alongside rural communities here in Kumaon, to the entire Indicorps experience and philosophy, this year has also undoubtedly been one of most enriching of my life.

Being a part of rural communities and understanding in a holistic way, what life is like in pahari villages has provoked a lot of critical thought on the lifestyles I have known. Being in an area where the overwhelming majority of people depend on agriculture for their own sustenance and livelihood has allowed me to witness a different type of society. Engaging with villagers, from grandmothers to Gram Pradhans has allowed me to build relationships with people from such radically different backgrounds, and still be able to make deep connections. Seeing how hard women have to work here, even those younger than me, without a moment of rest day after day. Struggling to understand this country from a different perspective, and building my own relationship with India outside of family visits and family privilege has changed how I see a lot of what I do.

This year I have tried to live simply, and learned what is actually necessary, and what really isn’t. I found myself capable of things I previously would never have even believed I could undertake. I fully understand now that process is as important as product and progress and development is a slow, and not always so pretty process, but it happens. I have seen the value of pushing yourself and stepping far away from any sort of comfort zone. I’ve learned that while there is much to be done, there is no better way of going about it, other than doing it. And all of this has re-sparked my own interest and commitment to creative, community organizing.

I think like my fellow Fellows finishing this year it’s still not entirely clear what exactly I have done or if I have had any significant impact at all in the long-term picture. But I am excited about the future and all there is to be gained from this past year. And as I sit back and reflect on a year past, and look to the future ahead, I am reminded of Dr. Vikas Amte’s words back in May in the unforgiving heat of Maharasthra.

“Our work begins now. Yesterday we were alone, but today we have some fellow travelers.”

Here is a man who has been a significant part of an incredible organization that has unarguably done incredible work for the past 60 years. Many would say what has been accomplished in that corner of Maharasthra is impossible, if they hadn’t seen it themselves. An organization that carries the name of one India’s great social visionaries, and at the same time stresses not the Amte name, but rightfully so the collective effort. With six decades of experience and projects all over the country the message was loud and clear: “Our work begins now.”

And so I’d like to extend this message to my fellow Fellows finishing up this Indicorps fellowship year of service, to the incoming fellowship class, and all those who organize alongside marginalized communities. It’s a message I’d like to pass along to my comrades from high school and college years that marched in the streets shoulder to shoulder with me, and stirred other classmates to question the status quo. I’d like to echo this for my friends wherever they may be in the world, for my friends’ parents who have watched me grow up, watched me make mistakes, and for my parents’ friends who left India a generation ago to settle on the shores and in the suburbs of the United States. To those who get the Bob Dylan title reference, and to those who don’t, “Our work begins now.”

From Bob Dylan to Baba Amte, I say, wherever the inspiration comes from, follow it. A long time ago I acknowledged that just as this year was not the beginning of my interest in working for social change and social justice, this year in rural India would not be the end either. Wherever we may find ourselves there are always ways to break out of whatever is simply prescribed, and more fully engage with our surroundings. Because the intangibles certainly are important, and while reflection too is important, so is staying on-point, and being ready to take those next steps.

Negotiating Departure

I leave Kumaon in less than ten days and I find myself with all of sorts of mixed feelings. No doubt, the future is exciting. The end of this month will bring about our last Indicorps workshop, and the opportunity to make sense of this year from the lenses of my comrades who have similarly been working with grassroots organizations across India. The chance to travel to other corners of this country that I have never seen before, now with a more rooted understanding of India. And to apply new learnings, every step of the way, including at the shock that will be returning back to the US in the not so far off future. But in these last days in Kumaon, I am torn in more than one way. It’s partly about leaving a place, this place, which has been the setting of an experience that has been absolutely unique in my life. An experience that has been tough, demanding, and invaluable.

It’s sort of strange, this last month – going to meetings in villages for the last time. Meeting people I have been working with for the better part of the last year and not knowing when we will meet next. Hearing their words of thanks, their questions about my return, and their half-joking demands that I stay. The amount I have walked, all of the cuts I have traversed, and how these villages have become familiar. The families I have lived with in Janjer and Simayal, feeling like I have a home there. And certain people I have worked with both in communities and the NGO, whom I have shared so much with. I have learned from, been enriched by, all of these people and different experiences. And whether they know it or not, they have watched me grow as well. Leaving is not something I feel sad about; I just don’t know what it actually means and how it should feel.

I’m also torn about the work. After one year, I realize that in some ways a year is not very much at all, yet I still feel some sense of achievement about what has been done in building the capacity of Gram Panchayats, and communities, to effectively organize on public and preventive health issues. I have learned many lessons about rural development and grown in the process. At the same time, even at this point, there is still bullshit to deal with and egos to manage. Wasted time and energies to battle that push me towards the infuriating brink of serious frustration. I am leaving in less than ten days, and while I feel that there is much potential in the work I have been doing and the project I have been working on, I feel torn on how to leave it. The uncertainty of not knowing what have I actually done, what has the impact been, at times brings an intense, burning sensation up from my gut into my chest. Not knowing what affect at all my efforts will have, not knowing what the hell I have just done, are hard thoughts to negotiate. And then just simply moving on from it all, it doesn’t all add up right. But maybe it’s sort of like one of those things you can’t really see cause you’re in the middle of it, and maybe that’s something perspective will bring.

And so it’s all a bit kind of strange. Up until now I’ve never had such a hard time saying goodbye, but maybe it’s because it doesn’t all make sense just yet. While I am ready for the next steps in my life, this past one is a huge one to digest. But in a way it’s just yet another new circumstance this year has unapologetically thrown me into. Just as arriving here was such a new experience, leaving has become one as well. The terms I leave Kumaon on, are only one part of what this has year has actually meant, and the rest may just depend on my own mindset.