Fearlessness

So I haven't blogged for a while. My desire to live out Gandhian vows fell somewhat flat, as I started cluttering my life with things that I didn't really need that much. Almost a year after my last post I'm here again, and thinking about Gandhi.

When I say cluttering my life I don't really mean things in the physical sense. Though I admit I have more kurtas than I need, I was thinking about how close I came to running on empty while filling my life with things like fear. For a while things seemed to come to a grinding halt, and I realized I wasn't really being the person I wanted to be. I felt like I was trapping myself into small dark spaces because of the number of things I was afraid of.

To give an example, I haven't finished my statements for graduate school because I am afraid of receiving rejection letters. Despite the fact that the days are down to single digits. I also realized that have a tendency to snap at people who try to teach me things because I am afraid of looking foolish, like throwing cleaner throws during frisbee games.

Last night it sort of all came to the tipping point. As I was sitting on my bed filling my head with thoughts of extreme self-loathing and disgust at who I was being, I had a few thoughts. When I measure my life, how much of it has been affected because of fear? How many things are there that I am not doing because I'm being a giant fraidy cat? Can I really be my best self when I am this scared ALL.THE.TIME?

And I had to take a breath and sort of just shut everything out for a minute. In that quiet space I sifted through the worst of my memories, the absolute dredges of the things I still feel I can't quite forgive myself for. I smoothed the creases of old failures, hurts. And I thought about fear. It surprises me how much of my life if ruled by it.

Actions like letting people bully me because I'm afraid to displease them. Not trying hard enough at work because I'm afraid I won't be successful. It's ugly, but I realized I'd almost not put effort and fail because it's easier to fall into that trap. And that I'd rather be miserable than pursue happiness.

I thought about how different life would be if we were all fearless. Would we continue to put others down if we weren't afraid of our own short comings? Would we continue to take jobs that didn't reflect our passions because we're afraid of not subscribing to a particular definition of success? Would we continue to let ourselves be in toxic relationships if we weren't afraid of being alone or unloved? Would we rape if we didn't fear our masculinity was being threatened?

So then what is it that I am not doing because I'm afraid? And knowing this now, how can I live a life that is truly fearless? If there is anything I've learned in the last two years of living here is that we are so much more when we aren't afraid. We would do so much more, we would be so much more.

These thoughts made me think of Gandhi Ji. If there was one thing I feel like he represents to me more than anything else is fearlessness. He didn't care what his teammates thought of his frisbee playing skills or if everyone was telling him he made a mistake by moving to India and working with organic farmers. Or being afraid to truly love himself because he was used to the status quo of self-pity. Ok so obviously this is me, not Gandhi. But when I think about his life in everything he did, everything was done with so much courage. And the fact that being fearless was a core tenet of his life speaks volumes.

So it's a New Year. And time for a new vow. And I guess I'll start by not being so hard on myself and treating everything with a little more courage and love.

Walking to Metro Stations

In the morning the police man doesn't believe me. In fact, his first thought is that I'm from West Bengal. Go ahead, he says, tell me in Bengali. But then he starts laughing and I understand that he's joking. He looks at my kurta, my duppatta I can see it, he's so confused. And I hear my Hindi break down, because it inevitably gets worse when my heart starts thudding in my chest and palms start to feel slippery. When I have to ask people to repeat themselves it suddenly dawns on everybody that despite the silver bangles lined up on my wrist I'm not from around these parts.

I think about this a lot. Identity and blending into Delhi. On the metro it's not so strange, I see women from all walks of life. But I think about it anyway, if our clothes matter, if the way we wear our hair says anything about us. I'm not the girl in the heels or tights, but I wonder if I'm just playing the part of the girl in a salwar suit. An anachronism, maybe. Sometimes I feel like people know, and then I shrink under their stare. I shouldn't hunch my shoulders or pull my dupatta over my forehead, I know this. But I do anyway, because I forget how strange it was to walk around a city and feel like it's still not mine.

On my way to the metro I see a homeless man on the side of the street. He hasn't eaten, but I don't have any change. So I sit down next to him and give him my tiffin. I ask him a few questions, including asking where he's from. He replies that he's from Rajasthan. I'm not really sure how or why but somehow I just knew. Without even thinking I instantly reply that I'm from Rajasthan too. He smiles, and actual genuinely smiles like he's so happy to finally meet someone that he has a connection to in this city. He asks which district I'm from and I reply Jhalawar. As it turns out he's from around there too, which makes me glad and then breaks my heart a little at the same time. I could have known him, on his farm or in his village I suppose. But he just looks so happy, just for a split second before patting my head affectionately. 

When I walk away I can still feel the pressure of his fingers, gentle. It almost never happens. When I know exactly who I am in Delhi. But maybe it's reassuring that underneath it all, despite what I am or what I wear I'll have a place here.  

Fighting for Food Justice from an Office

All of us have unique reasons for choosing this fellowship. Some of us came from structured corporate jobs and felt like something was missing. Others felt like it was was time for a change. I didn’t come from either of these backgrounds; in fact quite the opposite. For the last year I was living in a small Rajasthani village teaching theater and music for social change. I had spent my year molding myself into the village life, learning how to solve problems with minimal resources and living as simply as possible.

While the transition to a more structured work environment seems pretty normal for people my age, I had worried with how different it would feel. In the village my days weren’t so structured, I barely used my computer, and I could spend hours talking to farmers about their lives. Now I spend a fair amount of time in front of my computer, outline my tasks for the day, and a develope a different sort of relationship with the farmers we work with. And while all these things are different, I’m learning that it’s not necessarily bad.

Many of my closest friends were surprised. I had greatly cherished my experience in the field, and I occasionally, all right, often express my desire to go back to the village and get milk fresh from the buffalo. As I thought about this, and the number of things that were difficult to adjust to in the city, I concluded that while I had perhaps compromised on time spent wandering the fields of India, I hadn’t compromised on my values or my passions.

In my ideal world, I see a space where farmers earn what they deserve, where they aren’t in debt from buying GM (genetically modified) seeds or synthetic chemical inputs. I see their families being healthier since they won’t have pesticides on their clothes, or under their fingernails. The farm is a hotspot of biodiversity, and technology is not to force nature to produce more but help nature produce better. But mostly, I see justice for the small farmer, for he or she is one that we rely most on and respect the least.

But it hasn’t been simple transitioning, or understanding my new role. On a trip to a village in Haryana, I thought about the changing dynamics in my interactions with the farmers. I thought of how it felt like I was creating business partnerships, because I wasn’t there long enough to create what I thought was a real relationship. However, on the ride home I realized it wasn’t so important that we became friends, but that the farmer trusted me- and that was a real relationship. He had to know I would do everything I could to ensure the successful sale of his organic produce and that I carefully understood his needs.

We have a lot of agency in how we choose to live, what we choose to do with our skills. I have a degree in econ and an obsession with food justice, and while those things might not mean much in the world it means I can still use my hands to add value to someone else’s life. And maybe I am far away from the farmers I serve, but that doesn’t mean I have to live with less intensity, integrity, or willingness to learn.

I suppose one thing about the village was that I could immediately see the fruits of my interactions, and I would go to bed after a day of seeing smiles on faces or being called “Didi” (older sister). Being far away makes that difficult. But I’m wondering if it’s not so much  where I am, but who I am being and what I do that is the most important. The memory of the the farmers from my previous village drives me. It is their stories I hold close as I write this blogpost, call paper bag suppliers, or finalize warehouse operations. The lessons I learned from my previous year, being fearless, trying new things, forcing myself out of my comfort zone has made the transition to sitting behind a computer easier. And when I am in the field, I will continue to want to hold babies, let the women tease me about my unmarried status, and not be afraid to get my hands in some cow dung.

I suppose the biggest thing for me right now is to constantly remind myself of the why behind it all. When I look at the big picture, and the end goal being poverty eradication it makes things much much simpler. Even transitioning from khadi kurtas to business suits, or from avoiding runaway buffalos to avoiding crazy rickshaw drivers. And spending hours under open sky to hours in an office. But in a sense it hasn’t been some cataclysmic event as I thought it would be. Maybe I’m not at the grassroots as often anymore, but I’m only slightly higher up the blade. Somewhere in the middle where I can keep learning, fighting for rights, and using business to create my vision for a better world.

August 2011 till Now

This was a letter I wrote to my Indicorps class- I thought I would share. It's a little modified for public. 

In August we go home. I want to run the minute I step of the plane. I'm not supposed to be here, I think. But I let my mother fuss over me, and put some meat back on my bones. I spend the first few weeks happily eating everything, catching up with friends, trying not to think. I have a strange feeling nestled somewhere deep in my spirit, I can't quite put my finger on it till December.

I suppose I find what many of you may have found. That my life had imperceptibly changed and I'm shocked that the world hasn't.

I spend my time job hunting, watching TLC programs, and half-heartedly studying for the GRE. I also spend a considerable amount of time staring at the purple walls of my room. To fill in the blank spaces I start playing frisbee five times a week. It feels almost- normal. I'm able to have normal conversations with people (I was warned that transitioning back to America may be difficult at first), but I share much less about my fellowship that I thought I would.

At night I dream. Sometimes of Jhiri (my project site). This startles me, as I constantly pride my self on my ability to detach myself from people, from things. In my dreams Gayatri becomes a school teacher; I run around with the kids. In the morning I stare at the stars on my ceiling, confused. I'm the one who makes clean breaks, I'm the one who just moves on. But I loved it there, and I felt uprooted. I feel restless in my skin but I find I want to stay in my cave a little longer. I could volunteer, weed the garden, write a song, wrap up documentation. But I don't, I can't... can't bring myself to.

In November I accept the Piramal Fellowship. I'm as surprised as everyone else. I suppose no one ever pegged me for the job type, but I don't care because I love the farmers and I want to see their situation improve. My parents are furious, but unsurprised- they are used to their daughter running off to India. My dad tells me he won't buy my ticket but buys it anyway, without my asking. I think I'm being selfish, but I was waiting without realizing that I was.

Delhi is oddly easy to dislike. But then I join the local frisbee team and I give it another chance. I'm out of my element for the first month. Sometimes I'm disappointed. I think of Ranjodh (a co-fellow) and I think, well he lived here and didn't blow his stipend on a pair of chuck taylors. It's different, but maybe different isn't bad. I drive the lady who works in our house crazy- I clean my dishes, insist I sweep my room. She tells me I'm an idiot, fondly and I follow her around the kitchen, asking questions about her village and the son she left behind in Kolkata. I don't wake up at the crack of dawn anymore, but I can still roll a perfectly round roti.

I really love my job. I love what we are trying to do, and I love that I can keep fighting the good fight and make organic farming viable, sustainable, and economical for small farmers (Monsanto, the gauntlet is thrown). And I have a frisbee and a guitar, so honestly I can't ask for much more.

But I'm trying to learn how to learn. To not see could haves or should haves and just learn. I guess. Well. What I thought is that. No, I don't think I accomplished everything I could have in my year. But it was a year, and I think this... this thing that I'm doing (service, standing up for something) is a life time gig. And I think, it will be a full time gig for all of us, no matter what we do. Because I'm starting to think it's not so much what I do, because I see the world differently now, so everything is different now. And maybe I'm behind a desk, but that doesn't mean I can't serve farmers with the same sincerity or passion or love that I did spending a year opening my eyes to the situation of small farmers in India. I think we all know what we want- we made blue prints for the world we'd like to see. And in whatever way, we'll do something. Even if it's infinitesimal, it doesn't matter because it's the little things that make our world anyway.  

Happy New Year. 

With Love in Service,

Sumita