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
