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.  

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