The 7am double decker train brought me up from Chennai to Bangalore. I had to wrap myself in my dupatta because of the a/c and the utensils they gave you at lunch were flimsy. This kind of 'indian luxury' fashioned in haste to meet the needs of the rising middle class masses makes me even more uncomfortable than the Taj Mahal regality. The real India can be witnessed beyond these thresholds of partitioned serenity, where sewage flows freely in the gutter and dogs have organized territories over trash receptacles. No matter, I sip my 10Rs (what a rip-off) chai and watch the Tamil Nadu countryside sweep past in a mirage of luminescent green paddy fields and technicolor towns.
I took in deep exhales of this newness--on my way to a whole new setting, new people, new language, new city. My time at MCCSS and the dusty hordes of Chennai had came to an end and I would soon be taking my place among villagers in similar fields that the train catapulted past in its capsuled wealth. The interesting thing about being a fairly well-off person from the West (yes, even us scraping college students are immensely rich for this country), is that you can experience many different faces of India. Like doors in a magic hallway, you can step into caste-defined realms with amazingly discrepant understandings of comfort, satisfaction, happiness, and ideas of 'The Good Life.'
You can stay at hotels where you are likely to run into Indian government officials (all for about $80 bucks a night) or, if you open your heart, you can wind your way through slum veins slithering in the city, behind major streets away from the public eye to witness the faces behind numbers in UN pamphlets on poverty. The very blood, sweat, and toil that makes this country run is forced to exist as an unknowable entity. This phenomenon applies to both the micro and macro realms--it is also culturally blind. Think about your society, your workplace, your very own family--the ones who make the whole thing tick are the very least appreciated and recognized, if not ostracized. People in power can only stay in power insofar as they make an 'other' out of those whom they depend on most. And this is exactly what makes India tick, that and star-crossed lover Bollywood hits. And with these thoughts, quiet tears slid down my cheeks in the direction of the train's trajectory for all those gracious humans who carry the social cosmos on their backs.
From Bangalore station, I caught a rickshaw through the shining streets of this boomin IT metropolis, the Silicon Valley of India they call it, to an eco-hotel called The Green Path. The building looked like any other middle to upper-class Indian apartment complex, these structures filling the void for village solidarity, except there seemed to be a makeshift forest growing out of the walls. The plants weren't presented in the neatly manicured way of regular hotels, but in the wild chaotic style of true jungle drapery. It was like someone took the forest floor and laid it like a carpet on all surfaces of the structure, and yet, somehow, this neo-modern sea-green canopy motif really worked. I waddled with my backpack under the creeper laden verandah and immediately felt relieved in the midst of so much photosynthesis, like when you walk into a cave when its dead summer and the skin on your scalp relaxes. The plant crowding technique on the interior echoed that of the facade, bursting out of every nook and cranny with a cornucopia of fruits and flowers and insects. At the entrance I noticed a marble waterfall, with water cascading upon the meditating head of a bonze buddha, perched in a thicket of succulents, and I thought, 'These are my kind of people.'
Upon my arrival, I was promptly given pulpy papaya juice and told to wait for 'Sir,' whom I took to mean Jayaram, the founder and head of this organization. He shuffled through the lobby with that hurried gait of men who have people to instruct. He shook my hand, sat down for kala chaiya, black tea, and got right to business.
"Yeah, yeah yeah, welcome and all of that," He took a sip of his chai, holding my gaze. "So, tell me," diverting his eyes to his smartphone, grinning, "what are you all about?" His words and countenance revealed to me that he enjoyed testing people, and that he had a keen intellect, which he wore like his Sperry top-siders and organic cotton kurta.
And what a question! What am I all about? I felt myself fumbling for words, like an out-of-shape quarterback who spent the entire summer reading Tolstoy instead of lifting. I have been so much inside my own head these past months, and with people who speak marginal English, that I have remained somewhat hidden from quotidian verbal expression or pressing questions from authority figures. I gave an awkward explanation as to my involvements these past few months in India, ending with an emphasis on my interest in organic farming and the environment in general. My speech was spliced with memos from hotel staff and passersby whom Jayaram recognized. I quieted down while he perused project proposals and thought, 'so this is an upper-echelon Indian male in his natural habitat, with humans obsequiously scurrying to smooth stones from his path.'
"Puah," he tossed embossed loose-leafed papers on the wicker coffee table, "let's go to the farm, shall we?" He laughed and headed for the exit, followed by waves of 'namaste sir, yes sir, thank you sir, right away sir.'
The Green Path is an organization aimed at promoting worldwide eco-consciousness through awareness and by example of sustainable business models for homes, farms, tourism, and the like. In the words of Jayaram himself, "Nature already knows the best way to do things, we simply just have to intuitively copy her with the best of our ability, and all else will come into place." He seeks to forge a new path of eco-friendly business, one that will revolutionize a wounded capitalist market in which the consumer is so disconnected from the producer. The Green Path has an eco-hotel, with closed circuit waste and energy systems, through solar power, compost, and gardening on site. The Green Path also has an organic grocery store, stocked with produce from the farm from where I write this. The grocery store is equipped with a 'mobile market'--a van with the essential bulk foods and fresh produce which brings the product to the whole city, selling goods in the streets, bringing the good-food to the people's doorsteps themselves. Another eco-retreat has recently be set-up in Coorg, in the Western Ghat region of Karnataka where many trekkers and tourists venture for natural solitude.
The tiny Japanese diesel zoomed under metro-columns and away from the shiny cityscape, until the lego-land habitats and tea-cart stalls became sparse, replaced by natural vistas, a sea of fields caressing the undulating plateau, punctured by giant boulders and palm groves. We drove up the auburn dirt road under the shade of young Neem trees, dancing with the afternoon breeze. Drowning out Jayaram's speech on the 'Celebration of Life,' I leaned out the window expecting neatly patch-worked crops, but saw only forest. What at first looked like random, wild vegetation I came to recognize as permaculture style farming, where many different crops, trees, herbs, and local plants are grown in one big area, the idea being that diversity is the essence of health, metaphorically and physically.
"We're here," Jayaram's face glowed, "let's celebrate!" He shouted as he unbuckled and popped out of the vehicle. I took in the scene. A slab-strewn courtyard circumvented an island of tropical trees whose branches drew your eye to the Italian villa style cottage, with a wide wrap-around porch with hanging potted succulents, bamboo standing guard at the steps and passion fruit trees creeping up the columns. All around us was Jayaram's meticulously crafted eden, his escape from the city, his vision enabled by the fresh air and clouds juxtaposed against a thousand shades of green. In the distance, far down the bare-foot trodden paths I saw women in bright nighties and silk headscarfs balancing overflowing baskets on their heads-- they sashed off the main path into a patch of shaded shrubbery. A few wide eyed, wiry men wandered into the courtyard to greet 'Sir,' their mouths stuffed with the village pastime, tambac they call it--basically the raw form of chew. They nodded at him and spit, eyes squinted with the brightness.
Without intros, Jayaram motioned for me to follow as they took 'Sir' on his rounds throughout the property. They spoke Kannada, the language of Karnataka state. They pointed and shouted and nodded in agreement, all aggressively trying to talk over one another, a method of conversing I have become accustomed to witnessing. We walked past greenhouses and tree nurseries and peacock dens and even a man-made lake complete with fruit tree island. As we were walking, I became overwhelmed at the remoteness of this location, and the more I observed those who worked the land, the more I was filled with nervous doubt.
"Wait, so does no one here speak English?" I asked on the way back to the main house.
"No," Jayaram waved away my question with a smirk and a one sentence reply, "you'll be fine."
"So what if I need something from the store or what if I can't communicate something important?"
"We can get you anything you need. Don't worry! Celebrate!" He said enthusiastically as he got into the car, "You just call if there is an issue." And with that, I was left to my devices in this farm on foreign soil, with foreign people, and foreign labor. The dust kicked up from his vivacity punctuated the closing remarks with wallowing discontent.
Walking back into the drafty old house, I had to force myself to breath and a comforting thought quieted my deep-seated unrest, 'Hell, you can adapt to any situation at this point and make the best of it. Remember Kendall, this is what you asked for. You wanted to work on a farm; here you are.'
While I unpacked my things into a cupboard that smelled of mothballs and honey, a plump lady in a floral blue saree with peacock tattoos on her forearms appeared at the door.
"Oh, hello," I smiled, "me re naam Kendall hai, aur aap?" Stating my name and inquiring hers, assuming she spoke Hindi.
She wagged her head and her finger in unison, "Hindi No," and started sputtering off in Kannada. I caught that her name was Lakshmama, or something of that tune. She pushed me aside, hastily sweeping my room, changing the sheets--then continued to rummage through my luggage, found my toiletries and ushered me towards the bathroom.
"Wash, wash!" She demanded, "8o'clock oota. Come." She motioned towards her mouth in that universal Indian sign for food.
'Got it,' I thought, 'oota means food.' She glanced back as she exited the house, giving me an unforgettable grin, her lips were crimson, as if smeared in pomegranate juice, her teeth similarly stained, with ochre betel nut lodged in between the gums.
The next morning, I was roused by roosters and hymns for Lord Ganesha blaring from the local temple. Since it was dawn, I took the opportunity to get in some yoga before we got to work. I clambered up a steep staircase to the terrace, unbolted the door and a rush of dawn atmosphere flooded my senses. The forest was waking up; fresh-rain steam rose from dank soil, hovering like breath in winter beneath a canopy of dancing trees; peacocks wailed in tune with a plethora of songbirds that would make Julie Andrews glow; babies laughed and cried while smoke rose from the village houses--women readying daily life. I took a breath and began my practice, pushing myself with vigor I could never muster in the murky cages of India's cities.
With the days, I began to fall into a rejuvenating routine, practicing yoga, reading poetry, making allspice tea with leaves from trees in the courtyard--all the while slowly wedging myself a social sphere within the complicated stratum of rural Indian families. Three families live on the farm, with a few floating souls who walk here every day for work. My main companions are a quatro of ladies--Lakshmama, Selma, Rasakka, Verdakka-- along with Selma's adorable baby boy, Rehan. The most difficult thing about being on the farm is the isolation one feels without language communication. I had to get to know and be known through gestures, behavior--the ineffable expression of an open heart. With time and numerous awkward miscommunications, I came to surrender to these women's demonstrations of affection.
Before each mealtime, one or two of them would barge into my room, demanding, "Oota! Oota!" They ushered me to their cottages, laid out embroidered blankets, lit incense, said prayers, and made a sport out of feeding me. My familiarity with handling pushy Indian hospitality was rookie compared to the vehemence with which I had to politely orchestrate adamant offerings thrown my way--a truly good Indian hostess never lets her guest say no.
"Kao, Kao," the ladies would insist in Hindi, "chota kao--eat, eat, eat a little bit more." They're husbands would nod, supporting the forceful piling of rice, chappati, subje, sambar, barfi---the works--on my plate, feeding me like a growing teenage boy. Sometimes the men would mutter, "Khana kao-- eat your food," with eyes on a Kannada soap opera playing from a scratchy, 50's style TV set. The background sound of these 'serials' they watched became an ingrained soundtrack to which I associate these people's home-atmosphere, with songs like The Mummy Returns (yes the one with Brenden Fraiser, what can I say? I wanted to be an archaeologist as a kid) and all the aspects of a porno, dramatic lighting, heavy breathing, zoom-ins, and poor plots, but without so much as a baring of a shoulder.
"Ye bas hai, bas! Me bhookee naheen, me re chota pet," I would reply, "This is enough! I am not hungry, I have a small stomach." But all of these polite protests fell on deaf ears. Mealtimes have evolved into a kind of sporting event--where I have to mentally prep myself for the amount of food I am about to stuff into an organ that is no bigger than my closed fist.
One morning, as I was making coffee and listening to a Stuff You Should Know podcast, I heard Josh and Chuck comment that rice expands to twice its size once inside your belly. I couldn't help but giggle as I thought of my struggling, swollen digestive tract. At first, I would literally have to take naps after meals, like after Thanksgiving when you can't even move. Now, with a combination of pride and terror layered within this recognition, I can withstand the bombardment of daily food-love bestowed on me.
Apparently the stomach does expand, along with the heart when humbled by these cultural exposures. What I first resisted, I had to give into, because I came to realize that this feeding behavior is an expression of these women's love for me. And I will admit, the longer I stayed there, the more they thankfully started to listen to my 'naheen, naheen, naheen, bas, bas, bas!', 'no, no, no, enough, enough, enough!'
Similarly, a deep-founded respect and admiration has bourgeoned in me for people who, at first, I felt alienated from and judged by. They have patiently showed me their way of life, let me love on their babies and help make roti for dinner. I have been inspired by the vivacity of these women, who work literally all day--running households, raising children and crops in unison. These mothers can't just plug their kids into a nintendo or a baby einstein video; they have to be present all day, every day. I will repeat it again and again: these women are fucking tough. They have taught me incredible lessons without so much as having a conversation by virtue of example in the simple, yet genuinely contented way they live their lives.
This distillation of existence and subsistence has also proved to be a challenge, seeing as I have spent my whole life numbed by the artificial scaffolding of modern society. When you take away substances, social media, pop culture, electronic entertainment, and telecommunication at the tips of your fingers, you have no choice but to enter in the ravines of your own self. Books and cigarettes and biscuits can only keep you on the surface for so long until you have to take a moment and say, 'Alright, whats really bothering me? What is the source of this angst-- this pain--this need to distract my mind with baneful scripts enabling safe habits of the mind--emotional escapism.'
All of my scapegoats have been removed here: food (well, lets be honest the food here is fucking incredible; but what is delicious sits heavier in the mind than on the hips), regular exercise (another one of my go-to habitual routines that make me feel better and more in control), alcohol, drugs, sex and boys (although lord knows they've been on my mind), netflix, among other media addictions. I have been pulled out of the media spiral, the neurotic American health and fitness spiral, and the everyday schedule spiral which conjures self-importance. And a sort of identity crisis has catapulted my being at times. Questions surrounding my understanding of 'the self' arise: without my go-to cultural accessories, this unending list of 'understandings,' which comprise answers formulated these past 21 years of social conditioning, how do I address that incessant question peculiar to our culture-- "Who am I?"
The truth becomes quite simple once one is stripped of all of these societal distractions-- that we must simply exist, and rejoice in that existence. This life is such a beautiful thing, if we only just slow down enough to observe, soak it in.
What is plentiful at the farm is time: time to watch a caterpillar munch its way through a leaf, or observe dew forming on guava fruits, or notice the nuanced shades of the twilight and dawn, stand witness to the constellations gliding their nightly arcs, recognize the time when the different insects have their operas throughout the day. I have time to feel small, to contemplate my existence in sync with that of the ecosystem--and it becomes even more apparent how interwoven all matter in this universe is. At this very moment a tiny spider is making a home out of my iPad stand. Isn't it amazing how, despite the perceived astronomical change in our 'human world,' nature just goes on doing its same dance, same web weaving and cyclical flow.
I feel alive in a way i don't think i could have ever cultivated in the states because of all of the numbing that goes on-- normative, cultural numbing. We are all so blind to the processes of our minds and hearts; rarely do we open ourselves up enough to channel genuine connection, with other humans, nature, ourselves.
Look around you; look at the people around you--all with incomprehensible stories and lessons and ways of solving this puzzle of life. Feel the wind on your cheek. Look at the sky, the ever-shifting, enigmatic sky--too often do we go about our day without acknowledging its fleeting uniqueness. Take the time to get to know people; get out of your element--share with them and they will share back. Be genuine; have the courage to let go of what you hold most dear, but also to open up to that which scares you. Places, as well as the people who occupy them, come in and out of your life for the very right reasons--reasons we will only recognize with wisdom of hindsight-- a wisdom revealed to us when we open ourselves up to the universe, wholeheartedly.
I am coming to recognize that happiness is a state of being, not a destination--it is a choice. We have to cognitively reframe our situations when things seem dull or we are itching to leave. In reality, we will always find something to gripe about no matter how 'ideal' our next move may be. No where is going to cultivate peace for you, this is in internal attribute you have to muster yourself, regardless of the environment you are in.
And so I have surrendered to eating all the mounds of rice, drinking all the cups of tea, breathing all the fragrances of life, kissing all the babies, following all of the detours, and smiling at all the little ironies as much as I can for the rest of my time here. In the words of poet and novelist, Susan Griffin, in her poem titled Happiness, "Life, I have finally begun to realize/ is real," and we should celebrate it.
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