An Indian Essay

I’ve always been one to dream big and not think twice about veracity. Without a moments notice I change direction and abandon all of my rational and sensible thoughts, sprinting away from the current that the world tries to heave me back to.

Passing a village on a train

  November of 08', I fought that horrible surge that was crashing over me. Wave after wave, it was trying to submerge me into the realm of routine and conformity.
    I took a breath and decided to leave, just for the sake of leaving. I wanted to travel, if only for the sake of traveling. My destination: India.
    Not only did I want to impulsively just leave, I wanted to follow my heart and pursue my dreams. I wanted to be a part of people’s lives, not read about them in books or look at them in magazines. I wanted to be there alongside them. To help them, to learn from them, and to grow and develop outside of my comfortable and familiar lines that I’ve been settled in my whole life.
    I struggled for nearly 5 months to get enough money collected, my passport and visa acquired, and to rest easy my family’s fears and doubts about this outlandish idea of traveling across the world by myself.
    I did some selective planning (on my Mother’s behalf) and with the help of a discounted plane ticket (thank you sister), I was headed for the 2nd largest populated country in the world. On my own, determined and spirited, with an indefinite vision of what I was getting myself into.    
    Not only did I go alone, but I also did not know any of the language, did not know where to go and had no one to anticipate my arrival.

A group of kids that rallied around me to take a pic :)

    I made a decision to join a volunteer program, which was similar to that of a dartboard. Wherever the dart flew, determined where I was going. And my decision-based dart flew to Dakshinayan.
    I arrived in New Delhi, spent several days finding arrangements for means to get to the project, and finally boarded the Marudhar Express bound for a small village in the heart of India called Jharkhand.
    To what many may seem unpleasant and repugnant, seemed quite picturesque to me.
    The cows roaming aimlessly throughout the streets, makeshift barbershops on the sides of the road, Women wearing saris with colors of the rainbow, children bathing in wells, and I will never forget the stares that I got from all over.
    The village of Roldih went beyond my wildest dreams. The people were so gracious and cordial to their new arrival. The children were eager to learn about where I was from, why my skin was lighter than theirs, and they loved the feel of my arms and hands.
    I remember the feel of their soft cheeks, the coarseness of their thick black hair, the rough crevices of their labored hands. I thought to myself, “How wonderful”.
    My time at Dakshinayan set in motion one of my many ambitions, to become a teacher.
    I taught Basic English and Mathematics to a classroom of about 25 with ages ranging from 10-16. The moment I stepped foot into the classroom, I fell in love. I fell in love with each of their spirits, so eager to learn and so delightful to watch. Their fervent and steadfast desires to come to class everyday, was rather sacrificial. Some walked kilometers to get to school, most with no shoes. By May the temperatures reached beyond the 100-degree mark.
    My living conditions were simple and primitive. No running water or electricity and the days crept slowly by, contrary to days back home. I was happy and content.
    2 months seemed so diminutive compared to how long I wanted to stay.
    I left the project on the brink of the monsoon season, sad and heartbroken. I left wanting more and feeling as though my time at Dakshinayan was unfinished and fragmentary.
    I wanted to set aside some time to explore and discover more of India. I traveled to Calcutta, Varanasi, Bodhgaya, and Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Then back up to New Delhi to part from my newfound Motherland.
     My voyage was the most spontaneous prodigy I have ever embarked on and cannot possibly be confined in any kind of written form of words or even  seen by the 823 pictures that I took.
But the infinite memories and my parables are tucked away within my soul so that I will never forget. The villages and people have been gently wrapped around my heart so that they will forever be kept close to me. India’s culture and virtuous souls have been etched eternally into the roots that make my quintessence.

Unforgettable Life-changing Experience

The Taj Mahal

 What I thought would be my last day in India, after spending nearly a month and a half on the project, and 2 weeks drifting around the dynamic and remarkable country of India like a nomad, I am in transit from Agra ( where the Taj Mahal is located) back to New Delhi. I am in booked in coach, and let it be said coach is the LAST place you want to find yourself aboard an Indian train. It is CRAZY! Jam packed and filled to the brink with bodies, luggage, crying naked babies, sweat, and filth. And all I could do was smile and find myself perfectly delighted and detached from my cozy comfort zone that was thrown away when I first landed in this foreign realm of a dream. So I board the train in a frenzy with my bulky 50+ pound army bag, my guitar and my shoulder bag and I luck out with getting a window seat. A metal bench you would find in the nose bleed section of a stadium was where I had to park my rear for 6 hours. And this bench that was suitable to sit 2, made room for a total of 5. Which, I had to lay my guitar over the lap’s of my fellow comrades because there was absolutely no room anywhere else. It was redonkulous.

Train Station in New Dehli

So I’m sitting super close to my neighbor who notices I have a cut on my knee that is bleeding and I’m completely unaware of my laceration at all. He gets my attention by looking at me like he had all the concern in the world for my cut…and he starts talking to me in Hindi. I quickly respond with a line I became very familiar with in Hindi… “ I don’t speak Hindi very well, do you speak any English?” He shook his head no and pointed to my knee. I became embarrassed at first because it was bleeding quite a bit and if I saw that on a stranger I was virtually clinging to, I would look at it in disgust. I waved my hand like no biggie, and I attempted to wipe it off with my shoulder bag strap ( nothing else in my vicinity could do the job). But before I could mange to smear the blood down the rest of my leg, he whipped out this ointment that was in a small, circular casing ( almost looked like Carmex…the chap stick) and dipped his middle-finger in it and reached down for my leg. I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t concerned with germs. I wasn’t fearful of what this balm was intended for or where it’s been. I watched as he applied this ointment to my open and bleeding lesion like this was something he did everyday. He closed the cap, wiped his hands on his pants and quietly folded his hands on top of my guitar case and smiled. It was like a soccer-mom with a bag full of band-aids and Neosporin ready to take on every cut and scrape for any kid who needed healing.

Inside the "Baby" Taj

It was radical. That 5 minute encounter with a stranger who graciously befriended me with kindness and compassion is #2 on my lengthy list of why my life will never be the same. It moved my soul and made the once blurry canvas of unconditional love and wholesome benevolence vividly clear to me.