During my junior year in college I studied abroad in York, England. One weekend I took a trip hike Ben Nevis in Scotland – the UK’s highest peak.
It was about a 10 hour train ride due north; a train known as the “Hogwarts Express” – yes, the train scenes from the Harry Potter movies were filmed on that very train.
The shear beauty was astonishing, of course, but the ride itself is more memorable for a deeper reason beyond its landscapes.
The train attendants passed out free postcards that said, “writing from the world’s most beautiful train!” I looked down at the postcard, looked outside the window at the breathtaking view, and grabbed a pen out of my bag.
I ended up writing a postcard to myself. I remember those five minutes in perfect order. I played the song “ones and zeroes” by Jack Johnson on my iPod, and wrote a short diary entry.
It was in this moment that I felt freer than ever. I felt as though I had found salvation. Solitude. Beauty. I was out there, on my own. Perhaps a similar feeling to riding a bicycle for the first time. I was 19, and doing it big. It seemed as though everything I had done in my life had boiled to this point, exploring the world, and taking it on without fear.
My postcard expressed how “happy” I was. It expressed how unchained I felt riding a train in northern Scotland, a place that seemed so dangerous and daring, so foreign and fervent. I felt as though I was defying odds on that train, that my family would be so impressed, and my friends jealous. I felt like I was Alexander Supertramp in Into the Wild, a young adolescent pushing against societal boundaries and setting off, to Fort William Scotland (wait, where? Exactly.)
A few weeks ago I was riding a train in India and it made me think of this moment. It made me want to go back, not just to the beauty, but to that feeling of overwhelming excitement and freedom: liberty from myself, and from the world. And there I was, a young American on a $4 train in Rajasthan, India. I couldn’t be more “out there” if I tried.
So, I plugged in some headphones and played the same song I listened to over 2 years ago. I was excited, and expected, to feel the same emotions. I was looking forward to the self-actualization – perhaps a slight enlightenment – in this moment of isolation.
But, I was wrong. I felt no independence, no freedom, and no separation. There was no feeling of intense detachment of self-realizing gravity.
I felt nothing. In fact, I felt helpless; I felt as though I was on a train in India, surrounded by moustached-men eating curry and tomato soup, by a drug sniffing dog, and a bribe-accepting ticket man. I felt the bed that my head rested on in my sleeper cart, and its faded leather that hadn’t been cleaned for decades. I felt my hunger, my thirst: purpose. I felt the chai in my stomach, which had been offered to me on the waiting platform by a group of men impressed by my iPhone 6, who asked how much my salary was, and who were shocked that, as an American, I admitted to missing my family. I felt the thick air that came from each exhale from the overweight elder to my left. I felt like I was waiting: to get off the train, to start bargaining with a Tuk-Tuk driver about 50 cents, when he probably earns less than 5 dollars a day; I felt alone and okay with it; I felt like a person in India, not an American in foreign land. I felt it all, and my feelings gripped me more than ever, but I did not, perhaps could not, feel the liberation I once felt as a young boy – not too long ago.
Every day as I leave my house, I shut a black metal gate behind me. The rusty clank of the fence has become a sound buried in my mind, an orchestra that plays outside my window countless times per day, symbolizing a divide between my home and the rest of Bagru. You never know who, or what, will come through the gate, or what you’ll see on the other side.
As I turned around yesterday morning and closed the latch, my senses were acute and mindful of the morning’s surroundings: my ears, conscious of the jingle of the fence, my nose, stimulated by my neighbor’s chai and dung below me, and my skin, embracing the breeze at dawn – the best time of day, before the day’s intense heat.
When I looked up, my eyes locked with a teenage girl about 50 yards in the distance, no more than 16 years old. She was standing in the middle of field of debris – an area where I, along with the rest of the community, dumps their trash. Her back was turned to a stonewall that marks the boundary of Chhipon Ka Mohalla – the “printers quarters” of Bagru, an area that has become a famous snapshot of hand-block printing around the world. Pigs and dogs circled the girl like a hungry pack as she disengaged from our stare, looked down at the ground, lifted her dress with embarrassment, and assumed a squat position. Un-amused, I continued on my way.
Two minutes later, I turned a corner into a narrow alley, nearly tripping over an even younger girl around ten years old. Her jeans were at her ankles, and her dark, Indian eyes gazed up at me with disturbance. Her crouched position placed her feet on edge of the road, with her rear sinking down into an open irrigation gutter that runs alongside the street. As I rounded the corner, she stood, pulled her pants up, and put her head down in shame. Pretending I saw nothing, I strode forward; then, out of my peripheries, I could see the girl pulling down her pants to finish her business.
My day carried on as usual. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think much of these occurrences. Sadly, many do not have proper toilets in Bagru. . Instead, the streets, bushes, and hidden alleyways are the most available bathrooms for many. This includes all ages – from toddlers to the elderly. Such is life, and these instances happen every day.
We (Bagru Textiles) have had multiple clients and tourists visit recently, all of them hailing from the Western world. A few of them saw these acts of public defecation like I described, and immediately asked me about it.
“Are they…? Actually…?” My answer, bluntly, was something close to “Yeah, they’re shitting in the street. Is there a problem?”
The simple answer is yes, it there a problem. Yet, it wasn’t until I said these types of comments out loud, did I realize how numb I was to the poverty surrounding me. Foolishly, but perhaps justifiably, I’ve been defending the repulsively of these images in my mind; after all, I’ve had my own fair share of outdoor bathroom experiences while I’ve been here – indeed, this is India – it happens. And furthermore, I know plenty of people in Bagru—happy people—that do not have toilets. Who says they need them? Here, I can’t ignore my own ignorance; it’s neglectful and misguided thinking.
I’ve never been close to living in such financial deprivation that I cannot afford a toilet or sanitary living conditions. Previously, I’ve never known anyone who has even come close to such a state of poverty. But now, some of the students I teach have to squat on the side of the road. In some parts of Bagru, I’ve even seen children bathing in these sewage gutters. My stream-of-consciousness lead me to believe this is just the way things are, and not much can be done.
To stay brief, but also offer a response to these observations:
I feel intensely bothered by my numbness to these unmistakable demonstrations of poverty. Indeed, I am surprised and concerned about it, but I am also satisfied with my level of comfort.
To combat poverty, one cannot be captivated by its aesthetics, nor startled by its afflictions. In contrast, there must be a level of comfort with inequality, a certain type of comfort that allows you to live in and amongst it, but also observe through a critical lens.
It is this thorny relationship that I am struggling to find in Bagru, treading closer to the acceptance of poverty itself, while maintaining a careful eye, constantly dreaming up new ways to improve, build, and raise this community up. To be fair, I myself am not living a lavish lifestyle of luxury, but at least I have a toilet.
Certainly values play a strong role in poverty. From my (admittedly unqualified) perspective, the lack of sanitary practices appears to be low on the priority list for people in Bagru. Of course, the deeper issue here is education; if people don’t understand why a toilet is useful or beneficial, there isn’t a reason to invest in one.
Unfortunately, even a donation of 1,000 toilets will not, and cannot, fix this issue. Its roots run deeper, longer, and require more than just monetary change.
Now, every time I hear the sound of the metal gate, I know – at least in part – the types of realities that exist for this destitute community. The question remains, how should I feel about it, and what am I going to do?
My life is simple. Perhaps the simplest it will ever be.
A few nights ago I found myself in complete disarray – overwhelmed and pulling my hair out from stress which had engulfed my every thought. But why?
It was a long day. My sunrise run had parlayed into my morning temple trip, which quickly blurred into a hectic day at the Bagru Textile office. A large order had been misprinted, another was behind schedule, the email inbox seemed to be growing much faster than our outbox, and on top of this – we had a client visiting that needed to be tended to. It was, naturally, “just one of those days” – I couldn’t catch a break. Truthfully, these types days have been happening more often than not – with business picking up, there is always more to be done, particularly when deadlines need to be met.
After work winded down around 5pm I excused myself from the office and walked to a nearby school where I teach English. Teaching has been a rewarding reprieve for me, and something I look forward to. Since my students attend school all day, I try to keep class light and energetic. My thought-process is that if they’re speaking English at all, it’s a victory. Anything they learn is more than they would sitting at home. This often creates a half-circus/half-English class jubilation. On this particular day I was attempting to describe the difference between “a favor” and “favorable” – all while a young toddler was crawling under the benches and tickling everyone’s feet. In addition, there are always kids coming in and out of the classroom, women poking their heads in and yelling in Hindi, more heat, and no AC.
When I walked back home after class I had a throbbing headache and was greeted by a slew of urgent emails. Since we are 9.5 hours ahead Eastern Standard Time, our most important emails/calls of the day come at night. I drafted an email with Vijendra, helped prepare a shipment, ate a quick dinner of 8 chipatti breads alongside some dal, and went to my room at 8pm. Finally, the day is done! This moment was short lived, however, as two hands wrapped around my neck and another two covered my eyes. “Davis! Davis! Davis! Play some music – let’s dance!” My siblings, Yash and Chehika, wanted to play. They started jumping on my bed, (a nightly routine) their feet obviously painted with dirt.
If I ever refuse to play with them, Yash and Chehika start slapping the mannequin next to my bed across the face (I’ve named the mannequin Shelby, after my sister. They know I don’t like it when they hit Shelby). This is when I started pulling my hair and swearing under my breath.
I walked out of the room, went upstairs onto the roof, laid down on the pebbled concrete and looked up at the stars. I immediately noticed the silence. I’d never heard such echoing tranquility in Bagru – no horns, animals, people, or buzzing mosquitos. Just me, the stars, and the same moon you saw get eclipsed by the earth’s shadow a mere 48 hours before.
I can almost guarantee that my life is simpler than yours. The only responsibilities I have are my two meals a day, trying my best at work, and being respectful. That’s it. I’m not joking.
I have no boss, no salary, no girlfriend, no mortgage, no debt, and a life without luxury – no car or the desire to buy the newest fashion statement. I wear the same underwear for three days at a time and haven’t shaved my grotesque moustache for almost three months. I eat virtually the same meal, twice a day, every day. In my free time I mindlessly scroll through LinkedIn and realize how far from a cubicle I am in Bagru. My weekly food shopping includes 10 bananas for 50 cents and a pack of almonds for 6 dollars. I’m in bed by 9pm and haven’t had a hangover in India. I beat to my own drum – doing what I want, when I want.
Simplicity is a stream of life that many strive for. My father, for example, is a “simple man.” What does this mean? He can count on one hand the things he needs to survive: Family, dog, cycling, health, and challenge. That’s it. He’s been eating the same turkey sandwich for lunch every day for the past 30 years, and he’d choose his morning routine of [biking-coffee-dog walk] over any 5-star tropical resort in the world. Simplicity at its finest.
You can read Thoreau, Emerson, and other transcendentalists to fully understand the privileges that life simple life in solitude offers. And although I’m not outcasting myself from society, I have indeed detached myself from many of my ‘old’ habits. There’s some merit to this, and parallels can be made.
Though to be fair, a simple life isn’t for everyone. Many people would prefer more hustle-bustle, busy schedules, and unpredictable change. For some, simplicity isn’t exciting enough.
Either way, this debate isn’t about which lifestyle is better. To each their own, if you can make it work, that is. For me, the question remains: If my lifestyle of simplicity is supposed to hone my values, keep my goals in-check, and reduce stress, why do I still find myself kidnapped by pressures, anxieties, and worries?
The answer is twofold: I admittedly don’t step back enough to address the accessibility of my simple life; it’s not complex at all. On the other hand, I have an insatiable desire to challenge myself – and, with each new challenge, there is another set of unknowns, strains, and stresses. The trick is identifying how to keep these in line.
During my time in India, I am trying to balance the two – living a simple life, while pushing my limits in every capacity: personally, professionally, socially, and athletically. This is how I can gauge my successes. Yet, we still see there is no predestined calculation to engage in an intercourse of simplicity and complexity.
Maybe just doing what makes you happy isn’t a bad place to start.
About a month ago someone mentioned that I should visit Ladakh, a Himalayan region of northern India famous for its beauty. At the time, I was Googling around for running races in India. On a whim, I typed in “Ladakh Marathon” into the search bar and clicked on the first link. To my surprise, the Ladakh Marathon actually existed! Yet, I quickly realized this wasn’t just any race. It was the highestmarathonintheworld, and it was starting in 29 days. I signed up.
I want to be clear and say that I funded this trip personally, and it was not connected to my Minerva Fellowship. September is a slow month at Bagru Textiles (monsoon season), so I figured this would be a good time to explore another part of India – embracing the culture, challenging myself, and engaging with all the ideals which the fellowship entails.
At this point I also started emailing friends, asking begging them to join. One of my childhood friends, Ben Tillotson, was the only one crazy enough to agree. Ben was traveling in the Middle East and booked a one-way ticket to Leh, Ladakh, India.
My 29 days of training were admittedly rushed and inadequate. Bagru is not the best environment to train for a marathon, let alone one at altitude – but to be fair, it makes up for it in its beauty. I started a strict 3-week training regiment. I woke up at 5:30 every day, running to and through nearby villages, exploring farmlands within the Rajastani desert. The preparations for these runs were time-consuming: ensuring I had enough bananas, almonds, and purified water (energy bars don’t exist here), battling the heat (still reaching 100 degrees Fahrenheit in Bagru), and making sure I had enough clean-ish clothes (more challenging than you think). By the time I left, I had only been able to put down two “long runs” – one 13 miler, and one 20 miler. For those of you unversed in marathon training, this isn’t considered ample training, but still put me in a position where I knew I could finish the race.
The first day you arrive in Leh you must rest. This is essential for acclimatization. There are even announcements in the airport about it. Not having slept a wink, Ben and I passed out for a few hours and then were eager to check out the town. Leh is a unique place – it is capital of Ladakh, a local mixture of practicing Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus, and a culture that many feel is more Tibetan than Indian. And, to add, the town is completely run by the tourist industry. Every-other store in Leh is a travel agency, advertising multi-day Himalayan hikes, rafting adventures, mountain biking, and more. We took part in all of them during our stay.
A side note: Over 80% of the tourists in Leh are Israeli. This made us feel right at home as two Jewish boys traveling in northern India. Leh is a popular destination for recently-retired Israeli soldiers before they head down to Manali, Delhi, and Goa. L’Chaim!
After about an hour of walking around town I began to feel sick and started to vomit. Ben and I assumed this was altitude sickness and, after the vomiting didn’t stop, we ventured to the hospital. My first hospital visit in India was a delight; the doctor informed me that my oxygen levels were fine – merely a stomach virus – and after getting pumped with fluids I walked out without having to pay a cent. Excellent healthcare.
The next few days were full of acclimatizing adventures. Sleeping is difficult, as you wake up at different points due to the lack of oxygen. White water rafting in the Zanskar river, floating between Himalayan monstrosities, was a true privilege. We also did a two-day trek to Stok (the highest mountain in the Ladakhi range). During our hike we stayed in a Ladakhi homestay in the mountains. At night the temperature dropped to around 35 degrees, but the fresh air gave me solace. The next day we passed over Stok La, which brought us to 16,000 feet – nearly the elevation of Mt. Everest Base Camp. At this altitude you have to stop every 10-20 steps to catch your breath. Altitude simply isn’t something you can “power through.” The harder you push, the worse you feel. Meanwhile, our local guide Jintek was chain-smoking cigarettes and nearly running up the trail.
We went for two runs in Leh before our marathon and both were disasters. The first run was a nice 6-miler up Khardungh La, the highest motorable road in the world. We had to stop every half mile. For those familiar with running, you will know how extreme this sounds – and it was a daunting reality. The second run was a four miler that was equally as taxing on the inclines. We went into the marathon confident that we were acclimatized well enough for the distance, but concerned for the final 6 miles that were uphill. Going off our two our training runs, we were prepared to set timers on our watches and switch to run/walk intervals for the final 6.
Ben and I spent our pre-race dinner eating vegan pizza and debating what song would be our alarm in the morning. Finally, race day. We woke up at 4am to ACDC’s “Highway to Hell” and were stoked as ever. The morning was hectic. Foolishly race day came and we didn’t know where the start was. We knew it was close, but ended up being much farther than we thought. I spent too much time rolling out my calf with my Nalgene and not enough time walking to the start line.
We arrived with about 10 minutes to spare. After a bathroom emergency, broken headphones, race numbers falling off, and strange looks at our singlets, we set off on the highest marathon course in the world. Ben and I decided to run our own races, so after mile 1 I gave him a high-five and watched him run ahead with a lead pack.
The first 10 miles were on a slight downhill, so I felt good and settled into a sub-8 minute pace.
Ladakh is cherished by its inhabitants. The locals take great pride in their pristine land in India, which acts as a stark contrast to famous bustling cities like Delhi and Bombay. Tourists actually need to buy permits to explore different areas of Ladakh and there are signs everywhere to respect the land (nowhere else in India does this mentality exist). The Ladakh Marathon offers 4 distances: 7km, 21km (half marathon), 42km (full marathon), and 72km (highest ultra in the world). With a total of over 7,000 runners and distances for all ages, the Ladakh Marathon event has become a community affair in Leh with the goal to make Ladakhis more active in their beautiful environment.
I found myself running alongside Ladakhi high school students for the first ten miles. Some were wearing scarves and sweatpants, decade-old running shoes, and the free race t-shirt. In contrast, my race kit had been premeditated weeks in advance, stocking my pockets with about 1,000 calories, and certainly not wearing the race t-shirt before I finished the race (an odd unsaid rule in America).
These Ladakhi kids were absolutely crazy. At aid stations they would take 10 bananas and play catch with them for the few miles. Some would sprint a mile up ahead and then sit on the pavement and wait for their friends. Others were just singing and dancing as they ran. At first I was quite frustrated and bothered. “These kids have no idea how to pace themselves. Horrible running etiquette, what hooligans,” I kept thinking. Then I realized I was being a complete snob. The kids were just fifteen and sixteen years old, enjoying a local marathon in their backyard: the Himalayas. What better way to spend a Sunday morning with your friends? Hats off to them, and to the lifestyle they represent.
At mile 4 there was a small hill, not more than a quarter mile in length. I was feeling great and hadn’t felt the altitude much. Suddenly, I looked around me, and everyone was walking. I managed to maintain a slow jog, but there must have been 35 people in my sight that were walking. This is the only marathon I’ve ever known where the majority of the field is walking at mile 4, and a good indicator as to what altitude can do to a race. To give you a perspective: the winner of the Ladakh Marathon ran it in 3:02. Winners of world-class marathons at sea-level do about 2:10’s. Every winner of the Ladakh Marathon has been in the Indian army and stationed in Leh to train.
From miles 10-20 I settled back into a solid pace, feeling good. Nobody was around me at all. I didn’t know what place I was in – just me and the mountains for 10 miles.
I reached mile 20 at the 3-hour mark. I knew the last six miles were going to be brutal – almost all uphill at nearly 14,000 feet. I set a goal of finishing in under 4 hours – running the last six miles in sub-10’s. So began the Highway to Hell…
I broke the race down into six segments: I would run 8:30 miles and then walk for about a minute and a half. Looking back, this method wasn’t the most effective. I was absolutely dying on the uphills, and should have dropped my pace to an even 9:30. The altitude was sucking the oxygen from my lungs and energy from my thighs. Even so, I managed to pass about 3 people through mile 24.
The last two miles I don’t remember much besides begging my legs to keep moving. As I said, usually I can “push through” – usually at the end of a race – and just grit my teeth and turn the legs. Yet, I found myself running thirty seconds and having to stop and breathe through my nose to replenish the oxygen.
Finally someone said 200 meters to go and I started booking it. The finish line was hidden behind a corner, so you didn’t know when to start the final push. I decided to go for it, crossing the finish line at 3:59:28 – 22nd place overall. I stopped my watch and smiled, knowing I had just finished the world’s highest marathon in under four hours.
The race wasn’t organized perfectly, but hey, that’s India. There was no water at the finish line and our “goodie bag” was filled with just a hard-boiled egg and corn muffin. Ben (who finished 15th overall) and I scoffed it down and limped to some chairs. We sat down, took in the scene, and got some good photos.
I’m not going to give a sermon saying, “you can do anything you set your mind to.” But, even without proper training, we were still able to conquer a beast. The minute I registered for the race, I committed to crossing the finish line. I think that commitment to myself is what mattered most, and what got me through. It made me realize that living outside your comfort zone is an okay place to be. In Bagru, I’m never at complete ease. Same with the marathon – it’s a good metaphor for life. Sometimes you have to stop and catch your breath, but eventually you can keep going.
There is an notable difference between challenge and adjustment.
Adjustments are things you do to make to make yourself comfortable. Challenges require effort, intelligence, and a conscious determination to overcome.
My time in India has been filled with both.
Adjustments arise everywhere, at any time: the burdening heat, the vegetarian diet, or the language barrier; the inescapable trash, the zoo outside my home – pigs, cows, and dogs – even the occasional lizard or snake; the public defecation I see every morning, the role of women in society, or the sound of traffic; the tiny bugs that crawl up my thigh in the middle of the night, the daily power outages, or the smells: chai, rain, and urine; the stares, no alcohol, or the palpable fear people have toward me before I speak; the sickening poverty, the constant impulse to give rather than teach, orthe lack of privacy; the intermittent lack of bathing water, the constant chaos of yelling children, or dealing with the ordinary ‘argumentative Indian’; running a business – being responsible for people’s livelihoods, or attempting to create a Western office environment in a third-world village; the Internet or printer not working – often both, or buying breakfast every morning without any words; taking care of two younger siblings, practicing a new religion, or the day starting at sunrise and ending at sunset. They’re all adjustments.
My “comfort zone” shifts along with every adjustment I make. My reality is such that, if I do not accept these adjustments as comfortable, I will live in constant disarray – perhaps even fear. When thrown into wildly different situations, humans adjust. It’s part of our nature, and it’s precisely what I am doing.
The word ‘normal’ is no longer restrained by the boundaries of my life in America. I have adjusted from what once seemed crazy, to what now are habitual, conventional aspects of daily life. As I adjust more and more every day, I have begun to adore and appreciate my new home. There are subtle nuances in every adjustment that make this whole thing worthwhile – they come with the realization that I don’t need my old comforts to enjoy life.
Challenges are completely different – they aren’t like the bugs that crawl up my thigh every night that I can squish and kill with my fingers. Challenges take time to overcome: patience and practice.
The biggest challenge for me, so far, has been adventure. This may sound odd, because I signed up for this trip and I love adventure. While certainly true, there is a distinction between enjoying adventure and constantly living in one.
There’s a contrast: waking up at home and looking forward to an afternoon adventure, or waking up every day completely immersed in it. I think this is a commonality among all Minerva Fellows.
Adventure, for me, is an inescapable modality; it isn’t something I can choose, but instead follows in my footsteps, pushing me keep me inching forward. And no, I am not referring to “adventure” in the sense of thrill, i.e. skydiving bungie jumping.
I am talking about the unknown. I am talking about living, breathing, and accepting a faceless outcome that remains anonymous until another emerges.
“Just go with the flow” – this is advice I often receive. While it has merit indeed, the application isn’t always transparent. I’m not talking about a 4 hour social gathering at a friend’s house. Sure, you can “go with the flow” and enjoy the party. But, thus far, time means nothing. I am living via the flow, but I don’t have any other option.
I’d like to boast that I’m mastering the art, that I’ve met new people, gotten lost, pushed the limits of danger, unstrapped my seatbelt and enjoyed the ride. I’ve done it, I have. But, I must be honest – I often find myself struggling to stay afloat in this river of endless exhilaration, spontaneity, and daunting excitement. There’s no simple adjustment; it is challenging.
My experience here is a nine month adventure, constructed by multiple unknowns per day. My adventures have undoubtedly been my most rewarding experiences: freeing and inspiring. With that said, they have been the most challenging: difficult to overcome, to accept as reality, and to adjust.
Last week I got a call from Vijendra: “Davis, you coming?” This is a typical question – no concept of where or when, but I say yes.
From the many questions I asked, this is what I could find out:
-We were going somewhere on a motorcycle
-We were leaving the following day, but I wasn’t sure when. Within one hour of the phone call, the departure time had changed from 6am, to 10am, to 4pm.
-Many other people were walking where we were going.
-This was for some type of religious event, but that really means nothing as everything here is a religious event.
I’ll give you context first and start backwards. I ended up driving to Diggi, which is a village about 80 kilometers away from Bagru. In general, Diggi pretty comparable to Bagru in terms of aesthetics and size, but it has a very famous Hindu temple dedicated to Lord Kalyan Ji, an incarnation of Lord Vishnu. This is why we were headed there.
The event was called Diggi Padyatra (sometimes called Diggi Yattra) – it is an annual pilgrimage of nearly 1 million people to Diggi every August. 90% of participants walk from Jaipur, or villages near, which totals about 50-60 miles over the course of 3 days. Basically, if you walk to the from Jaipur to Diggi, your prayers are supposed to be answered.
There is one paved road that leads to Diggi. Over the course of 5 days, the road is completely packed with people. 1 million people from Rajasthan made this trek, all of whom came and left on this one road; despite the unfathomable amount of people that ventured to Diggi, I didn’t see a single foreigner. Just one of many examples of how big of an outsider I am here in India.
Many people travel to Diggi by village. For example, two days before I left for Diggi on motorcycle, a group of 250 people from Bagru departed on foot. Vijendra’s younger brother, Raju, was one of those people – he walked the entire thing without shoes. Every village walks together behind a massive truck; this serves as their “sag wagon,” and carries food and water for everyone. If someone gets sick, injured, or fatigued, they can ride on the truck as well.
But that’s not it – on every truck, there is a DJ who blasts Bollywood dance music for all the walkers following behind. So people aren’t just walking behind their trucks, they are dancing, partying, and singing the entire way to Diggi. Nobody really carries anything with them – no bags or toothbrush, and nobody wears sneakers or shoes. All are equipped with $1 plastic sandals or simply make the journey barefoot.
Since the voyage takes multiple days, the villagers make pit-stops along the way to eat massive meals, refuel, and rest. Once everyone is done eating, they begin their “cultural programs” which entail exotic dance parties with ear-blasting music and excessive light shows. These “cultural programs” (dance parties) can be seen along every mile on the road to Diggi.
These dance parties are simply insane; they actually put many of the drug and alcohol-enduced co-ed parties I’ve seen in America to shame. And, to make it more baffling: everyone is 100% sober. Young, old, men, women – everyone dances together. Once the dance party is over, they pack up and continue walking (and dancing).
Upon reaching Diggi, they have a brief visit to the temple (it is very crowded), and take a bus back to their village. These busses can hold 100+ people, utilizing the roof for additional seating.
Now that I’ve explained the event, I’ll give you a play-by-play on what went down. Overall, my experience was incredible on multiple levels. Yet the most challenging part of the entire journey was not fully understanding the adventure I was actually taking part in. (see above post on adjustment vs. challenge).
Pre-Departure:
We left at about 4pm from Bagru on motorcycles. There was a crew of about 16 of us – almost all were printers for Bagru Textiles, so there were some familiar faces. The two hours leading up to our departure was stressful; as mentioned, I didn’t know where we were going, or for how long. Everyone looked at me like I had 6 heads when I walked to the “meeting point” with my backpack; nobody had brought more than an extra pair of shorts or single bedsheet.
Part of my crew from Bagru during a pit-stop for some free food
Getting there:
The drive to Diggi was picturesque – beautiful, rural India, gleaming from the sun setting on the horizon.
At dusk, around 7pm, we reached a busy town and pulled up to a school. I was told we would “rest here for the night” and continue our journey in the morning. I mentally prepared to make this random Indian school my home for the next 12 hours.
Then, I started recognizing many faces at the school and realized everyone around me was from Bagru! We had actually met up with all the 250 walkers from Bagru – they were eating dinner here, resting, and having a cultural program/dance party. They were continuing on foot at 3am.
After eating dinner, I was told to get back on the motorcylce. There was a quick change of plans – we wouldn’t be sleeping at the school, but continuing onto Diggi throughout the night. I just nodded my head and got back on the bike.
An aside: we actually held up for an hour because someone stole my sandals. Turns out a young boy wore them into town to buy a snack – a prime example of the interchangeable property that exists India.
An hour later the road started getting very busy. There were walkers everywhere, music coming from all angles, and intense dancing in every direction. There were also people sleeping everywhere: as we zoomed on the pavement by motorcycle, there were people laying on the pavement on both sides of me, passed out for the night. I was getting tired too!
People were sleeping EVERYWHERE on the road to Diggi. Here, a group of elderly women found a nice slab of pavement to catch some Z’s.
Walking to Diggi is seen as a holy event, a “mitzvah” or sorts, and therefore all participants are given free food throughout. Our crew of bikers took full advantage of this, stopping nearly every five mintues for free poori, subji, tea, or sweets. Every time we stopped to eat, we got to watch one of the dance parties. Check it out:
Diggi:
At about 12-midnight, with my eyes closed and forehead resting on Vijendra’s back, our motorcycle slowed. We had arrived to Diggi.
There was a strict rule that no cars or motorcycles were allowed in “central” Diggi (where the temple was), so we would have to park and walk 4 miles. However, I didn’t have to walk, because I am white. This was my first real experience of being treated differently in India because of my skin color.
The policeman allowed Vijendra and I to bike the 4 miles, while the rest of our crew had to walk. It really pissed me off, but at the same time I was so tired; I didn’t say anything and accepted the ride.
The nightcap:
Vijendra and I arrived at a small temple, (not the main temple in Diggi) which Vijendra said was his “caste temple.” There were names of his relatives written on the walls.
This was our campsite for the night; when we got there, hundreds were already tightly packed in, sleeping on the floor. Not another word was said. I took out a small bed-sheet from my bag and used my arm as a pillow.
Two hours later, at around 3am, the rest of our crew from Bagru arrived to the temple. Suddenly I was spooning with two men from Bagru, neither of whom I knew very well, or spoke any English . With No fan or A/C, our sweaty feet and arms stuck to each other for the next two hours as we flopped around.
I slept on the bed-sheet you can see here (made by Bagru Textiles). A humid slumber indeed. Kind-of like camping, but in a rural Indian temple.
At 5am I woke up from people stirring about the temple. Everyone started telling me to “take fresh.”
“Take fresh, Davis. Take fresh.” I couldn’t figure out what it meant – I thought it was a term for prayer. Then I realized everyone was walking out of the temple with small jars of water.
I learned three things here: “Take fresh” means to poop. Everyone was leaving the temple going to crap in the street. Second is that Indians do not use toilet paper. Instead, they use water and their left hand to wipe. This is why (third thing I learned) Indians only eat with their right hand. Yes, you read all of that correctly.
Morning:
After “taking fresh” we left our shoes at the “caste temple” and walked barefoot through the town of Diggi where we got in line to enter the famous Lord Kalyan Ji temple. There were thousands of people in line. The 16 of us from Bagru joined hands in a line and pushed through the sea of people.
Waiting in line to enter the holy temple in Diggi. People chant and sing while waiting/shoving their way through the line. There was a separate line for women with equal amounts of aggression.
It was 20 minutes of elbow-throwing before we were funneled into the temple. We saw the shrine for about 5 seconds before we were pushed forward and out of the temple. And that was it!
The holy shrine inside the temple of Diggi. As you can see, many people bring sweets, coconuts, flowers, etc. and offer it to the Gods.
We retreived our shoes and prepared to go home. I felt terrible taking another ride on Vijendra’s motorcycle as the white man, so I offered my seat to RamBabu, one of the best dabu printers from Bagru. He seemed pleased and thankful.
I walked 4 miles back with the rest of our crew and we finally left home for Bagru.
Ride home:
What a journey! It took us about 3.5 hours to ride back to Bagru in the blazing hot sun, stopping many times along the way. Everyone was worn down and dirty from the trip, so we stopped for a shower!
Since there are only bodies of water during monsoon season, (and far from Bagru) not many people know how to swim. People were shocked when I started paddling out to the middle of the lake.
Always a good time for a shower!
Other pictures:
Party, party, the whole way to DiggiEnjoying free food on the way to Diggi
For the final 5 miles to the holy temple, many people sprawl out every step. Imagine doing a burpee, thousands of times, for five miles. People believe their prayers will be answered by showing this supreme dedication.
As a student of Political Science I have been eagerly trying to educate myself on the politics here in Bagru. As it turns out, elections were held last week and it was quite the experience. While we don’t have Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump rising in the polls, coverage from the New York Times, or even formal debates, the election took over the focus of the entire town.
Elections are really a 3-week long event, if you include the campaign process. There are two main parties in Bagru: BJP and Congress. From my understanding, there is little contrast in terms of political differences: labor wages, economic ideologies, social issues, etc. They seem pretty similar across the board. BJP is, however, an older party and adheres more to Hindu philosophy.
My host family supports the BJP party, so I therefore became a de-facto member of BJP.
Notably, there is no freedom of choice for political affiliation. I had a discussion with a 20-year-old boy who said that while he preferred Congress, he had no choice but to vote BJP due to his father’s political alignment.
Bagru is divided into 25 districts or wards (sort-of like the Hunger Games). Every district elects one “community leader” – and then the 25 leaders elect a mayor. My district, district 17, ended up electing the independent candidate for community leader – this is very rare. Yet BJP won 15/25 seats in the Bagru parliament, and therefore a BJP member was elected as mayor. This pleased my host family.
3 weeks before the election the campaigning starts. This is an absolute scene to witness. “Campaigning” really means what we call in America as “canvassing.” Candidates walk door-to-door throughout the community, shaking hands, and addressing any concerns people have, ranging from education issues, running water, or trash in the streets. The candidates are joined by their local supporters that range from groups of 10-200 people. Lots of loud chanting while this occurs.
I took part in many of these campaign sessions, leading numerous BJP chants in front of 30-50 of people. In fact, people loved when I would campaign with them, because it created a “we got the white guy on our side” type of mentality. I started picking up on this and backed off a bit.
My observations lead me to believe that politics in Bagru create excuses. Campaigns are an excuse to take off work, to skip school, and to meet up with friends. Sadly, because many men in Bagru are uneducated, election-season offers a time for them to act important. I witnessed dozens of “secretive” meetings about political happenings, lists on lists on lists, and plans for how to win the election. While some of it was worthwhile, I think much of it was nonsense.
This sentiment was echoed with the physical campaigning. For three weeks there would be groups of children walking around Bagru chanting for BJP or Congress. These children were no more than 6-10 years old, and clearly had no idea what BJP or Congress even stands for. Again, it’s an excuse to have fun, to walk around and yell, and to wave colorful flags in the air.
Here I tried to take a picture of these kids campaigning for Congress. However, my younger host-brother, Yash, was not happy I was taking a picture of Congress supporters. He tried to intervene. Right after this picture was taken, a small fight broke out between him and the children.
Two days before the election there was a huge motorcycle rally for BJP. I was reading in my room one Sunday morning when I was told to hop on a motorcycle and join the rally. I didn’t know the other two guys on the motorcycle, but they gave me a BJP flag and we were off.
There were 500 motorcycles taking part in this BJP rally. We rode around Bagru for two hours, screaming BJP chants, honking our horns, taking pictures, and literally wreaking havoc. There was nothing “political” about this – it was simply an excuse for us to ride around on bilkes and have a great time. It is fascinating how politics are so meaningful here in Bagru, but the meaning is incredibly different to what American society would consider as significant.
With that said, I had an absolute blast. Who said politics can’t be fun?
The sea of motorcycles goes extends way beyond this shot. 500 bikes riding together was a thrill!
So what am I really doing here? If you’ve been following my blog, it might seem like a wild adventure, which it certainly is – but the majority of my time is spent working for Bagru Textiles.
In comparison to past Minerva Fellows at BT, I have a very unique position. The previous fellow, Dave Masterson, hired an Indian manager named Sonia Jain. Sonia speaks perfect English, commutes from Jaipur every day, and is a crucial asset to our business – but above all else, she has been a great mentor and keeps me good company in the office (my bedroom).
Since Bagru Textiles has expanded, particularly in the past three years, many of the fellows have gotten bogged down with daily tasks: emails, custom orders, meeting deadlines, quality control, etc. But, now that Sonia is here, we get to split the daily business tasks; this allows both of us to focus on bigger, more long-term aspects of the business.
I am still actively involved with daily responsibilities: assessing new orders, skyping with clients, negotiating prices, shipping finished products, updating social media, and dealing with our many inquiry emails. All of this takes lots of time, particularly when the Internet is never cooperating, or it’s 100 degrees, or there are children looking over your shoulder. However, if my role is limited to daily, short-term duties, the business will only maintain its steady trajectory. To grow a business, to expand it, and to change it – one must put in extra time and effort. One must think differently, offering new perspectives.
On the first day at work I ripped off a sheet of notebook paper and taped it to the wall: “Long-Term Goals.” We had a company-wide meeting (Vijendra, Sonia, and myself) and strategized on where the company is heading.
Orignally, Bagru Textiles was founded with the mission to connect consumers around the world with our local artisans, thus enhancing quality of life for our impoverished workers in Bagru. We advertise “pair wages, fair prices” at Bagru Textiles, paying our artisans more than any other company here in Bagru. The business model targeted people like you, who could go on our website and order a stock-item: a shirt, headband, yoga bag, scarf, etc.
While this model got the company off the ground, it wasn’t a sustainable practice. Aside from a handful of Union College students, few people were logging onto our site and ordering moderately-priced short-sleeve button downs. This, along with sizing and some other issues, caused us to pivot our business strategies.
Today, nearly all of our business comes from custom design prints. Designers from America, Australia, Singapore, etc. work with us to create their own block-printed design for a scarf, cushions, bed sheets, table runners, curtains, etc. This means that our traditional “Bagru designs” have become nearly obsolete. American and European markets are not interested in 100-year-old Indian designs, but rather are attracted to more contemporary, geometric designs you see at J Crew and Urban Outfitters.
Now, instead of targeting people like you, we are targeting high-end designers with boutiques and wealthy, American clientele.
I have been working hard on having our business model and marketing materials to reflect this pivot. I quickly realized that our company’s mission, information packets, canned response emails, etc. is outdated. Our website has also been down for a few months, and have been working on revamping all our web content to adhere to our how business expansion. The goal is to have the site up and running soon, which will ideally advance our brand name.
At Bagru Textiles I am essentially my own boss, which also means I am my toughest critic. One of the hardest things, on the business side, is seeing so much opportunity. Every day I find something new that can be fixed or improved, but I it’s challenging to get from from point A to B. With few hands-on-deck, it’s not easy to swiftly implement these business ‘visions’. We’re not a big company that can hire someone to take on a new project, or throw cash to fix our issues. My brain is overloaded with ideas and objectives, but the process is slow; this can be frustrating.
On the flip-side, I can’t complain about opportunity. I just have to maintain a keen and critical eye on every process that occurs here, and eventually, over time, we will change and develop some of these business strategies into reality. I’m taking bits and pieces from my education and rubbing them together, trying to ignite a fire for this company.
I am in constant awe of how much responsibility I’ve assumed in such a short period of time. While many people my age have supervisors, who in turn have bosses, who report to CEO’s – there is no concrete chain of command here. The freedom is encouraging, and dares me to work harder, think creatively, and establish something sustainable for this community.
Why am I here? I would say the answer is twofold: Fist, to grow Bagru Textiles as a business. In doing so, I am to also aid the local community through social entrepreneurial ventures.
3% of Bagru Textile’s net profits go into a community fund. In the past, this money has been spent on cataract surgeries and water initiatives. All of these projects have been spearheaded by past minerva fellows. Now it’s my turn.
During our first “community meeting” – which consists of 16 printers we contract work to, I asked they wanted – “the people.” The resounding answer was English classes for their children. And just like that, the following evening, I had a crew of Indian children sitting in my bedroom (also my office, showroom, homework room and nowclassroom).
My original hope was to connect these English classes to Bagru Textiles via the community fund. We came up with the idea of hiring a translator, hoping they would help explain things in Hindi if the students couldn’t understand my English. This would help the class run smoother, and there would be another authoritative role in the room as well.
In this sense, the classes wouldn’t just be me volunteering, but serve a greater, deeper, community purpose. And of course we could throw the BT name on it.
We interviewed a few candidates and found a nice young girl who speaks English. We hired her on a monthly basis.
Classes have been going on for nearly 3 weeks now. We meet 3-4 times per week from 6-7pm. I’m working with ages from 7-20, so there is a large range.
There is a certain rhythm to each class: the students sit down, write down the 5 english WOD, (words of the day) we come up with sentences for the words, we review past WODs, and then we spend the second half of class doing a speaking activity. I’m completely new to ESL teaching, but I’m coming up with some games the students love. I usually try to incorporate tenses into the games since that is where the children need the most work. For example: “Tell me about what Bagru will look like in 2050.” This was a fun one. No more block printing, Americans everywhere, and many palm trees. Every day I get to laugh at some silly responses they come up with to my questions. At least they are speaking English!
I have gotten a nice group of 10-15 students who regularly attend class. Next week we are having our first exam which will cover all of our WOD’s and some speaking exercises . The students are voluntarily engaged and taking time out of their days to study. I am lucky to have students are want to learn – this also helps my position in the community.
My assistant teacher has been great, but she has turned more into another student than my assistant. As a result, we won’t be paying her after this month. I am disappointed because now the class has no connection to Bagru Textiles (despite the fact it takes place in our office). But hey, overall, the kids are learning and they love it. This is all I could ask for. I’ll be teaching as long as there are people to teach.
Everywhere I go people stare. Well, almost everywhere.
It’s certainly a cultural difference; back home, making eye contact causes embarrassment. In India, I am constantly gazing deep into a pair of dark, brown eyes – examining my examiner.
At first I felt threatened, like I was a target or an unwanted guest. But, I quickly learned the stares are more of interest than anything. I cannot go anywhere without being approached, getting asked if I know Barack Obama, if I want to be their friend, or, in a promiscuous, sly Indian whisper: “if you eat meat, we can make sexy BBQ together.”
My runs in the countryside are when I get the most stares. I can understand why. Camels, bulls, cows, dogs and farmers are my only company while I run. So when a family sees a white guy jogging past their farm, it prompts a few questions I can decipher in their peculiar study of my presence:
1. Where are you going? Where are you coming from?
2. Where are you actually from? Most people in the countryside haven’t seen more than a handful of white people in their lives.
3. Why are you running? What is the purpose? Nobody exercises, especially in and around Bagru.
4. Are you ill? Do you need help?
Then something funny happens.
The word “Jaisirayam” (jay-si-ay-ram) is synonymous with “Hello” or “Namaste.” Jaisirayam actually translates to something like “I see God in you” or “I see spirit in you.”
As I run past people, I smile, wave and say “Jaisirayam!” – and suddenly, perplexed faces are instantly transposed to welcoming smiles. In a moment, I am no longer a foreign wacko running by their farm, but I’m a man of peace, of God, and just someone appreciating the beauty of their environment. “Jaisirayam!” people reply to me, belting it out like a peanut salesman at a baseball game.
It only takes one spiritual word, and no longer do people stare. Instead they look with gratitude, happy to share part of their lives with me. I feel this same experience every morning, in a different place…
