Tag Archives: bagru

January

Goals

It was over six months ago when I left “home.” I said goodbye to my dog, Reggie, left family and friends and boarded a flight to India. I expected this journey would lead me to achieve new goals, reach new levels of cultural awareness, and be challenged intellectually.

Little did I know, the first goal I’d accomplish on this trip would be one I set long ago.

It dates back to December 2011, sitting next to my dear friend, and fellow fellow, Joe Hinderstein. Joe and I were hanging around one day and decided to make new years resolutions. Among them, admittedly, were prototypical resolutions like “bench press 240lbs,” and “ask ____ girl on a date” (both never happened). More poignantly, we also created a slightly more obscure goal for me: to cry.

From my memory, I hadn’t shed a tear since my grandmother passed away in 2002 when I was 9 years old. I had gone through my teenage years without an emotional breakdown, so Joe and I decided it was time for me to let some steam off (I guess this is what minerva fellows do in our spare time). Anyway, 2011 didn’t prove successful for my goal, nor did 2012, 2013, or 2014.

I’m happy to report that I accomplished my goal on the first day of my minerva fellowship, when I left my family at the airport. It completely blindsided me. I was a mess, overwhelmed with a stabbing pain that discarded life-as-I-knew-it, replaced with the unknown.

For someone who considers themselves a fairly mentally-sound person, I was unfamiliar with how to handle the uncontrollable feelings that were taking over my psyche. I surrendered, which has been a recurring aspect throughout my education here in India.

This occurrence made me realize just how hard it can be to unchain yourself, willingly, from what is most meaningful. These opportunities do not happen, but rather must be sought with conscious effort. Letting go means you must attach yourself to new pillars, new stabilities, and new people. You create new families and get enthralled in new literature. Interests and hobbies change, but you stay the same.

In my most vulnerable state, sobbing through security lines in Boston, sniffling my way through a blurry layover in Frankfurt, I began to identify myself as completely shattered; I was starting my journey at rock bottom.

I knew this wouldn’t be the first time that I would feel this way over the course of my time in India. I also understood that one must break to be rebuilt. One must confront their weaknesses before moving forward, stronger, with conviction.

Time has passed. I find it amusing how my perspective has changed.  I left behind my family, but have been welcomed into a new one; I left my country and have fallen in love with the soil in India; I left my school and am trying to run a business; I left friends and made ones of different skin color, religion, and dinner-table discussions; I temporarily entombed my past but now obsess over my future.

Today my family arrives. While I am not homesick, it has simply been too long since I’ve seen their faces. And while I’ve fallen in love with this country, I am also eager to see how I respond to surrounding myself with the people where I feel most belonging.

We will be spending a few days in Jaipur/Bagru, then heading to Kerala (southern state of India). Tomorrow is my birthday and we will be having a traditional, Indian birthday party in Bagru. I cannot wait to show my family how to dance like an Indian, eat like an Indian, and expose them to the subtleties of this culture. They’ll be pushed out of their comfort zones – that I can assure, but it will all be good fun in the end.

 

November

Trains

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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.

October

Have I Become Numb to Poverty?

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?

 

October

Simple Living: It Ain’t Always Easy

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.

 

September

Race Report: World’s Highest Marathon

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 highest marathon in the world, 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.

So, what’s next?

August

What Are You Looking At? (Part I)

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…

August

What Are You Looking At? (Part II)

Every morning I go to temple with Vijendra.

Before I begin Part II of this post, I need to address a notable aspect about Indian travel.

Before I left for India, many people asked me if I will come back “all spiritual,” “awakened,” or a “yogi.” What the heck does that mean?

Many people travel to India for a spiritual experience. I can see why. There is something special about this place, no doubt. The familial bond between friends, the color, the sublime shrewdness of the everyday citizen.

But, many people look for quick fixes – whether it be a seven day meditation retreat or backpacking across the country. I’m in no position to say this stuff doesn’t work, but instead offering an insight: one cannot simply travel to India to fix their problems. This place has healing power, but you must first find what you are trying to heal within yourself before you can even digest the healing. Nothing is earned without effort. One must get lost in India before knowing what to look for; yes, I’m still lost – and that’s okay.

There is a process for everyone. If you are looking for a spiritual experience in India, I’m not sure what that even means, but I’ll go ahead and support it. However, there must be a paramount understanding that the process does not begin and end within the borders of this country.

Religion undoubtedly plays a crucial role here in Bagru. I recently read that Hinduism is not just a religion, but more of a system of tradition, ritual, and lifestyle. It dictates how people live, and as a result, it is dictating how I am living.

Religion is a bottomless tomb that can be debated for eternity, we all know that. Nonetheless, one thing has been glowingly transparent during my time here in India:

When I enter any temple in India I am not stared at. It’s the only place nobody looks at me. A quick glance, maybe, but I’m not even sure they realize I’m a white guy wearing shorts and a Union t-shirt. There is no judgement, no accusation, no disheartened stares thrown my way.

Sometimes during my meditation I will open my eyes and there will be an Indian man no more than six inches from me, and the rest of the room is empty; his eyes are closed, fully focused, and he couldn’t care less if I’m a young Jewish kid or an elephant. Respect trumps all.

A short aside on meditation: I have no idea what I’m doing. I mostly attend temple with Vijendra out of curiosity and because it clears my head before work. Yet, when I try to clear my mind I immediately have visions of my family, a donut, my dog, and my morning tea. For those of you with any meditation experience you will know how hard it is to “recognize the thought” of the itch on your foot, tickle in your throat, or sweat on your brow – and “move on from that thought.” Now, imagine sitting in a boiling hot room and falling victim to a full-on assault by the flies of Bagru. They are little demons buzzing in my ear, landing on my damp neck and resting on my earlobe. Moral of the story: apply copious amounts of bug-spray before meditating in a Bagru temple.

My primary purpose here in Bagru is to work, while simultaneously helping a community that can benefit from my skills (still trying to identify those). The community that I happen to live in is deeply embedded in Hinduism, thus making my job extensively interconnected with this spiritual and religious mentality.

For now, I get stares – for the most part. What are they looking at? They’re looking at a guy who is finding his way. He’s lost, for sure, but he’s figuring it out.

And you can always stare back.

August

Unexpected Adventure

Some of my favorite experiences in India, so far, have stemmed from shear spontaneity.

For a person who structures their day around routine (see post below) and preparation, this has been difficult. On a daily basis someone will ask me, completely impromptu, to follow them. I have no idea how long I will be gone, where I am going, and most importantly – if I should bring my own supply of filtered water.

With that said, I have attempted to fully remove the word “no” from my vocabulary, and in return, been rewarded with some of the most authentic encounters with Indian culture I could imagine. As Gregory David Roberts says in his novel Shantaram: “surrender is at the heart of Indian experience.”

It was around 9:30pm and I was in bed when Vijendra asked me if I wanted to attend a “function.” I threw on some pants and jumped on the back of his motorcycle without a second thought.

Shortly after we arrived at a temple in Bagru that I had never been to. In situations like this I just follow Vijendra’s lead like a looming shadow; we walked in, put a small donation in a wooden box, kneeled before a Hindu shrine, then took a seat on the floor among the 40-or-so people who already gathered. Then, the singing began – and it didn’t stop for two hours.

A man came over to me with orange paste and painted my forehead, saying “welcome” in English. I didn’t understand anything else, not a word, but these Hindu prayers and chants were full of warmth. Each song started calm, building up slowly – not by the beat of the music – but by the energy of the community.

Throughout the function people would stand up and start dancing or throwing flowers, causing more and more people to give cash donations. More dancers, and quality of dance, caused more money to be put in the box.

I asked Vijendra after what the donations were for, and he said that the event was called “Kirtan” – a fundraiser for cows. Every rupee donated that evening went to feeding the cows in Bagru, which in turn provides dairy to the town for a month.

In the midst of the singing, clapping and cheerful joy of the evening, I became a part of the community. This was no tourist destination; this was a tight-knit community in celebration – and I was just another person enjoying my time.

In my eyes, I was in a completely polarizing world. But in “their” eyes – the people –  I was not an outsider. I was one of them. And that’s the a gift I cannot buy, but only earn.

Truthfully, I felt displaced for a short while because I was incredibly uncomfortable sitting crossed-legged for such a long time. My groin was sore for days – it makes me regret sitting on my knees during “morning meeting” in kindergarten! Bad training!

Jokes aside, I realized in this moment that some of the loneliness I have been feeling wasn’t a result of the lack of friends or social life I have here; I have plenty of opportunities to communicate with my friends/family with today’s technology. Instead, lonesome solitude originates with a lack of community, an absence of connection or participation in a cohesive group. At Kirtan, I was adding to the energy – I was bringing something to the table.

As each day goes on, I feel the the thread of Bagru wrapping tighter around me, weaving my confidence into new stitches of this beautiful, hand-printed community.

 

August

My Routine

As my friends and family know, I am a man of routine. So here it is:

6:30am: Wake up, do either a quick push-up exercise or some reading.

7am: My host mother, Santosh, serves my my frist cup of tea in a Union mug. I also have my own breakfast: a banana, pair, almonds and some dry chocolate cereal that I purchased from the loud, bustling Bagru market the evening before.

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View from the the porch

8am: I go to temple with Vijendra. This has become a nice habitual part of my morning that I look forward to every day. The temple we go to is just a five minute walk, but little is said on the way over as we are both getting in the spiritual “zone.”

The first couple times I was confused as to what was going on. At Hindu temples, it is rare for there to be a formal service or communal prayer. Instead, everyone goes on their own time, does their own gig, chanting their preffered versions of different prayers doing their own customs, etc.

Before we go to temple Vijendra picks flowers from the trees outside our house and fills up a kettle of water to bring with us. When we get there, he does his prayer exercises while I sit and meditate behind him (a more detailed blog on my temple experience is above). After fifteen minutes we go into another  and a similar procedure follows, before I am marked with a tilaka – a red dot on my forehead. This is to symbolize the opening of my “spiritual eye.”

I have been reading up on Hinduism to get a better understanding of what Vijendra is doing, and what I am taking part in. On our walks back to the house I allow myself 1 question per day about the temple or Hinduism in general. I’m learning.

9:30am – I return to the “office” (also my bedroom and the textile showroom) where Sonia has arrived. Sonia is the other manager that was hired 5 months ago by the previous fellow, Dave. She is amazing. We sit and work together in what actually feels something like an office environment. It is very nice to have her company and wisdom.

We work until about 11:30, when I am served my first meal of the day. Chapatti (bread) and some potato subji or chickpea. No meat.

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After lunch we get back to work. I am going to write a post soon on what, more specifically, I am doing at Bagru Textiles; for now I can say that I am quite busy. Even though it is monsoon season and business is slow, we have hit the ground running. I’ve set up long-term business plans, made new pdf’s, learned how ordering processes go, learned the printing process, had daily skypes with clients, and am working on innovative programs to benefit the community. On the operations side, I’ve been exposed to so much already; it is a privilege I have such an integral role in running this business.

3:30pm: I’m served my second cup of tea in a Union mug, and continue working for another hour or so. This is also the hottest point in the day and you can feel the heat sucking the energy out of you.

Second cup of tea in my bedroom - you can see the Bagru Textiles desk where Sonia and I sit every day.
Second cup of tea in my bedroom – you can see the Bagru Textiles desk where Sonia and I sit every day.

4:30pm: After I finish work, I play with Yash and Chehika, which usually consists of them pretending I am a jungle gym and climbing on my shoulders, or simply trying to guess the password on my kindle or computer.

Although most of my work is on the business side of things, I am slowly learning the printing process. Here I am reppin' Bagru with Chadrakantha, one of our full-time female printers.
Although most of my work is on the business side of things, I am slowly learning the printing process. Here I am reppin’ Bagru with Chadrakantha, one of our full-time female printers.

5pm: I  fill up my camelback, hop on my bicycle and head out of Bagru. I ride 10 minutes out of town and into the countryside where I lock my bike to a tree. Then I head out for a run. Sometimes Yash and his friends cycle alongside me while I run, or other times it’a just me. It’s good to get out of my bedroom and Bagru in general, clear the head, and work up a fierce sweat.

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6:30pm: I walk to the market downtown and buy my necessary food items.

All you need is 5 minutes in the Bagru marketplace to get more cultural exposure than a layman does in year. Sights, sounds, smells – interactions you see, animals, and people things say to you – it’s a wonderful and overwhelming experience.

Funny to think how I was nervous to go to town and buy a water on my first day, and now I feel calm and comfortable haggling over fruits and vegetables. Seeing how far I’ve progressed in less than a month baffles me; I can’t wait to see what I can accomplish in nine.

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Vijendra buying flowers in the market to bring to his (and my) Guru, on Guruprav day.

 

I then took the flowers and a coconut and gave them to the guru. The guru told me I was "innocent." I'll take it as a compliment.
I then took the flowers and a coconut and gave them to the guru. The guru told me I was “innocent.” I’ll take it as a compliment.

7pm: Chehika and I go on the roof to watch the sunset. Sometimes we bring an English book. In the beginning I read to her, but now she reads to me. Then we go downstairs and I’ll help Yash with his homework as well.

A few days ago Yash was learning about Hitler, the Nazis, and the Holocaust. After I told Yash I was Jewish, we looked at a picture in his textbook of two young Jews in Warsaw walking to a gas chamber. Yash couldn’t believe that I would have been one of those boys because I’m Jewish – that I would have been killed. It was simply unfathomable to him. When I asked him why he was learning about the Holocaust as an Indian, he promptly responded: “Never again. Never again.” A beautiful teaching moment.

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Taking a break from reading

 

English homework
English homework makes Chehika happy!

8pm: Dinner, another amazing helping of all-you-can-eat Chapatti and vegetable, or some variation. The food has been an adjustment, but I haven’t had any issues and I actually love it.

Batti, which means "circle" in hindi. It's basically a tasty ball of bread, which you break up and put in a spicy broth.
Batti, which means “circle” in hindi. It’s basically a tasty ball of bread, which you break up and put in a spicy broth.

9pm: Long day! I say goodnight to our Bagru Textiles mannequin/model at the foot of my bed, who I have named Shelby (my sister’s name). Goodnight, Shelbs!

Shelby @ Bagru Textiles
Shelby @ Bagru Textiles

 

Some other pictures of my time here:

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Mukesh printing some of our traditional Bagru designs
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Final product: drying on our roof
Vijendra boiling fabric
Vijendra boiling fabric
Puddi (which means Angel in English), me, Balraj
Puddi (which means Angel in English), me, Balraj
July

Dinner Party

On my fourth night in India I went to my first dinner “party.”

The party took place in Sangara, a small town similar to Bagru, but closer to Jaipur ( it was about 20min away). Sangara is also a “printing town,” but now they only do screen and digital prints. Bagru is essentially the only town in Rajasthan that still does traditional hand-block printing, making it that much more unique, special, and a place I can be proud to call home.

For those that don’t know, Vijendra Chhipa is owner of Bagru Textiles and my host father. The party was for Vijendra’s sister (he is one of 12). She and her husband are moving into a new 4-story home; the husband has three brothers – so there is one floor for each family. Considering each family has about ten kids each, this is roughly a 40-person home. In India, when you move into a new home, it is customary to invite your family and the entire community to celebrate. This, along with hanging different symbols around the house, attempt to keep bad omens away from the new residence.

As Vijendra’s guest, I was considered ‘family’ and thus a host of the party.  We arrived around 4pm to set-up and ‘pregame’ – with Chai, of course, there is no drinking here 🙂

From 4-9pm it was basically a ‘normal’ family party – kids running around, the men conversing about politics and business, and the women…well, the women seemed to be forced to sit in the basement until the food was presented. Blog on gender roles is forthcoming.

The family hired a team of cooks to prepare all the food – what a production! They had to feed 1,000 mouths (can you imagine hosting 1,000 for dinner?) The process is an art; they prepare food in massive trash cans and stir with large wooden sticks. Seas of flies swarm all the food – it’s part of the deal.

During this time I felt lost and alone. Nobody spoke English, I didn’t know what to say or how to act, and truly felt like an outsider – like I didn’t belong. And finally, this loving-happy-family vibe made me miss my own kin back home.

At about 8pm the food was all cooked but needed to be carried up four flights of stairs to the roof where the party was taking place. It was a clear, crisp, beautiful night.

An aside – I would post pictures, but I didn’t have my phone with me. My two beautiful younger siblings, Yash (yesh) and Chehika (chai-yi-kah), were playing with my phone so I tried to change my password to lock them out. In the process, I locked myself out, and haven’t had a phone since. Some things just don’t go your way. But, just imagine a bright Indian skyline with me standing and looking out, wind in my hair, motionless, contemplating the purpose of my journey here. That’s when my solemn evening started to change. 

I eagerly volunteered to help carry things up the stairs, and received major brownie points for doing so. In the process I worked up a massive sweat. Finally, guests started to pour in and the rooftop suddenly looked like an illuminated Manhattan summer cocktail party (no alcohol to re-iterate).

The hosts (me included) were in charge of serving food to the community who came (all 1,000). It was actually stressful because the hosts want to make a good impression to all their guests. So, when I asked if I could help serve food, they were reluctant to say yes.

The way it works: hundreds of people at a time sit crossed-legged on the ground (this was a big roofdeck). The servers walk between rows of people asking if they want water, puri bread, caccuri, sauce, yogurt, and other things that are foreign to me. If they say yes, you can place it on their plate with your hands. After I kept asking to help, I finally got my chance to hand out some puri. I did a good job until I accidentally gave an older, traditional woman some unwarranted puri and then tried to take it back off her plate (a big no-no). I was relinquished of my duties.

After all the guests were served, we (the hosts) got to eat. And the food was great! When we left at 10pm, I couldn’t help but grin, zooming in the dark on a motorcycle in who-knows-where, India. In the cool night air, something about the dinner experience made me glad I went.

If I am to make a difference here, even small, every lesson is important. Looking back at the beginning of the night, obsessing over my lonely solitude, I could have been a wallflower. But, on the Minerva Fellowship, there are limited ‘perks of being a wallflower.’ Indeed, one must observe, but at some point, you have to get your hands dirty in the action. I made an effort and the people received it well.

While it may seem negligible that I served some bread, it:

1. Did not go unnoticed, 2. Gave me purpose, and 3. Taught me something new.

Cheers to many more Indian dinner parties.