Tag Archives: Bagru Textiles

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.