Tag Archives: Minerva Fellowship

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.

 

Does everything happen for a reason?

A Question.

I recently got an email from a student who asked, in short, “do you think everything happens for a reason?” The question stemmed from my post “A Balancing Act,” where I discussed economic inequality in this country, and the sense of contentment many Indians have with their social standing. So, do I think everything happens for a reason?

My answer is no. Things happen for reasons, many of which are in your control.

My time in India has opened my mind to the concept of karma. The theory of karma is deeply imbedded in Hinduism, though its general practice really exists in human action.

At its core, karma is a selfish entity. Any action that makes you feel good, contributes to your ever-fluctuating karma. People build karma their entire lives; with each action there is a re-action, an outcome, which decides the trajectory of your life.

I support an existential model where actions guide the hand of your future. This overlaps with the theory of karma, which is found in every crevasse of Indian culture. This is partly why, I think, my transition to living in this country has been one of belonging.

“Things” do not just happen – you make them happen.

 Indeed, good things will happen to those who deserve it. In essence, positives will arise if you work hard and meet the right people. Though, my support of karma does not discriminate. It’s an innocently unbiased and simple formula.

Bad things happen to good people as well. Didn’t receive a promotion? Got rejected from a university? Got rejected from the Minerva Fellowship? These things happen. Do they happen for a reason? Yes, they happen for many reasons – and you created them. The most important part is how you handle each adversity. How do you keep building karma, even when facing failure? The mirror of human action is the most genuine portrayal of an individual. It never lies.

Karma is inescapable and relentless. If you get thrown in a ditch, you have a couple options: you can wait for help, dig deeper in the hole, or start figuring how to climb out. Fate didn’t put you in the hole. You did. Now find a way out, then climb a mountain, and never look back. There’s endless opportunities in this world, so why get bogged down on one of them?

What’s he saying?

People who wait their whole lives for fate to rescue them are wasting time. We put ourselves in situations and often wonder, “how did I get here?” Only you know the answer.

Here, I am rejecting the concept of fate. Fate is a dangerous concept for its followers. Outcomes are never “supposed” to happen to fulfill a mystical prophecy. They happen because of reason, action, and consequence.

Relating back to India

Many people (not all) in India believe in a lot of spiritual “stuff,” (yes, that’s a euphemism). While on one hand this gives people purpose, it does so at their peril. Today, for example, I stood in line for three hours to enter a famous Hindu Hanuman temple in Rajasthan that preforms live exorcisms on site – the only one of its kind in India. It was a tedious afternoon of waiting in line at this temple. Everyone was barefoot on freezing concrete that was lathered in mud. And, since the temple is known to extract evil spirits, there were occasionally manic people yelling and pushing their way through the sea of people. Chaos.

After getting shoved in the back countless times, I finally arrived at the shrine inside the temple walls. Immediately, people began digging hundreds of rupees out of their pockets to give to Gods in the belief that their wishes would be granted. These were people with practically no money, giving everything they had in the name of hope and fate. I watched in awe for ten seconds before we were ushered away from the shrine and out the exit by some temple employees.


Karma also incorporates reincarnation. The notion goes as follows: If you are born into a poor caste, have a disability, or work a low-paying job, people believe this is a result of low karma in a past life. As such, many people are satisfied with their socioeconomic standings in India. Even if you’re dirt poor, people have the mentality, “I deserve this,” as a result of karma carried over from a past life. It’s the complete opposite of Western capitalism, where upward mobility is built into the societal agenda – or at least into our minds (still working on putting it into practice). Here is where I depart from my support of karma. I do not believe in reincarnation.

What I do believe is that India has taught me how to progress. By progress, I am talking about increasing my karma.

Karma doesn’t just appear at your front door like a newspaper. You can’t order karma for delivery like Domino’s on a Sunday night. Instead, you must create karma yourself.

Returning from the Jagriti Yatra to Bagru, I immediately observed how stagnant the village seemed. It was the first time I’ve noticed the community as lethargic, as though everyone was waiting for something to happen. Now it’s a glaring eyesore. People wait for days, weeks, years, and lifetimes. Generations have passed, and people have waited: for change, for money, for God, enlightenment, and more. It’s encouraged me to ignite more action from those who are waiting.

You control your own future. Now make it happen.

A Balancing Act

I used to have this theory of equilibrium: all people, no matter where they are from, come out even in life. Essentially, for every hardship one encounters, a balancing positive will arise. This was my way to justify anything I saw in life as ‘unfair’: death of a family member, children with cancer, homelessness, or rejection. As an adolescent I truly believed this formula worked – if you lose a loved one, you will meet another to love. If you were poor and hungry as a child, perhaps the strength gained from that experience transforms into a successful adulthood. It’s a naïve formula that I no longer believe in. Let me tell you why.

This world is far from balanced. Most of us can’t ‘balance’ work, play, and family. I surely can’t balance a checkbook; hell, the ‘balanced’ diet you’re following is probably protein or carb-heavy. More poignantly, there is an innate disparity – a lack of balance – between social classes here in India.

Our journey on the mini term directly introduced us to India’s multitude of faces. I realized slowly that, while I thought I really understood India, Bagru does not, and cannot, explain Indian culture as a whole. Truthfully, it barely scratches the surface of rural India, without even touching on the differences with the urban. I’m currently sitting in a café in Mumbai that feels worlds away from Bagru – even New Delhi for that matter.

Going back to balance. The best forms of government create balance. This is playing out perfectly in the American election cycle right now, where ‘inequality’ is one of the most commonly used words on the campaign trail (aside from “boots on the ground.” Yes, I’m talking to you Ben Carson). The roots of imbalance are vast, ranging from crony capitalism to corruption and, in India, caste. Stability and balance are essential for functionality between families, socioeconomic class and businesses, between religions, political parties, and ourselves. In addition, balance is a key indicator to quality of life. It’s no secret that Scandinavian countries have the lowest Gini coefficient, (measuring economic inequality) and also the highest quantifiable quality of life.

While wealth is a main contributor to this hypothesis of balance, I’m not only talking about economic inequality.

On our last night in Mumbai we went to the rooftop of the Four Seasons hotel for a goodbye drink. The Four Seasons is the nicest hotel in Mumbai in the center of the city. The setting was picturesque. We looked out on a beautiful orange sunset backlit the skyline before us, the sun dipping below the ocean horizon for as far as we could see. As my eyes wandered down however, I descended upon the slums directly below. As I sipped my drink, millions of people living off less than $4 a day were staring up at me. I was wondering what they were thinking.

Only days before, we were on a tour of Dharavi, one of the largest slums in the world – home to 1 million people, and the location of Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire. As I walked through the narrow alleyways of filth and gut-wrenching odors, I was fascinated by the organization and lifestyle of the slum, but less concerned with the poverty. After all, I’ve seen slums in Cape Town, South Africa before, and I’ve lived with amidst poverty for the past five months. What bothered me more was where I was going – after I left the slum.

I had seen the way the inhabitants of the slum were looking at me before; it is the same way our printers in Bagru look at our foreign clients or tourists passing by. It’s not a look of hatred or jealousy, but rather pride. It’s a look that says, “you couldn’t live here if you tried,” or “you wouldn’t understand what I’ve been through,” or “have fun at your hotel. I’ll still be here.”

From my experience, most poor people aren’t ashamed of what they have – they’re proud of themselves for persevering and succeeding with the cards they’ve been dealt. Now, that is an admirable quality.

There is a distanced relationship between the passerby and citizen, where respect must be earned, not given. I wanted to stand there in the Dharavi slum and tell them that I can do it. I want to live with you. But, at the end of the two-hour tour, we boarded our coach bus and went to Starbucks, shopped around a mall with Gucci and Rolex stores, and slept in our hotel with fresh linens.

I’ve found it amusing yet perplexing that I’ve been able to seamlessly float between the rich and poor of India. I’ve seen arguments in Bagru about purchasing a 5-cent pencil. I’ve even screamed about 2 cents with a rickshaw driver. I’ve legitimately fired a printer in Bagru who make less than $150 a month, and gone to malls in Mumbai that are no different from American luxury. I’ve felt comfortable in both circles. Now I’m having trouble deciding to which I really belong.

I feel more unbalanced than ever before, like a swinging pendulum that shifts every second. Union seems closer than ever, but miles apart.

If you were to ask me if I could pinpoint 1 skill since I’ve been here, what would it be? My answer would be this: if you were to drop me in any village in Rajasthan, India, I would have no problem walking around and making friends. I wouldn’t feel intimidated approaching a Chai stand with ten Indian men with fabric wrapped around their heads, shooting the shit in Hindi. It’s an intangible skill that I’ve developed, a certain second-hand nature of how-to-act and what-to-do. Yet, at the end of the day, what does this really get me?

On the contrary, if you were to drop me in any poor neighborhood in Chicago or Detroit, I would feel lost and foreign. I’ve found a sense of belonging in a very particular place in the world – a very specific place in India. Now, I’ve been on the other side of the swinging pendulum; in Mumbai, I’m just another dude.

I’m still trying to find the balance. So is India, and America, and each one of us.

View from the Four Seasons in Mumbai. Slums below. Where's the balance?
View from the Four Seasons in Mumbai. Slums below. Where’s the balance?

 

IMG_3434
A typical snapshot of Mumbai inequality.

IMG_3395 IMG_3390 IMG_3391 IMG_3402

Rooftop view from the slum of Dharavi
Rooftop view from the slum of Dharavi
Window view from Dharavi
Window view from Dharavi

Mini Term

Yesterday I finished a 3-week mini-term with a group of 16 Union students. To be honest, I currently writing from Mumbai where I find myself overcome with a deep sadness, a sadness that I haven’t felt since coming to India.

From a holistic lifestyle perspective, spending time with Union students was a treat. I honestly forgot what it felt like to be an American college kid again. In the past six months I’ve gone from doing keg stands and playing Edward 40-hands, (if you’re not a millennial, look it up) to spending time with my family and dog, to living in a rural Indian village, to getting in the best shape of my life, running the world’s highest marathon, to living comfortably in solitude, thriving in a new city, and expanding the definition of my home. My latest journey on the mini term might have been the best of all.

The first few days were incredibly frustrating. As I described in “Fitting In,” I have developed a liberating belonging in India. The streets don’t scare me, but rather invite me to explore. As such, when 16 Americans arrived in Delhi and ventured out for food the first night, only to return minutes later and order room service, I was a bit befuddled. I quickly realized that my five months of “just do it” mentality, and understanding of the small cultural nuances of a foreign culture couldn’t be adopted in a few short days. But, as time went on, I realized I couldn’t blame them (sorry Julia, Hannah, Jessica etc.). I was the same guy not too long ago, deeply afraid of purchasing a banana from a fruit stand in Bagru. And just like I did, the students on the trip grew immensely with each passing day, learning and exploring India, becoming ever more accustomed to the poverty and chaos around them.

It was also nice to have intellectual conversations with other people than myself. Finally I had the opportunity to delve into issues I’ve been grappling with for months, and seeing others go through the same process made me reflect on my own experiences thus far. It was also nice to kick back and have a few drinks and have fun. Good, carefree fun with friends is perhaps the greatest thing in the world. Thank you, friends, for a fantastic time on the trip.

As the trip went progressed, I realized how far I’d strayed from the person I was back at Union. As the trip developed people kept commenting that I was transitioning from “Indian Davis” back to “American Davis” in my dress, appearance, language and behaviors. I even shaved my moustache. I’m not sure if I ever explained the reason for the stash – but there is a saying in Hindi, “Mooch Nahi, Tookuch Nahi” which translates to “Without a moustache, you are nothing.” I grew my moustache to gain respect in Bagru (and yeah, because I’m 22 and living in India). So, Davis is now clean-shaven. You’re welcome to all those who have requested to bring out the razor.

To be honest, I’m no professional when it comes to India. It the grand scheme of things, I still know nothing. I have way more questions than I’ll ever have answers. For better or worse, I think I’m just “Davis” and don’t need a country tagline.

Nonetheless, spending time with my peers made me understand just how different my life has been, and what the implications of are. I made amazing new friends that have changed my perspective on returning to India next year. While I am free and happy here – I miss my family and friends back home. Life is going by without me, and I truly feel that way now. I watched every student pack and leave for the airport, talk about what their first meal home would be, what their New Years plans are, and how they can’t wait to see their boyfriends/girlfriends. I’m still here. My brother’s engagement party last weekend, Christmas Eve, ski trips and family dinners. It’s all going by. Feeling a bit stuck, yet, this is what I signed up for. I find beauty in small moments, like walking outside and being overwhelmed by noise and color, or screaming at the top of my lungs on a beach run. Freedom.

IMG_3489

Scooting around Goa
Scooting around Goa
The group having breakfast at a palace in Kishingar, Rajasthan.
The group having breakfast at a palace in Kishingar, Rajasthan.
Prof. George Gmelch doing some hand-block printing in Bagru!
Prof. George Gmelch doing some hand-block printing in Bagru!
A wedding in Agra!
A wedding in Agra!
Taj Mahal
Taj Mahal
Taj Mahal
Taj Mahal
Seconds after I got my stash shaved in Rishikesh.
Seconds after I got my stash shaved in Rishikesh.
Hanging in a mosque in Agra. These kids were really interesting - they were adamant on telling me they weren't terrorists and said they are frustrated by foreigners coming to the mosque and thinking all Muslims are terrorists. I've come across many Trump-haters who have been offended by his recent comments.
Hanging in a mosque in Agra. These kids were really interesting – they were adamant on telling me they weren’t terrorists and said they are frustrated by foreigners coming to the mosque and thinking all Muslims are terrorists. I’ve come across many Trump-haters who have been offended by his recent comments.

Blending In

As I was walking down one of the busiest streets in Jaipur yesterday, a rickshaw (tuk-tuk) driver pulled to the side of the road – a common, daily occurrence. It happens wherever I go, at all times of the day. As a white person in India, I am constantly asked if I need a ride anywhere, want a tour around the city, or a number of other services. I’ve gotten used to brushing these people off without much thought, and carrying on my way.

So when the rickshaw driver first pulled over next me, I gestured with my hand that I wasn’t interested in a ride and kept walking, ignoring what he was saying. After several more attempts to catch my attention, I finally turned my head to hear what he had to say. In a perplexed curiosity, the man said to me:

“My friend, you look Indian. How you become this?”

I was incredibly shocked. The man wasn’t asking if I wanted a ride, wasn’t haggling me for anything. He simply was impressed and interested by my demeanor. I was honored an excited – wow! After living in India for four months, I’ve officially embedded myself into the deep crevices of this culture. It’s a hard-earned respect.

Admittedly, one could attribute this man’s curiosity to my mighty mustache, or even the Bagru block-printed shirt I was wearing. But, I don’t think that explains it all.

He said I “looked” Indian, which of course can be attributed to my appearance. After all, I’m a short guy, and I’ve lost all my muscle mass; now, I’m a frail vegetarian whose body mimics the Indians I live amongst.

However, that doesn’t answer the man’s question: “How did you become this?” The man wasn’t just commenting on what I looked like. He was commenting on how I acted.

There is a certain behavior, a flow, a chaos, which I now deeply understand and feel part of. There’s a level of comfort that is required in order to navigate India, its people, and streets – the sounds and color – to fully recognize that everyone is a piece of the puzzle. Together, the masses of people, animals, trash and street vendors – we all make the ‘beauty’ that people come to India to see. It’s for this reason that I never recommend seeing the numerous temples and forts in Jaipur, (sorry) but instead walk down the streets. Try, at least, to be a part of the tumultuous flow – don’t just take pictures and email home about it.

I’ve developed a swagger. This isn’t any type of swagger I can relate to anything back home. It’s not the type of swagger that Kanye and Justin Bieber have; it’s a swagger that isn’t learned – only lived.

My swagger blends in with the dirt and dust that covers each and every Indian street; it makes me disappear into the backdrop of the hustling scene. I am proud of this swagger, as it cannot be taught. It’s developed through an astute observation of cultural nuances, small things that are unspoken and unrealized by the local people.

Now, I not only “look” Indian, but I feel it as well.

Trains

image

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.

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?

 

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.

 

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?

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…