The Validity of Work and Rose Milk

I write this piece in a place of utter honesty: The Sevagram Ashram. This Ashram was established by Ghandi in 1936 to progress rural sustainability and service work. Our journey has led us here.

To tell the truth, the last month in India has been a struggle for me. I have felt uncomfortable and ill at ease here. I have wished that our departure was closer. I have despaired of my feelings and sentiments, which has only increased my discomfort. I am perpetually exhausted: my dreams are filled with anxiety and attackers and price negotiations and strife and struggle. I awake despondent and low. I yearn for peace.

I wanted so much to love this country: India had been on my “places to visit” list since I was a teenager, and I anticipated a country that would be easy for me to adore. I can pick out a list of things in India that I do love - rose milk, amazing textiles, lovely countryside, chai tea with cardamom, vegetarian food, the Chauhan’s, free-roaming and happy cows in the streets, beautiful women wearing intricate gold jewelry, sweet curd, the word “Namaste” and the prayer-like action that accompanies it, holy men in the midst of society, friends in Hindmotor - but the overall sentiment has not been a positive one. I cannot say that I have enjoyed the entirety of India.

A large part of my struggle has been our service, or lack thereof. Our goal for this “Honey Service Year” was ambitious and boldly stated, and although I believe strongly in our efforts, the responsibility of following our intent causes me anxiety. So many of our friends and family and acquaintances supported our mission both in spirit and in wallet; sometimes I feel that we are letting everyone down. Especially here in India, where our service has, thus far, been so absent.

But, in this heavy afternoon air, the hot Indian sunshine threatening to burst the clay walls of our Ashram guestroom, I understand. I realize why India has been so difficult. I realize how difficult our work has been, especially for me. I cry with the realization and the epiphany and the appreciation of us both.

For here, in Ghandi’s place, our journey makes sense. Our daily work seems real and valid and more poignant that I have understood.

This morning we joined seven other Ashramites before dawn, and sat upon the simple clay verandah of Ghandi’s hut. I listened to chanting and singing in Hindu, following the intonations and tones and rhythm, while understanding nothing of the words. Suddenly, to my thus-uncomprehending ears, issued forth an English version of the “Lord’s Prayer.” I could join in, my voice melding with gentle voices in the crispness that only lives in the air before sunrise.

After breakfast, we reported for service work: sunscreen applied and flip-flops ready for action. We were given the task of sweeping the cow paddock, using bundled branches as brooms, and working our way through the hulking, cud-chewing cows. One young cow followed me throughout my task, bumping her milky head against my body, seeking a caress. We swept the pasture clear of hay and branches, working around the mounds of manure. Then, the manure was picked up with our bare hands, and loaded into a large pit, where it is eventually gleaned of methane gas to fuel the kitchen.

While we worked, Indians passed: many people visit the Ashram to learn about and remember Ghandi. Soon there was a crowd of ten men standing in front of the paddock, watching the foreigners picking up manure with their bare hands. Although I was aware of their presence, I was mostly lost in my work, relishing the dust and the heat and the fragrance of cows that surrounded me. People were talking and taking pictures.

How can I explain, to all of you so far away, how monumental was our service in the cow paddock? India is built on caste levels that a person is born into, and that prohibit movement to higher or lower or different caste/class levels. In a land where classism and caste-ism dictate Indian culture, our work in that pasture, in front of a group of Indians, was profound. It was so much more than the physical act of sweeping a pasture. It was so much more than helping to fuel the stove that would cook our lunch and dinner. Our work was much larger than the act itself. It was a statement. It was a clear and literal act of Ghandi’s message and principles.

It wasn’t until we arrived here, at the Ashram, and I re-read Ghandi’s words and his mission and his beliefs, that our service work suddenly made sense. In the way that we present ourselves and how we experience India has resulted in daily work that questions and shows our disregard for a discriminatory and classist structure. Being here, in Ghandi’s home, I realize our work in India has been this, every day, every moment. Every day that we strive to see the world from the eyes of the common, the poor, the regular, the local, the “walas,” we say something about ourselves and the place that we are from. We have been acting out Ghandi’s message every day that we have been in India. I just didn’t realize the impact of our work, or understand how dramatic a statement our daily activities have been. Here in India, people like “us” don’t walk in the streets among the dust and the dirt and the urine. And they don’t eat street food. And they don’t have conversations with people of a lower caste. And they certainly don’t pick up cow shit with their bare hands.

I also now understand why India hurts me so, and why I continue to allow myself to be hurt. Because it is bigger than me.

Traveling through India is more intense and uncomfortable for me than it is for Nathan, although I know that my discomfort causes him, in turn, great discomfort. But it’s been truly awful. In a male-dominated society, filled with extreme sexual repression, I am ogled and oggled and leered at and the subject of unrelenting stares from the male population. It makes me feel vulnerable and objectified and uncomfortable and awful about who I am. I have been seriously considering a burka, no joke. It’s difficult to be caught in the middle: I can’t be who I am here, and I certainly can’t pose as an Indian, no matter how elaborate the saree or henna or tanning cream. And I have just wanted to disappear under a heavy burka and be an ostrich. But something has prevented me, and it’s been more than the reluctance to cover my body with dark cloth in such a hot land. It’s because the moment that I hide myself, I cease to deliver my statement about my view of the world and the role of women within it. We are not here to be oggled in a way that makes us feel self-conscious and uncomfortable. We are not here to be objectified. Just because my skin is fair, my clothing different, and my eyes a lighter color doesn’t mean that I don’t walk the streets instead of taking rickshaws, or eat at Thali food stands on the street instead of an indoor restaurant, wash my laundry by hand instead of sending it out. We are people, no matter what we look like or where we come from.

And it’s hard work, each day. Harder than you could imagine, but suddenly, I understand the work. And I will continue to work, though it makes me cry and feel awful. It’s the hardest work I think that I have ever done. But, again, it‘s bigger than me. And the feeling of being part of something larger makes me feel less vulnerable, less alone, part of something larger.

What a tremendous feeling.