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.

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The Chauhan Family and Civil Rights

We are always thankful for balance that friends give us. We share joys, our sadness, our hopes. We share our common inspirations and our values. Because of friends we have the ability to change our lives, our work, our world. We cannot know exactly what brings us together except good fortune and ancestors.

My friend Sara Chauhan, I have known since I was eighteen years old. We met at Loyola University in New Orleans. We have many memories together and much in common. But, here in her ancestral home of Jabalpur, I have learned so much more about our shared family histories. And, again, I learn to not question what brings people together, to not wonder how we learn to be friends with one another.

Our grandparents would have been fast friends also.

Sara’s grandmother is memorialized by a lovely statue outside of the government center here in Jabalpur. She is known across India for her revolutionary poetry which she wrote during her work for the Congress Party - the party of Ghandi and Nehru which gained India‘s independence from England in 1947.

When we visited the park with Grandma Chauhan’s statue, workers were enjoying lunch and tea under shady groves. A cow chewed his cud peacefully in the driveway. Flowers were in bloom. There was peace.

The Congress Party in India, which Grandma Chauhan belonged to, was founded by an A.O. Hume, (surely some connection with my own Hume ancestors who lived in Bombay (Mumbai) for nearly 100 years - three generations!). When Ba & Bapu Ghandi visited Jabalpur, Grandma Chauhan hosted them.

When great-grandfathers Hume raised human rights issues in India, they were starting with backgrounds in abolitionist human rights campaigns of the middle nineteenth century in the United States. The deserved rights for Indians were very closely related to the struggles for freedom of African slaves working in the Americas. The success Revs Hume had in Bombay fighting for rights of people without castes (‘untouchables’ or dahlits), were directly tied to corresponding human rights work of the USA.

So, our ancestors were influenced by similar world events. The work of early human rights efforts, (abolitionists in the USA - anti-British revolutionaries on India), influenced my grandfather in India in the 1840’s, Sara Chauhan’s grandmother in the 1920’s, my grandfather Shroyer in the 1930’s, my own parents in the 1960’s. These triumphant human endeavors shapes our lives and future of our world today.

When my father was younger than I, his grandmother was once presented with her morning paper. The front page lead article cut was out. As she later discovered, my Aunt Ines had cut out the photo of my father being clubbed by a police officer in Houston, Texas. Working on what you believe and changing the world does not always happen without a few extra whacks! But, my father’s Grandmother Shroyer knew that the family values raised up in her grandson were strong and supported him. She was proud of him. My father practiced non-violent protest in the Civil Rights movement which was influenced by Ghandi.

I think of Sara, many friends and family, often. As they all know about me, I am always concocting ways to spend more time together, to find more common paths, and to combine our work. Sara Chauhan has always been this type of friend. She allows her friends to share her confidence in themselves. She allows us to dream. She reminds us that we are supposed to she and challenge our world beliefs. She reminds us of the importance of work, responsibility, and dignity.

We had the same experience of friendship with Sara’s nephew Ishan Chauhan. Ishan is 12 years old. He lives in Jabalpur. But, he visit’s a Shriners facility in the United States once per year for several months. Ishan was good enough to go with us to Kanha National Park. Kanha is a magical jungle where one of our recent heroes from The Snow Leopard, George Schaller, the celebrated biologist, researched tigers and was the residence and inspiration for Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book. We had such a great time with Ishan. He is a new BFF (Best Friend Forever) - translator, navigator, negotiator, and gentleman - at 12!

Traveling with Ishan reminded me of early journeys in my life: hitchhiking the USA with my father and as a young man, childhood in the woods of my grandparents in Texas and our farm house in Mississippi, hiking the Rocky Mountains and the Brooks Range. Ishan helped me appreciate many roles of friends. It is important for me to remember who has come before that make me who I am. Friends remind me who my base is, who has my back, who my friends are - Ishan Chauhan, at 12, has all these great qualities.

Luckily, family is a certain base in my life too. Looking back over my own family history, my grandfather Shroyer’s work in human rights in East Texas, my great grandfathers Humes’ mutual work in India, my grandmother Freeman’s passion for human rights into her late 80’s; it is no surprise to me that I am so interested in the world and taking stewardship for it. More important, it is so right to know from where I am now, how pleased my ancestors are with their good efforts shining onto me.

Even far away, friends give such support. Brittany and I are incredibly lucky to be on our round-the-world ‘honeyserviceyear.’ We are inspired everyday to learn, share, exchange. We are that much luckier to be following in the steps of our forbearers and to have to kind and generous support of family and friends.

I often reference ideas which change my world view while traveling. One of these is ‘Six-Degrees of Separation.’ You are never more than six degrees separated form any person in this world. It is true. Whether it is the Chauhans in India or my friends back home, we are all just degrees removed from presidents of nations and presidents of corporations, from Yak herders of the Mongolian steppes to goat herders at the furthest reach of the Andes.

You are too.

How we shape, change, and influence a better world helps us all realize wondrous connectivity. Awareness of our habitation in the world makes for living better, fuller days!

All my adult life I have remembered famous thoughts of Aristotle on Friendship. Aristotle believed in keeping a happy mean in all that we do. He said to not live life with too much or too little of anything: Not to be too drunk or straight, neither too happy nor too sad. Aristotle said that we should only have as many enemies as we have friends. While the statement may sound crude, I believe in its truth.

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