Layers of Belonging
A fellowship journey | Krishna Maheshwari
Differences need to be acknowledged; only then can we move towards acceptance and inclusion. As I reflect on the past year, there’s so much I’ve learned and observed that putting it all into words feels overwhelming. But I’ll try to bring to life some of the moments that have stayed with me.
On the very first day at my location, one of the villagers asked me my name. I politely said, “Krishna,” and they curiously followed up with, “What after that?” It was the first time someone was so blunt about my surname. I hesitated but eventually said, “Maheshwari,” to which they further inquired, “Who are they? Brahmins? OBC?” The conversation left me feeling uneasy, and I walked away with a forced smile.
But that wasn’t an isolated incident. I remember sitting with an old couple, whom I fondly call Kaka and Amma, during my early days in the village. Like everyone else, they were curious about my caste. However, sensing my discomfort, they never brought it up again. Then one day, while I was at their home, another bhaiya whom I hadn’t met before walked in and asked the same question. This time, Kaka quickly replied, “वो पढ़े लिखे हैं, यहाँ काम करने आए हैं, बाकी क्या फ़र्क पड़ता है।” (They are educated, here to work—what else matters?). It struck me how this simple statement transcended the barriers of caste that others seemed fixated on.
These questions about identity kept resurfacing throughout my fellowship, each time reminding me of the biases that still exist. It’s not always blatant; sometimes, it’s just a feeling, an unspoken rule, in the way people divide themselves into different tolas (areas) and the way villagers speak of those who live differently. It’s a reflection of deep-seated histories that are very much alive in the minds of the people.
Despite being from a small town myself, I had never truly experienced village life. There are always pros and cons to everything, but over time, I found myself admiring the little nuances of rural life.
When you step into a village, it’s not just a collection of houses; it’s a living, breathing community. Eyes follow you, houses invite you for a chat, and children shyly smile before darting away. The village feels alive, almost as if it’s holding its breath together. Infrastructure, cultural practices, and social gatherings are centered around the community. It’s beautiful to witness how people come together, whether in happiness, sorrow, or vulnerability. Yet, I often wondered if there was any space for individuality. The same community that offers warmth can also isolate anyone who dares to be different.
Experiencing a world so different from my own, I found myself constantly questioning my beliefs and ethics. The widespread use of substances and tobacco surprised me, especially when it was a common way to initiate conversations. I kept my distance from these interactions. But one image stayed with me—at a wedding, a young boy, no more than 7 or 8 years old, walked around with a plate of tobacco, bidi (local cigarette), and matches, offering them to guests. It broke my heart to see innocence intertwined with such practices.
Before the fellowship, I often engaged in debates about improving education. But after seeing the complexities up close, where traditions and social norms are tightly interwoven, I realised that change cannot come through policies alone. I remember a child from a nearby household telling me proudly that he would excel in his exam. When I asked how, he confidently said, “The teacher wrote the answers on the board.”
Education in these villages rarely goes beyond the 8th standard, not because of a lack of interest but because of necessity. Children become helping hands for their families, especially during the sowing and harvesting seasons, when schools are almost empty. The education system felt like an alien structure imposed upon a way of life that had its own rhythm.
I couldn’t help but feel frustrated. How can we expect the same curriculum to serve both urban and rural areas when their realities are worlds apart? It seemed so unfair, so disconnected. The idea of vacations, rigid school timings, and a standardised pathway to a degree felt irrelevant here. How have we not yet adapted our education system to fit the unique needs of rural life?
And yet, despite the challenges, there’s a unique beauty in the village’s connection with nature. The people here have a relationship with the land that is hard to put into words. The reliance on Mahua and Tendu Patta is not just an individual endeavor—it’s a family affair. I used to think of farming as a profession, but I’ve come to see it as something much deeper. Farming here isn’t just a skill; it’s a way of life, a cultural practice passed down through generations. It’s in the discussions, the food, the entertainment, the religion, and the beliefs. It’s everything.
I don’t have a neat conclusion for this journey—only an invitation for us all to be more open to differences without trying to force everything under one uniform standard. Sometimes, it’s about embracing what we don’t fully understand.
And somewhere along the way, I found myself writing a small poem:
मैं आईने में जब भी यूँ देखता हूँ,
है आईना या हूँ मैं, ये सोचता हूँ।
मैं लोगों में जाकर ये ढूँढता हूँ,
है मेरा पता क्या? ये पूछता हूँ।
क्यों रास्ते ये मुझको यूँ घूरते हैं,
मैं भीड़ की तरह अकेला हूँ।
है जल्दी कहीं पर क्या जाने की,
या फिर मैं कहीं से अब लौटता हूँ।
ये जानकर भी क्या ही फ़र्क होगा,
सफ़र में तो फिर भी सफ़र होगा।
For Non-Hindi Readers: The gist of the poem
The poem is a reflection on self-identity and the search for meaning. It explores the journey of trying to find one’s place in the world and questions if we ever truly know where we belong. The poem wonders whether life is a constant rush towards something or a return from an unknown destination. Ultimately, it acknowledges that no matter where we go, the journey itself shapes who we are, and the search for meaning may never truly end.
