I’m woken up by the repeated calls for ‘Akila akka’ (Akila sister) at 7am. I wake up, quickly untuck my mosquito net from under the edges of my mattress, and climb down the rungs of my bunk bed. I go outside and greet Tolkappiyan, an energetic 18 year old who lives at Sristi Village, my AIF Banyan Impact Fellowship host organization. He is here to collect the compost, first in his routine of daily chores. My daily search for serenity has begun.
Sristi is home to over fifty 18-35 year old boys like Tolkappiyan, all of whom have some kind of intellectual disability. Sristi’s inclusive community provides them with housing, three meals a day, and vocational training, mostly in farming. Sristi’s mission is focused on creating livelihoods for people with disabilities, and their core values are centered on equity and eco-friendly sustainability.
I share a room with five others on Sristi’s campus; this is the standard setup for everyone: the boys, the staff, and any guests. During my stay, I’ve met German special educators-in-training, freshly minted Austrian kindergarten teachers, a French couple interested in farming, and a Japanese nurse who is joining the crew next week. Making new friends from around the world has made it much easier to adjust to living in the heart of rural Tamil Nadu, Southern India when my friends and family back home can’t grasp my daily challenges or fully understand my time at Sristi. I’m writing about a day in my life to bring Sristi and my search for serenity here to life for you all.
Since I’m up already, I head to Sristi’s daily morning yoga. Though surrounded by people, I find my first moments of inner serenity while stretching.
Once complete, everyone disperses to various farms around campus: the rabbits, cows, and chickens must be fed; the plants watered; and vegetables and fruits harvested from the organic farms. Some, like Tolkappiyan, also have housekeeping responsibilities at the school and residences, which are all on Sristi’s enclosed campus. I complete my own chores: cleaning common areas, taking out the trash, and washing my clothes.
During the day, the boys are joined by some 20-odd children under 18 who attend Sristi’s day school. I work with a few others in a library, which is nested in one corner of rectangular school buildings, against a backdrop of constant chatter.
When I make a lap around the classrooms to take a stretch break, I can peer into a pre-primary room where the teachers are instructing children on how to brush and use the bathroom or a secondary class where the older teens are learning to count and read. Apart from the core life skills and academic curriculum, the students dance, draw, play sports, and even get involved with small farming tasks to refine their motor skills. It is an incredible model of combining social, educational, and medical services.
By 1pm, over 100 staff and students across all of Sristi’s projects gather together in the dining hall for lunch. I try my best to sit with someone new each day. Though born in India and fluent in Tamil, this is my first time returning in 20 years. As a pseudo-foreigner, the gap between myself and Sristi’s community widens and narrows unexpectedly.
It is wonderful to recognize the lyrics to my favorite Tamil songs blasting on speakers at evening tea, but unbearably difficult to understand why I head to a private hospital while the boys go to a government one. I often recall the exceptional amenities that were available to me at Harvard and the basic ones missing here. The differences are stark, inequitable, but, importantly, solvable.
My first lesson is appreciating how people at Sristi–and every other remote, rural area of the world–are deserving of the good, accessible, and equal resources: no dream is too big and no vision too grand. Sristi has many upcoming projects: adding new, healthy foods in the dining halls; beginning a commercial chicken farm to achieve greater financial stability; and, of course, the cafe unit that I am assigned to work on. I am reminded that the community here has solutions for their problems, but are rarely asked about these ideas. During my stay, I hope to listen closely.
School ends by 4pm, and the children return home while the boys resume vocational training. At 6pm, the bell rings across campus to indicate the village-wide community gathering is beginning. Everyone sits in a giant, ever-expanding circle to exercise. The boys share their daily work (from Monday to Saturday) and the entire room applauds. Then they recite verses of the Tamil Thirukurral, which include moral teachings such as those to anger slowly, be grateful often, and give without expectation of return.
Finally, each of the 50-odd people shares a thank you. Some are obvious: Karthik, the founder of Sristi; the teachers and staff; their parents, or various God(s). But the most touching, serene moments are when the boys thank one another for the small gestures: a helping hand on the farm, a shared water bottle, or simply sitting next them that evening.
I am grateful for many things: the women in the kitchen who tirelessly cook three meals a day for all of us; movie time on Sundays; the boys who help me adjust to an area they have lived for years; and the opportunity to go on trips with the entire Sristi family, including their women’s home from a separate campus. For example, last week, we went to the Art of Living Ashram in Bangalore.
On my first day Karthik shared that he assumes everything happens for good. Whether it is a coping mechanism or an evidence-based psychological tactic, I’ve found myself following his advice often in my quest for serenity.
The continuous rain during these monsoon months soaked my drying clothes for the second time? They probably needed the extra wash.
Lunch is arriving late? Time for a spontaneous dining hall dance party with the boys.
No sitting room left on a bus or train? Let me hang off the steps and imagine myself in a music video.
This is my first time using bucket showers and laundry; living in an area devoid of air conditioning; managing sudden power outages and spotty WiFi; and staving off incessant mosquito bites. While each has the potential to detract from my serenity, I recall my initial motivations when applying to this program. I wanted to break free from the confines of structured schooling, and learn by experiencing and then tackling the intractable problems people face in underserved areas.
To this end, I’ve learned that wearing multiple hats is a necessity at fledgling organizations like Sristi, especially in rural areas where living conditions are difficult, access is challenging, and human resources are sparse with frequent staff turnover. Everyone must pitch in. For example, everyone–from the young children to the most senior program managers–helped carry trays of sand to finish up a new playground Sristi is building.
I try to help anywhere I am needed to build strong relationships with Sristi’s community members. I prepare small English lessons for the teachers, host dance sessions for the boys, serve at various mealtimes, and genuinely look forward to community meetings each evening.
During one such meeting, each of the boys shared their names, hometowns, and what they hoped to achieve by being at Sristi. The answers are astounding: to get a job to take care of their parents or siblings; to work hard enough to prove that they were capable to those who had mocked their disabilities in the past; and even to earn enough money to give to charity. The unique opportunity to live, learn, and travel alongside Sristi’s boys has been the most nourishing and motivating part of my tenure here.
The magnitude of marginalization and poverty experienced by people with intellectual, developmental, psychiatric, and psychosocial disabilities in India is difficult and saddening to comprehend. However, the joys, strengths, and capabilities of Sristi’s community is incredibly encouraging. I am eager to continue understanding how organizations like Sristi can most effectively unlock the incredible potential of those like Tolkappiyan.
