Entry 04: Between Peace and Progress
I am stuck
Recently it feels like I’ve been doing a little too much living. I write this as I step aboard a metro that arrives on time, without having to jostle a crowd of people trying to cram themselves aboard. The automated announcements are the loudest voice onboard. My bottom slides across the stainless-steel seats as the train changes speed. It’s quiet and efficient. Are these the words we might use to describe a life?
The other day a stranger asked me if I liked India. I remembered the tears streaming down the face of a young traveler in Varanasi, after being trapped and jostled by the hordes of people gathered for evening aarti along the Ganges. I remembered falling asleep underneath the shade of the bodhi tree, to the sound of prayers and leaves making their final dance to earth. The same tree where Buddha is said to have found enlightenment, and the same tree where I waved away an especially persistent tour guide—unsure of how to tell him that I wasn’t looking for knowledge: just peace. I remembered the bodily rumble and rush of motors, movement, and the earth: riding past abandoned mines and forts while filming a music video—listening to a friend point out bends in the road where Maoist insurgents would carjack passersby. I remembered the sunset filtering between the columns of unfinished buildings, the texture of wind and soot in my face, and the touch of kindness that came with hopping on the back of a stranger’s bike to chase down a bus to the next city. I remembered the softness of sand between my toes and how my leather boots—stuffed within an old vegetable sack—bounced against my back as I ran to catch up to a wandering swami at the Maha Kumbh Mela: the largest gathering of people on the planet. I took a nap the next day at the confluence of the Ganges, amid a sea of gridded lights; the hum of machinery and religious chants rising and weaving strange harmonies around me. The same spot where days later a crowd crush would claim the lives of dozens of pilgrims. And I remembered wandering through the slums of Mumbai, taking in all the different textures and feeling oddly envious of the kids playing soccer and flying kites, with no expectations from the world.
There is no good or bad, I told him. It’s just different. Here, the only truth I have is in experiencing.
When I was first deciding what to do with this gap year, a friend from grad school introduced me to Jan Chipchase and his studio—Radio Durans. Jan leads an annual expedition to Afghanistan to support socio-economic development through adventure tourism—namely through efforts to map nascent trekking routes in the Afghan Pamir. I spent a late-night call with the preliminary team and came very close to committing, but the cost of the expedition would have been equivalent to several months of my own pursuits. Although I opted to travel independently, I grew interested in Jan’s writings on how young designers might engage (truly) with the world:
“If you want to understand how our planet will turn out this century, spend time in China, India, Indonesia, Nigeria and Brazil.”— Jan Chipchase’s 61 Glimpses of the Future
I came to India to figure out what Jan meant by this. Somini Sengupta, author of The End of Karma, describes present-day India as one caught between past and present: when India gained independence from Britain on the midnight of August 15th, 1947—independence came with the promise of new liberties and new possibilities: of equality and fundamental rights written into the very constitution of New India. How would this be adopted by a country where, “for centuries, an Indian’s destiny has been scripted in the womb?” India is caught between the ingrained belief of a cosmic dharma that defines one’s destiny—and the call of the modern day: for people to shape their own future and break free from the past. A follower of the Hare Krishna cult that I was recently entangled with described India succinctly as a “land of contrast.” Half the population is yearning for the skies: the birthright of the world stage. Pledging their allegiance to the spectre of a better life. While the other half seems to be holding them back: rooted in traditional ways of living. Accepting of destiny. I toe the line, wandering around holy cities and spending time with young designers and singer/songwriters—in hopes of catching a glimpse of both worlds and understanding what people mean by “a better life.”
Part 1: A Day in Mumbai
I love this street.
Goats roam beside barefooted kids playing in the streets. Yellow leaves lay swept up in small piles. Curtains of tarpaulin, suspended by metal poles, shade people drinking chai by the roadside. People come up to me, asking to take selfies, asking if I’d like to play cricket, asking how I was and where I was from. Kites sail on currents returning to an unseen ocean. They hand me the string, tugging at a yellow kite that comes spiraling down like an oak seed.
Following the main road brings me to where the slums meet the water. Painted concrete and corrugated metal, less colorful than the clothes suspended from rooftop lines, sit behind blue barrels, boats, and bikes. I pass schoolgirls in uniform and children climbing on beached boats along the causeway. A group of young boys are setting up soccer goals on a small strip of turf, anchoring the metal frames with discarded pieces of debris. They turn and ask “playing?” to me. People greet me with soft smiles and a hand to their chest, and I think that there is more peace to be found here, than in other parts of the city. In a small slit between whitewashed apartment blocks and the slums, the ocean caresses the mouth of an open landfill that is masquerading as a beach. Small wooden boats bob on the tide, joined by styrofoam blocks and plastic pastiche. Looking out over the waters were two kids, standing atop the rusted shell of an old boat, pulling at a string. They had made a kite out of newspaper: a diamond form with two tails fluttering in the ocean breeze.
I stop for lunch at a local eatery, savoring the taste of the unknown from the tips of my fingers, before making my way back to the central district. Shops and stalls line the main thoroughfare. There was a strange peace about it: a peace of being. I write this as I watch people sit on the curbside, beside wooden crates with wares locked within. They converse with one another, sharing a laugh, and simply being. I wonder if this is something we in the West, have lost: the ability to simply be. This street is beautiful. Trees and arched corridors line its length, backlit by a hazy afternoon sun that catches the colors of saris and starched collared shirts as it filters through leaves and colonnades alike. The rush of cabs and cars and buses form a blurry backdrop; a curtain of colors and sound. Backstage performers are seated on benches. Three at a time, watching a fourth pose with a pair of sunglasses. Next to a young man, laying with back to the flat concrete, foot propped at an angle, taking a nap. Another man sits and watches.
I am jealous. Jealous of the women at the street stall, holding babies while sipping juice and ice from underneath a dark veil. Jealous that even with this weather I am limited to the confines of restaurants with metal plates and spinning fans, and stalls that serve hot chai. One day, I will join them.
I watch a young boy lean out the open train doors. White cotton tee caught in the sun against his dark skin. Fluttering in the wind. The doors rock gently in their cradle. The ground turning into a blur.
The bazaar consists of stalls fashioned from bamboo and tarp: ceilings made with sandwiched carpets and cardboard, from which plastic-wrapped metal plates, cutlery, plastic containers, and other assortments dangle earthward. I position myself in an eddy amid the river of people, photographing the stalls against a backdrop of concrete and fading paint. A shopkeeper sitting on a stool nearby waves me over. He mimes a photograph and points. I cut through the flow of people and he points again, to the man beside him: asleep, head resting on crossed arms, seated by a grindstone. He smiles and motions for me to take a photo. I oblige, stepping back to catch the entire scene. Both victim and perpetrator.
“Saal padri, saal padri.” A voice cuts softly through the din of oncoming traffic. Colored shawls draped on one arm, he stands. Clad in dusted sandals. Blue bag placed to his left. Grey streaks in his hair and beard. Chanting his anthem day in and day out. His head dips down at times, eyes blinking away the fatigue as cars and people in various dress and stature pass by. The heat of the day is over. The smell of the seafood market is slowly washed away by an evening breeze, ebbing from behind new high rises and rippling billboards that say “book your sea view home.” The man pauses, before chanting again.
The sun is setting beneath a smoggy sky, washing away the din of traffic and detritus accumulated on the road. The clash of colors, sounds, cultures, and textures of the city are all made equal—all made beautiful—under the glow of a red sun. Sitting by the elevated walkway of Marine Drive, I watch the waters of the Arabian sea before me. They beckon from beyond the steep drop and stretch of concrete riprap that lay between us, and I realize that those kids from earlier—playing in beaches filled more with refuse than with sand—are closer to the waters than we are.
Back at the hostel, a local strikes up a conversation in the dorms. He has been traveling through India for years on motorbike, telling both me and another traveler about how travel opens your mind. I tell him about my interactions with the kids playing on that street that I loved, and he says, “this area is shady man, sketchy people here.” I hate how his words have colored my perspective. How when I walked through that street again, his words make me focus more on the trash on the ground and not the kids playing cricket on the corner. And I think again on how travel can change you.
It’s the New Year. But for some reason I feel more tired than ever. I feel stagnant. I feel like I have already seen what the city has to offer, even though I’ve been here mere days. Even though yesterday, was such a good day. I feel the loneliness that comes with being a stranger in the city, despite how the workers at that restaurant smiled when they saw me again.
I’ve been trying to walk on the same earth as the rest of the world—breathing the same fumes, dodging the same traffic, and eating the same food. But at the same time, it feels like I’m just cosplaying; we both know that I’m just passing through. The beauty of those moments comes through the lens of someone who gets to leave—but does that make them any less beautiful? Does it make my interactions any less meaningful? What does it means to belong to a place? The waiter slips me the menu again; a not-so-subtle reminder that here, my presence is only as good as my money.
This question of belonging surfaces time and time again. It wears me down and makes me wonder, turning exploration and experiencing into a tired routine. But there are moments. Moments over morning coffee while local dogs eye you for a treat, sharing thoughts about the value of an education and what we’ve taken for granted; a makeshift meal of eggs and ramen at the border, talking about new horizons and the makings of a life; sharing an upper berth on a train headed nowhere, discussing cultural differences and being at peace with the world; huddled by a wood stove on top of a mountain, musing over progress, uncertainty, and everything in-between. And oddly enough, in listening to an Italian man who was lost on a mountain overnight—talk about the salty, buttery taste of his own urine that he drank to stay warm.
There are also unspoken moments: a shared meal of beshbarmak at a family home, testing out the taste of fokso at a local eatery, passing out terracotta cups of chai, jotting down swear words in Hindi, a shared taxi ride across a country, rooftop conversations warmed by a bottle of rum, motorcycle rides at dusk through the countryside, and squeezing into a tent next to rivers running from the roof of the world. Amid the transience, I’ve found that home is other people: these shared moments and conversations with former strangers who opened their worlds to me, and of course the messages, voice memos, and group calls from old friends and mentors. I’m incredibly lucky to have had this period of my life shaped by so many.
I often ask myself what it means to have experienced these moments. Ultimately, I feel that they’ve changed my understandings of an existence.
Part 2: The Age of Arrogance
Back during my trek in the Balkans, one of my Hungarian parents recommended the film, Lunana: A Yak in the Classroom. There was a scene where the villagers explained to a city-born teacher the importance of stacking stone cairns on the mountains: they are prayers toward one’s existence, to make it home safely. For much of humanity’s time on earth, we lived in environments where this relationship with nature was intimately tied to our own existence. In Entry 03, I described this by writing:
Because as someone who may not fully appreciate the difficulty that comes with those lifestyles, I see in them a beautiful connection between people and land, and a richness and beauty that we no longer have.
The film’s explanation made me realize that to be modern is to challenge precarity: to lay claim to one’s own existence. And when we control our own existence, it becomes precious. Our time becomes valuable and life—a matter of efficiency: a problem to be solved.1 I grew up in this environment, where culture and education focused heavily on “solving” life. Getting into college was a matter of following a checklist. High school students sought remedies to the pressure of courses and all nighters through “productivity” hacks—Pomodoro techniques, Pareto principles, popping pills, and everything in-between. Companies were built around developing applications to “revolutionize” systems and address “pain points” to bring greater convenience and efficiency to people. It took me an embarrassingly long time to understand that life is not an optimization problem. I don’t mean to denigrate the innovations that have improved the quality of life for many of us, but I feel that we’ve grown arrogant. Our obsession over controlling fate and time is to the point that we are enslaved by our own power: where we seek to maximize and extract value from our own being, chastising and hating the world when something does not go to plan—when it dares to go against our vision of life and the world. Would things be better if we simply let go? Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, but while I slid around on that smooth metro seat, I found myself missing the chaos of traveling in Kyrgyzstan and Nepal: the people crammed in the aisle, next to bags of produce, propane tanks, goats, and chickens, the babies thrust into peoples’ arms, and the peddlers that squeezed on board at each rest stop—waving their snacks and bottled water. They stood out so starkly against the homogenous backdrop of efficiency that I was accustomed to.
There are certainly aspects that could and should be improved upon, but I’m also reminded of the uniformed agent in Kosovo that passed out tickets on the bus and ushered me to my stop; the elderly woman who pointed me toward my hostel, and the grumpy clerk in Macedonia who sold me my bus tickets. These were the people that were replaced by the Omni tap-to-pay system, Google Maps, and online booking platforms in the name of streamlining an experience. When we allow our lives to be so mediated by technology, are we not also giving up the interactions that might make our lives all the more vibrant?
Part 3: Changing Baselines
I embarked on this year of travel wondering what we left behind in our pursuit of progress. What I’ve found in these past few months, is that I’ve been utterly overwhelmed by the very life that I was in search of. It’s placed me in an interesting position where my baselines on normalcy have shifted drastically—forcing me to reconsider my position on what progress really means. Expressing this tension has proven trickier than expected, so apologies in advance if I am not entirely coherent.
I met a man on a boat in Varanasi who had just visited Houston, Texas (he builds oil refineries for the engineering firm Jacobs). His first thought was, “where are all the people?” What is special about India is the undeniable presence of life; it’s in the eaves, the shadows, outcroppings, alleyways, gulleys—spilling out onto the street. Quite frankly, India is bursting at the seams. I hopped on a random bus shortly after arriving in Mumbai, enamored by the sight of hazy streetlights illuminating the people drinking chai, fixing bikes, and eating dinner by the roadside. More and more people piled into the bus—to the point that when I realized the bus was heading in the wrong direction, I nearly broke someone’s arm trying to squeeze my way out. I found myself in a similar tight squeeze in the trains, metros, and markets of Delhi and in the streets of Varanasi. The flow of people is overwhelming and electric—pulling you in and under. The day before I took the train from Delhi to Chandigarh, several people died in a crowd crush at that very station. And don’t even get me started on the honking. Life here is so intense, so in your face, that progress seems to be akin to an escape. It means seeking out enclaves to take refuge in, away from the chaos, where you can bathe in cool conditioned air or when you have the means to ride on newly built roads in the private bubble of a personal car. It means living in gated communities with signs forbidding street vendors and sweepers that maintain the aesthetic of a “clean” street. Life here is so abundant that progress seems to be a process of compartmentalization, erasure, and escape. And—I get it. I understand why people would want something different: why they would want things to change. It’s so clear, so palpable—what it means to live a better life.
I used to criticize the piles of plastic goods placed out on the street: the stuffed animals in plastic bags and stacks of buckets and chairs and toys. Consumption! I railed out. But now I think about the barefoot girl dressed in a ragged shawl, gnawing at bones from a small camp on the street overpass—and how she clutched at a small plastic doll with blonde hair. I’m thinking about the kids at the Maha Kumbh, filling plastic bottles with sand and their laughter as they ran and tugged them along with pieces of string. Now, when I come across a stall with stuffed plush unicorns, pandas, Peppa pigs, and Pikachus laid out in the shade of a faded beach umbrella—I think about the reprieve that a parent might feel, giving a toy to a child, when they have nothing else to give. I understand now that those bags of plastic products, in all their colors and brands and styles, are a lifeline for people: toys for them to keep their kids busy while they are on the streets, household items, and outfits to wear for a first family outing. I’ve found that consumption is not as simple a condition as I once believed. It serves as a lifeline to not just comfort—but also greater access to spaces and social liberties.
In the book, Why Loiter? by Shilpa Phadke, Sameera Khan, and Shilpa Ranade, the authors discuss gendered access to public space and the politics of risk for women in Mumbai. It is through this book that I first learned about the scrutiny women in India face from societal/familial expectations and the current state of women’s rights and access to public space. I previously lamented about the homogenization of global cultures as they trend toward consumerism—but what if what I took to be cultural erosion was actually a means of expression and an escape from a more restrictive culture? The branded clothes signal membership to the modern world, women are now coveted in their role as a consumer, and through this newfound power are able to gain access to spaces that traditionally were reserved for men. While this access hinges on assuming the identity of a provider/consumer—and thus is not “true” right to public space—it is still a taste of freedom for people that have faced far greater cultural and social repression than I have. The past few months of travel have shown me starkly, the luxuries and privileges that I’ve taken for granted.
I’m reminded of my conversation with students from Kazakhstan—young feminists fighting for rights in a society where it was once (and in some places still is) customary to kidnap brides for marriage. And I think about the conversation I had in Almaty with a local friend who wanted to replace the old USSR-era buildings (that I found beautiful) with new glass and metal malls. These glitzy malls for them are a sign of progress—new spaces that they can access. Capitalism and consumerism here are liberating forces. Building these spaces to them is exciting—essential even—for a better life. When I was in Kathmandu I would often wander the streets at night, illuminated by the still-open storefronts. And I would wonder:
I wonder what you gave up, to be standing with your hands in your pockets outside these stores. To be hunched behind a table, back bent over your phone. What did you give up, for a dream?
And yet, they know where they want to be. They know where they are heading. Do we?
Part 4: Are we really prepared for progress?
There’s something I felt about Nepal and India. Within the smog and traffic—I could feel something in the air: a yearning, burgeoning growth. The sense of excitement, possibility, and certainty—to how they might realize a better life. Why is it that back home, I feel that the atmosphere is one of complacency? For the people in the so-called developed world—why do we still rely on consumption as a marker for a better life? It feels like we’ve hopped on the bandwagon of technology and just accept whatever is new and exciting as signs of progress. These innovations take us round and round, providing solutions to problems that we manufacture ourselves, spiraling toward some unknown future with such confidence. Do we like, or even know where we are heading? What future do we envision for ourselves? And are we really ready for further progress, when we can scarcely hold on to the liberties and rights that we once took for granted?
I’m not sure where to go from here. Frankly, I don’t think we are ready for something more. Our lifestyles and functioning of our very society is contingent on the exploitation and stratification of people. And this is nothing new. Since the dawn of civilization there has been some form of cheap, controllable labor. When the point comes where enough of the world becomes so educated that they no longer need to work as farmers and laborers—will the world really be ready for that?
Out of all the questions floating around my head, the one that resurfaces the most is: what do I owe the world?
Part 5: Between Peace and Progress
I’m impressed you’ve stuck with me for this long. That last section was a little rough—I am not so well read on post-capital/degrowth moments that I could give it the depth that it deserves. But what I am, is caught making peace with, and wanting to change the world.
In a conversation with a venture capitalist, I spoke of this undue responsibility that Americans typically feel toward “doing good” in the world. Even now as I advise students on college applications, I tell them to emphasize their understanding of broader global issues and how they might leverage their education to address them. There is some sort of martyr complex/noblesse oblige about this mindset that I’m not sure how to untangle. I suppose I feel this obligation to make the world a better place, given the privileges that I’ve amassed through my upbringing, education, and America’s imperialism.
A little under a year ago, I drove with a friend to Florida to help him document an underwater jetpack that he had designed and built for himself. On that drive down I was reading A Problem from Hell by Samantha Power—the former ambassador to the UN under President Obama and until recently, the head of USAID. The book focuses on the history of genocide given her experiences as a foreign correspondent in Sarajevo during the Bosnian War. I was drawn to her depictions of Raphael Lemkin—the man who coined the term, genocide—which were that of a rabid, obsessed man chasing after people in the corridors of the UN to convince them to ratify the terms of crimes against humanity. I was moved by the torture this man must have felt, having lost his entire family, to dedicate himself so much to something that it destroyed him entirely. Is this what it takes to change the world?
From my window I can see piles of trash that sit below unfinished concrete buildings. But people are playing soccer, flying kites, sitting and playing amid all the debris. What does it matter? It’s still a life. It’s still beautiful in its own way. As I am now, everywhere I go there is something beautiful about the world. I’m reminded of the shoemaker sitting underneath his tarp, with such a dignity to his eyes that I felt compelled to look away; of the street vendors and pure symphony of their craft—punching holes in pani puri or making the fastest buttered sandwich of your life; of the kids playing in the dirt, happiness in their soles; and a life without expectations. It seems they’ve made living itself an art, with a quiet, ineffable dignity. And I wonder if I need to give up being able to see this beauty—if I need to be more unhappy or discontent—in order to change the world. Perhaps I am conflating humanity’s ability to find dignity and joy, with acceptance. Perhaps I need to remind myself that just because I see children laughing and playing—doesn’t mean that their lives can’t be better. But at the same time—is that something for me to decide? Why is it that, the more I understand the world, the less I want to change it?
I feel caught between this martyr complex—some strange responsibility to try and do good in the world—and the peace I feel with the world. What do I owe the world?
I’m quite tired. Tired of the routine of wandering and falling in love with new places, and of being able to leave so easily. I’m tired of experiencing so much, and I’m tired of how beautiful the world is.
Progress by extension, is the set of actions we take to further concretize our existence and control over our fates—typically through the application of rationality, science, and technology.
Beautiful writing Kevin! Looking forward to seeing you in Civita soon.
Norma