If there is a hell worse than the drugged, midnight streets of New Delhi I don't want to know about it.
The past few weeks in the tribal villages and organic farm have been creating fire within me, but not sorrow. I played with smiling children whose parents were miles away rallying for the right to the land that they've lived on for years. I cooked a meal for twenty people with ingredients grown on the few acres we were living on.
But right now, as I stand in this hostel, I feel far away from the encouraging notion that there is good energy and work. Instead I feel a weight and a pain from seeing so many faces, ravaged by cocaine and marijuana and sniffing white out and falling asleep in the medians of busy streets while namaz plays over loudspeakers from Jamma Masjid. And I am physically and mentally sickened and trying to remember my power rather than the open palms I have held out in hopelessness.
But the line for the internet is long and I don't have the energy or clarity to explain more. Know that I am healthy and hoping to share more with you soon.
Shanti Shanti Shanti