Let Me Take You on a Long Walk

Hold My Hand, It’s Just Us

I am glad you chose to come. It’s December already. I am in Udaipur today. The sky is blue here, and the sun shines bright. It isn’t cold yet, but I still have my jacket on. In case you need it, you can ask me. I don’t feel so cold anyway. It’s the end of the year. Both you and I have run enough. Today, let’s just take a long walk.

I don’t believe in or take the concept of a year too seriously myself. However, it does give me a yearly ritual to ponder over the year gone by and to set some intentions for the year ahead—similar to how I find myself sitting with my whiteboard every weekend, trying to make sense of the week that went and the week to come. Time is powerful. More powerful than money, resources, kinship, and all of them combined. To try to win over time is pointless. To pause is the only way I know to make sense of time. That’s why I like to walk (and write).

I wanted to write sooner. I wanted to talk to you about last weekend. It was beautiful. We met again, all the fireflies, the dreamers, the thinkers, the doers, and the creators. The gathering was a resounding YES to life, to being, and to the acknowledgement of each other. This is the kind of space where the Kabir in me comes alive, and so does Mirabai. They both mingle, inseparable from each other, tied as a unified entity, a single fragrance.

“What are you talking about?”

Walk a bit more. I will tell you everything.

“You and your ethereal stories.”

Well, you signed up for this. You see, I was always in search of something. Since childhood, I was mostly quiet—both in voice and vision. I didn’t know what to think about, let alone talk about.

When I did get the courage to think for myself, I was shunned. Society punishes those who do; it damages the very fabric of society. The collective is scared of individual thought.

Luckily, I did get through and took my decisions by following my voice. A well-wishing friend guided me on a beautiful journey, and that led me to another. After many such long and short journeys, I found myself on the border of the country, in a remote village in Kutch, for 10 days.

The journey promised to take me around Kutch and its villages in the company of other co-travellers. It promised a lot more, and yet the idea of travelling around Kutch was enough for the adventurous soul in me.

There are years when nothing happens and days when years happen. Those 10 days felt like that—that I had lived all the years that I had missed living. My body felt free. I laughed as I wished, shared without any filters, and felt one with the others.

On the last day, we all went around walking in a garden, occasionally bowing down to the earth to express gratitude for anything or everything. I remember it like it happened yesterday. My mind felt numb; I didn’t know who to thank. The sweetness of the last few days still blossoming in my being, I just trusted the process and bowed down after every few steps.

It was on the last few steps that I found the team (the creators of the journey) seated with a tub of water, washing the feet of every participant. Suddenly, I felt a rush of emotions in me, like everything in life was coming together, as if every moment I lived preceding that was meant to be cultivated here.

I didn’t want to let them wash my feet. It felt against every idea that was taught to me, everything that I had learned up to that point. Submitting and learning to accept love was also a learning to be acted upon, so I did let my feet be washed. My entire being fragmented into tiny bits and crashed on the floor, almost mixing into that very water that housed my feet. I cried beyond measure. I erupted. A catharsis.

As my feet were washed, much like a potter, I felt my being being moulded—but this time there was no form it was given. There was just play and dance and music.

That’s how I fell in love with the fireflies. That’s how I became one with the community. That’s how I housed myself in the interbeing of the ethereal.

“Say more. Tell me about the weekend.”

The most ambitious work is that of human consciousness, and the most transformative is particularly of individual thought. When the individual is secured in its presence—individual and free in thought—it can truly be a part of the community. As the individual nurtures itself, the community is nurtured by its own accord. The community and individual become inseparable.

I have always been very wary of being inducted into any group, commune, or order, as most societies corrupt the being. This one did the opposite. It helped me back to myself, and so I owned it like it was mine. Well, it rightfully is; that’s the very nature of a true community.

I have had the fortune of loving deeply, living empathetically, thinking mindfully, and creating a future for myself intentionally. I have run many experiments with myself—on nature, relationships, travel, habits, money, and work. Especially work. The community—or just the strong belief in its presence—has empowered me time and again to reevaluate and rethink everything that was served to me through childhood.

What does it mean to pray?
What does it mean to love?
Who is worthy of trust?
Is there any “other” at all?
What is friendship, love, sex, marriage, and death?

Amongst a hundred other inquiries.

A safe space—a big enough container for every question and inquiry—is the ultimate gift of a commune. A container is not just to hold the questions but to also hold the self while the mind engages with the big questions.

This weekend, we all came together once again, like we do every once in a while. In a world becoming increasingly caught up with engagements on screens, it has become all the more essential to meet in person—to celebrate, rejoice, dance, hug, hold hands, kiss, and look deep into each other’s eyes. That’s the only way we will remind ourselves that we’re here. We’re okay, and we’ll be okay.

The weekend and the preparation for it started two months back, and I had the opportunity to foresee and go through every step of the process of bringing this together—the dance of the fireflies.

Hopping through the many hurdles of administrative tasks, logistical hurdles, and operational actions, we finally offered something beautiful for each one of us. The experiment for me this time was to hold space for the others.

If this was last year, I would have laughed. This time, I said a full-body yes, even though I was nervous within. It takes a lot to hold space, and earlier, I always found myself empty of the energy to offer it. This time, I did say yes because I did find my well full enough to do so. The community has always treated a No as beautifully as it does a Yes.

Holding space is God’s work. To enable other beings to reflect on their journey and to facilitate their thought and reflection is incredibly sensitive and profound. I did it. Not sure if I did it well, but my version of doing well was achieved when I said yes to the opportunity. I hope I made sense to a few. To others, I hope my apologies reach you in time.

Some memories from the gathering

“This is music to my ears. Tell me about the other fireflies too! How was it for them?”

We had two spaces for other fireflies to come and talk about their work: OST and Pecha Kucha—both curated spaces for people to come forward and talk about their work.

Earlier, I used to wonder why create a space for such mini-sessions in between the larger sessions. Why invite this disruption and excessive planning?

Seated at the front of the hall, my ears, eyes, and all my attention on the people sharing their stories, I realized the point was missing all these years. To be a witness to someone’s story is to acknowledge their story and to be a part of it, almost as if co-travelling with them.

One story took me to the streets of Brighton, where I found myself wearing a jacket and holding an umbrella over myself, while another story found me cycling slowly across the beautiful lanes of Melghat—a village reimagined by a firefly and his community. Many other stories and lives unfolded.

Meeting people after years brought back memories and the existence of one another but in retrospect. All of us travel our own individual journeys only to come together every once in a while to co-travel for a bit.

What could be more beautiful than this?

“It’s getting a bit cold.”

Here, take my jacket.

Thank you for listening to me.

“It’s almost an honour to hear you talk; you rarely say much.”

I mostly write it out. When words fall short, I take you for a walk. In the silence and pauses between my words, you understand the true meaning of what I intend to say.

“I hear you. I see you. I am here. Thank you for sharing with me.”

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I invite you to reflect and write on the following prompt:

Take a walk with your thoughts. Imagine you’re having a conversation with a companion—real, imagined, or a part of yourself. Where do you walk? What do you share? Write about the journey, the silences, and the revelations that emerge along the way.

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As a feature of all my newsletters, I share one song, one book, one plant-based meal, one film/video that inspired me, and some photographic updates from my life.

• Song: I recommend this song - CO2 by Prateek Kuhad (Acoustic Version)

  

• Book/Newsletter: I am reading मुसाफिर कैफे (Musafir Cafe) this week. I have become quite fond of reading books in my mother tongue. I am realising how reading and comprehension are more fluid.

• Meal:

  

  Vegan Pizza and Mushroom Steak at a Vegan Cafe in Delhi

• Film/Video: I loved hearing Kailash Nadh (CTO Zerodha) and Nithin Kamath (CEO Zerodha) talk about habits, social media, capitalism and the environment on this podcast.

• Photographs:

  

  

  

  Last few days

Thank you for reading my newsletter! I hope you enjoyed reading it. If you liked my work, please consider subscribing. I write weekly on topics ranging from photography and nostalgia to loneliness and living as an artist. If you have any feedback, I would love to hear from you—feel free to email or comment! Wishing you a wonderful week ahead, and I look forward to seeing you next week!