There are only so many tomorrows. But then there are eternal goals. Eternal, stupendous and mind boggling.

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I started my day at the village listening to an “oppari” that cut across the drowsy silence of a very scorching hot morning in Andhra Pradesh. The agony in the woman’s coarse loud voice and the anguish of her chest beating howls oozed out the emotional strength I had started off my journey with, wrenching my heart like nothing else had, in a longtime.

Having grown up in villages more than 10years of my life, having spoken of villages exotically like many other urbanites and having done some research on building model villages, rural sustainable development etc I believed that there isn’t any challenge in the work I’m there to do that I can’t foresee. I was ofcourse in for a surprise. The crashing down of the illusions of a simple village free of the stressful pace of urban settlements is surely not pleasant surprise at that.

Considering the fact that there are about 4000NGOs that work in AP, we presumed that the development interventions must be of good number and quality. However even if there were 40,000 people working with the villages, it still is miniscule for the more than 25,000 villages each with an average population of 1000. The amount of work the Government and the social activists are trying to do is not any meager, yet how do you ensure the effectiveness of implementation of the projects and create transformation in the mindset of the millions in a country that houses more than 6lakh villages?

My varied experiences started with the display of how extortion is the way of life and easy money order of the day in that village (and many others).This very shabby looking man followed me around the village asking for alms. When I finally gave in and offered 2Rs he flung it back at me; he then took out a piece of lemon and ash, chanted some abracadabra, and threw them in my direction, cursing me for life because the amount is too meager. I later find out that he is houseless and penniless, just like the 1,943,766 people in the country who are homeless (and that is only as per 2001 census).

The experiences of extortion continued, with monkeys trained by the villagers snatching things from our hands to get groundnuts in exchange. Our cars were stopped many a times, by villagers who would not let us drive ahead unless we gave them money. Money. Ofcourse, it is very pertinent to make their money. Else how could they afford their 180Ml Alcohol? Food three times or not, basic sanitation or not, electricity or not, alcohol and beedi prevails. So yes, every household spends Rs.75 everyday on Alcohol though more than 60% of them live below the poverty line.

The Doctor that works there tells me, the first thing India needs is cleaning up. Surely, with such pathetic sanitation I wonder how we can imagine doing anything else at all. The drainage stinks of human and cow shit, urine, waste from fields, and dirty water from various other sources. None of these drainages are closed and they overflow just outside their huts. Children sit next to these, eating, playing, jumping in and practically spending their entire day there. We offering to clean up for a day would have done nothing at all from a long term perspective.

We all concurred that education and awareness the only we can address any of these problems. But where do we make a beginning and how? The village has a school that has upto 10th class, but no teacher that has studied beyond 10th. There is the mid day meaning scheme but the rice is cooked in unimaginably unhealthy conditions. So there is hardly any motivation to send children to schools and if they sent their girl children all hell will break loose.

How do you find an educated groom for the girl? And for obvious reasons the more educated she is, more the dowry. The female infanticide continues inspite of all interventions by the many non governmental organizations. Family planning has worked, only because these men want to save up money for the alcohol.

The old age home and hospital is overflowing with diseased people, many with chronic ones. There is a wail from every ward in there, still born children, death at a premature age, female infanticide et al. I broke down when this mostly naked old lady, fell on my legs crying and later hugged me tight for 10mins telling me her story.

I spend the rest of my day discussing the deep rooted caste issues, farmer suicides, lack of hygiene, alcohol abuse etc with the many social activities. The stories were unending, their pain and passion to reform abysmal. However, the amount of support they need to create this is huge.

So, just like the many others I was there to study their problems, hoping I could inspire these 19year old students with me to do their bit to the dreamy transformation plans. Just so that they don’t follow the herd, just so that they can gather courage to do the unconventional. So that they don’t spend their weekends in flashy malls, smelling cookies, ogling at people of the opposite sex, chatting up about global warming and Karan Johar’s sexual preferences like they were not two very different issues.
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Often when I realize the intensity of problems Iam out to make a difference to, given the many constraints I work with, I’m tempted very much to quit; contrary to what I tell my friends about challenges inspiring me. The same sinking feeling of desperation to return to the comfortable life of mediocrity and indifference often returns on nights when muscles ache, legs refuse to take me any farther, and eyelids burn begging for sleep.

As I sat there by the ‘thinnai’ later at midnight by the muddy roads of the village, prasad came running to me, sat beside me and asked, “Are you going to live with us here? Teach us to dance, sing and speak English?”. I evaded the question. Later I sat there alone, looking the moon that glittered in silence. Prasad seemed to be still talking to me.

“Look, the wails had subsided, so will your agony when you get back to your cushy home. In the daily grinds of finding your own need for love, your compassion for these strangers would vanish into thin air. The warm breeze blowing silently now burn your spirit and you will return home hurt. What of us, then?”

What of us, they ask me, as the flickering street light finally dies out. The only light guiding me back home.