During my orientation program as a Teach For Nature (TFN) Fellow, in one of the sessions I found myself participating in a leaf composting activity as a learner. It sounds small. Almost insignificant. And yet, the experience stayed with me in a way that many large conversations on climate never do.

Arriving at the Compost Pit

When I reached the space, there was no rush. No urgency of “finishing a task.” Just a group of people gathered around a shallow pit, with piles of dry fallen leaves lying nearby.

What a Car-Sick 8-Year-Old and a Storytelling Masterclass Taught Me

"Once upon a time..."   
Wait, scratch that.   
"It was a cold, dark winter night in the middle of a dense forest..."   
No, no, let me try again.   
"9:00 AM on a bright and sunny Monday…"

What do a ghostwriter, a public speaking coach, a software engineer, and a doctor have in common? Along with thirteen others, they committed to the one-year Teach For Nature Fellowship at Bhoomi College. Seventeen of us, diverse in temperaments, ages, professions, and places we call home, have come together with one mutual aspiration: to help children fall in love with nature.

When I got to know that this week’s theme in our orientation programme was food, I found myself wondering, what is food? With this question in mind, I began the module.

I was asked to write a post for the blog about the waste management module and our field trip to Swachagraha Kalika Kendra (SGKK) at HSR Layout.

“Observer mode on,    
documentation cap on.”

This was me, en route to the SGKK to learn about waste.

I have practiced the art of writing objectively, separating myself entirely from the subject. Shutting down emotion, focusing only on what is happening, what can be recorded, what can be written down as fact.

The first crack in that distance came with a sense of amusement.

The water module could not have come at a better time. Bangalore’s heat wave was at its peak and we were feeling the effects at the Bhoomi campus.        
We started the module with a rain folk song that goes:

Allah megh de        
Allah megh de        
Allah megh de, paani de        
Chaya de re tu hi, Allah megh de        
Aasman holio tuta tuta, jameen holio phata         
Megh raja ghumiya roiche        
Megh debo tor keda        
Allah megh de        
Allah megh de

There’s a certain way I move through the world. Careful, observant, quietly alert, the kind of person who plans ahead and finds comfort in routines, lists, and timelines. I tend to notice what could go wrong before it does, to keep things in order, to stay prepared. If you were to travel with me, you’d probably see someone with a pen and paper always close by, trying not to miss anything, trying to take it all in. But when I look back now, very little lives in my notes.      
       
What stayed were moments.

Quite recently, I was on the top of a slide.

No, it wasn’t an adult’s slide at an overhyped amusement park. It was a children’s slide with very tiny steps and a narrow slope. And there I was, standing at the top thinking, ‘Why on earth did I decide to do this?’

Picture this: Years after you have graduated, you are back in a college where you are undergoing a 3.5-month residential training programme. As you open the window of your dorm room, you see a white-cheeked barbet protecting its young ones. As you step out in the morning, you hear a chorus of birds calling out to one another.

I have lived a comfortable life: Predictable, convenient, curated.

And yet, somewhere between binge-watching Netflix shows and busy being a corporate leader, a quiet discomfort would creep in. At the end of many days, I felt a strange emptiness.

A walk under open skies, the rustle of leaves, the flutter of a butterfly - these small moments left me feeling fuller than hours spent in front of a screen. And that made me pause and ask a difficult question:

Is my definition of an ideal day truly mine,     
or something I’ve unconsciously inherited?