I’m in Baltimore. My heart is in the natu, the country. I’m on Piscataway land—the land of my friend, my mentor. The land of the Chesapeake. The brackish water connects me with the Indian ocean: salt of the water, salt of the march, salt of the marsh, salt of independence, salt of freedom.
And the sugar unjustly made in the harbor.

For me, home is in Kerala—my dad’s house in Kollam, my mom’s in Punalur. When I think of climate crisis, I think of the floods there: the many people who have lost their lives, their homes. I think of the photos my uncle sends in the WhatsApp group, that have somehow become a yearly tradition: knees deep in brown water. I think of the flooding here, of the Facebook video I saw of my auntie trying to drive in a few feet of water.

The last time I went to the homeland was seven years ago. Only parts remain in my memory—the rest lives on in photos in group chats and churidars. Every time we’d go shopping, my mom and I would get mango ice cream from the little restaurant next to the saree department store. I’d sit with my valyamma and cut tiny onions by the backdoor as air breezed throughout the house. I remember the tall coconut palms, and the banana tree that we could only reach by leaning out over the balcony. My grandma would pull the leaves off for us to eat onam sadhya together, with all my cousins on the porch.

Each time we go to visit, my dad’s side of the family gets together for a little trip. The last time, we went on a river, in a houseboat. On the way there, I was so impatient, constantly asking my dad, “Is this the boat? Is it that one?” But once we finally boarded, I remember slowing down. Going slowly down the river. Flowing with the water, the current. Taking photos of my mom. Her taking photos of me. On the water, the horizon slowly disappeared as the sky blended with the river. Both one color, one texture, fog. A feeling of endlessness, maybe of Janna.

I never really envisioned living the life of a climate organizer. I didn’t dream of staying up till 2 am every night in high school making graphics and collaborating on docs. No one really asked this of me. I responded to an Instagram story about getting involved, and following through on my words changed my life so drastically.

As I leave the space that has taken a quarter of my life or two, I’m left to wonder what I’ll be: the girl of the tree or the girl who will flee? Much is left to experience. Much is left to be saved when we think of this floating rock out in space.

But until then, my toes wiggle in the soil of Baltimore, a city that has been wronged countlessly, stereotyped beyond belief. And as we fight for justice—Prison Abolition, Black Trans Rights, Ceasefire, the red line, the trash incinerator—I can see the trees and the leaves beyond the horizon. They’re running toward me.

I start my daily drive, 45 minutes in stop-and-go traffic, northbound on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. I’m headed to teach English to non-native speakers at a high school on the edge of Baltimore City—which, in many ways, mirrors the place I once called home in Washington, DC. For example, I always found it peculiar that the Anacostia River is accessible via the park, but only after you cross I295. Why does a highway run right through a neighborhood, only to cut off its people from waterfront access?

But I guess it’s better to place a highway in my backyard, as opposed to yours.

Since I was in elementary school, I have always kept a journal. I want to say something profound. I want opportunity to hold space and time, an audience with eyes looking to witness something transformational, but these days I have very little to say. There are no words anymore—nothing that we don’t already know, collectively.

And if you’re looking to hear a story, when’s the last time you listened deeply to your own?

I don’t want to try to make an example of my Americanness, mixedness, and all the complex and salient identities meshed and held within my body. Because all people are more than the sum of their identities and the appearance of their bodies. And what of our social body? Divided nations are simply reflections of divided bodies of people, all severing themselves into digestible components.

“Check the box here:
What is your race of origin?
Your gender? Sexuality?
Socioeconomic status?
Ability?
Political affiliations? Age?
Ethnicity? Religion? Education?”

Somehow, enclosed in these little boxes, is everything but the order and simplicity they claim.

“Other.”

Other sends me searching for more ways I can be one and wondering why we’re sent running from another. What is it in the sound of my voice and the appearance of my body that compels others to fight against me?

There are no edges here, only movement toward uniting us all. So what story do you choose in between the touch and go of your own life? When will you arrive? Until then, remember: in this story, other was always ours.

Hmmm. My story.
So I don’t know if this is
What you are looking for
But.
If I were to ever tell a story for The Moth
This is the story that I would share.

The theme would have to be something about
Knowing that you’re going to be okay or
Something like that.

So this story is about how I knew I was going to be okay, entering the real world, after university.

It was my senior year, second semester, so close to graduating.
It was spring. It was beautiful outside. I had my window open. I was on the second floor.
And you could kind of walk out onto the roof over the patio from my window.

And I’m sitting on my bed finishing up some homework,
Aaand I just happen to look up, at this moment,
and I see this guy,
Riding a bike, past the window,
and I look again and I step toward the window,
And then I even step out onto the roof and I’m like oh my god – that’s my bike.
And I look around the side of the house and my bike is gone

So I run downstairs,
barefoot.
I grab my roommate’s bike.
I start pedaling, down the street toward this guy.
My adrenaline is out the roof.
I have no idea what I’m going to say.
And, honestly, I have a terrible potty mouth
And I curse all the time.
But, in this moment, for some reason, I didn’t curse.
I— even though I was—have reason to
But I just pedaled down the street.

I whip
This bike
In front of this guy
And I stop him and I’m just like
“HEY! GIVE! ME BACK! MY BIKE!”
And he looks very—puzzled and confused
And he’s like “ohuhuhah I’m sorry I’m sorry
I – I – I had to use it uh duh duh” all these things
I was like, “I don’t care. Just give me my bike
Right. Now.”

And so he you know gets off the bike
And he like awkwardly hands it to me
And I very awkwardly try to get off
The bike that I’m currently on
And start walking back down the street
With these two bikes and no shoes

And he just looks at me and he’s like
“Umm. Do you need some help?”
And I was like, “uh actually that would be really nice if you would help me”
So this gentleman rode my bike back with me to my house.
We returned both bikes. I put them inside this time. And I was like
“Well where do you need to go? Where were you trying to get to?”
And I ended up taking him to wherever it was he needed to go
Umm but I also took my roommate with me because
She was not about to let me go into a car with a stranger.

So that was the story
And after that I was like, “You know what? I think I’m gonna be okay in this world”
It reminded me that even in a moment of crisis, you can still find humanity.

And I got my bike back.

At 4 AM, the first alarm went off, and I hit snooze. 

At 4:15, the second alarm went off, and I said to myself: this is happening. I grabbed some granola bars and tied a yellow cloth around my arm so everyone knew I was the granola bar guy that day.

At 6:45, I reported for duty at the New York Avenue playground. About fifty of us watched as the plans were presented. We were sleepy, but ready.

7 AM, rush hour, show time. The sound of the drums carried us to the street, where we marched two blocks to the exit ramp of Route 395—the highway. So many times we had marched around this city, demanding a livable future, and so many times we had been ridiculed, or ignored. This time, we said, would be different. We were no longer just taking to the streets, we were taking the streets. We linked arms right there on the exit ramp, and then, we stopped.

I can still hear the truck horns blaring as traffic came to a standstill. No more business as usual.

At 7:30, I got a text from my grandma: “I just turned on the television and you’re on Fox News!,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Somewhere around then, I lost track of time. For a few hours, we held the street, singing, chanting, and standing together. “Who shut it down? We shut it down.” Now they could definitely hear us.

You know, part of being an activist is telling the truth, and the truth is that I don’t know whether I’d occupy an exit ramp again. I don’t know that it’s the best long-term strategy to get people on our side. But what I do know is this: in that moment, standing in the street with our arms linked, singing spirited songs of righteous resistance, I felt like we were no longer just fighting against something. We were fighting for something. For our future.

And I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.