Presented by: Sibani Singh
There comes a time in every fellow’s journey when the romanticism of grassroots change meets the very unromantic reality of logistics. For me, it arrived in the form of a ticking clock, three suitcases, an entire household to dismantle, a fellowship wrap-up to finesse, project handovers to communities, and of course—Indian Railways gently whispering: “No tickets available.”
Yes, I was moving from one state to another. And no, it wasn’t the breezy kind where you roll your luggage, sip a latte at the airport, and click selfies titled “new beginnings”. This was the kind that turns your chakras inside out and tests your patience, priorities, and upper body strength all at once.
Let’s start with packing. How does one person accumulate this much stuff in two years? Did I really need three frying pans and seven notebooks titled “Ideas”? Every item I picked up came with existential questions: “Do I need this?”, “Will this fit in a shared auto?”, “Is this emotionally healthy to keep?” Eventually, I Marie Kondo’d my way through possessions, only with fewer warm feelings and more bubble wrap.
And then came the Herculean task of selling furniture. Pro tip: “Putting up my scooty for sale felt like a reasonable, responsible adult move. I crafted the perfect ad: “Well-maintained scooty. Single user. Smooth engine. Recently serviced. Documents available. Price slightly negotiable.” What I should’ve added was: “Buyer must battle 40°C heat, lift it down a flight of stairs, and come with zero expectations of a test ride because the fuel tank is aggressively empty.”
The responses? Nothing short of wild. One gentleman showed up, did three dramatic rounds around the scooty like it was a vintage car, then said, “Color thoda dull hai. 5,000 chalega?” I almost offered to throw in my disappointment for free.
Another guy asked, “Mileage kitna deti hai in second gear, uphill, with a pillion?” Sir, I don’t even know what I’m eating for dinner tonight. And then there were the classics:
“Final price?” – without reading the ad
“Does it have Bluetooth?” – it’s a scooty, not a Tesla
And of course, “Can you deliver it to Cuttack?” Oh yes, I’ll just load it on my head, walk there barefoot, and smile while doing it.
The cherry on top? The scooty is parked inside the house, because safe parking is a thing. But now, every “interested buyer” suddenly turns philosopher the moment they see the narrow staircase:
“Yeh kaise nikalega?”
Well, with divine intervention, upper body strength, and a prayer.
By day five of these negotiations, I was ready to offer the scooty free to anyone who could carry it down without asking for chai or emotional support.
Spoiler alert: it did eventually get sold. But only after I included a detailed three-step exit plan, offered a cold glass of water, and convinced the buyer that yes—scooties, too, have sentimental value.
Moral of the story: selling a scooty in India isn’t a transaction. It’s a team-building exercise, a negotiation workshop, and an extreme weather challenge—all rolled into one. Meanwhile, time kept sprinting ahead like an overenthusiastic intern—utterly unaware of the deadlines trailing behind.
Speaking of deadlines—fellowship documentation, impact reports, final presentations, and community handovers do not wait just because your wardrobe is being stuffed into jute bags. Community members politely invited me for “one last visit,” as I furiously juggled Excel sheets, CSR exit reports, and a dying phone battery. My Google Calendar gave up on me halfway and simply started saying: “LOL, good luck.”
Ah yes, the handing over of community projects. A moment of deep pride and mild chaos. Training new volunteers, consolidating contact lists, creating handover manuals, and subtly reminding people: “No, I won’t be here forever, remember?” Some responded with gratitude, some with panic, and a few with a well-meaning, “But can’t you just stay?”
No. I cannot. Because I have no train ticket.
The Indian Railway system, in its infinite wisdom, decided I wasn’t moving anywhere unless I embraced the beautiful art of waitlisting. The buses were full. Flights were… not in my budget. The idea of shipping boxes across state lines felt about as practical as sending them via carrier pigeon.
Somewhere amidst this chaos, I realized I was doing something profound: closing a chapter. A messy, memorable, meaningful chapter. One that involved strategic planning, occasional breakdowns, and midnight calls titled “Are you sure you packed the electricity bill?”
Would I recommend this experience? Only if you enjoy high-stakes Tetris, the thrill of mild heatstroke, and a masterclass in last-minute jugaad.
To those ending their fellowships: breathe. Laugh at the madness. Take one last walk through your project site. And when the ticket finally confirms at 3 AM, know that you’ve earned every single kilometer of that journey.
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