My name is Rajeesh. I grew up in a tiny Indian village with little hope and little respect. My friends always saw me as the dreamy type, a head lost in the clouds and doomed to the consequences of reality. In that tiny village I was a goat herder, yes many children were. My family barely had the time to consider my aspirations or what I conjured up as I worked the fields every day. That is somewhat understandable, considering the 9 other children my parents had to raise. It was a large family, and with that came large responsibilities. As I worked the fields, my brothers and sisters sold goods at the marketplace. I wasn’t particularly gifted in any superior way, except for my larger than life imagination. It was the apex of my abilities, and yet the disappointment of the village in which I grew up in. My father always wondered why I subjected myself to such whims of the imagination. I thought fanciful thoughts, which I wrote down on paper everyday, the height of such being winning the Nobel Peace Prize for literature. In his very traditional and slightly cultured manner of speaking, my father would always ask: “What is it you have been smoking, Rajeesh? Have you ever heard of anyone from this village making it because he wrote down childish thoughts on paper? Look at you, your mind is floating in the clouds, and soon you will be lost for good.” I guess there was some truth my father’s statement, because it was unheard of for someone from northwestern India to be noticed simply because of a superior skill with words. The times when I wasn’t herding goats in the fields, I was either with my uncle or locked in my tiny room scribbling down ideas on paper. I was naïve, the whole village knew it. Taking a very different tact than my father, my mother had given up on criticizing my fanciful hobby. My four brothers and five sisters would follow in tradition and be the pride of the village, working hard everyday and with time eventually raising a family. Clearly I had different plans, and none were too happy about that. Except for my Uncle Anush, whose discernment and wisdom I still ponder about today. When I wasn’t working or spending time with the family, I always went over to his place a few miles from our mud thatched roof house. In all my uncertainty and hopes and dreams, Anush was the guiding light that seemingly shone brightly every time I needed guidance. He wasn’t much better off than our family, in fact not many in our village were. Yet optimism was a blessing bestowed on me by him, and such was a natural trait he exuded everywhere he went. “Rajeesh,” he would always say… “Cynicism is a part of every existence, but hope finds those who rise above it. “Imagine,” he would always say “if you believe in something so strongly, and yet you look back in old age to a few who held you back because of their insecurities.” Yes, my uncle always had a way with words that got to the heart of every issue. He was my refuge, and to live a day without his presence in the world marked a tragedy beyond measure. Anush did not erase my fears, but he calmed them. Surely, he was the only one capable of such. Children in our village were often homeschooled, and my siblings and I had a basic education. When I say basic I mean not past the high school level, as is common with most children. Those lessons in my parents bedroom were the worst, and the thought of such brings back such horror. “Rajeesh, you’re supposed to be doing Calculus, not reading speeches of people you will never be,” my parents would always say. “You study math so that someone can come to this village and perhaps enroll you in a small college somewhere. Gandhi and Martin Luther King were exceptions, not the rule. You’re not intellectually gifted to lead any movement, and what is it that you will even lead? And you’re not American nor are you black, you look like everyone else in this country for God’s sake!” Yes, my parents frustration reached a boiling point to where they soon summoned the whole village, gathered every one of my prized possessions (everything from essays to poems) and burned them in the village square. I cannot tell you of a lower point in my existence. I fought, I resisted and I even tried to jump in the flames to save my life’s work, to no avail. After the flames subsided and villagers slowly started to walk away, I sat there by the ashes, sulking in my disappointment and anger. The village won, and I lost. Who did I think I was? Who was I kidding? Everyone worked so hard, everyone maintained such a traditional existence. And yet I thought I could be the one to upset decades of tradition. Months went by, then years. I was slowly adapting to village customs and traditions. My academic abilities were good and I was more focused on getting noticed by what were called education inspectors. They went around selecting students fit for a college education. Some of my siblings had already been chosen and were soon to enroll