Toxic Work Culture and the Journey to Kabir 

On a fine October morning in 2022, I woke up to see that registrations for the Rajasthan Kabir Yatra were open. I had been following their work for years — the music, the journeys, the people who carried Kabir in their songs and silences. Something about it always drew me in.

That morning, I didn’t think twice. Within forty minutes, I had registered, booked my tickets, and even planned my stay in Jaipur. It was impulsive — maybe even reckless — but it came from a deep, unspoken urge: to escape, to disappear for a while, to find a space where I could look at myself differently.

Back then, I was working with an NGO, one I had once believed in wholeheartedly. But what had started as a space of purpose had turned into a maze of politics, manipulation, and toxicity. I found myself constantly defending my intentions, explaining my actions, and fighting invisible accusations.

It was exhausting — not just mentally, but spiritually. I was losing faith — not just in the organization, but in myself. Every day, I questioned my choices, my capabilities, and even the dream that had once kept me alive. I needed a pause. I needed air.

So when Kabir came knocking through that Facebook post about the Yatra, I took it as a sign.

Until then, Kabir for me was just a poet from the textbooks. Someone whose dohas were short, neat, and easy to memorize. They earned full marks if you wrote them correctly — nothing more, nothing less.

I had never read Kabir as wisdom, never lived him as truth. Like much of what we study in school or college, Kabir had remained trapped in paper and exams. His words had never found a home inside me.

But the Rajasthan Kabir Yatra videos I had seen over the years — the ones full of raw folk energy, dust, music, and the simplicity of rural life — had stayed with me. There was something pure in those gatherings, something deeply human, far from the polished urban aesthetic I had grown accustomed to.

And maybe that’s what I was searching for — something real.

As the Yatra approached, I was aware that I was running away — from people, from circumstances, maybe even from myself. Yet, somewhere deep down, I also knew I was running toward something — a different way of being.

I left for Jaipur with a strange calm. I knew my days at work were numbered. My “exit” was already being planned by those I had once trusted. But for the first time in months, I didn’t care. I just wanted to breathe freely.

Travelling with the yatris — artists, villagers, and fellow wanderers — felt like entering another world. There were no hierarchies, no pretensions, no fake smiles. Just music, laughter, and conversations that healed more than they hurt.

Every satsang was like a mirror. The songs spoke of impermanence, of letting go, of being. The dust, the journeys between villages, the shared food — everything seemed to cleanse something within me.

At Salambur, it was Shruthi and Bindu’s performance that pierced through. Their voices carried faith, forgiveness, and the courage to dream again. I remember sitting there, teary-eyed, realizing how far I had drifted from myself — and how gently Kabir was bringing me back.

Even during the Yatra, the noise of the toxic workplace followed me — messages, meetings, manipulations. But this time, something had changed. I wasn’t reacting. I was simply observing.

I tried to apply the wisdom I was absorbing from the yatris — to accept things as they were, to respond instead of retaliate. I wasn’t perfect, but I was learning to let go.

And soon enough, as expected, my “exit” was finalized. They made me quit.

But this time, there was no anger. No bitterness. No sleepless nights.
The Yatra had given me a gift I didn’t even know I needed — the strength to forgive.

Looking back now, I see that the Rajasthan Kabir Yatra wasn’t just a journey through villages — it was a journey inward. Kabir was no longer a poet in a textbook; he had become a companion, a mirror, a question.

He had shown me that sometimes, when the world becomes too loud, the only way to survive is to listen — to yourself, to silence, to song.

And perhaps that’s what Kabir wanted all along —
not to be studied, but to be lived.

Photographs are taken from the official website of Rajasthan Kabir Yatra.