Stories Beyond Surveys: My Post-COVID Research Experience in Rural Punjab
Sidharth.S
PhD Scholar, Department of Dairy Extension, NDRI, Karnal, 132001
Email: sidoachira@gmail.com
When I boarded the train from Kerala to Punjab for my MSc dissertation fieldwork, the air was still thick with memories of COVID-19. The country was open again, but cautiously. People wore their masks like second skins, and every sneeze in a public space turned heads. It had been barely a year since India’s rural communities bore the brunt of reverse migration, disrupted agriculture, and overburdened health systems. And here I was, a student from the southern tip of the country, arriving in Punjab, a place I had only known through agricultural textbooks and news reports, ready to collect data from farmers still recovering from the pandemic’s ripple effects. It wasn’t just a research trip. It was a leap of faith.
Unfamiliar Land, Unfamiliar Language
My research focused on the adoption status of nutrition gardens among farmers in Punjab. On paper, it was straightforward—design a questionnaire, select villages, conduct interviews, and analyse the results. However, within minutes of reaching my first study site, I realised fieldwork doesn’t exist on paper. The biggest obstacle? Language. I spoke Malayalam, read and wrote in English and Hindi, but Punjabi was entirely foreign. It felt like I was walking through a fog in those early days. I’d greet people in Hindi, only to be met with blank stares or amused chuckles. At one point, an elderly farmer, bemused by my South Indian accent, called over his grandson just to “translate” my Hindi. The pandemic had already made people wary of outsiders. And now here I was, an unfamiliar face, asking questions with a clipboard in hand, wrapped in the awkwardness of linguistic disconnect.
A Post-Pandemic Kindness
Despite the scars COVID had left on livelihoods, health, and social interactions, what stood out most to me was the unwavering hospitality of the people I met. In villages where fear had once kept doors shut, people opened their homes, offered me food, and most importantly, shared their time. They spoke to me in Hindi—halting, sometimes patchy, but always with patience. One farmer joked, “Tusi Keral to aaye ho, itni door se… Hindi chal jayegi, par Punjabi toh seekhni padegi!” (“You’ve come from Kerala… Hindi will do, but you’ll have to learn some Punjabi!”). Women would pull up charpoys under the shade of neem trees, insisting I sit and drink a cup of tea before beginning any questions. Children followed me with curiosity. And the youth—tech-savvy and socially aware—became my unofficial translators and cultural guides. It struck me that perhaps the pandemic had, in its quiet way, deepened people’s empathy. Research shows that rural households, despite limited resources, often exhibit strong social capital, which helps them recover from shocks like pandemics (Ravallion, 2022). I saw that theory come alive in everyday interactions—with strangers who offered directions, neighbours who translated questions, and elders who invited me to eat with them.
Fieldwork, Culture, and a Thousand Cups of Tea
Living in Punjab was a cultural deep dive. Everything was different from the food (spicy parathas with white butter) to the climate (cold mornings and dusty afternoons), and from the rhythms of farm life to the cadence of conversations. Initially, I felt like an intruder in someone else’s story. But slowly, the unfamiliar began to feel warm. Farmers who once answered my survey questions now chatted with me about crop failures and family weddings. I stopped being the “outsider with forms” and became “the student from Kerala.” After a long interview, one elderly woman offered me an extra cup of chai. When I hesitated, she laughed and said, “Even during COVID, we didn’t turn guests away. Now that things are fine, you deserve at least two cups!” That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that generosity often blooms in the most unexpected places—especially from those who have suffered but choose to respond with grace.
Beyond Surveys: What Fieldwork Really Means
By the time I completed my data collection, my notebooks were full—but not just with answers to research questions. They held fragments of lives, quiet moments, and emotional truths that no questionnaire could ever capture. I realised that not everything comes from structured interviews. Some of the most meaningful insights came from observations—the way a farmer proudly showed me his water-saving technique, or how women shared stories of adapting kitchen gardens after lockdowns disrupted food supply. COVID has changed these communities. But it had also revealed their resilience. Anthropologists and extension scholars have long emphasised that ethnographic observation and informal conversations often offer deeper insights than formal surveys alone (Chambers, 1994). In my case, these quiet, unscripted moments, watching how someone smiled at their seedlings or paused before answering a question, told the real story of post-pandemic rural life.
Reflections and Suggestions for Fellow Researchers
As you get ready to head out for your fieldwork, let me share a few things I learned along the way that might help you navigate the journey a little more smoothly. First, make the effort to learn a few words or greetings in the local language. You don’t need to be fluent, but even a warm “Sat Sri Akal” in Punjabi made people smile and opened up conversations. It shows that you’re not just there to collect data, but that you respect their culture and are trying to connect. Second, be mindful of where people are emotional. Many were still carrying the weight of the pandemic losses, financial strain, or the fatigue of it all. If someone isn’t ready to talk, don’t press them. Let trust build naturally—it might take a few visits or sitting quietly with them. Also, remember that not everything worth knowing comes from a questionnaire. Some of the best insights come while walking through a field, sharing a meal, or observing how someone reacts to a question. Keep your senses open. And one more thing—smile, often and sincerely. It’s amazing how far a genuine smile can go in bridging language and cultural gaps. Lastly, always say thank you. In rural India, when someone offers you tea, they’re not just being polite—they’re welcoming you into their world. Accept it with gratitude, even if it’s your third cup that day. It’s those small moments of shared humanity that make fieldwork truly meaningful.
References
Chambers, R. (1994). Participatory rural appraisal (PRA): Challenges, potentials and paradigm. World development, 22(10), 1437-1454. https://doi.org/10.1016/0305-750X(94)90030-2
Ravallion, M. (2022). Pandemics and the poor: A review of the evidence. Journal of Economic Literature, 60(1), 4–38. https://doi.org/10.1257/jel.20201557