Winter of 2022, I landed in D.C. from a three-week vacation in India. I took the metro from Washington-Dulles and was alone in the compartment. Seizing this opportunity, I kicked up my feet on my suitcase and laid back to relish the 50-minute ride back home. Eyes half closed, I thought it was interesting that D.C. had started to feel more like home than the actual home where I grew up in India. As the train approached downtown, the compartment started to fill up, and in walked a tall African-American man who appeared to be homeless and under the influence.

On Sundays, I make time to think. A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning, I thought about my past - the delicate chain of life decisions that have brought me here, precisely at this point in time, at Northern Massachusetts Ave in Washington, D.C. Any two links connected differently, and life would have had a completely different outcome. Some decisions were driven by determination and conviction, and I’d sailed against the tide with every cell in my body. On the other hand, some decisions were driven purely by belief; belief in what? My gut? Destiny? A superior power? I do not know. But I do know there was a general faith that things would work out for the best, and they did. When I was done thinking, I had my moment of epiphany - at every crossroad, life dangled two maxims before me, ‘If you want it, go get it’ and ‘If it’s meant to be, it’ll be,’ insisting that I only choose one.

Washington D.C., summer 2023. I’m in a bar. Full disclosure: this is my first time alone in a bar and I don’t drink. Three minutes in, I already felt out of place and thought to myself that this was a terrible idea. I get my usual - a ginger ale, and I keep checking my email to feel slightly less out of place than I already am. Somewhere near the geometric center of the bar, I noticed a pretty girl by herself sipping her drink (probably the only one in the bar who had not already indulged in small talk), so I decided to say hello. Not because she’s a pretty girl at a bar but because she seemed as out of place as I was, and I could feel a shared sense of empathy here. That, and this was supposed to be a networking event.

It is 1957. Eisenhower is sworn in for his second term as President, and my number one movie of all time, 12 Angry Men, is in theaters. On the other side of the world somewhere in Liverpool, two fifteen-year-old lads, Paul and John, meet for the first time at a church fete and decide to start a band together. I’d like to think that 1957 was a year of art in human history.

August 2020, orientation day at Fuqua, we were handed a plastic egg that came with a piece of paper in it, and we were asked to write down our goals for the program. After a moment of thought, I wrote what I could, sent back the egg, and erased all memory of it.

Great friendships are not built over movies, music, or TV shows. Great friendships are built over shared empathy for similar problems…and sometimes pizza.

“All the things you want will happen at the right time. The catch? You don’t get to decide what the right time is,” said my friend, after a long night of pseudo-philosophical debates. We both went home. Two years passed. I kept researching universities and planning my future, and the words got lost in time.