As I travel to India from the U.S., I leave a few things behind. The first “thing” that comes to mind, a tangible object, is my cello. It is (I hope) standing in its white case in the basement of the music building. While I sit in a cafe on the other side of the world, the calluses on my left-hand fingers seem to grow softer each letter I type into this blog post.
Read MoreI am leaving behind the morning greetings (and sometimes midnight awakenings) of my cat as she jumps on my bed. I am leaving the common glimpses of her basking in the sun and the calming time spent petting the fur of her and of my dog. I am leaving walks and hikes with my dog and with my parents, and the cool breeze that brushes my face as I walk through my neighborhood at night.
Read MoreWhen I embarked on this journey this Friday, I believe I left behind a lot of things. There were a lot of concrete things that I left. This includes my house. The same house I’ve lived in since I was in kindergarten. I left the walls, corridors, and steps that I know like the back of my hand. I left my dog. (That may sound silly). But I left his always welcoming gaze and familiar smell.
Read MoreI flew with numerous types of airways in the past, but this one was different. I knew before hand that Qatar Airways was well known for its service but the first steps through the aisle amazed me. The first thing I noticed even before entering through the doors was the color of the room. There were purple lights that filled the aircraft with a welcoming vibe. Passengers came through the doors and were shown to their seats, most of which were in the economy class section — as was ours.
Read MoreAs I sit on the plane to Doha, I remind myself of my desire to escape from technology a little bit, but after just finishing the new season of Orange is the New Black, I can’t stop thinking of the goodnight song one of the characters sings to all the objects in her room.
Read MoreTo me, friendship is embodied by my 4 year old half sister, Mila. Although she is so little, she treats everyone as if they are her best friend. When you walk into my father’s house, the first thing you hear is squealing and little footsteps coming around the corner. Every person that walks into the house is met with her smiling face running towards you, with her arms wide open. Without fail, she greets you with a hug and kiss, no matter who you are. It doesn’t matter if you have met once, or millions of times, she acts the same.
Read MoreAs the phone is ringing, I think about the fact that I haven’t seen Stephanie in almost a year. We were best friends for 10 years and then I left the school and we lost touch. I begin to question if it will be uncomfortable spending time with her after all these months. She picks up the phone and we just start talking. And talking. And talking.
Read MoreThis spring, my parents decided to finally finish building our bathroom. My parents have been living in our current house for over 19 years, but there has always been an unfinished room. When they were initially building the house, just a few years before I was born, they ran out of money, so they could not finish the second bathroom. I think finally putting this last piece of the house into place means a lot to my parents because it signifies that they have finally finished their project of building a family home. However, my parents are not as young as they once were, so building it takes tremendous effort from their part. Luckily, they get a lot of help.
Read More“So, Mr. Kumar, do you know why you’re in here today?” I don’t get why administrators ask rhetorical questions in these situations. How is it going to help? I don’t even know whether Shiv answered that question or not. I do know, however, that he was the only one, out of the eight of them, who was brave in the moment. He wasn’t just putting on a brave face — that’s just masking a face with a lack of fear.
Read MoreHidden beneath a clutter of folded papers and plastic water bottles, my phone vibrated against the desk. One buzz followed another, each sharp note never failing to make me catch my breath. I was next to my desk on the floor, comfortably molded into a red bean bag.
“Hey, can you pass me my phone?”
Read MoreThe lights go on and the Tang Theatre is transformed into the house of Count Dracula. There is a bouquet of roses waiting underneath your chair, and you squeeze the armrest of your seat. A story unravels before you, a story that does not take place at Phillips Academy but somewhere else. The clock has been set a hundred years back. The sounds and colors and characters are all crawling to life when a familiar face blooms on stage. All smile stretches across your face and you want to scream her name although you know you cannot. In that moment she is not your friend, but Miss Lucy, the mistress of Count Dracula.
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