A multitude of cars streamed off from the starting point; our van followed. Holding onto the overhead railings, I stood up to address the volunteers seated before me. My characteristic grey shirt, apart from marking me as an organiser, seemed to cast me in a new light. Among the few volunteers I knew personally, I could see a subtle change in the way they viewed me: As of that day, to them, I was a leader. It was over a month prior to then that I, along with two friends, first decided to host the city-wide treasure hunt event. Clearly, we hadn’t fully considered the sheer magnitude of work we would soon be dealing with. The seemingly infinite responsibilities associated with such an undertaking—legal work, securing locations, managing sponsors and partners, mapping routes, running advertisements, coordinating volunteers, and much more—resulted in us working late nights despite the load being shared three ways. In the following days, we steadily gained momentum—registrations and locations were secured; a clear picture of the event was coming into view. That’s when it suddenly fell apart. COVID-19, merely an afterthought until then, suddenly gained traction. The registration count came to a standstill. Merely days before the event, rumours began to circulate regarding a nation-wide lockdown. The arms of terror seized us, and suggestions were made to pull the plug on the event; nevertheless, I insisted we push forth. “Come what may,” I said, “we will see this through.” The future, however, was kind to us: Not only did we see our participants double in number through on-the-spot registrations, but the event went about smoothly from the flag-off to the prize distribution. It truly was a wonderful feeling knowing that a hundred-odd civilians were going about our city-sized contraption—one that I wouldn’t give up for the world.

A multitude of cars streamed off from the starting point; our van followed. Holding onto the overhead railings, I stood up to address the volunteers seated before me. My characteristic gray shirt, apart from marking me as an organiser, seemed to cast me in a new light. Among the few volunteers I knew personally, I could see a subtle change in the way they viewed me: As of that day, to them, I was a leader. It was over a month prior to then that I, along with two friends, first decided to host the city-wide treasure hunt event. Clearly, we hadn’t fully considered the sheer magnitude of work we would soon be dealing with. The seemingly infinite responsibilities associated with such an undertaking—legal work, securing locations, managing sponsors and partners, mapping routes, running advertisements, coordinating volunteers, and much more—resulted in us working late nights despite the load being shared three ways. In the following days, we steadily gained momentum—registrations and locations were secured; a clear picture of the event was coming into view. That’s when it suddenly fell apart. COVID-19, merely an afterthought until then, suddenly gained traction. The registration count came to a standstill. Merely days before the event, rumours began to circulate regarding a nation-wide lockdown. The arms of terror seized us, and suggestions were made to pull the plug on the event; nevertheless, I insisted we push forth. “Come what may,” I said, “we will see this through.” The future, however, was kind to us: Not only did we see our participants double in number through on-the-spot registrations, but the event went about smoothly from the flag-off to the prize distribution. It was a wonderful feeling knowing that a hundred-odd civilians were going about our city-sized contraption—one that I wouldn’t give up for the world.

A sense of calm shoots through me as my fingertips come to rest upon the keys. The world around me crumbles away like a house of cards, leaving behind a vast nothingness in which the only occupants are me and the piano before which I’m seated. An array of black and white—no longer a part of the instrument, but an extension of my hands—is all I see. The piano is like a puzzle box to which only my fingers are the key, hiding within it a profusion of emotions. Years of practice have caused my fingers to inadvertently reflect my mood. As clouds gather across the sky on a gloomy evening, the somber yet sublime melody of Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3—an allusion to a tale of love and loss—pours out from our home alongside the patter of rain against the rooftop. Likewise, when rays of sunlight start flitting through the windows in the morning, I often find myself playing Chopin's Nocturne in Eb Major, whose forbearing tempo and legato phrasing is largely reminiscent of a new beginning. To me, every piano piece conveys a story, and just as an avid reader finds his room buried under novels, so is my piano littered with stacks of sheet music. Unequivocally, playing the piano is my greatest talent, but by no means is my journey complete. Wielding my fingers like daggers, I cut through the foliage comprised of quavers and clefs, knowing full well that the jungle of classical piano is never-ending. Lurking deep in the thicket, formidable beasts leer menacingly at me—I have no doubt that my fingers shall be able to tame them.

A sense of calm shoots through me as my fingertips come to rest upon the keys. The world around me crumbles away like a house of cards, leaving behind a vast nothingness in which the only occupants are me and the piano before which I’m seated. An array of black and white—no longer a part of the instrument, but an extension of my hands—is all I see. The piano is like a puzzle box to which only my fingers are the key, hiding within it a profusion of emotions. Years of practice have caused my fingers to inadvertently reflect my mood. As clouds gather across the sky on a gloomy evening, the somber yet sublime melody of Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3—an allusion to a tale of love and loss—pours out from our home alongside the patter of rain against the rooftop. Likewise, when rays of sunlight start flitting through the windows in the morning, I often find myself playing Chopin's Nocturne in Eb Major, whose forbearing tempo and legato phrasing is largely reminiscent of a new beginning. To me, every piano piece conveys a story, and just as an avid reader finds his room buried under novels, so is my piano littered with stacks of sheet music. Unequivocally, playing the piano is my greatest skill, but by no means is my journey complete. Wielding my fingers like daggers, I cut through the foliage comprised of quavers and clefs, knowing full well that the jungle of classical piano is never-ending. Lurking deep in the thicket, formidable beasts leer menacingly at me—I have no doubt that my fingers shall be able to tame them.

I have attached my story below.

A sense of calm shoots through me as my fingertips come to rest upon the keys. The world around me crumbles away like a house of cards, leaving behind a vast nothingness in which the only occupants are me and the piano before which I’m seated. An array of black and white — no longer a part of the instrument, but an extension of my hands — is all I see. My fingers, gliding across the keys, produce not only music, but a narrative. To me, every piano piece conveys a story, some of which can be correlated to the progression of my life. My freshman year at high school can be alluded to Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag — a piece that, coincidentally, I had learned at around the same time. Its quick, playful rhythm and light-hearted staccato notes were largely reminiscent of my carefree and slightly immature nature back then. Much like a creek burbling through a vast, monochrome green field of aimlessness, I went about my life. The adjoining trees formed a canopy of naivete above me. Little did I realize that my impulsive and thankless behavior would spark resentment among my peers — people who I would make amends with only two years later. As the creek ran its year-long course and merged into a larger river, so began the sophomore year of high school. Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu, with its fast-paced tempo and alternatingly loud and soft dynamics, best represents this part of my life — a time of great urgency and unrest; a time where we first acknowledged the looming shadow of the fast-approaching Board Examinations. The piece demands ceaseless movement of one’s hands, but has a powerful melody that seemingly evokes a sense of hope amidst chaos. Similarly, the year, despite an increased academic workload, turned out to be exceptionally memorable: I opened my doors to new friends, interacted with new people, and gained new perspectives. However, just as Fantaisie-Impromptu suddenly slows down and ends on a melancholic note, so did I realize that I had gotten carried away by the raging river the year had been. My overly extroverted behavior had, in fact, had caused my peers to mistrust me to a certain degree. In the following year, few of those who I had then considered friends would turn their backs on me. It was at this point that I chose to better my ways. No piece better illustrates my junior year better than Chopin's Nocturne in Eb Major — a piece whose forbearing tempo and legato phrasing is largely reminiscent of a new beginning. The raging river of the previous year had flowed into an ocean of placidity, leaving me far more down-to-earth than I had been earlier. I learned to relate to people on a personal level, and by knowing when and when not to speak, I earned their respect. The sense of composure I speak of, however, should not be mistaken with complacence: I remained as analytic as I had always been; however, rather than channeling my energy into a generally frowned-upon headstrong demeanor, I chose to step back and reflect upon the next way I could facilitate the betterment of myself and those around me. My senior year of high school is best described by Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3, a piece that features a melody just as sublime as my junior year’s Nocturne, but distinguishes itself in one aspect: It suggests a sense of love and loss. Likewise, the joys of this year came and went similar to those of the previous one, but differed in the bittersweet realization that my school life was coming to a close. The piece finishes on a wistful note but encapsulates a beautiful image — that of a poignant smile, conveying both remembrance of the past and hope for the future. Such has been the journey of my high school life. I look up from my piano in silence, musing on what the coming year would offer. Will college life bring forth a surge of confusion and haste, like that described by the abstract and atonal melody of Ravel’s Scarbo, or will it be simple and joyful, like the first movement of Mozart’s K545? One thing’s for sure: Regardless of how intimidating a piece may strike me, I always make an effort to learn it. In the same spirit, I strive to broaden my horizons, welcoming any challenge that life may throw in my direction.

The day I moved back to India nine years ago marked a significant transition in my life. Upon being dropped from my comfortable perch in the US into the chaotic community comprised of the quintessential Indian, I soon became aware of the fact that my character—my manner of speaking, my behavior, everything—was like a misshapen puzzle piece that failed to find a place to fit into. My initial confusion gave way to frustration, leading me to believe that moving there had been a poor decision. Strangely, the opposite turned out to be true. Over the years, my personality gained an added dimension which wouldn’t be a part of me now should I have stayed in the US. Upon finally being exposed to my own culture, I seemed to have unlocked within me a new perspective. This country that found unity through its diversity taught me a new way of living—one that is frugal, humble, celebrates hospitality, and advocates respect for others. It is worth noting that in my initial years, I couldn’t speak the state language, Tamil. Only through constant engagement with this community was I able to overcome the linguistic barrier I had faced. Along with newfound confidence, I cultivated a sense of mutual respect with the peers who had once shunned me. It is in this manner that I strive to assimilate all that the other 40 Acres scholars have to offer, whilst simultaneously offering the perspectives I’ve acquired over the years. Unequivocally, the interpersonal skills I’ve gained from living in two vastly different countries have contributed greatly to my appreciation of diversity. If now, one were to ask me whether I considered myself an American or Indian, I would proudly respond: “Both.”