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I love everything about human connection—the nuance of it, the severity, the urgency, the complexity, the depth of it, the intimacy of subtle interactions, the meaninglessness of small talk. It makes me feel human; it makes me feel alive more than anything ever could. I’ve been having a bad week. Sometimes, I come to Meera Bai Park at night. I walk around—no, pace around—the circumference of the park. Something about seeing kids hanging out in a public park at 2 a.m. makes me feel a little less alone, even when I don’t interact with them. I take a breath. The air smells of recreational substances. I remember reading about recreational activities in my 3rd-grade EVS book—it listed sports, games, arts, crafts, and spending time outdoors with loved ones. Well, I guess you could call smoking up in the park, sitting on top of the slide, recreation. I go and sit on a bench. I have a thing for benches—I think it comes from watching Notting Hill too many times. “For June, who loved this garden, from Joseph, who always sat beside her.” When I die, I wish to have a bench like that made in my memory. Just that bench, and nothing else. I have a favorite bench on campus. I don’t like to gatekeep things, but I allow myself this one thing. And yet, even though I want to keep that bench all to myself, I sometimes wonder if someone else feels the same way about it—if, one day, I’ll run into them, and we’ll talk about how much we adore our bench. We have this natural instinct to crave connection. People often say that everyone is unique in their own way. But somewhere along the way, we stretched this idea of individuality too far. Capitalism doesn’t help the case either. We became so focused on our inner selves—on the idea that we owe nothing to anyone but ourselves. In the process, we cultivated a society that prioritizes the pursuit of individual material needs over the basic human tendency to connect. I once came across a video discussing how hyper-individualism propagates a false idea of self-expression—one so misguided that we feel the need to own certain things to appear wealthy, beautiful, or accomplished in the eyes of others. It’s evident in the way brands market themselves. They don’t just sell products; they sell status, exclusivity, and the illusion of individuality—ironically, through mass-produced items. Brands, with their celebrity sponsorships, aren’t selling products anymore. They’re trying to sell culture—or maybe even trying to create it. And we let them. Capitalism thrives on this cycle, convincing us that self-worth can be bought, that a designer bag or limited-edition sneakers somehow make us unique. But in reality, it’s just another layer of manufactured identity, a temporary rush of dopamine that fades the moment the next trend arrives. The pursuit of these material markers of success isn’t just about personal choice—it’s deeply ingrained in a system that profits off our insecurities, making us believe that without these symbols, we lack value. But this is part of a much larger conversation about overconsumption, capitalism, and hyper-individualism—one that I am no expert on. I’m still reading, still learning from people who know better. What I do have strong opinions about, however, is why and how, due to all of this, we are feeling increasingly disconnected from society. I personally admire everyone who is trying to challenge conventional paths and striving to truly understand themselves. But I still wonder—can self-discovery really happen in isolation? We’re shaped by our interactions, our relationships, and the way we navigate shared spaces. Even the act of figuring out who we are is, in many ways, a reflection of the people we meet and the experiences we share. The idea that we owe nothing to anyone is freeing, but taken to an extreme, it risks turning into a kind of self-imposed loneliness. Sometimes, it feels like everyone is trying too hard to be different just to have what they call a personality—listening to some obscure underground band, cultivating a niche ‘nerdy’ interest, or watching a pretentious film just to set themselves apart. And in doing so, too many people develop a false sense of superiority. I’m all for discovering new artists and falling down internet rabbit holes, but if everyone is constantly chasing uniqueness, doesn’t that just leave us isolated? Think about it—how do we truly connect with people? Through shared interests, a favorite book, a song, or maybe even a similar theory about how aliens might exist. I see most people my age being very vocal on Instagram about social justice, sharing posts about the latest tragedy in a nation that feels democratic only on paper. And while all of that is true, the irony remains: we demand collective change online while living increasingly individualistic lives—we fight for systemic reform yet hesitate to engage with the people around us. We advocate for community yet barely acknowledge it. Sometimes, I wonder if I feel too strongly about this because I was raised in a place where my mom would ask the neighbor for sugar instead of going to the grocery store, where my dad still takes the elderly couple next door to their doctor’s appointments, where a friend would come over to eat lunch at our house if their mom wasn’t home, and where my father’s colleagues would pick me up from school when he couldn’t. My insanely extroverted tendencies make me love interacting with the people around me—maybe a little too much. I think I’m just trying to find the same familiarity of knowing everyone around me, like I did back home. When I was growing up, my mom used to say, there are more good people in this world than bad. A few days ago, I was talking to the uncle sitting at Manjeet Cold Drink, and I asked him if people ever stole the chips hanging outside. He said the exact same thing my mom used to say. More often than not, I end up indulging in small talk with my auto driver. Once, an auto driver told me about his sick mother, and while I couldn’t do anything about it, I hope that just listening made him feel slightly better. Another time, an auto driver asked me for a cigarette. I find beauty in the small things. In the fact that while my parents haven’t gone out for Valentine’s Day in over a decade (to be fair, Valentine’s Day is just another very real effect of overconsumption), they don’t stay home because they’re protesting capitalism—it’s just that they don’t see a reason to celebrate that day. And yet, the uncle who sells parathas outside my college took his wife to MKT for ‘clubbing’ for Valentine’s. I love knowing these silly little things. Human connection, even in its laziest form of small talk, is still beautiful. The older I get, the more I value a sense of community. In a generation that feels more and more alienated every day, in a world that has become so small in some ways yet is facing a loneliness crisis, I think we need to change something. I don’t know exactly what. Maybe go to the library more often? Hang out in a public park? Ask your downstairs neighbor their name? Have some accountability toward the world. Hold those in power accountable, too. Stop spending every second of our day creating a personal brand. Stop buying into the entire idea of our self-worth being attached to how expensive your handbag or shoes are. Go out of your way to help a friend out, help a stranger out. Because you never know—all it takes is a single interaction, a single conversation, to change your perspective forever.

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