Rice University

It's family movie night, and we've chosen to watch Bird Brain, a nature documentary about birds and their unique abilities. I'm starting to lose interest, but the narrator says something wild that perplexes me: "Some birds have the ability to hold their breath for over 15 minutes underwater." Well, now I have to know more.

My mom groans as I pause the movie to spend the rest of my night understanding that one statement. I rush to my room and open my laptop, while my fingers type furiously as videos, images, and articles flood the screen. I click on the first site I see: "Emperor penguins dive to catch fish in the ocean, and their bodies begin to metabolize anaerobically after a certain point of being submerged." But that wasn't enough. I continue to scroll as my mind hunts for answers. How big are emperor penguins? How cold is the ocean in Antarctica? And what even is anaerobic metabolization? Ahhhhh! I feel like I am going to explode! I have to know more.

This example of the emperor penguin is one of the many instances where I am motivated by the need to question what I hear. I encounter a similar situation on any given day. Whether it's a quick Google search or an all nighter, I find myself lost in time as the world around me blurs while I unearth its secrets. This love of research stems from my childhood, as I was determined to find my own answers. From conducting at-home plant dissections to confirm what was taught in class, or reading an actual newspaper for the latest reports, nothing was true unless I had found evidence. Soon, this habit became deeply ingrained in my character.

I call moments like these an "internet search spiral." Part of the reason why these spirals are so captivating is because they can never be boring; it would take me 23.8 million years to go through the 295 exabytes of information on the web. Call me crazy, but I would do it. The never-ending knowledge found within the internet never fails to hold my attention, as my inquiries are like an emperor penguin plunging into the cold Antarctic waters for a swim. Knowing that there's something I haven't learned, a skill I haven't mastered, or an equation I haven't solved creates a warp in time that transports me to a region where seconds and minutes don't restrain my knowledge.

Internet search spirals capture every part of me but often leave me seeking additional material. The search for more information not available online connects me with like-minded thinkers, and this connection is what I aim to foster as a student at Rice. This quest for knowledge is more meaningful when I encounter someone whose passion for teaching matches my appreciation of learning. I turn to those who feel compelled to share.

These internet search spirals ultimately transform me into a more mindful person. Every time I understand something new, I feel like a little penguin egg that's ready to hatch and experience the world in a new way. The feeling of analyzing fresh material is one I will never give up. I don't feel bound by the restriction of time because somehow my eyes never get tired of scanning endless papers and textbooks. After all, the knowledge I gain is worth it, because every bit of information gives me the chance to be a better individual. The purpose of knowledge is action, and knowledge that is acted on becomes greatness. I aspire to embody that greatness. Whether it's from a website, a medical textbook, a documentary, or a good-old-fashioned human being, learning frees me from the constraints of time.

So, thank you, emperor penguins, for sparking internet search spirals that push me to be a better individual.

One of the many Boarding School rules that I despised at the time but now look back at nostalgically was a 45-minute phone time. So with nothing else to do, our suitemates would gather together after "lights-out" and just talk. Sometimes it would be consoling a friend coming out of a bad break-up, and other times it'd be a serious debate on the merits of Latin honors. Whatever the topic, these conversations were always compassionate, spirited, and a source of familial support.

This camaraderie also made studying with friends profoundly different. My Indian family was always relentless in reminding me to "Forget joy for four years" because delaying gratification was the only way to find "permanent security." Apparently, in our divine meritocracy, College is just one step on the continual stairway of advancement. I couldn't disagree more with this notion that an education is simply a means to an end.

But, as I studied with my best friends in our hostel, learning and fun were never antithetical ideas. Nights reserved for calculus were always accompanied by ping-pong sessions, but we never intended to sabotage each other in a futile race to the top. Ours was a collaborative family, where instead of selfish opportunity costs, we were driven by brotherly love. No accolade could beat this feeling of security and finding a home — away from home.

At Rice, to build that sense of family, I want to create a discussion group—Night Owls—to gather at night and ponder both the grandiose and whimsical philosophical questions over hot chocolate. Think of these events as a modern version of the infamous Greek Symposia, just without the booze. This combination of conversation, whimsy, and intellectual inquiry is what I want from college. It doesn't sound very prudential, but it's surely poetic.