By Bhagyashree Prabhutendolkar

It’s one day until Christmas. I’m bent over on my knees in my college chapel, eyes still half-dreamy and half-teary in awe. Usually, before Christmas, I come with a long wish list of prayers and petitions. This time, I can’t think of a single thing to ask for. That feels strange–because as Economics tells us–we are humans with unlimited wants and desires. And yet, somehow, my heart feels full. Just so, so, so grandly full. The kind of fullness you feel after witnessing moments of pure magic. Maybe when you finally look into the eyes of someone you love after a long time, and your heart has no space left to want anything more. Or when you summit a peak and, standing at the top of the world, all your unending desires quietly melt away. 

That’s exactly how I felt after returning from one grand, absolutely magical semester at Baret.

It was a year ago, a week before Christmas, when I had received my acceptance email from Baret Scholars. I remember dancing around the house and telling my parents that Santa Claus must be especially pleased with me this year to give me a trip around the world. The dream of actually going around the world with Baret somehow still felt too grand, and I was half-anticipating that it wouldn’t come true. The idea felt too good, too unreal, and for some reason, I began imagining all the ways it could fall apart. Maybe the visas wouldn’t work out. Maybe they might email me back saying it was a mistake. Or maybe a world war might break out just when I’m about to fly. 

And yet, somehow, my most beautiful, impossible-seeming Baret journey did happen. And here I am now, writing to you after a semester halfway across the world.

Oh, what a journey it’s been. What a wonderful, wondrous time. There wasn’t a single day this semester when I didn’t pinch myself to check if this was real. Never before have I felt so truly alive, so full of zest, and so deeply in awe of the world.

During Orientation Week at Eagle Mountain, I was supposed to be jet-lagged, cranky, exhausted after a 40-plus-hour journey. And indeed I was—until the moment I met my fellow Baret Scholars at Boston Logan. We were all exhausted, yet somehow, after meeting these new faces—who would soon become comrades in our voyage around the world—all our fatigue drifted away.

Our shuttle moved through the Boston roads and then into the quiet countryside of New Hampshire, and I was mesmerised by the long-stretched golf fields everywhere. Suddenly, we were at Eagle Mountain—and there was Chris Whittle, standing right outside the hotel to greet us. I remember feeling completely surreal, my mouth wide open like a codfish as I shook hands with the real Chris Whittle for the first time—who would then become my advisor, confidante, and grandpa-like friend through the semester.

As if all this excitement wasn’t enough, the very next day I woke up with a pop at 6 a.m. (I am not an early riser), and within ten minutes, I was out on the stunningly beautiful fields of New England—frolicking, jogging, face beaming, eyes gleaming, cool breeze brushing across my face and running with my arms outstretched to the sky as if to proclaim, “YES, dear universe, I finally made it here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” That morning, I had not just breathed the purest air of my life, but also the purest feeling of freedom I had ever known. One whole year of sheer, wide learning and exploration. One year to do whatever ignites that fire in your heart—or even to have the precious freedom of time to find the very thing that ignites fire in your heart— with no exams, no rigid expectations nor the constant pressure from school, family, or society.

What a privilege. What a blessing.

Somewhere along the way, deadlines and expectations had dulled my natural curiosity. But standing there on the fields of Eagle Mountain, I fell in love with life again.

My very first roommate at Baret was Ana Beatriz from Brazil, and what a heartwarming time we had with each other. It was the first time away from home for both of us, and on just our second day of rooming together, we made a sweet, silly code word in case either of us needed the other. On one of our morning walks across the golf fields, we vowed that if either of us fell sick or was in trouble, we would be there for each other—no matter what.

In the days that followed, we had long heart-to-heart conversations that stretched till midnight. We shared stories from home, showed each other photographs and memorabilia we had brought along, and exchanged pieces of our hearts and homes. Vulnerability and caring—that was the very first lesson I learnt at Baret. Even in our voyage around the world, we were never on our own. We had to have each other’s backs, and as it turned out in the months to come, we climbed every mountain together. Baret, I realised, was always more about the people than the places—and indeed, it was.

New York came next, and with it, a new rhythm. We began living and breathing the city—the urgency, the movement, the seize-the-day spirit. As much as New York felt like the easiest place to feel lonely, it also felt like the best place to find—or create—your own community.

Those drawn to dance sought out dance events and joined dance communities. Art lovers did museum hikes every single day. Book lovers ran into book fairs and authors eager to engage on the streets of Brooklyn. And for someone like me, who loves all things spiritual and eternal, I went on what felt like a full-blown spiritual marathon. One Sunday, I attended silent meditation and sang hymns with the Quakers, joined the Mass at St. Ann’s Church, and ended the day at an ISKCON kirtan, surrounded by the Indian diaspora. All in one day. All while finding my people, again and again. Back home, I was such a homebody, but New York taught me to become proactive in seeking out communities, places, and people that filled my heart with joy. We started paying attention to posters, showed up at spontaneous events and carried this New Yorker spirit in every region ahead.

When we were in the Amazon, we had an activity that involved swimming with pink dolphins. That meant jumping into the Amazon River—which, apart from the cute, pink dolphins, was also home to piranhas, stingrays, and many other predatory creatures. Needless to say, I was scared—really scared—not just of the wildlife, but also the open waters as I had never swum outside a swimming pool before. 

I could have easily backed out for too many reasons. But being the stubborn risk-taker that I am, I jumped.

And in, in, in I went into the black waters of the Amazon.

I will never forget that moment in my entire life. Diving into the Black River, and for what felt like an eternity, all I could see through my goggles was green-black water everywhere. Just blackness. Sheer uncertainty in the pitch-blackness of water. Anything could brush past you. Anything could swim into you or eat you up. A hundred reasons to fear. Yet, in those few seconds of waiting before I surfaced, I felt fully, wholly, completely unafraid. 

Not because there was nothing to fear—but because there was everything to fear, and I felt a peaceful surrender. Imagine seeing nothing around you but sheer blackness, and for the first time, you feel like a small speck of dust in this universe. In the grandness of nature, you feel so small and yet so magically grand to be alive. You almost begin to feel that we are a part of nature, that we are nature. And why would nature harm its own offspring? 

In just a few philosophical seconds, I had popped up on the surface, seeing the most majestic pink dolphins swimming around me. Life has never felt so grand before. And fear, so small. 

In the days that followed in the Amazon, we experienced many more humbling moments—seeing a caiman pop up inches from our boat, hiking deep into the rainforest with no sign of human life, surrounded only by the wildest flora and fauna on Earth.  It was in these moments that I learnt to let go of control and my fear would dissolve into faith.

There are so many tangible and intangible things that you learn at Baret—not just in classrooms, but in the daily mundane moments outside. We changed cities, sometimes even countries, every few weeks. And the art of making yourself feel safe and at home in a place where not a single soul knows you—is something we have almost mastered now.

How do you become a home unto yourself when your heart and home are miles away—who would know it better than Baret Scholars? Starting conversations with locals in broken French or Portuguese and ending up exchanging numbers—who knows it better than us? Budgeting meals, living out of a suitcase for a year, keeping yourself and others safe, planning your own schedules, handling visas—this is core adulting, which we have confidently mastered by now.

But the biggest learning of all is not that. It is the courage you build to dream your boldest, biggest dreams. You traverse to the ends of the world, hike through the deepest jungles, swim in the waters of every land, and witness the daily lives of people across the planet. You see the rising of the sun and the moon from west to east, sleep under a blanket of stars, and encounter extraordinary moments that leave you speechless.

You can’t help but feel that there must be something Higher in this universe that creates such grand beauty. And in those moments, you can’t help but feel the Higher within you. You begin to sense that you, too, are part of this vast universe, and that you must be meant for something greater. As you move closer and closer to finding your true calling, you finally begin to live the life you were made for—devoid of the fear, masks, and expectations we carry on our backs. Because after a year like this, nothing feels impossible. And that courage, my boy, to do what you were meant for, is precious.

Even words fail to encapsulate what a fairytale this last semester has been. So many cultures witnessed, so many languages heard and spoken, so many cuisines tasted, so many dreams dreamt under the stars of many lands. How can I ever fully fathom the magic of it all?

As Chris Whittle would often tell us, “We are dunking you in the waters of many lands. Soak it all in. You are processing more than you realise. In the end, you’ll see all the difference it has made.”

Oh Chris—it’s not even the end yet, and what a tremendous difference it has already made.

Thank you, Baret, for the best Christmas gift.

And for my best year yet.

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