Since I joined Ashoka, I have shared a room with a girl of Tibetan descent, Tenzin – or, as her friends lovingly nicknamed her, ‘Isaac’. At any given moment, one may find her with her hair tied up in a brightly coloured bandana, busy strumming her guitar, or making her friends erupt into peals of laughter with her sharp wit.

Initially, when I was assigned my room, I experienced some trepidation. For as long as I could remember, I had always valued personal space – a room to myself, quietude in which to hear my own thoughts, or simply some familiar territory or culture. Contrarily, Tenzin belongs to a people who value the community above all else. Naturally, we spent the first few days engaging in awkward and uneasy conversation and making our most earnest effort to stay out of the other’s way. Tenzin, as I still continue to observe, has the ability to effortlessly make anyone feel at home, and made peace-offerings through food. Every other day, she would bring laphing (cold noodles) from the Tibetan market, tingmo (steamed bread) served with thukpa (warm soup), dehydrated apricots, and chunks of dried Tibetan cheese that we would eat like candy. This unique palate of flavours, and the ability to diffuse tension with food, is only one among many things I would come to learn and appreciate about Tibetan culture.

This living arrangement also contributed towards troubling my conceptions of identity. Although she falls into the ambit of ‘international student’, Tenzin was in truth born and raised on Indian soil – Ladakh, to be specific. This diversity in her identity is most evident in her speech, which has now become a melting pot of Tibetan, English, Hindi, Ladakhi, and various bits of Amharic or Nepali she may have picked up from her friends. Yet, when she refers to home, she is neither referring to Ladakh, nor to India, nor to Tibet, a land she is, by law, prohibited from inhabiting. She is referring to a community and a diaspora.

Learning more about Tenzin and where she comes from also compelled me to acknowledge the very privileged position I come from. While I had always visualized college as the natural step forward after school, Tenzin and her cousins bear the burden of being first-generation college students. Carrying this weight has, in fact, only strengthened her and her existing bold nature; without college, she says, she might not have been able to bring up feminist arguments at the dinner-table back home, as she now does.

The trials she has faced have not, however, hardened her spirit. In her, I only see the desire to live with ease, joy, and gratitude. Tenzin never allows these aforementioned differences in our life experiences to matter in our daily lives. For instance, there is little talk of ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ in our room and everything is assumed to be common, shared; and whenever she travels, she is sure to bring me back posters, T-shirts, or other trinkets or souvenirs. I have seen her tirelessly strive towards self-improvement. I can say so with confidence, having seen her fervently edit essays for various writing competitions, practice the guitar, or work on shortfilms. Living with a person of such life experiences has, above all else, taught me the meaning of meeting adversity with strength, with resilience, and most importantly with hope and kindness. Very few of these experiences would have been made possible were I not living with a fellow student like her.

Kshirin Rao Eshwara is a second-year undergraduate student at Ashoka