On Synchronicity and Connection

There are no accidents in life

When I wrote this poem in 1997, I had no idea that it would win recognition from UNICEF. I had no inkling that it would subsequently get splashed on the home page of a teen website and emailed to thousands of people across the world in 2001. I was clueless that from the deepest, most painful parts of my existence, a relationship would emerge: one that has sustained me the last 23 years.

A happenstance, a random occurrence, a one-in-a-million chance of “meeting” someone halfway across the world through an email which should have landed in their spam folder!

The psychologist, Carl Jung defined synchronicity as “meaningful coincidences that cannot be explained by cause and effect.” He believed that these events were not just random occurrences, but rather manifestations of a deeper order in the universe.

In our case, nothing could be truer.

He was a successful, self-made engineer who wrote deep, soulful poetry; I, an utter mess looking for a lifeline.

We were a world apart: he, raised in abject poverty but a beacon of self-sufficiency; I, a serial, lonesome failure drowning in a sea of material excesses.

He, the embodiment of logic, a pragmatist who saw the world through a lens of reason. I, a tempest of despair, battered by the storms of my own making.

He, surrounded by a doting family, his parents’ pride and his siblings’ guiding star. I cut a sorry figure, never sought for counsel nor burdened with the weight of responsibility.

He, the epitome of wisdom, a paragon of perfection, a fixer of all things broken. I, a self-loathing, imperfect, damaged soul fading into the background of my own existence.

And yet, something pulled us toward each other — perhaps, an unspoken recognition that we were both square pegs in a world of holes? Perhaps, our mutual desire to be the friend we never had? Perhaps, our need to be loved without any expectations?

He never wanted to marry me — in fact, he never proposed — but it was evident within a week that we were inexplicably intertwined, destined to be an enduring part of each other’s lives.

We didn’t have Facetime or Zoom calls back then. We didn’t even exchange grainy, pixelated selfies until February 20, 2001 — a week into this whirlwind rendezvous!

The whirring of a dial-up modem in my dad’s home office signaled the start of our late-night chat connection. Philosophical debates, our mutual love for dark poetry, personal anecdotes and emotional childhood shares formed the foundation of our growing bond. Beyond our realtime Yahoo IM’s, there was a parallel narrative unfolding in our inboxes — we would write lengthy emails for the other person to wake up to.

I had never found such ease with anyone else.

I had never felt so understood, so cared for, so accepted for the broken person I was.

Perhaps, the act of silently typing out our thoughts made it easier to peel back the layers? Perhaps, there was a sense of intimacy because of the distance? Perhaps, we could allow ourselves to be vulnerable secure in the knowledge that we would never meet?

We weren’t Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Our lives were not the rom-com we often joked about.

Little did we know, all those hours behind screens in opposite parts of the world were laying the foundation for something far more meaningful than an “actual relationship.”

We spent 138 days — or a “lifetime” as he would say — separated from yet entwined in each other’s lives. Spending an inordinate amount of money whispering sweet nothings across international phone lines — a pittance to pay for the friendship we found.

We met for the first time on July 1 … and felt like we knew each other well before our eyes locked at 3 a.m. outside the Chattrapati Shivaji International Arrivals Terminal.

There was a familiarity that transcended the digital realm. We had already fallen in love with each other’s minds and hearts. Being with each other physically in the same space at the same time felt surreal … magical … and oh-so-right!

Those 48 hours with each other in Bombay (where I worked briefly as a writer) confirmed what our hearts already knew. Next up was a meeting with my parents, who up until a week ago were unaware of his existence. Never mind what he meant to me.

My father’s smile was strained, his eyes darting between me and this quietly charismatic, lean 24-year-old I called my beau. A few minutes into his visit, my mother, who was usually the more vocal one, asked him sharply: “How do you plan to provide for her?”

A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, his confidence unwavering. “Aunty,” he replied, his voice a smooth baritone that sent shivers down my spine, “She isn't deaf, blind, or dumb. As far as I can tell, all her limbs are intact. I have no doubt she'll do just fine supporting herself.”

I felt a rush of pride swelling within me, a symphony of rebellion and adoration. I saw the shock ripple across my father’s face, the horror contorting my mom’s face. The two hours that followed were painfully solemn, except for those stolen smiles and playful glances we shared across the lunch table. We were decidedly in love.

“I don’t understand,” said my dad. “How do you fall for someone online?”

They shared how they had been visiting local “well-to-do families” to procure a “suitable match” for me — a husband who could provide the financial security and social standing they wanted. (Because, obviously, I wouldn’t amount to anything on my own.)

Nevertheless, I was convinced there was nothing they could find wrong with him: he had a bachelor’s degree from the most prestigious engineering college in India, a master’s degree from Stanford, and a coveted job in Silicon Valley.

So, when I argued about him checking off all their boxes, my dad said: “But he’s dark!”

What? He didn’t just!! What?? I was still processing my father’s statement when my mom asked: “It seems like his parents are village people — his mom didn’t even go to school — is that the life you want?”

His complexion and his family’s humble origins: those were my parent’s objections.

For them, my marriage need not be based on love or compatibility … it was about upholding a facade of status and prestige.

I felt so much rage in that moment.

My parents, who had always preached to me the importance of education and hard work, were now reducing a man’s worth to the melanin in his skin and the socioeconomic status of his family! Talk about prejudice and superficiality.

I refused to be complicit in their narrow-mindedness and, in that moment, I knew I had to take a stand — this was my chance to build the life I wanted with a man who respected, supported and loved me.

I announced that I didn’t care whether or not they approved of him. We’d be living together and if we decided to get married, I would be sure to send them an invitation.

The room crackled with tension, the air was thick with disappointment and disapproval. It was a scene straight out of … drumroll … a Bollywood melodrama.

It was the most defiant I had ever been.

The next day, I flew back to Bombay and we continued our long-distance relationship. It was more than a fleeting romance. Neither of us believed in marriage — my parents’ was a farce — but we knew we were committed to each other and had to find a way to live under the same roof.

His unwavering belief in my potential encouraged me, challenged me and made me feel a surge of self-confidence I didn’t know I had.

I had learned many new skills on the job, but within nine months I was keenly aware of my shortcomings. I had no real grounding in journalism and if I wanted to have a career in writing, I needed to go back to school. I quit my job, moved back in with my parents, and started applying to colleges in the U.S.

The most awkward phase ever!

“It isn’t the writing bug that’s bitten her,” mom would say relentlessly to her friends on the phone. “It’s the love bug! We can’t really force her to marry someone. It’s the 21st century … I guess we’ll just have to hope that this degree and world exposure will drive some sense into her brain!”

Despite all the drama at home, he cheered me on through the daunting college application process.

He helped me brainstorm essay topics, proofread my applications, and offered unwavering support during moments of stress and self-doubt. It paid off when I got into all the six colleges I’d applied to.

I chose to go to The University of Iowa — a trek from the sunny shores of California, across multiple time zones and requiring two flights — but infinitely better than being halfway across the world from the man I loved!

When I landed in Chicago on August 4, 2002, it had been 397 agonizing days of being apart. Yes, a lifetime indeed.

As he drove me to Iowa City, we made a pact that we would see each other every month — I deliberately chose no classes on Mondays or Fridays, so I could make the most of our weekends together. He’d fly in one month, I the next. It was hard on so many different levels and felt like an unsustainable struggle.

The toll of distance weighed heavily on us both. My parents, ever-hopeful that our “love” would fade, fueled my anxiety with 3 a.m. panic-stricken phone calls detailing imagined horrors about his family’s social class.

Meanwhile, we battled the relentless demands of deadlines and the suffocating loneliness that seeped into every waking moment.

Each goodbye felt like a slow death! The omnipresent ache of missing each other fueled my determination to graduate earlier.

And he’ll never admit it but he wanted to call me his own — one weekend when I was visiting him in Santa Clara, he suggested we find out the process for getting married.

I raised an eyebrow and he said: “it’s tax reasons, we’ll be better off if we file jointly when you move here.” Sure, darling. Tax reasons. Umm hmm.

I have always been pragmatic, if nothing else.

So, we sauntered into the courthouse like a couple of nonchalant lovebirds, filled out the paperwork, and found ourselves standing before a judge (who happened to share my mom’s name!) the very next day. In a whirlwind four and a half minutes on a Friday morning in April 2003, we officially became husband and wife.

And we told no one.

Not until June when I told my parents I’d be spending the summer in Santa Clara interning at NBC11 and we “ought to” make it official. They fought me tooth and nail, desperately trying to convince me to find someone else, anyone else … “there are still many good prospects here who won’t care that you didn’t complete your master’s!”

Sorry not sorry. This was a done deal. So, they finally relented on the condition that we would have to have a “proper” ceremony in India. I told them we couldn’t come until December and even when we did, given my fast-track progression and assignment load, it wouldn’t be for more than 10 days.

The Indian wedding was a whirlwind of chaos, a kaleidoscope of colors, and a cacophony of sounds. Hordes of distant relatives — unfamiliar cousins, long-forgotten aunts, newly-minted nephews and nieces — swarmed around us, their greetings a blur of names and forced pleasantries. The endless parade of rituals, the suffocating layers of ornate outfits, the wasted hours spent enduring the intricate henna designs — it all felt like an elaborate performance, a spectacle designed to appease societal expectations.

This was not what we wanted. We had asked for a simple ceremony just to satisfy my parent’s desire to “give away” their only daughter. We hadn’t bargained for the opulent venue, the lavish spread of food, the extravagant decorations and the hundreds of people wanting selfies … But then again, who cared about us?

As the night wore on, the artificiality of it all along with the relentless gift-giving (despite our very vocal objections!) became unbearable. We exchanged a knowing glance, a silent agreement that we had reached our limit. He walked out the banquet hall. I followed.

This was not a celebration of our love. It was anything but.

In that moment, I realized what we had was so much more precious than any elaborate ceremony or societal stamp of approval. The love we shared was simple, grounded and a far cry from the superficiality of the spectacle we had just left behind.

My parents were heartbroken, of course. And, while it may seem heartless to leave them “stranded” at a party they supposedly hosted in our honor, I couldn’t bear the weight of their disappointment any more.

Their expectations of me had always overshadowed my own happiness — this time I felt emboldened to prioritize my desires over their disapproval.

By May 2004, when my parents came to attend my graduation and help me move to Santa Clara, their stance had softened. The once-disapproved-of husband had miraculously transformed into “the son they never had.”

<insert massive eye roll here>

To this day, they value his opinions over mine, seek out his advice, and revere him. While I never could be that golden child, I am happy that he is in their life because of me!

But most of all, I am happy that we didn’t have robust junk mail sorting back in 2001, that he took the initiative to reach out to me — sass and all — and that I responded.

If you’ve ever taken any classes or attended my live workshops, you know how much I emphasize the idea of serendipity … of letting go … of being one with the process without any hope for the outcome. Now you know why that belief is so deeply-rooted in my psyche.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it weren’t for his sudden, unexplainable appearance in my life. He helped me flourish in whatever role I aspired to have: whether in the world of communications, as a homemaker, an artist, a creativity facilitator, an educator … these were all my choices.

Choices I never believed I had or could make.

When I met him, I was a nervous wreck, always second-guessing myself and afraid to take risks. Today, I empower women.

I share this here to show you that it has been a journey to becoming who I am and the immense gratitude I hold in my heart for the man who believed in me more than I ever believed in myself.

I share this here to remind you that life has a way of unfolding in unexpected ways, of presenting us with synchronicities that can change the course of our lives. As Carl Jung said, “Synchronicity is an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see.”

I had no idea that a simple email would change my life forever. But that’s the beauty of serendipity — it often arrives disguised as the mundane.

In my workshops, I often deconstruct to construct … make a painting, tear it up, give it a new lease of life … it’s almost as if I am reliving my life in those little pieces of art, seeing the order in the disorder, re-fabricating something new from what was, not playing the hand I was dealt but persisting with defiance to seek something anew.

I share my story to inspire you to trust in the process of life, to be open to the unexpected, and to believe in the power of synchronicity. I really do believe in what Jung said: “There are no accidents in life.”

Everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t understand it at the time.

You’re reading this, you’re here, our paths have crossed... and my heart swells with joy at the thought that this might be more than just a coincidence.

You, with your lifetime of experiences, your creative spirit, your artistic abilities. You, who’s shrouded under the cloak of an imposter syndrome. You who hasn’t yet realized that the world needs to see her brilliance.

You are here, reading this, seeking something more.

This could be the moment you cast aside those doubts and embrace the power within you. You’re not the sprightly 23-year-old I was when my world spun on its head — you have so much more wisdom, so much more experience, so much more to offer!

Give yourself the permission to bloom. To re-bloom! Let your creativity flow freely, let your heart guide your hands, your words, your music. Let this be the moment you rediscover the magic that lies within you.

You are never too old to dream, never too late to create. Your story, like mine, is far from over.