This is an excerpt from an essay I wrote almost 7 years ago:

“I gently knock on Baba’s door and peek inside, “Do you want to go for your walk?” An avid walker, he normally would have answered with an enthusiastic yes, but today he is unsure. Life changed dramatically for my grandfather in 2014 when he collapsed and went into coma. Despite his miraculous recovery, one year later, he was still struggling to maintain his balance and walk independently.

After some convincing, I help Baba stand and carefully lead him through the living room. As he shuffles forward, I steer him away from the glass table in his path. Firmly holding his frail hand in mine, I marvel at the irony of the situation. Thirteen years ago, my baby hand clutched Baba’s index finger as I took my first wobbly steps in his living room in India. Back then, Baba would steer me away from the glass table in my path.

As we step into the driveway, I suggest we walk ten more steps than yesterday. We are ambling along, talking about cricket like we usually do, when suddenly, Baba gasps and stops abruptly from the exertion. We turn around and return home.

We continue this routine for a year, joyfully inching forward on some days and frustratingly falling back on others. One summer day in 2016, we set off in the usual way, hand in hand. “How about we go halfway around the block today?” I ask. He agrees. Baba begins to tell the story of his lifelong adventures. I know it by heart but still listen in awe. An orphaned child living in a village in India, Baba trudged several miles every day to attend school. Working for the United Nations, he hiked to remote areas in Liberia to conduct fieldwork. On regular visits to the UN Headquarters in New York, he navigated the busy sidewalks of Manhattan.” 

I ended that essay with this sentence:

Whether it’s the first step, or long evening strolls, walking is an adventure that I will always share with Baba, and one day I hope to follow in his footsteps.”

To 17-year-old-me, this felt like a profound way to end my essay with some word play, but I had no way of predicting that I would manifest this quite literally. Today, I get the chance to live down the street from the UN Headquarters and walk the very same sidewalks Baba told me about. While I may be literally traversing the same paths as him, shifting to New York has also been a journey that mirrors his figuratively. Baba epitomized courage and perseverance, often jumping headfirst into new situations and then figuring his way out. On days where I feel overwhelmed by moving across the country for the first time, I remind myself what Baba would do. And sometimes, I can feel him slip his hand into mine and guide me past the new glass tables in my path.

The part that gets me is that I never got to share any of this with Baba. He passed away in 2022, before I could tell him about coming to NYU. I like to think that he knows though.

Still, I wish that I could call him just once to exchange our stories about New York. To tell him about the bustle of First Avenue that hasn’t changed. Or see if he remembers the overpass you can take on 25th Street to get to the East River. Maybe show him that if you stop at exactly the right angle on the corner of 26th Street and First Avenue, you can see the Empire State Building. To ask him his favorite bagel spot, and to ask him how he dealt with the December wind chill.

I often think about how Baba must have traversed First Avenue on his visits to NYC, perhaps even passing Bellevue Hospital on multiple occasions. Could he have possibly imagined his grandson would study there? It makes me stop and wonder, who will be following in my footsteps (both literally and figuratively) in 50 years? And what are the activities or moments that people will remember about me?

The emphasis on New York represents a shift in how I remember Baba, and is curious because it’s not where Baba spent the most time, or where we spent any time together at all. Yet, this snippet of First Avenue, separated by 50 years, has become a thread that connects me to him and a source of inspiration.

Paradoxically, legacies might be less in our control, and more about how people remember what we did. For instance, a 10-minute patient encounter that we view as mundane, might leave a lasting impression on that patient. Furthermore, legacies, and more specifically people’s interpretations of our legacies, change based on time and circumstances. The only guarantee we may have in all of this then is the following: any act of kindness and positivity has the potential to become part of someone’s version of your legacy. So, I encourage you to ask yourself at the end of each day: “what did I do today to make someone’s day better?” And if you have a genuine answer to that question, I am confident that the legacy you build up over a lifetime will match whatever vision you have.