I visited New York again a couple of summers later, this time with both of my parents. Kavi brought me to an Indian place for lunch on Murray Hill (he informed me it’s actually Curry Hill), and then we went to peruse Strand Book Store. I was holding a pile of books that I wanted to buy when I got a phone call from an unknown number. The news: you’re accepted to medical school. I was floored.

(Slightly pertinent background here: I had applied to medical school because it was ~the plan~ and my father’s dream for me, but I didn’t think it was the career I wanted, and after not hearing back from schools for so long, I assumed I conveniently didn’t get in)

And there was Kavi. After making sure nothing tragic had happened, he calmed me down and helped me think rationally. We discussed options, the gravity of the decision, and ultimately how to tell my parents that I wasn’t going to accept the offer. This decision was one of those forks in the road of life, and Kavi helped me navigate through it.

On the way out of Strand, I had to pare down my book selections. I put back a copy of Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children – “Oh of course the brown man’s the first to go.”

Once, Scuttlebutt, Kavi, and I were walking out of Amir’s on State Street during our nightside. Kavi held a towering cup of yogurt with every topping imaginable (mostly cookies and chocolate). Mid-step, we heard a piercing scream. A figure dressed in black shoved past us, sprinting down the street. We turned around, confused. A young boy stood in shock in the middle of the sidewalk. “That guy stole my backpack!”

Without asking questions, Kavi took off, dropping his yogurt on the ground. He sprinted after the culprit holding the backpack, gaining on him. I had never seen him move so quickly. The thief and Kavi rounded the corner of East Liberty, and the thief turned around, panicked, and threw the backpack at Kavi’s feet and sped away. It was incredible.

Kavi scooped up the backpack, and handed it back to the trembling freshmen to whom it belonged, waving off any thanks. Every person on State Street who had witnessed the event had stopped in his or her tracks and applauded. Cars began honking in celebration at the intersection. Kavi walked back to us as if nothing had happened. “I’m gonna go get another fro-yo. You guys want anything?”

Scuttlebutt and I looked at him, and then at each other, speechless. We called him the Dark Knight for the rest of the evening, telling the entire newsroom the story as soon as we got back. It was epic.