A friendship forged in Varanasi taught a young Canadian a lesson he would carry into diplomacy: sometimes, understanding what is unspoken matters most.

Allow me to take you back almost three decades, to a moment that set the stage for my diplomatic career in ways I could not have predicted:

A black Honda Hero motorcycle is cutting through the streets of Varanasi. Late in the evening, the narrow gullies have quieted from their daytime commotion into something closer to a whisper, and a light fog hangs low over the ghats.

The driver, dressed in a spotless white kurta, is a young Indian man. His passenger is a much taller foreigner, long curls pulled into a loose knot at the nape of his neck, one stray curl whipping wild as they speed past. Any desi observer would recognise the bond immediately—the passenger leaning in close, head bent in to catch the conversation over the engine noise, the two of them breaking into laughter every few seconds.