Roots nd Realities

 Yesterday was one rollercoaster of a Saturday. So our toxicology sir had told us earlier that we’d be doing a flashmob for Anti-Tobacco Day. Yes, you read that right — a flashmob. In public. Dancing. Us. Lol Practice started the day before the actual event. Very on brand for us. Thankfully, heavy rain gifted us a leave on Friday — bless the skies. We aren't professional dancers or anything, but we’ve got one thing in common: the willpower to pull off whatever chaos we sign up for. Our rehearsals were basically just us roasting each other, laughing at wrong steps, and doing the signature “wait, what comes after this move?” head tilt. Come Saturday morning — 9 AM sharp — we reached Fort. There were police officers, excise officers, and students from another institute, all geared up and lined up neatly with placards. We stood with our banners, acting all serious for a minute. Then came the speeches. But the real chaos? When they suddenly announced “Now, the flashmob!” BROOO. Panic mo...

Being an only child always felt like winning some kind of secret jackpot. No toy snatchers, no closet space wars, no sharing TV time with a sibling obsessed with cartoons. It was all mine — the love, the silence, the snacks, the remote. Kindergarten friends used to complain about their siblings tearing pages or scribbling in their books, and there I was — flipping perfect pages and color-coding my pencils, feeling like royalty. Mom raised me like I was in an Olympic competition for “Perfection.” Everything had to be clean, proper, and a little Pinterest-worthy. Honestly, I was the “ideal kid” in my neighborhood — the one aunty-next-door always compared her son with. Sorry, Rahul. But as I grew up, things shifted. That luxury started feeling a bit... different. Especially when classmates shared those crazy sibling fights or late-night laughter stories. I realized I had no one to share random things with — like the last piece of cake or a dumb inside joke. And slowly, loneliness walked i...

 So yeah... I’m in the middle of some kind of emotional spiral. Can’t even label it. It's not exactly sadness, not exactly stress—just a weird, blank feeling. Second Prof has officially entered the chat, and let me tell you—it’s strange. Not what I imagined. Definitely not what I romanticized during First Prof. Classes? Dry. Energy? Low. Vibes? Missing in action. Everyone's just dragging themselves to class like zombies, scared the teacher might ask something. And then we all… just nap. Mentally or physically. Pick your mode. Homesickness? Oh, she’s back. And stronger than ever. Especially during those boring lecture hours when your mind decides to fly back home for a mini vacation. Now, coming to the only silver lining of the week—RSBK lab on Tuesdays. Yes, you read that right. Every Tuesday, as part of our Rasa Shastra non-lecture activity, we step into the lab to actually do something instead of just surviving on words and slides. So far, we’ve had only three Tuesdays, but t...

 There was a time when I used to expect a lot—especially from people I was close to. Friends, roommates, classmates—you name it. Giving my 100% felt right. But turns out, that was kinda my biggest mistake. I used to think, “If I’m always there for them, won’t they do the same for me?” Spoiler alert: Nope. Reality hit harder than hostel food sometimes! Iykyk I love spending time with my people—laughing, chilling, vibing. But here’s the thing: expecting they’ll always be there through thick and thin? Big no. If they are, good. If they’re not, still good. That’s it. No drama. No overthinking (well, trying at least). Because when expectations don’t meet reality, your brain lowkey crumbles. And trust me, that pain is way more dramatic than any heartbreak. What I’ve learned now is this: Keeping a little distance to protect your peace? So worth it. I used to sit in my tiny hostel corner, overthinking, “Why aren’t they giving me the same energy I’m giving them?” But now I look back and go—...

 Arts Day and College Day were on the 8th and 9th—and oh, what a ride! It was my second Arts Day in our college, but trust me, the feels were just as fresh as the first. Last year, we were the baby batch. The juniormost. And our seniors—Atreya batch—it was their last Arts Day. They had the whole vibe in their hands! They made sure even the shyest of us participated in something. I still don’t know how I ended up doing English versification, western solo singing, group dance, and drawing—like, who was she?? I even got prizes. Surprise, surprise—I could sing (kinda) and dance (with minor oops moments). We practiced for days in the portico. I still remember the steps and how patiently our seniors taught us. And oh—fancy dress. Yep. The most junior batch has to suffer—I mean shine—in it. I was supposed to play 'It' (don’t ask), and the trauma... I mean, memories… still live on. Some people even still remember it. Sigh. Fast forward to this year. We returned to college just a few da...

 I went through something that had me feeling like I was stuck in a plot twist. So, I was super close to one of my friends—like, meme-sharing, inside-jokes level of close. And then... poof... she just stopped texting. Single grey tick after single grey tick. No explanation. No “Hey, I’m busy.” Just silence. And what made it worse? She was still chatting with everyone else. But, you know, I was left in the chat's dark corner. Naturally, I turned into an overthinking machine: “Did I send a weird meme?” “Did I accidentally say something off?” “I swear I didn’t ghost her first!” It was exhausting. So, I went to my mom for some wisdom. And she said, “Whatever happens, don’t change who you are. Just talk to her like nothing happened. That’s how you grow.” (Thanks, mom, for being the real MVP.) So, I did what any emotionally drained person would do—I dove into hobbies. Watched Movies, learned baking on my own, scribbled in my journal, ate snacks... you know, the usual healing routine. Slo...

 Meet Tara. She’s that girl who walks into the room looking like she’s got her whole life together — sleek hair tied up in a no-nonsense bun, eyebrows always on point, and that natural glow people spend money trying to recreate with 15- step skincare routines. But here’s the truth — her glow isn’t from serums. It’s from inner fire.  Literally. Tara’s day starts before sunrise — not because she’s trying to be aesthetic, but because her inner clock is built different. She doesn’t “wake up late.” That’s just not in her DNA. Her wardrobe? Clean, crisp, and no-nonsense — just like her. Now, let’s talk food. If it’s too spicy, Tara’s body goes full-on “this is betrayal.” So she sticks to cooling stuff — coconut water, sabudana khichdi, cucumber salads. But here’s the twist: she loves spicy food. She’ll be dying inside after eating a plate of peri peri fries but still be like, “One more bite.” Classic toxic relationship energy with food. She’s always warm — emotionally and temperatur...

  Okay folks - So I came across this reel recently, and my brain straight-up paused for a second. In the video, a lady (probably channeling her inner Victorian nanny) said that in a certain religion, every man is meant to love his wife, and every wife is meant to respect her husband. She confidently claimed, “It’s not love and love—it’s love and respect.” Wait… what? Did Cupid open a gender-based emotion distribution center? Why is love assigned to men and respect to women like we’re picking roles in a school play? But hold on, she wasn’t done. She asked women, “When was the last time you said, ‘I respect you’ to your man? Let him guide, mentor, and correct you… Let him be your head.” Excuse me—my head? Ma’am, is he my professor? Or worse… a poultry bird? Because she literally added that being “submissive” means women should crave to be under a man’s wings. Wings?? Bro, is he a chicken or what? And I guess many of you must’ve already seen that reel. Personally, I found the whole th...