This post is inspired by events of last night (i.e. Freshers’) and today (i.e. GNLU WINNING INDIA JESSUP OHMYGOD).

Yes, I’m very excited. If you know me personally, you know that I get excited and buzzed and enthusiastic about things very easily. You know that I love college (everything about college) and I love classes and everything. I am your quintessential nerd, and I’m very proud to be one. Note to young Tejas, it isn’t a derogatory term, don’t take offense.

Anyway, seniors. How do you write about people who make your first days extremely nerve-wracking and take your introductions and indulge in positive interactions? Especially when they make you miss home a little less by welcoming you into their fold and accepting you as the youngest member of a massive family? Lots of questions, and hopefully this is an answer.

My first brush with a senior from college came when I interned in the 11th Grade. There was a third-year from GNLU who was interning at the same place (his internship was more serious, of course), and he gave me a breakdown of the college. I was sold. I was pretty determined to do Law, and after multiple conversations with him over lunch & during breaks from work, I knew I would go to GNLU if given a chance. He told me the bad bits too, but the positive side of things were far too many to discount.

My second brush with a senior from college came on the CLATGyan group, where I saw a frustrated A Level student complaining about boards. As a frustrated AS (soon to be A) Level student myself, I got in touch with her, and she gave me further insight into what life at GNLU was like. I asked her my questions, asked her about classes & professors, and got myself prepped and enthu’fied for the entrance exam. I loved GNLU, with it’s lack of painted exteriors (as I had been told).

As is obvious, my next brush with seniors was on my first day, when a second-year kindly helped me with my bags on a rainy day to my room (thank you!).

And then came the positive interactions. I had already had one set at Odisha so it was quite weird to undergo again, but I tried taking it in the spirit of things. Made me a little homesick at times, and that showed in my demeanour.

At least it must have. A neighbouring senior called me to his room after I delivered his night mess order and told me to smile a little more, stand a little straight and enjoy myself. That pep talk was incredible. My mother still notices a difference in my posture, weird as it may sound.

I have met seniors I had merely heard of from classmates (and now did client counseling with), seniors I debated against when I was in school (and now debated with on the same team), and seniors I’ve had incredibly profound life discussions with. Seniors who grilled me and my friends all through the night & helped us draft our first-ever memorial by reading multiple shoddy drafts and pointing out errors.

I’ve gotten to interact with super-seniors who have judged me during moot intras. This is the weirdest connect, simply because a couple of years ago, they’ve stood exactly where you stand, and done everything you’ve done.

And I’ve gotten to interact with the team that won Jessup India and are going to D.C. (a first in college).

If you know me, I’ve probably told you about Jessup. I’ve wanted to study Law since the 9th Grade, so it’s pretty incredible that it’s finally happened (as in, I’m studying Law). I googled & Facebooked Raag Yadava like a creep when NLSIU won Jessup Worlds & he became a Rhodes scholar, simply because he had been to D.C. I remember being appalled with the incredible things he had accomplished and saying “Woah, such incredible people exist?”

Note to young Tejas, they do. They really do.

I’m new to this place, and clearly haven’t interacted with these seniors a lot. But I’ve heard the tales. They’re not overhyped.

One of them is leading the charge with the GNLUMUN (DO COME, SERIOUSLY), and one of them helped lead the charge with the GNLU Debate. The other grilled me for my second intra rounds even though he didn’t know me, and one of them has been super helpful with my moot endeavour. I feel very peevish that I have to blog about the fact that I have not interacted at all (apart from an awkward hello as he walked in the corridor) with the last member, but I have heard SO MUCH about him. I am star struck.

They are legends of this institution of learning and exemplars of the institution of Law.

My friend & I got so pumped when we heard. We cried tears of joy, screamed (read: squealed like babies), high-fived, and I hate to say this, but we said “we did it”, even though we didn’t really do anything.

My debate senior thought I would need a tranquilizer gun. I was that excited when they won.

We used to speak among ourselves about the Jessup team & how hard they were working. We felt pumped to see them go for the tournament, and bragged to all our friends when we spotted them all together.

I love college. I love seniors. I love Jessup.

These people have bought happiness to everyone on campus.

And so many more off it. I saw a post by a super-senior with congratulations, followed by a trail of posts from super seniors reflecting about their Jessup journey, and how it was a burden off their shoulders.

College is a happy place. Seniors help keep it a happy place.

Thank you, seniors.


Sorry, I had to.

Congratulations, Team Jessup. As a first-year, you’ve made me extremely proud to be a GNLUite, and you’ve given me an extra dose of motivation for my own moot.

Thank you, seniors.

This post would be amiss if I didn’t mention Freshers’. Mad party they organized for us. Really made us feel like we were officially a part of this college. Shoutout to my date for being awesome!



Haven’t blogged for a while, largely because I had repeat exams & am now extremely determined to utilize my time working on my moot. Also, because I haven’t done anything worthy of a blog post or the time I take in writing one.

Today’s post is dedicated to Music. The post comes out of listening to this ( No, the creator of that video has not requested me for an endorsement, but I’m obligated to give you something to connect to what I’m feeling right now.

Watch the video. You won’t understand much in furtherance of your attempt to understand my blog, but you’ll get something to go on.

The boy in that video is a classmate of mine from the 5th Grade. Way back then, when I was in Dubai, Haider & I used to be pretty good friends. We had pretty much the same interest in music, and he was on my bus route. Pretty fun.

This may be difficult to believe if you know what I sound like now, but prior to the cracking of my voice, I had the ability to sing. I attended Carnatic lessons for a while & loved Western music. My voice was pretty high-pitched, and Haider and I used to be invited/forced by our class teacher to sing for the class at times.

My school used to do this pretty awesome thing where each Grade put up an annual concert. As fate would have it, I used to end up being the narrator of said concert every time. I even danced at this Rock Challenge thing (not joking, dressed as a Dalmatian) where I ended up having to answer judge’s questions (the dance had to reflect a social cause).

Conversations with Haider make me pretty nostalgic haha. In the 5th, we did our annual concert inspired by the Beatles. He was Paul McCartney as far I can remember, and I was narrator+choir member. I sang vocals for Strawberry Fields Forever, the Yellow Submarine, Help!, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds & more. The trauma I would cause people by singing these songs now (I mean, with my current voice), would be immeasurable.

Haider, on the other hand, has grown so much as a musician. His voice cracked more beautifully, if I can put it that way. Some of his originals are absolutely marvelous, and all of his covers do such justice to the original songs.

I might have gone out of the singing business, but my parents ensured/forced me to learn the piano. This started when my uncle bought me a keyboard way back when I was in the 2nd Grade. I used to mess around with the Presets – including My Heart Will Go On & such fun things, and they used to get very excited that I knew how to play it. Dad, Mom, these were presets. Sorry if I lied to you guys.

I switched out of piano classes faster that Usain Bolt finished the 100m race in London.

That’s pushing it, but I did switch out of classes often. This meant that I was constantly un-learning. That is, unlearning the method a previous instructor had taught me, to latch onto a new instructor’s method. Plus, I never really loved my instrument, so I didn’t practice or anything.

That was until Glen Perry. His academy was awesome. My mum drove me till Karama every Saturday, sitting in the sweltering heat for one hour as I learnt bits and pieces of the keyboard without thinking about the plethora of things she could accomplish in that time. (Thanks Amma). That allowed me to love the keyboard.

When we moved to India, I didn’t play for a year (outside of Music classes at school). I began to detest the piano/keyboard because it wasn’t as mobile as a guitar (an instrument ALL my friends could play). We spent one year looking for an instructor who taught well & came all the way till Whitefield. And when we finally did, it was incredible.

He taught me everything I know (not that I know a lot). More than anything, he taught me to be methodical in learning. He went by the book, so I didn’t learn pieces I wanted to learn, but I did develop some discipline, which helped a lot with exams & things. His classes allowed me to develop a love for music.

I discovered Torrents around the same time, which fuelled the aforementioned love.

That’s the story of my relationship with music. There’s a whole lot more, but I have work to do.

Haider, your passion for music is commendable, buddy. I mean, you’re in Prague, studying medicine. You recorded that clip after studying for 12 hours. That’s crazy, buddy. (In a good way, of course).

You can be a mender of hearts (cardio specialist) and a mender of souls (with that guitar).


Life update. We got 1500 Rupees from White Collar by means of a really fancy cheque (massive shout-out to Amma for orchestrating the whole deal) & my health is back to normal (almost).

I’ve had a pretty sweet day. Woke up, had a clean stall to dump in, got super hot water for my bucket bath, had an awesome “alu muter” sandwich for breakfast, and a set of swell classes. Followed by an incredible lunch. I will accept that Rajma Chawal is a thing, although I appreciate it with Roti more. Sorry not sorry.

In other news, I haven’t eaten curd in nearly 3 days. My body has been deprived of the dairy I love, and I’m not sure it’s responding very well. The totem of my existence has been served for lunch & dinner everyday that I’ve been ill, and I won’t lie, I’ve shed some tears as I’ve walked past the delicious Gujarat curd. My batchmates have sympathized, and one even offered me her curd – a gesture I applaud, and condemn at the same time. (Rule #1 – Curd is not meant to be shared). You have much to learn, young padawan.

Anyway. Awesome set of classes. Our Economics prof. is the most chill lecturer I have seen. We “focus on our breathing” (to be read as sleep & not to be confused with meditation) while he takes attendance, which he does in the most stunning raga I have heard. There’s a subtlety to his tone on syllables. The man could’ve been a good singer, methinks. After 45 minutes of fun, we had Political Thought.

I have the best Political Thought professor on the planet. This is my opinion. (was. Read on)

He’s such a passionate man. He’ll make you believe anything, just because he’s so passionate about teaching. And his subject. Although his subject is literally about not believing anything at all. We’re still doing Introductory Modules and as first-years, we’re constantly reminded how little we know about things. Exactly what today’s class did.

I’m very intrigued by Political Theory, Thought, Philosophy, Science & all of the multiple perspectives/subjects you can attach at the end of “Political” or “Politics”. Yes, they’re different things. No, I will not elaborate.

P.S.: As you read, it’s okay to be very confused. I am too. I’m new to this whole blogging thing, so my writing may be scratchy. Sorry.

I appreciate the subject only because I’m fascinated by understanding what fancy words mean. That’s a really weird way of phrasing it, so I shall explain. I’m fascinated to know what “Marxism”, or “Liberty”, or “Justice” stands for, largely because I feel like most of us use the words very incorrectly. Starting from the government, to the media, to common parlance. We throw around these big words because of the power we have to sway people in their emotions & thoughts without realizing the connotations they really do possess. That’s the sort of clarity I’m looking for from the course. And while the semester may confuse me even more, it’ll give me perspective on the stuff I read, which I really appreciate.

Enough of explanation, back to reality.

Well, an introductory module in Political blah (I cannot type out the whole thing), basically entails debate on what words mean. Just the other day, we spent a class debating the difference between Philosophy and Thought (I always thought Philosophy was abstract thought). Today’s class was another Philosophical discourse.

Basically, we spent time discussing Ontology. And the two schools of Ontology – the Materialistic & the Idealistic. Fancy words, fancier meanings. Ontology questions existence and reality. There’s a subject devoted to the existential crisis, guys. 

Literally, the subject & its approaches question whether reality is a construct and whether it actually exists. We even took the debate to religion, which I always love talking about, scientifically. We went on to speak about Plato’s idea of opinions, beliefs, and knowledge. And how nobody really attains knowledge. That we all just gain information.

The conclusion was that nobody experiences knowledge.

There go my dreams of being intellectual and fancy.

What intellectual and fancy. I’m a guy with a blog called Curd Rice Daily. Pshh.

I’m already intellectual and fancy. (Yup)

At this point I’d like to rephrase something I typed earlier.

I have a Political Thought professor.

He’s incredible.

But I can no longer say he’s the best.
(a) Because I have no one to compare him with
(b) Because my reality comes from my experience & therefore it would too much of a value judgement without much empirical analysis
(c) Because saying he’s the best would constitute knowledge. Not an opinion.

And no one gains knowledge.

Let that sink in.

Just because I’ve introduced this idea to you guys, I want you guys to think about this for a bit.

If a tree falls in a forest which is empty, and nobody witnesses the tree falling from afar:

(a) Do the leaves rustle?
(b) Does is produce a sound?


I’m fancy.

Massive props to my Political blah professor.

Curd Rice, out.


Ode to my Comforter

The point of this blog is for me to be able to capture my rambling thoughts and my reactions to new pieces of information when I am alone in my room (don’t worry amma, I really do have friends & am capable of socializing). But yes, I am currently alone in my room. My roommate has gone for the NJAC judgement analysis – which I really wanted to go for, but I am unwell.

Hence, I shall blog.

The title is strange, but hopefully, you’ll understand all my feels at the end of this post. Right now I’m thinking about how much I’ve grown. Let’s not be silly, I’m not very old, but I have changed from when I was a toddler. Something that a lot of people tell me that at weddings/every family reunion ever. Aunties, uncles, yes I have grown older and taller. It’s only been about 15 years since you last saw me and I fit into your arms. I also find it uncanny that a lot of them are able to create an accurate measurement of your height (c. 2000) between their arms. Every Ajji/Tata/Uncle/Aunty can do it. While I stand and awkwardly smile, because I have zero memory of being the size of 2 30 cm Faber-Castell rulers.

Anyway, you get the point. I have grown.

Today, I was informed via Whatsapp by my mother that White Collar had lost my Mickey Mouse comforter. Hence this post. I will now describe this Mickey Mouse comforter and tell you about all the feels/memories said Mickey Mouse comforter holds (and now, held).

Essentially, the story begins in 2004. I was 6 years old and was making my second trip alone to Bangalore, from Dubai. I had convinced my parents to allow me to fly as an Unaccompanied Minor for my 5th birthday, and spent two months in India under the able care of my grandparents, aunt & uncle. One in Bangalore, and one in Pune. The schedule was the same this time around (as far as I can remember). One month in Bangalore – visit all of the family, attend a couple of poojas, go to MG Road  & buy stuff for the mother, go to Pune, spend about 3 weeks there, return to Bangalore for a week, and then fly back to Dubai.

I remember these flights pretty well. I used to use the UM badge to get all sorts of benefits – a couple of magazines to draw/colour in, go to see the cockpit (which fuelled my love of aeronautics/becoming a pilot – something I dropped when I got glasses) and so on. Manipulative 6 year old Tejas, 17 year old Tejas salutes you. You were awesome (you still are).

So, naturally, when I came back home carrying goodies from India (such as amazing pickle made by my Pune grandmum, bangles, and so on), I expected goodies to be at home (considering I had been away for 2 months). I never made this too obvious though. Didn’t want the parents to think I was greedy and whatnot.

When I returned aged 6, the conversation started as we passed the old 4×4 showroom and got onto the road with Dubai Flower Centre to our right. As we took the right past the Mazda showroom, my mom said there was a massive surprise at home. We lived in a small, one bedroom apartment called A-201, and I was supremely excited. I remember walking, almost running into the bedroom, where I stopped.

The old computer and computer table was gone. I wailed on the inside. I loved that computer. It ran Windows 98 and everything. Was pretty great – I could play What Next? and other classic board games on it.

I squealed on the outside. In it’s place was this beautiful bunkbed which looked like a house. It had a ladder and everything, for me to climb up onto it. Below, there was storage space, for all of my toys, and cars – stored securely in a yellow Molto trolley I still possess.

I loved it. It was all mine, and only I could fit on it. I had a mad fear of heights, so climbing up was tough, but when I got there, I felt like the king of the world. I admired the beauty of the teal-green panels, the vermillion/cream coloured curtains which lined the storage, and chuckled. I was to sleep at a height far above my parents. Almost as if I was their guardian. So rad (My vocabulary wasn’t that expansive – I believe “cool” was the in word I used repeatedly.

The sheets and comforter were light cream in complexion. So warm and fuzzy. They had images of pizza and random caricatured boys and girls chilling and playing around. I adored it. We expanded this single cover/duvet set by adding two more. One blue coloured Winnie the Pooh set, and a yellow, Disney licenced Mickey Mouse set.

These three sets lasted me till I graduated 12th and moved to college. I used them in rotation. Didn’t ask for a new one, didn’t even think about it. If you know me, you know how excited I get about new things, and how sentimental I get with such things.The memories that the duvets have – too many to count. They stood by me when I was ill, when I was sad, when I napped on the sofa, when I was glad. Those covers gave me protection from the monsters under the bed, and the mosquitos in the air. The comforter was truly a comforter. It wasn’t a rasaai, it was a friend.

The idea of the Mickey Mouse comforter being lost has rocked me to my very core. I am sad. I mean, that’s a part of my childhood I don’t think I’ll see again. My memories have literally, just been washed away. (sorry for laundry pun)

This is what growing up feels like. You create new memories, at the cost of having to replace some old ones. Here’s to that mustard yellow Mickey Mouse comforter, where Mickey and Minnie were lavender purple for contrast. Here’s to being there when I had my teeth extracted. Here’s to me covering myself in you while napping on our comfortable sofa (sorry, amma, I know I’m not meant to sleep there). I will miss you.

Note: Mom managed to fight them to get us a cheque for the cost of the comforter. What a stud.

In Memoriam, Mickey Mouse comforter (c. 2004 – 2016)



Being unwell away from home is strange. That is the essence of this article.

I injured myself in my second week at Orissa (yes, that place below West Bengal), and I felt like my world had crumbled into that piece of skin on my knee I had just lost to the railing of the parking lot.

See, I’ve had my fair share of injuries on my knee. The oldest one I remember is from HKG (it’s the same as UKG). My dad was walking me to our blue colour Passat after an intense day of classes where we had a spelling test, when I stumbled onto a gutter plate, creating a beautiful mess of red & purple. I remember wailing in the bathtub as my father cleansed the wound with Dettol (thank you, appa). It stung.

Dettol stings, friends.

Anyhoo, every time I recount an injury/bruise of consequence I have faced, I concurrently recall the fact that one of my parents has been around to ensure I didn’t make it worse (you know, by putting water on it, or falling again). Till I was aged about 13. Which makes me sound old. I’m really not. Meh. Cutting to the chase, even if I injured myself after that, I had to clean wounds & stuff on my own, but they were always there to check up on the wound and things.

The same goes for when I was unwell. My parents have spent countless hours nursing me back to my enthu cutlet self when I was ill. I distinctly remember a 5th Grade Math exam I gave when I had a fever. I fell asleep after finishing the paper (the rule was that we had to sit till the bell rung), but my mum took the day off from work to ensure I would be better before the next exam. That meant lots of soup and some Calpol. I don’t like soup or syrupy medicines (I approve of Maple Syrup/Hershey’s/Tabasco and Peri-Peri), so it was often that I had to be chased into putting these funny looking/awkward tasting liquids into my mouth.

The adults in my life always managed to ensure it happened though.

Good times.

When you’re unwell away from home is when you realize the worth of that tomato soup (that’s what they call it, apparently) and the time your parents/guardians took off to take care of you.

When you’re in a hostel, you realize it’s just you combating the illness. Even if it’s a small cold, it makes you feel horrible. Any illness is capable of reducing you to the size of a mite.

Until you have Wai-Wai.

Wai-Wai will help you conquer any illness.

That is the end of this blog post.


P.S., that was a joke. Supposed to be read as a substitute for Bye-Bye. Thought I should explain.

Curd Rice, out.




Aloo Parantha

Let me state this at the outset, to avoid hate speech from those who believe that my loyalties have shifted. There is nothing that can ever come close to the divinity of eating Curd Rice. There’s something magical about every bowl you eat, and a story behind every tadka added to the dish. Personally, I prefer eating my Curd Rice plain. No additives, please.

As a child I used to enjoy the dish with Pickle. Although I oft enquired why banana leaf caterers (I really don’t know how to phrase it) put pomegranate in the totem of my South Indian heritage, I developed a soft corner for it. Crunchy, sweet & salty, it became something to look forward to at the end of a tedious wait in the line at weddings & receptions. (to interact with the bride & groom for 2 minutes, of course).

Anyway. Tracing my affection for this food (or any food) would necessitate the writing of a novel. Something I don’t have the time for, so I’ll keep this short. I discovered Aloo Parantha. (don’t say Ayyo, read the first line again).

If I had to sum up my last semester in 3 words, they would be: Excitement, Meals & Milkshakes. My journey in Khakhraland began with some excellent dal, and took an intermission with the finest aloo parantha I have eaten on campus. Naturally, I was excited last night, when I read the menu board with “Alu Paratha” scrawled across it in black marker.

To prepare myself, I evaded snack. Maggi, they said. The mess was too far, I retorted, keeping my intentions hidden. I worked hard, reading multiple articles on Space Law, taking a break to watch Sunita Williams’ video on eating in space, and returning to the CoCoSL. Fun times, these were.

And then it happened. The hunger pangs struck, my belly churned, rumbled & craved, clearly forgetting it had to go through pain to experience paradise. I could taste the Amul butter on my lips, the soft texture made me salivate. I looked at my watch. 7:40, it read.Dinner time, I said.

I saw some friends walking toward the mess and joined them in earnest, my brain painting space with images of the delicacy, instantly. We reached the edifice and at my first glance, I knew I had arrived too early.

I pressed the caterer, longingly, “Bhaiyya, kabhi aayega?”, I asked. He replied, “Aat baje”, to my disdain. I was vehemently cross. I thought my training at home prepared me better, what with meals being served at any time I wanted them. I was wrong. So wrong.

The feeling of longingness was worsened by the marvelous smell wafting in from the kitchen area. They were being readied. I could hardly contain myself.

Like a gladiator, I steadied myself for battle. 1 stainless steel plate, 1 stainless steel spoon, 2 stainless steel bowls. I filled my Curd, smacked my lips once more. I had been waiting for this since lunch.

Bhaiyya Number 2 arrived. I looked at him as he laid down the container. He looked at me, a broad smile across his face. The Gods had been kind. The plate was full. The plate was heavy.

I walked to my bench.

And then it happened.

I re-discovered Aloo Parantha.



Take Two

I’ve barely been back for a week, but college has given me so much already. Pardon me for attempting to sound busy (I mean, I’m free enough to write a blog post, so eh), but there’s a lot to do on campus. Even though the Internet is being mean. Our connection seems to fluctuate as much as I vacillate between the Cavin’s and the Danone chocolate milkshakes available from the vendors at mess and the MPS, both of whom know me now. Strange times these are. Just a couple of months ago, I was an unfamiliar face to everybody here – my roommate, the seniors on my floor, the laundry guys. And now they remember me. Or so I think.

I digress. There’s a bunch to do. When you’re not in classes (which now start at 9 AM, fitting perfectly well with my sleep cycle), or loafing around, you’ll find yourself in the Library. Not because you want to study, but because you need, desperately, the choice of 4 Wi-Fi connections – Awing_Admin, BWing, C_Wing and Library_DWing. All of which are pathetically slow at the moment. Although, I must say – the names of these connections (for techgeeks, SSID) make our campus sound incredibly fancy. It is. So are we, the inhabitants of said campus. No jokes.

The Library will make you want to work. There’s nothing to read pertaining to the subjects you have, because let’s face it, you won’t understand it anyway, so you’ll begin to surf the web. Till about 5 pm. That’s when there will be a mad influx of people. Mostly seniors, which will intimidate you, but not so much (because you have a little aukat now, being a semester old & whatnot). They will begin to work, with their fancy, fat, voluminous books. You will then call your moot partner, who is fast asleep, and grab a fancy, fat, voluminous book for yourself (which you will not understand), and begin to work on the intras.

This is of course, assuming you don’t have a moot. Congratulations to you, if you do. If you have one, you’ll be surrounded by fat, fancy books. These fancy books will be colourful if you’re doing an international moot. Publication houses seem to care a lot for appearance – most covers have a fun blend of colours. My CoCoSL is an indigo/light blue combination. It looks good, I must admit. This won’t change the fact that you don’t understand anything inside. However, you’ll be motivated and hence will read in the attempt to understand everything. If you don’t, you’ll read again. And then take a break to go get Danone milkshakes from the MPS because you’ve been promising bhai you’ll give him the normal profit of Rs. 25 (Eco students, see what I did there?)

Considering you’ve picked up a new Gujarati line courtesy that Gujju kid from Bangalore, bhai will be impressed too. Your stomach will rumble, and you’ll consider going for snacks, but the 500-meter walk to the mess will piss you off, so you’ll mentally put off food till dinner & head back to the library. Work will then proceed at a snail’s pace and as you come around to a couple of arguments that seem plausible, the Internet will fail you. At least the effort of opening Chrome (if you’re feeling fancy, Edge) will be rewarded by the opportunity to play the Dinosaur game.

Once you fail at beating that high score your friend has set, you’ll look at the clock and feel hungry. Dinner will follow. Dinner will be amazing and satisfy every North Indian food craving you didn’t ever have. You will feel like dancing in a fountain of the boondi raitha. Till you remember you don’t dance.

Coming back to your room, you’ll remember you had bronchitis during the end-semesters and you have your “repeat” (even though they’re not repeats) exams. You will then stop loafing and begin to study. Largely because you realize it is a massive opportunity to pull up a decent percentage to a good percentage. Even if you don’t believe in the numbers, you’re here for 10 semesters. They’ll haunt you for a while, so you might as well do well, right? At least, that’s what you’ll tell yourself.

You will then call your family and tell them how awesome college is. And professors are. And how enthusiastic you are. Because you are. Overly enthu. You’re an enthu cutlet coated with Amul butter. That’s the only way to describe you, you Bengaluru lad in Gujarat. Your seniors will look at you and feel all nostalgic because they were once as enthu as you. You’ll look at them and take a mental note to remain enthu till 5th year. You will also remember to do little jugaad for books. And succeed. Partially. At least you have books now. Be content.

And then you’ll blog. To tell the world about your life. Which you think is sophisticated & busy, but it really isn’t. Fun times.

As you sleep, you’ll think about the trials tomorrow will bring. Will I get a stall that looks clean to take a dump in? Will my bucket-bath (not shower) stall have hot water? What’s for lunch? Can I go to Infocity?