Around 8, my stomach gave out a loud rumble. I'd gone for my usual glass of milk around 6, but clearly, brain work burns more calories than I thought. I stretched my back, rolled my neck, and decided I deserved a break. When I entered the dining hall, the smell hit me before I even saw the menu.
Poori and aloo sabzi.
Hot, puffed-up pooris stacked high. Heaven. I didn't even hesitate—I took four, then one more, completely stuffing myself. There's something magical about fresh pooris—they make you forget your stress, worries, and even the number of articles you've been scribbling down all morning.
After breakfast, I returned to the study hall. The place was still quiet, half-lit by the late morning sun streaming in through the dusty windows. I sat back at my spot, took a deep breath, and opened my notebook again. I couldn't believe I had already finished ten articles. TEN. And now, another ten more.
Twenty articles for a magazine that hasn't even been approved yet.
It may not be real to anyone else yet, but to me, it's already alive. Every word is building a dream I refused to even speak aloud before. The performances, the emotions, the little details people miss—I've written them all down. If nothing else, I want to prove that someone noticed. Someone cared.
It was only when my fingers began to feel heavy and the words stopped flowing that I checked the time—11:30 AM. My body screamed for rest, and my neck had that all-too-familiar ache of looking down too long.
I slowly packed everything—my notes, the permission letter, the scribbled outlines. I walked over to my cupboard, placed them all carefully inside my box file, and locked it. I didn't want even a fold on those pages.
Next stop: bathroom.
After a long, relaxing bath that wiped off both sweat and stubborn ink stains, I came back to the hostel bay only to see it buzzing with life. Everyone was awake now, lounging around with messy hair and sleepy eyes. The whole room smelled like shampoo and face wash.
Sastika spotted me first. "Where were you?"Nila: "Study hall."Pavani: "Do we have anything due tomorrow?"Mahathi: "Math notebook correction, I think."Jai Harini: "Any assignments? Don't tell me we forgot something again."Nila (smiling): "I just got busy with a novel."Prerna (blinking): "Study hall for a novel?"Nila (half-laughing): "I wanted to finish the book, not fall asleep in the middle of a good chapter again. So I took my chances at peace and silence."Sree Lekha: "For a second, you actually scared us."Nila: "Why? Is studying that scary?"Sastika (grinning): "Not normally. But on a Sunday morning, it is."
We all laughed, but I could sense their curiosity lingering. They didn't know the full story. And I wasn't ready to explain—not yet. Once I had the official word from the principal tomorrow evening, I'd tell them everything. Until then, this magazine dream was still fragile. Too new to share. Too personal to risk spoiling.
Someone clapped their hands and said, "Lunch!" like it was the most exciting announcement of the day. Maybe it was.
I tied up my hair again, picked up my steel plate, and walked with my friends to the mess. There was something comforting about this routine—eating together, sharing gossip, laughing about nothing. Even if I had a thousand plans running in my head, for now, I let them fade.
Just for one more meal, I wanted to be a girl who is eager for one more good meal.
In the dining hall, just as I finished scooping the last bit of rice for rasam and pappad, someone said they were going to screen Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani at 1:30 PM in the TV hall. My heart practically leaped out of my chest.
Oh. My. God. I love this movie.
In my past life, this movie and its songs were my constant travel companions. Especially on long drives when life felt overwhelming—Kabira, Ilahi, Balam Pichkari—every track was like a mood lifter, each scene a little reminder that life could still be magical even if it didn't go as planned.
After lunch, I didn't waste time. I grabbed my water bottle and directly shifted to the TV hall. I knew there was nearly an hour left for the movie to start, but I needed a good spot. The center seats in the second row were the best—perfect distance, clear view, not too close to the fan, and not under the tube light glare. A golden spot. I claimed it like a pro.
The girls followed me with amused expressions.
Prerna squinted at me like I had suddenly turned into an alien."Do you like Hindi movies this much?" she asked, dragging out the word this as if it needed special emphasis. "I was supposed to be the one getting all excited. It's close to my mother tongue after all."
I laughed, and in broken but enthusiastic Hindi replied,"Bas isliye ki mujhe zyada nahi aata, iska matlab yeh nahi ki mujhe pasand nahi hai."(Just because I don't fully understand the language doesn't mean I don't like it.)
Mahathi blinked. "Wait—you speak Hindi too?"She sounded genuinely surprised."She also spoke in Hindi?" she added, looking at Jai Harini."She's from Bangalore, no? So she knows multiple languages?"
I nodded. "I'm still learning. I had Hindi as a subject in school, so I can read and write decently. But spoken Hindi? That's mostly thanks to movies, series, and songs. I've learned more from Shah Rukh Khan and Star Plus TV serials than any textbook."
Pavani, who had just sat down with her second glass of buttermilk, raised her eyebrows. "But weren't you the one fighting for Tamil last week during the TV slot debate?"
I could already sense the misunderstanding creeping in.
"Yes," I replied calmly. "Because that discussion wasn't about Hindi versus Tamil. It was about how Tamil programs were being pushed to shorter time slots. I wasn't anti-Hindi. I just wanted fairness."
Prerna still looked unsure. "So…you like Hindi serials?"
"Yeah. Some of them are beautifully written. Just like Tamil ones." I took a deep breath and added, "But just because I appreciate another language and culture doesn't mean I think it's superior to Tamil. My love for Tamil runs deeper than I can even express. But that love doesn't stop me from enjoying what others have created. Art doesn't come with language boundaries."
It went silent for a moment. I wasn't sure if they were convinced or just thinking.
"I mean," I continued with a half-smile, "I can love rasgulla and still love payasam, no?"
That cracked everyone up. The tension melted like butter on a hot dosa.
"But just FYI," I added, teasingly, "the YJHD screening better not cut out Kabira. If they mute the songs again, I'll rebel."
The conversation slowly shifted to the usual gossip—who had borrowed whose conditioner, whose slippers had mysteriously gone missing, and how some hostel room doors always creaked like horror movie sound effects.
By the time the clock neared 1:30, the hall had filled up. Girls were seated in neat rows on the mats, plates of fruit or leftover snacks in hand. The fans hummed above us, and a low murmur of excitement passed through the crowd as the warden checked the projector setup.
As soon as the opening credits rolled and Ranbir Kapoor appeared on screen, the excitement reached a different level. The girl behind me let out a dramatic sigh."Ranbir Kapoor is the reason I'll never get over fictional men," she whispered.Same, girl. Same.
And just like that, the conversation about culture, language, and identity was forgotten—at least for now. Because sometimes, all you need is a good movie and a good seat to remind you how fun it is to be young, wild, and still figuring life out.