Life in the Mini Boxes of Thamarai Hostel!

The shift from Kurinji to Thamarai hostel in July 2023, my room number is 47,  was one of those life-changing moments I never saw coming. Kurinji had been our safe haven for over a decade, where scholars lived, worked, and found their sense of belonging. It had witnessed late-night discussions, last-minute thesis revisions, moments of joy, and moments of despair. But suddenly, everything changed.

 

Thamarai Hostel stood as a peculiar structure, a mix of solitude and community all bundled up within its boxy exterior. The building itself had three entrances, one from the main gate of the university, one near the back that connected to the hostel’s garden area, and another, more hidden, that led to the dress washing space. Each entrance served its purpose, yet all seemed to lead to the same feeling of confinement.

        From the outside, Thamarai Hostel looked like a cluster of mini boxes stacked upon each other, all lined up in neat rows. Each room was an individual unit, separated by narrow corridors that often echoed with the sounds of footsteps, chatter, or the occasional burst of laughter from the rooms that shared the same wall. The structure was simple,  practical, perhaps, but not particularly inviting. The colors of the walls, the sharp edges, and the wooden windows made it seem like a place meant for utility rather than comfort.

        Looking out through the windows, you could see the university road stretching ahead, a constant flow of life passing by. There, on the road, were the university staff moving about their daily routines, students rushing in and out of classes, and the watchman sitting at his post, occasionally chatting with strangers who passed by. It was an odd sensation, seeing the world continue its rhythm while you remained inside, behind the thick glass windows. The windows, for all their practicality, felt like a barrier, like a cage that separated you from everything that was happening outside.

        The view was both isolating and strangely comforting. It was a constant reminder that the world beyond Thamarai Hostel was full of motion, lives, and stories. But inside, everything seemed paused like a living diorama that you could observe but never truly be a part of. The moments when you looked out those windows, watching the people on the street move past you, it felt like you were in a confined space, observing the world without really being able to touch it. You were a spectator, trapped in your own mini box, with the hustle and bustle of university life unfolding right outside your reach.

        It wasn’t just the structure of the building that felt like a cage; it was also the feeling that came with it. The long, narrow corridors, the small rooms that seemed too tight for comfort, and the constant presence of people, all of these elements made you feel like you were living in a world slightly separated from the rest of the world. The heavy gates, the security checks, the locked doors, and the gated community made it feel more like a compound than a home.

        And yet, despite the feeling of being enclosed, there was a strange sense of belonging that settled in. In the very same cage, you would find friendships, laughter, tears, and growth. Despite being placed in individual rooms, it was the shared moments and experiences that made Thamarai Hostel a home of sorts, even if it felt a little like a mini box on the outside. The contradictions were real, but they were what made this place feel like part of your journey. It was a place of limits, but also of possibilities, where you both felt trapped and free at the same time.

        The university’s decision to house new undergraduate students in Kurinji meant that we, the senior scholars, were asked to move to Thamarai hostel. It wasn’t just a physical shift. It felt like an emotional upheaval, like a piece of my academic journey was being torn away. We had grown so accustomed to Kurinji’s familiar creaks and echoes, the way the sun hit our windows at the right time, the comforting hum of the old fans, the quiet halls where you could sometimes hear the voices of fellow scholars discussing literature or history late into the night.

        Moving to Thamarai was daunting. The thought of leaving behind that familiar space where I’d spent countless hours studying, struggling, laughing, and growing was almost unbearable. The new hostel wasn’t “home” yet; it was just a place with four walls, a bed, and a desk. It wasn’t the same as Kurinji, where each corner felt like it held a memory, a conversation, a lesson.

        The move wasn’t just physical; it was emotional. The friendships that had blossomed in Kurinji were now scattered. My best friend, Harini, who had been my anchor in Kurinji, was assigned to a room on the ground floor of Thamarai, while I found myself alone on the second floor. The thought of being physically separated, even if just by a few floors, left me with a gnawing emptiness. We’d always been there for each other, whether it was for a quick coffee break between study sessions or late-night chats about life beyond academia. Now, it felt like there was a distance growing between us, not just in terms of space but in the rhythm of our lives.

        The first night in Thamarai was hard. My new room felt too quiet, too unfamiliar. I unpacked my things, but it didn’t feel like my own space. The walls were just walls, the bed was just a bed, and the desk was just a desk. Nothing had the same warmth that Kurinji had. I missed the old smells, the old sounds, the laughter that had filled the halls. The familiar faces were now spread across different floors, and the sense of togetherness that had defined our time in Kurinji felt distant.

        Still, life had to go on. There was no choice but to adapt. I spent the next few days unpacking, adjusting, and trying to make this new room feel like home. Harini and I would meet in the corridors, and our brief moments together felt like precious treasures. Even though we were separated by floors, we still managed to find moments of togetherness, grabbing a quick meal together, sharing a laugh in the hallway, or just sitting together in silence, knowing that despite everything, we still had each other.

        The reality was that the move wasn’t just about new rooms or new surroundings; it was about the fact that we were growing, both academically and personally. The move to Thamarai marked a new phase in our academic journey, a reminder that nothing stays the same forever. We had to let go of the old comforts, the old routines, and step into something new, something uncertain. But in that uncertainty, we also found strength. We found new ways to connect with each other, new ways to support each other, and new ways to navigate the challenges that lay ahead.

        Despite the initial sadness and the feeling of loss, the move brought with it a deeper understanding of what it means to grow. It’s not just about physical spaces but about finding strength within ourselves, adapting to new environments, and learning to carry forward the friendships and memories that truly matter. The move to Thamarai wasn’t just a change of location; it was a reminder that life, just like our Ph.D. journey, was all about change, and learning to embrace it with courage and grace.

    The long corridor stretched quietly, with twelve doors lined perfectly, six on each side like sentinels guarding little worlds within. Every door held a story, every room a universe of its own, and as we passed through the corridor each day, it felt like walking through a living, breathing book of unseen dreams. Though the corridors of Thamarai felt different, they soon became our new home. The bond between Harini and I remained, as strong as ever, and I knew that no matter where we were, no matter how far apart we physically were, we would always find our way back to each other, just like we always had. The new hostel, just like the new chapter in our lives, would become a place of growth, discovery, and unforgettable memories.

      

 The entire atmosphere of Thamarai Hostel felt heavier with every passing day, especially since I was assigned to the second floor. I’d always hated the idea of climbing stairs, and now it seemed as though the universe had conspired to make me face this very discomfort. The very thought of trudging up those stairs, especially after a long, exhausting day of work, made my shoulders sag in resignation. Every step felt like a reminder that I was far from the comfort of Kurinji, far from what was familiar.

 The hostel, though new, was far from perfect. The mess, which was supposed to be a place of comfort and nourishment, was always disorganized. Food was often cold, and the trays would be left lying around, sometimes half-eaten, sometimes with spilled curry. The smells would linger, and you couldn’t escape the chaos. The floors, too, were never properly cleaned, and you could almost feel the dust settling on every surface. It wasn’t the homey feeling I’d grown accustomed to in Kurinji, where despite the oldness, there was a kind of warmth that made you forget the imperfections. Here, everything seemed raw, unkempt, and uncomfortable.

        To make matters worse, the hand-wash area was another ordeal. The taps were broken, and the entire space looked like it hadn’t been properly cleaned or maintained in ages. The tiles were chipped, and the water would flow in an irregular stream. The smell of the dampness would greet you as you entered, and no matter how much you tried to ignore it, it felt suffocating. It was a stark contrast to the neat, if somewhat outdated, wash areas I’d grown used to. Now, even the simplest of tasks, like washing your hands or fetching water, felt like an uphill battle.

  Fetching water was another challenge. My room was located at a considerable distance from the water cooler, and every time I needed water, it felt like I had to trek a long distance. It wasn’t just about the physical distance, but about the energy it drained from me. The thought of walking back and forth, lugging a water bottle with my tired hands, seemed so trivial but, in the moment, it wore me down. My entire routine felt like a constant negotiation with the surroundings,  finding ways to make do with the lack of comfort, the broken things, the distance, and the constant disorganization.

    

 I tried to adjust, tried to find ways to make peace with the space, but it wasn’t easy. Every little thing, from the broken taps to the far-off water cooler, became a reminder that this wasn’t what I had envisioned for myself. It was a constant struggle, both physical and emotional. And yet, in the midst of all this discomfort, I found myself realizing that sometimes, the hardest places to live in are the ones that push you the most, that force you to stretch beyond your usual limits, and that in some strange way, shape you into someone stronger. Even when everything around you feels imperfect, you learn to adapt, to persevere, and to find beauty in the most unexpected places.

    Despite the broken taps, the long walks for water, and the mess that I couldn’t seem to escape, there were still moments of quiet. Moments when I’d sit by the window, sip on water, and let the cool breeze remind me that there was still hope, still light, and still a future beyond the discomforts of this hostel. Life had a funny way of teaching us resilience, even through the small, mundane struggles. Thamarai might not have been perfect, but it was mine for now, and I had to make peace with it, step by slow, weary step.

    Amidst all the changes, the discomfort of my new hostel, and the endless adjustments I had to make, there was one thing that never failed to offer me a moment of peace: the coffee shop. It was a small, humble corner in the hostel, a place that had stood the test of time. It remained the same, unwavering, even as everything around me shifted. That small counter, with its two cans, one filled with milk and the other with coffee, became my constant, my sanctuary in the chaos of everyday life.

    Every morning, I would walk towards it, the familiar aroma of brewing coffee greeting me even before I reached the counter. It was a simple place, but it was all I needed. No matter how messy the hostel was, how long the stairs felt, or how far the water cooler seemed, this was one place that stayed the same. The rhythmic sound of the spoon stirring the coffee, the gentle pour of milk, the warmth of the cup in my hand, all of these things grounded me. It was more than just coffee; it was a symbol of normalcy, of comfort, of consistency.

    There was something deeply reassuring about it. In a space where everything felt transient and broken, this little corner of the hostel was a reminder that not everything had to change. I could always count on that coffee, the quiet, familiar routine of filling my cup, and the moment of peace it gave me. It didn’t matter how much the world around me shifted, how far I had to walk or how uncomfortable things felt, this small ritual was mine, and it gave me a sense of belonging, even in the most uncertain of times.

        Yet, within these mini boxes, we find our stories unfolding, our laughter echoing through the hallways, and our hearts beating in unison, proving that even in the smallest of spaces, the biggest of memories are made.