Nest of Laughter: My Ph.D. Journey with Mythili Akka (Dhiiiii)!

When I first shifted to Thamarai Hostel, it felt like stepping into a sea of unfamiliar faces. Every corridor I walked through, every room I passed by, held voices I didn’t know and smiles that didn’t yet belong to me. It was overwhelming, the feeling of being a tiny dot in a place so full of strangers.

And then, there was Mythili Akka.

Mythili, a scholar from the Department of Biotechnology, lived quietly in Room No. 39, and everything about her felt like a soft, steady rhythm in the noise of hostel life.
She was senior to me, yet never once carried the air of authority; instead, she made you feel like an equal, like someone she had known for a long time.

She had long, flowing hair, so graceful that even the wind seemed to dance around her in admiration.
Her sharp, attentive eyes were windows of kindness, and her broad, genuine smile had a way of making the world seem a little less heavy.

A true minimalist at heart, Mythili Akka knew exactly what she needed, and what she could let go.
Her life was simple, intentional ,  a quiet rebellion against the chaos around her.

Every day, she walked to her department.
At first, I often wondered why she never rode a bicycle like many others.
Later, I learned the sweetest truth:
Abi Akka walked alongside her, step by step, and in those long walks, they found time to weave endless stories, share silent dreams, and build a friendship that was stitched together by minutes and memories.

Her room reflected the way she lived, neat, spacious, and calming.
Her table was always organized, never cluttered, and the air inside her room carried a stillness that felt almost sacred.
There was always space, space to breathe, space to think, space to be.

And above all, there was her quiet devotion.
A child of Shiva, she fasted every Monday morning, holding her faith close no matter what challenges the day brought her.
It wasn’t a devotion worn loudly or boastfully, it was lived sincerely, almost invisibly, like a prayer folded into the fabric of her days.

To watch her was to understand that strength doesn’t always shout.
Sometimes, it simply walks barefoot, smiles widely, and carries its faith in silence.

There was a certain boldness about Mythili Akka that I quietly admired, a quiet courage that left its mark on those who watched closely.
Many times, without even realizing it, I drew strength from her, from the way she carried herself, from the way she moved through the world with steady, fearless steps.

She often walked alone through the dim streets of Vadapalanji, even late into the night, wrapped in a bubble of her own music, her trusted OnePlus AirPods tucked in her ears.
There was no fear, no second-guessing , just a girl, a melody, and the steady beat of her own bravery.

Maybe it sounds silly, but the small coincidence that we both used the same brand of mobile phone, OnePlus, somehow drew me closer to her.
It felt like a tiny thread connecting us, invisible yet real, reminding me that sometimes the smallest similarities can build the strongest bridges.

In her presence, I found not just a friend, but a mirror reflecting the kind of quiet strength I wished to nurture within myself.

 She was the warmth that seeped through the coldness of the hostel walls. She filled the empty spaces of my day with the kind of kindness that didn’t need to be spoken,  it was in the way she asked if I had eaten, in the way she reminded me to rest, in the way she quietly slipped a fruit or snack into my hand after a long day.

In Thamarai Hostel, where life could sometimes feel heavy and distant, Mythili Akka became my safe place. She laughed with me when days were light and sat beside me when they were not. Her words were always soft, but they carried the firmness of someone who truly cared, like a mother scolding you lovingly just to protect you from yourself.

Sometimes, we sat late into the night, sharing stories over cups of tea, our worries momentarily dissolving in the quiet comfort of each other's company. Other times, even without words, her presence alone made the world outside feel less cruel.

I don’t even remember exactly how we first spoke, it was something small, something ordinary. But it felt like the first raindrop after a long dry season. She wasn’t just a face in the crowd. She was warmth stitched into human form, kind eyes, patient words, a smile that felt like home.

Despite being a super senior, she never carried that distance between us. She bridged it with effortless affection, the kind that needed no explanation. She guided me, cared for me, reminded me of the things I forgot to do for myself, eat well, sleep on time, breathe a little deeper.

In that new, strange hostel, where I was just another newcomer trying to find my place, Mythili Akka made me feel like I belonged. Like I wasn’t alone.

Sometimes, the universe doesn’t send you a grand miracle. Sometimes, it just sends you a person who feels like a lighthouse,  steady, glowing, waiting for you to find your way.

And in Thamarai Hostel, I found mine.

In a world where everything felt temporary, Mythili Akka’s love was solid, rooted, a reminder that family isn't always given by birth; sometimes it’s gifted by life, when you least expect it but when you need it the most.

Slowly, as the days turned into weeks, my world at Thamarai Hostel grew a little bigger, a little brighter.

Together, we built a small, invisible nest inside that hostel, woven with shared meals, stolen moments of laughter, midnight stories whispered in hushed excitement, and the simple joy of knowing someone was always there.

No matter how hard the day was outside, once I sat with them, everything melted away. Our plates would be full of simple food, but our hearts, oh, they were overflowing with comfort, friendship, and a happiness so pure it often left a soft ache in my chest.

In that shared space, we weren't just students or scholars or strangers. We were a family, chosen not by blood, but by kindness, trust, and the magic of finding each other exactly when we needed it the most.

As days quietly unfolded, the bond between us deepened like roots intertwining under the earth. Mythili Akka became more than just a senior to me, she became Dhi, my sister, my safe place in a world that often felt too big and too strange.

She never treated our bond lightly. Being years ahead of us, she could have easily stayed distant, but she chose otherwise. She guided us through everything, studies, hostel struggles, life lessons, with a patience and care that only someone with a heart full of love could offer.

Whenever I struggled with cleaning my messy room or changing my bed sheets, she was there, sleeves rolled up, laughing, helping, never once making me feel small. Many evenings, I would find my washed clothes already folded neatly by her hands, simple, silent acts of kindness that spoke volumes.

Who does that in today's world?
Not everyone.
Only someone who loves without conditions. Only someone like Dhi.

Every time I saw those folded clothes or a freshly tucked bed, my heart softened a little more. I realized that sometimes, family isn’t just given, it’s found, in the quietest corners of our everyday life.

Life at Thamarai Hostel found its rhythm in the little things, simple, unnoticed by the world, but precious beyond words to me.

Every morning, as the clock ticked towards 9:15 am, Abi Akka and Dhi would leave for their departments. But before they did, there was a ritual, a gentle knock on my door, a playful teasing, a quick laugh, and then that magical word, "Bye!"
It wasn't just a casual goodbye. It carried a bundle of care, a hidden promise that we’d meet again after the day’s battles were over. That one small moment charged me with so much energy, a silent reminder that I wasn't alone, that someone remembered me before stepping into their own busy world.

On the rare days when Dhi left without a knock or a "bye," it felt like a hole had been punched through my morning. I would sulk, half-angry, half-sad, because it wasn't just a habit, it had become a part of my emotional oxygen at hostel.

And Dhi, being Dhi, always understood without me saying a word.
She would laugh, ruffle my hair, and promise to never miss it again.

It was in those tiny gestures, the dosa she bought for us after a long day, the small talks in the corridor, the knock and the "bye", that love whispered its loudest.

Sometimes, love isn’t grand or loud; it’s found in the quiet kindnesses, the small moments that stitch us together in ways words never can.