The Joy Between Buckets and Breakfasts!
The days passed quietly in Thamarai Hostel. Not silent—but quietly, like the hush of a soft breeze before dawn, or the muffled chatter of old friends who don't need to raise their voices to feel heard. And in that quiet, I blossomed.
I’m the happiest person now. It feels strange to say that when others who moved here seem to carry an invisible discomfort, like wearing a shirt that doesn't quite fit. They smile, they talk, they try—but there's something restless in their eyes. A longing for the place they left behind, maybe. Or perhaps a resistance to the unfamiliar walls of this new chapter.
But me? I’m at home.
I don’t know when it happened exactly. Was it the first time our buckets met outside the bathroom door? That quiet little ritual each morning, our own version of roll call. You’d think it’s just a line of plastic tubs filled with water and waiting, but for us, it’s the beginning of another shared sunrise. We don’t fight or squabble over who goes first. We understand.
"Who’s next?"
"I just poured water, go ahead."
"Wait, let me go quickly, I have a lab!"
"Sure, da. I'll wait."
And like that, a beautiful, silent chain forms—one bucket after another, one girl after another, linked not just by the need to bathe, but by the invisible thread of friendship, empathy, and trust.
Do you know something? That kind of understanding is rare. I’m not lying. I’ve seen it, or the absence of it—in other hostels, other scholar’s corners. Places where tension hums louder than laughter, where days feel like survival rather than living. But here, in Thamarai, we’ve nurtured something soft and sacred.
It’s in the way we leave space for each other, literally and metaphorically. It’s in the smiles passed in corridors, the shared shampoo sachets, the knock on the door before borrowing a kurti, the way we sit together in silence but still feel accompanied.
They say hostels are noisy places, echoing with chaos, late-night drama, fights over fan switches and food. But in Thamarai, the noise is replaced by harmony. It's not that we don't have problems. We do. But we handle them gently, like cupping water in our palms.
Every day in Thamarai started with a splash, and a spark.
After our silent little bucket parade in front of the bathrooms, where understanding flowed smoother than the hostel taps, we paired up, still damp from our showers and full of chatter, and rushed to grab breakfast. That run was never graceful, slippers flapping, towels sometimes half-drying our hair, and our minds already jumping two steps ahead to sambar and pongal.
We bumped into each other again and again, on the stairs, near the mess door, at the water filling area, laughing, teasing, asking the same questions:
“Menu today?”
“Queue va illa free-a?”
“Arey! Wait for me da!”
Some mornings, the mess would be empty, like a hidden blessing from the breakfast gods. We'd waltz in, pick up our plates, and eat like queens. But on other days, we had to queue up like we were auditioning for a reality show. And yet, not even once did I regret it.
Not even when it got late.
Not even when the food was lukewarm.
Because I had my people.
And they had me.
That queue became a comedy stage, a therapy session, a mini gossip circle. We roasted each other, shared memes without phones, gave updates on who fought with whom in which block, and even daydreamed about skipping class (though we never actually did).
When we finally got our breakfast and made our way back to our rooms, there was this sweet routine that repeated like our own morning raga. After eating, we’d all head to the corridor’s washbasin with our plates, because who really wanted to walk all the way to the mess sink, right? That small corner, tiled and echoing with clinks of stainless steel, turned into our second adda. While scrubbing plates, we’d continue conversations from the queue or start new ones. Someone would always shout, “Whose chutney is still on the plate, da? Wash properly!” and we’d laugh like fools.
Then the transformation began. Slowly, rooms lit up. Mirrors got fogged. Wardrobes opened wide. Kajal was shared. Scarves borrowed. One by one, we packed our bags and marched toward the department, yet again, crossing paths, smiling, waving, fixing each other’s collars.
And every single time I met them, every single time, I greeted them with the same level of excitement. Like it was the first meeting of the day. Like I hadn’t just seen them five minutes ago near the bathroom or five seconds ago in the corridor. My energy never dipped. My love never paused.
Thamarai was not perfect. The fans creaked, sometimes water got delayed, power went off in the middle of late-night chats. But these were small things, frustrations that vanished in the presence of good company. This hostel, this group, this rhythm, we made it beautiful.
I loved it.
I loved us.
And even as time flies, I know this, those mornings in Thamarai will forever be my warmest, most laughter-filled memories.
Sometimes I wonder why I feel so at ease here, while others struggle. Maybe it’s luck. Or maybe it’s that this place found me, exactly when I needed it. A home full of strangers who became sisters, a corridor that holds my laughter and my sighs alike.
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