Swathi Writes Back!

     "Not all heroes wear capes—some bring snacks"      In the bustling halls of Madurai Kamaraj University, among the many faces that pass by every day, there is one figure whose presence leaves a lasting impression, my beloved professor and guide. Medium in height, he carries himself with an effortless elegance that’s impossible to miss. Often dressed in his signature white shirt or the occasional colorful shirt with a distinct Chinese collar, he embodies professionalism with a subtle touch of personal style.      What strikes you first are his eyes, plumpy and kind, always sparkling with a quiet warmth. His oval-shaped face is usually lit up by a smile so genuine, it feels like a personal invitation to trust, to learn, and to grow. And the way he complements his attire with a perfectly matched watch reveals a man who values detail and discipline, yet never at the expense of approachability.      But beyond the surface, it’...

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 underst...

Life in Thamarai Hostel doesn’t feel heavy In fact, it feels like a slow exhale after holding your breath for too long. I’ve started to accept life just the way it is here, soft, imperfect, and quietly comforting. Twelve rooms make up our little world, and in at least ten of them, I’ve found a smile, a name, a shared memory. Jana, for instance, is more of a roommate than a visitor, she’s always in my room, and somehow, her presence makes everything feel lighter. There’s no grand drama, no loneliness biting at the edges of my day. We play UNO like it’s a national sport, we wash clothes to the beat of fun-filled songs echoing through the corridor, and our meals, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, feel less like routines and more like rituals of friendship. It’s not just a hostel. It’s a pocket of warmth stitched together by the laughter of a cute little gang that turned strangers into sisters. The view from my window it's worth a million dollars, and then some. Not because of ...

Life, in its own quiet way, was slowly giving me the things I had secretly longed for. Now, finally, I had a real gang, a group of people I could call my own. Mythili - Scholar from Department of Bio Technology, Room No. 39 Abirami - Scholar from Department of Chemistry, Room No. 40 Joshiha Bell - Scholar from the Department of English and Comparative Literature, Room No. 44 Priya - Scholar from Department of Physics, Room No. 43 Swathi - Scholar from  Department of English and Comparative Literature, Room No. 47 And then there is Jana - M.Sc Student from the Department of Psychology (She stayed in my room) The kind of bond I had been yearning for all these months was now right in front of me, filling my days and nights with laughter, warmth, and endless companionship. Whenever I felt sad, I could just walk into one of their rooms without hesitation. Whenever I was happy, there were always open doors and smiling faces waiting to share in my joy. I was no longer surrounded by si...

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...

"I didn’t find Joshiha Bell that month. But maybe, just maybe, she was about to find me." Among all the wonderful souls at Thamarai Hostel, one person holds a truly special place in my heart  Joshiha Bell from Room No: 44. She was different from everyone else, almost as if her very presence tilted the ordinary upside down, even her room mirrored her unique spirit, feeling vibrant and free, untouched by the usual hostel sameness. Bell belonged to the Literature Department, a world so close to my heart yet so far from my daily reality. In the early days of my Ph.D., after clearing the NET exam, I had thrown myself into working on the primary sources for my thesis. But the journey felt lonely, achingly lonely. In those early, fragile months of my Ph.D., when my world spun in circles of research and endless writing, I often felt a deep, aching loneliness. My friends from the science departments, kind though they were, could not grasp the fevered passion that literature ignite...

Thamarai Hostel always held a different kind of warmth, and a large part of it was because of Abi Akka. Her Room No is 40. She was a tiny figure, with short, playful curls and a love for bright-colored clothes that made her look like a splash of sunlight in the dull hostel corridors. More than her appearance, it was her spirit that captured attention, a spirit that loved to make others feel seen and loved, often through the tender power of her words. Abi Akka was a poet in her own right, spinning Tamil words into delicate verses, breathing life into short stories that clung to the reader's heart long after the last page. She wasn’t just a writer; she was an editor too, polishing Tamil manuscripts with an artist’s patience. I admired her even more for that, especially because, at times, I myself fumbled, wondering whether the first letter in Tamil sentences should be capital or small. While I wrestled with such doubts, she enjoyed every nuance of the language, swimming effo...

Life has a strange way of revealing the truth, if only we’re patient enough to watch closely. As the days rolled by, I began to notice the little things Mythili akka did, effortlessly, quietly, without expecting anything in return. She would help someone carry heavy buckets of water without being asked. She would share her medicines if someone fell ill. She would check on the new scholars to make sure they didn’t feel lost. None of it was grand or loud; it was in the soft, unnoticed corners of everyday life. And these small acts,  more powerful than any words, slowly caught my attention. Without realizing it, I found myself loosening the walls I had built around her. We started talking more, laughing over silly hostel mishaps, sharing small worries about research and life, exchanging little joys like stolen tea breaks after long study hours. She cared,  really cared,  in a way that felt genuine and rare. Trust me, the kindness she showed was the kind that stayed l...

     The early days in a new hostel are always a little awkward. Everything feels unfamiliar, and the comfort of old routines suddenly vanishes. Back in Kurinji, when I opened the door each morning, I was greeted by a view of tall trees swaying gently in the fresh air. There was no rush or competition for bathrooms, and disposing of waste was easy and hassle-free. Life there was slower, quieter — and somehow, freer.      But here, everything has changed.      Now, when I open my door, the first thing I see is my opposite room partner, someone I don’t even know. I later found out she's a Project Assistant from the Microbiology department. When I turn to my right, there's Raji, a scholar from the Economics department, all the way from Andaman, a truly sweet soul who brings a touch of warmth to this new, strange place. To my left, another scholar from the Department of Physics quietly goes about her day. And right in the middle, my little room...

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 row...