Shilpa Khandelwal

My Hostel Chronicles

On Friday, August 20, 2010, the world tilted on its axis. That was the day I left home. The bus pulled away from Puranpur (a place in India) station with a lurch that felt like physical tearing, leaving my family as small, waving figures on the bus stop. For the entire 50-mile journey to Bareilly, I watched the familiar green landscape blur past, my reflection in the window - a ghost with wide, terrified eyes. I was on my way to begin my Bachelor's in Business Administration, a new chapter in my life. But for that first week, it felt like my book had been slammed shut and locked away.

The dormitory was a monolithic concrete building, functional and imposing. My room was a sterile white box, and my corner felt cold and impersonal. The walls were bare, the steel wardrobe echoed with emptiness, and the single window looked out onto a monotonous brick wall. During that first week, I perfected the art of being invisible. Was this a mistake? I thought one night, staring at the ceiling. Should I just pack my bags and go home? I mapped out the quietest routes to my classes, walking the hallways with my eyes fixed on the floor. I ate my meals quickly and alone, my shoulders hunched. I just wanted to disappear into the pages of my books, but even then, the loneliness was a heavy, suffocating presence in the air.

As the days bled into one another, the silence began to crack. The change started, as so many good things do, with food. I was sitting at my usual solitary table in the dining hall, poking at the lumpy, pale-yellow lentil on my plate. It was food meant for survival, not for comfort. It was then that I heard a cheerful voice from across the hall.

"Are you going to eat that boring mess food again?" a girl asked, a warm, genuine smile on her face. She had bright, curious eyes and a confidence that seemed to radiate from her.

"It's all they have," I mumbled, shrugging, my voice rusty from disuse.

"Well, not today," she said. "My mom sent some biryani. It’s way too much for one person, and frankly, it's a crime to let good biryani go to waste. Come on, have some."

Hesitantly, my chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood up. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes on me as I walked, my feet feeling impossibly heavy, until I was standing in front of her table. She had already cleared a space for me. With a flourish, she put a generous portion onto my plate. The aroma filled the hall, a warm, spicy scent that smelled distinctly like home. With the first bite, a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the spices. It tasted like kindness. In my lonely first week, I had been so focused on my studies, but I realized in that moment how starved I had been for simple human connection. It felt more nourishing than any meal.

"My name is Su," she said, offering her hand. "I haven't seen you talk to anyone all week. I was starting to think you were a mute."

"I, I am Shilpa," I replied in a rattling yet humming voice.

"Well, Shilpa," she said, her smile widening. "Welcome to the madhouse."

That experience was the icebreaker I needed. It was the first crack of light in a very dark room.

But an undercurrent of fear still ran through us freshmen. We all knew about "ragging." The whispers and rumors were terrifying, passed between us in hushed tones after the lights went out. One evening, a girl from the room next door came into ours, her eyes wide. "My cousin told me that last year, they made the freshmen recreate a whole Bollywood dance number in the courtyard. At 3 a.m. In their pajamas." The story sent a fresh wave of anxiety through us.

So, when a sharp, decisive knock finally came on my door one night, my heart leaped into my throat and stayed there. This is it, my mind screamed. This is the moment they all warned about.

"You're the new BBA student, right?" a deep voice asked from the other side.

"Yes," I squeaked, my own voice unrecognizable.

"Room F-105. You have two minutes."

Seemed like a summon. This was the moment I never wanted to encounter. Every step down the hallway felt like a step toward my own execution. My mind raced, replaying every rumored horror story. Please don't let it be something humiliating. Please let me just get through this.

I walked into room F-105 as ordered. The room was dimly lit and smelled of strong coffee. Rock band posters covered the walls, their faces staring down at me like a silent jury. About ten seniors were scattered around the room, perched on chairs, the bed, and even the floor, creating an intimidating half-circle. They all sat in silence, just watching me. I stood there in the center, my hands trembling and sweaty, bracing myself for the worst.

"We heard you're a singer," one of them said, a smirk on her face. "Sing us a song. Now."

My throat went dry. My brain felt like pure static. Sing? I can’t even remember how to breathe, let alone sing. My mind was a blank slate; every melody I had ever known vanished. All I could hear was the frantic, deafening drumming of my own heart against my ribs. This is it, I thought. This is their test, and I'm going to fail.

Just as my panic reached its peak and tears began to well in my eyes, they all suddenly burst into laughter. It wasn’t a cruel sound, but a warm, rolling wave of amusement.

"Relax! We're just kidding. Look at your face!" a tall girl with a kind smile said, getting up and gesturing to an empty spot on the bed next to her. "That's what you were expecting, right? We just do that to scare everyone a little. It's tradition." And just like that, I thought, the monster under the bed was gone, replaced by... friends?

Another girl leaned forward. "Seriously though, what's your favorite band?"

“Bombay Vikings,” I answered, my voice not a whisper now, strengthened by the sudden, overwhelming relief.

"Oh, a classic choice!" she grinned. "I'm Riya. And what about your hometown? Is it anything like Bareilly?”

The questions kept coming, not like an interrogation, but like a real, welcoming conversation. As they laughed and shared their own stories of being terrified freshmen, the fear drained out of me so fast I felt dizzy. This wasn't a trial; it was their way of breaking the ice. What I thought would be a terrifying task soon became a lifeline of support. Once the fear was gone, the seniors transformed from intimidating figures into invaluable mentors.

The lonely nights were replaced with evenings surrounded by dorm mates sharing homemade food from all over India. Group studies often turned into late-night philosophical debates. Our lonely Sundays transformed into rowdy picnics. I never felt like I was missing my family because I had found a new one. Also my family came to visit me every month.

And that senior—Riya, the one who had first ordered me to come into her room F 105 - became more than a mentor. She became my anchor. Many nights, long after the rest of the dorm had fallen asleep, our small group of friends - Riya, Angel, Poonam, Meena, Boski, Su and me would gather on the cool concrete stairs of the back corridor. The only light came from a single flickering bulb overhead, and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine from the courtyard below. We would talk for hours.

"So, what's the big dream, Shilpa?" Su asked one such night, hugging her knees to her chest. "After all this BBA madness is over, what do you really want?"

I looked up at the sliver of starry sky visible from our spot. "I want to start my own business," I said, the words feeling bold and real. "Something in textiles. I want to work with local artisans from back home. But... it feels impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," Su said firmly. "It's just a series of problems to be solved. You'll figure it out."

"That's easy for you to say," Angel sighed, tracing patterns on a step with her finger. "You all have these amazing, concrete plans. I just want to travel. Buy a one-way ticket to somewhere and just go. See the world with a backpack and a camera."

"I wish I could do that," said Poonam softly. "For me, it's all planned out. I'll go back home, help with the family business for a few years, and then my parents will find a nice boy for me to marry. It's a good life, a secure one."

"Secure is boring!" Meena interjected, her eyes flashing with ambition. "I'm going to get my MBA from a top university abroad, maybe in London or New York. I want to be a CEO by the time I'm thirty-five. I want an office with a view of the whole city."

"And I want the opposite," Boski said with a quiet laugh. "I don't want a city view. I want a classroom full of kids in a small village somewhere. I think I want to teach."

We all fell silent for a moment, absorbing the different shapes of our futures. I looked at each of their faces in the dim light and felt a surge of overwhelming affection. These conversations, these shared vulnerabilities, were becoming the true curriculum of my education. Our dreams were so different, but on that staircase, we were building something together.

My business degree taught me about finance and marketing, but my dorm experience taught me something far more valuable. I learned that ambition is empty without people to share it with, and that the family we choose can become our strongest foundation. The late-night talks on those cool concrete stairs, the shared meals, the collective laughter - that is the education that shaped who I am. Those friendships are not just a part of my story; they are the most precious thing I own, the true measure of my success.