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In this 45th edition of As We Leave, Sameer Singh, a Y20 student graduating from the Department of Chemistry, pens a heartfelt reflection on his years at IIT Kanpur. From a pixelated start during the pandemic to a full-bloomed campus life filled with chai breaks, midnight maggi, football matches, and poetry, his story captures the many shades of growing up in Hall 12. It’s a tale of friendships found in corridors, lessons learned both inside and far outside classrooms, and a soul shaped quietly by words, warmth, and the winds of Kanpur.
Disclaimer:- The views presented below are the author’s own and are not in any manner representative of the views of Vox Populi as a body or IIT Kanpur in general. This is an informal account of the author’s experiences at IITK.
As I sit by the window in my almost-empty room in Hall 12, watching the Kanpur sunset for one last time, it’s hard to believe that this chapter is finally coming to a close. Nearly five years ago, I stepped into IIT Kanpur—wide-eyed, nervous, hopeful—unaware of how deeply this place would shape me. And now, as I prepare to leave, I find myself holding on tightly to every memory, every laugh, every silent cry, and every sleepless night that made these years what they were.
A Pandemic and a Pixelated Welcome
My journey began in 2020, a year that needs no introduction. Orientation was virtual, and friendships were formed through WhatsApp texts. College life—something we had dreamt of for years—was reduced to tiled faces on Zoom and lectures with the camera turned off. The campus existed only in photos, and our bonds were just strings of emojis and late-night group calls.
Those first 1.5 years were strangely quiet. We were there, yet not fully present. Not so audible and visible—floating between screens and solitude. But in that stillness, something inside me began to stir.
Deprived of real-world noise, I began to listen to my own voice. I picked up books—ones that had nothing to do with credits or syllabi. Self-help books turned into mirrors, and soon, fiction became a world I could escape into. But what truly changed me was my slow, quiet fall into the world of Hindi literature. There was something raw and unfiltered about it—each word carried warmth, each story a part of someone’s truth. And then came Urdu poetry—soft, piercing, and impossible to unlove. I found comfort in the metaphors, meaning in the madness, and somewhere between shab and sehar, I found myself.
I remember writing my first poem. It wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. It carried all the silence I had kept within for months. That was the day I realised I didn’t just want to study science—I wanted to feel life through words, too. What the world saw as isolation, I now see as incubation—a cocoon, where I slowly began to unfurl—not loudly, but with purpose.
Stepping onto Campus: A Dream Realised
When I finally arrived on campus, it felt like stepping into another world that I had been waiting for a long time. The vast green spaces, the iconic Library, the chai stall at MT buzzing with life—it had everything I had imagined during those online semesters. There was magic in the air. I still remember the thrill of attending my first offline lecture, the nervous excitement of recognising people I had only seen through a screen, and the quiet awe I felt while exploring every corner of this campus.
My hostel soon became more than just a room—it was a second home. The clatter of buckets in the corridor, the smell of midnight noodles, the sound of laughter echoing through walls—all of it felt like a life I had always belonged to. And in that warm chaos, I found my people.
Finding My Tribe
Once offline life resumed, IITK turned into a canvas full of colours. From awkward hellos to inside jokes, from late-night maggi runs at Hall 7 Canteen to sprawling conversations under the stars at OAT, I found people who became family. But the way I met some of them still makes me smile.
It all started when I was hunting for a room, not just for myself, but hoping to settle in with some close friends. We roamed around, peeking into every possible corridor, looking for vacant rooms in Hall 5. But luck had other plans. Most of the rooms were already taken. Eventually, we decided to go for semi-occupied rooms, and that’s how I met my roommate, Pradumna. It was one of those random choices that life makes for you, and you end up thanking it forever.
Soon after, we were joined by Keval, and H212 turned from a shared space into our space. For 1.5 years, that small room saw it all—midnight coffee experiments, lazy mornings, caffeine-fueled nights before exams, impulsive night-outs, shared playlists, deep conversations, and the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. We danced through the madness of college fests, celebrated birthdays at 12, and supported each other like brothers. They stood beside me like a wall in my lowest lows, and they celebrated even more during my highs than I did. That room wasn’t just four walls and a bunk bed. It was the safest place on campus.
Outside the room, friendships found me in unexpected corners. I remember casually joining random people on the playground for a football game, or filling in for someone in a quick cricket match. No introductions, no formality—just the love for the game. What began as small talk over passes and goals turned into a strong, quiet bond—one that transcended words. We didn’t just become teammates—we became a team in life, cheering for each other, playing through each other’s struggles, and always showing up.
Over time, I realised that in IITK, you don’t always choose your people. Sometimes, you just find them. Or they find you. And when they do, they stay.
Of Classrooms, Credits, and Crises
Academically, IITK was everything I expected it to be—and everything I wasn’t prepared for. It began with online classes, where the camera was off, the mic was always muted, and the motivation often flickered with the Wi-Fi signal. We watched professors write on digital boards, half-listening while juggling distractions. But then came the transition—into the real classrooms, the cold lecture halls, the click of chalk on the board, and the unspoken rush to find a seat near the exit. And of course, those timeless words that echoed through hostels every morning:
“Chal bhai, der ho rahi hai.”
Some days, we ran to class, barely brushing our teeth. Other days… we just didn’t.
Not out of rebellion, but just the kind of tiredness only students at IITK understand. The kind that makes your bed feel heavier than any textbook. But amidst all this, we did learn in the most unexpected ways.
If I’m being honest, one of my deepest lows came in the 8th semester, when I received a termination letter due to inadequate academic performance in the PG part of my dual degree. I stared at the screen, unsure if it was real—if I had really come to this point. All the late nights, the missed classes, the silent stress I carried alone… they had added up. And now, they had caught up. It hit hard. It shook everything. There were questions, breakdowns, and silences I didn’t know how to explain. In that moment, everything I’d built felt like it was collapsing.
But today, when I try to connect the dots, I realise it wasn’t the end. It was a turning point that made me reflect, rebuild, and relearn. That crisis became my mirror. I realised that degrees aren’t always about scores. They’re about growth. IITK didn’t just teach me about molecules and mechanics.
Where the Soul Found Space
No journey feels complete without the people who walk it with you. And here at IIT Kanpur, I found some of the most unforgettable companions—each one a verse in my poem, a brushstroke in my painting, a source of peace in my noise.
In our little circle—one that grew organically through coursework, chaos, and chai—I found comfort, growth, and joy. Some days were heavy with decisions, projects, or just life, but a walk across campus or a sudden plan for TT would somehow make it all bearable. We shared far more than just an academic timeline—we shared silences that meant understanding, jokes that needed no context, and support that asked for nothing in return.
There were friends who always showed up, whether it was for a presentation, a spontaneous outing, or simply to sit through the quiet after a long day. Some were voices of reason, some were the necessary chaos. Some taught me discipline without saying a word, and some reminded me not to take life so seriously. In this blend of personalities, I found a balance.
Even the ordinary moments turned extraordinary—those chai breaks, those late-night study sessions that turned into hour-long conversations, and the endless walks with no destination. We didn’t always need grand gestures; sometimes, being there for each other was enough.
To every single one of them—Hema, Aman, Raghu, Vishal, Shivalika, Devesh, Saiprasad, Sumedha, Sumit, Rohit—thank you for being my constants in a place that was constantly demanding change. And maybe what makes this all so special is that we were never trying too hard. We were just there—in each other’s good days, bad grades, quiet triumphs, and loud regrets. Together, we shared burdens and biryanis, dreams and deadlines. They made the chaos bearable, and the ordinary worth remembering.
Heartbreak came too, in its quiet, unexpected way. But I think pain also has its purpose. It taught me grace, patience, and the power of letting go without bitterness. Some bonds don’t become stories. They become silences—tucked away between chapters, never fully written, yet never forgotten. Heartbreak didn’t arrive like thunder. It came like mist—lingering, quiet, hard to hold. But even in that ache, I found grace. I learned that moving on isn’t about forgetting, it’s about remembering without the weight.
Some bonds left traces. There were people I cared for deeply, moments I thought would last, and feelings that were never quite returned—or maybe never fully understood. Not every feeling needs to be returned to be real. Some people pass through us like poetry, leaving behind verses we’ll carry forever, even if they were never meant to stay.
The Transition: From UG to PG – Lab, Lecture, and Life Beyond
My transition from undergraduate to postgraduate studies was one of the most defining phases of my time at IIT Kanpur. As an undergraduate, I was still exploring and testing different waters, learning broadly, and trying to figure out what truly excited me. But stepping into the lab as a postgraduate, everything changed.
Research became a part of my journey. I discovered that science isn’t just about finding answers—it’s about asking the right questions. It’s about embracing failure, iteration, and uncertainty. Long hours in the lab, repeated experiments, missed lunches… they all became part of the routine. But every tiny success, every corrected mistake, felt like a quiet victory.
Labs are not just about the data, documentation, and results; being in the lab group shaped me as a person. I was the youngest in my lab group, but never made to feel like it. The people around me—my seniors, batchmates, and labmates—became more than just colleagues; they became mentors, friends, and a support system. The lab wasn’t just a place of work; it became a family.
We celebrated together—birthdays and even the small joys of fixing a stubborn experimental setup. We went out for lunch and parties, shared frustrations and laughter over coffee breaks, and bonded in ways I hadn’t expected. One person who stood by me unwaveringly through the entire Master’s project was Garvita Dhanawat. In the lab, I grew not just as a researcher, but as a human being. I learned patience, humility, collaboration, and the strength of community.
And If You’ve Read This Far…
Thank you for walking this journey with me, even if only through words.
Today, the campus felt quieter—not because the birds sang any softer or the winds slowed their pace, but because my heart carried a silence too deep for words. It was my last day at IIT Kanpur. The same corridors I once rushed through now asked me to walk a little slower. The neem tree by the library swayed gently, as if waving goodbye. Every brick, every bench, every echo seemed to whisper, “You’re leaving, but a part of you will always stay.” I stood still, trying to soak it all in—the laughter, the chaos, the ache, the love. How do you say goodbye to a place that built, broke, and rebuilt you in ways you couldn’t understand?
If there’s one thing this place has taught me, it’s that life is more than achievements, heartbreaks, or even the friendships that come and go. It’s about what we choose to carry forward. And what we learn to leave behind.
I walked into IITK with dreams, doubts, and a heart full of hope. I leave with a soul tempered by lessons—not all from classrooms, many from life itself.
There were moments that demanded strength. Some that tested patience. Some asked me to grow past my ego, and towards something greater—understanding.
As you move ahead, remember:
हजार काँटों से दामन छुड़ा लिया मैंने
अना को मार के सब कुछ बचा लिया मैंने
Hazaar kaanton se daaman chhuda liya maine
Ana ko maar ke sab kuch bacha liya maine
Have freed my robe from thousands of thorns
By killing my ego I have saved everything else
जले तो हाथ मगर हाँ, हवा के हमले से
किसी चिराग की लौ को बचा लिया मैंने
Jale to haath magar haan, hawa ke hamle se
Kisi chiraag ki lau ko bacha liya maine
Hands did burn, but yes, against the wind’s fury
I have saved the burning flame of that lamp
— Waseem Barelvi
Let your ego take the backseat. Let kindness lead. Let your light stay burning, even if it flickers in the wind. Be there for someone. Not because it’s expected, but because it’s right.
Lift each other. Be gentle. Be real.
Create a campus, a society, a world where people feel safe to be themselves—imperfect, emotional, human. And when you look back, may your heart be full—not with regrets, but with quiet pride for who you became.
Written by: Sameer Singh
Edited by: Akshada Bhagwat, Vibha Narayan
Designed by: Pankhuri Sachan, Pragya Puri
