Dear Sir/Ma’am,

They say that one’s best ideas often come in their worst moments, and it was as I was brutally attacked (in ways I will not describe out of respect for your readers) by my wingies on my birthday that I was first struck by the idea to immortalize my escapades in the pages of your publication.

My name, believe it or not (most do not), is T.B.D. Sodawaterbottleopenerwala. The name originates from my family’s ancestral occupation as carbonation specialists. I exist on campus as a second-yearite, and between my PR forcing me into a three-hour lab at 8 AM on a Saturday, and my bad luck exiling me for a year in the back wings of Vyas, I simply cannot seem to catch a break.

My entry into my second year was, in a literal sense, marked by my trial by fire. Following a back-breaking journey from Malviya to the insect-infested aisles of Vyas, I was confronted by my over-enthusiastic wingies who attempted to liberate my room of its wildlife with a makeshift flamethrower constructed from a can of Axe body spray and a lighter (two essentials for all students). My initial exhilaration contorted into horror as my eyes met the orange glow emanating from my mattress and guitar. It is my unhappy burden to report that, while the aforementioned wingie is safe, my guitar is not.

Much like a maximum-security prison, the only right way to solve problems in a boys’ hostel is through explosives. A wingie accidentally vomiting into your laundry basket is an infraction that must be dealt with promptly. As the boom of my makeshift bomb — followed shortly by the terrified screams of my wingies — reverberated through the foul-smelling corridor that we had begun to call home, I was consumed by a rush of adrenaline. A surge that fissured as swiftly as the toilet containing my bomb when I was accosted by my angry wingies.

Where there is life, there is death, and where there is hygiene, there are my wingies. As the haze of the HIT spray descended on our room, we noticed the insects died out, which may sound like cause for celebration, unless the problems happen to get more mammalian. Just as I learned one fine night that my roommate finally intended to take a bath, my festivities were interrupted by the piercing screech that could only be from a man who had some uninvited visitors in his cupboard. Believe me when I tell you that the ensuing thirty minutes of checking my cupboard were perhaps the most stressful moments of my life, but not as stressful as those of my roommate, who spent his night half-naked evicting the family in his cupboard.

Sir/Ma’am, it is often told to us growing up not to accept candy from visitors. This seems like a good precaution, considering that no parent wants their child to be enticed away for nefarious purposes. What our well-meaning parents forget to mention is that one shouldn’t always take candy from their friends either. Ravenously hungry before my lab test, I took a cookie offered by my wingie and found the sugar rush to be quite intense. In the lab, I suddenly felt a strong burning sensation on my tongue and jerked my head back, realising that I had conducted the titration properly—except my mouth had somehow found itself in the position and function of the volumetric flask. 

Now I am a red-blooded member of the male species, only removed from the throes of adolescence by a handful of years. Having found no outlets due to my intense fidelity to the entrance examinations, I decided that college would be the best place for me to explore more amorous avenues. As fate would have it, a batchie of mine appeared to me as a radiant angel amongst the wasteland that is Pilani. Yet as is so often found in their biblical source, this angel only appeared at my lowest moment. I was ecstatic when she was in the same lab as me, considerably less so when she looked at me in horror as I used my mouth as a piece of apparatus, poised to swallow the burette.

Such has been my lot in this college thus far, Sir/Ma’am, and I find myself lacking the optimism that tomorrow holds something better.

Yours in defeated acceptance, 

T.B.D. Sodawaterbottleopenerwala