I’ll admit, I have been putting off writing my Psenti Speak for months now. What was meant to be a pleasant club tradition slowly metamorphosed into a personal reminder of my impending graduation—much to my annoyance. There is a sort of permanence in penning my closing credits here at EPC, one I still don’t feel ready for. Alas, as I start bidding goodbyes in this campus, it feels fair to start off with my first ever commitment at BITS.

Summarising my four-year journey at Pilani in a few hundred words is more difficult than it sounds. Do I start from the very beginning? Navigating the hullabaloo of spot rounds, voluntary classes, and quirky academic calendars while I reeled from the ghosts of examinations past? Or my second year, diving headlong into my actual major as I spread myself thin across commitments, clubs, and classrooms. Maybe my third, when I finally felt at home and forged relations that would last. But today, maybe I’ll stay in the present—my fourth year. I wouldn’t say reaching this final semester has been anything short of a herculean ordeal, but somehow these last few months have been the most difficult to part with. 

I’ve always been a firm believer in procrastination. This staunch belief didn’t limit itself to mundane daily tasks, but remains an overarching theme in my life. Naturally, admitting that my time here was ending did not come easy. There was always something left to explore—my last midsems, my last fest, my last trip to Pizzeria. I felt some momentary solace in knowing that this journey still had a few more stops before it ended, as I tried fleeing from the inescapable. I had never been good at emotions, you see, much less goodbyes. How do you prepare to say goodbye to your friends of years? How do you bid farewell to your second home? How do you spend your final days knowing you will never return?

Truth is, I do not know. My time here was not always perfect—and neither will be the end. To feel regret is human, for there is beauty in the flaws of life. I scramble around to make these last days count—trips with friends, walks in familiar hallways, and conversations I’ll cherish. Yet, many chapters will remain incomplete, and I’m at peace with that. Life here was never meant to be a checklist I could cross off, but a mountain I could climb. I met some rather swell climbers along the way, and while I didn’t reach the summit, the view from here is still breathtaking.

I do miss the naivety of being a child. I don’t recollect my high school graduation being remotely as sad, maybe because I still believed in rosy endings and a happy-ever-after. But that unbreakable optimism has been weathered away by the reality of adulthood, and the reality sucks. I wish I could pretend I’d be as close with my friends as I am now. I wish I could say we’d still talk for hours or get together every few months. But with age comes the grim realisation that people grow distant—and with age comes the art of learning to live with bitter truths.

As my days in this desolate town dwindle down, I try to convince myself that it’s gonna be okay. I’ll be fine, I tell myself. But I can’t shake off the melancholy hanging in the air. I feel sad. I feel scared. I feel unprepared. But maybe that’s okay too. They say not to be sad that it’s ending, be happy that it happened. But what is grief, if not love persevering? Ultimately, I have to let myself feel all these emotions, for otherwise I’d be doing a disservice to my days here. Every moment spent in sadness is a reminder of the love I feel for Pilani, the people and the time spent here. Maybe one day I’ll look back and laugh at my throes of leaving college, but today, I’ll let the waves of sorrow wash over me again.