Honestly till last year I wouldn’t even have imagined that i would dream about going abroad. But when I actually met people who had gone abroad and counsellors that i realised that it’s possible, heck it’s actually not that hard. 

The easiest way to go abroad for studying as an undergrad or even after that ( in a budget) is to look for scholarships. If you come from the larger cities like Delhi , Mumbai etc. it should be even more easy for you.   But if you are like me and our loan also doesn’t exist on the map, we’ll fetch for scholarships .

The best way to get scholarships is to give the SAT exam, or have good boards score along with a very impressive essay.  But as an Indian this sounds very new. In countries like USA and UK it’s very common almost necessary really. 

SAT or  Scholastic Assessment Test Is basically a world wide test that is conducted online. What this really does is, it gives colleges a base to judge you on. For example most students prefer taking CUET in order to reach for admissions. So think of SAT similarly except that it opens gates from all around the world. 

Once you have given an SAT exam ( considering you score well) you then have to apply to the colleges of your choice but writing essays, generally. I would recommend that you apply to at least three different colleges of your choice which give scholarships. And have a back up college in your home land as a safety. However keep in mind that major of the colleges have application fees .

Once you apply and receive your letter, more like email, you set forth for your future.   If you wish to study abroad or are willing to look for options, you can follow my page and I’ll keep you updated. Till then dream on dreamers.

My constant companion and first friend was my twin. He was the lively one to my quiet nature, the bright side to my thoughtful one, yet we were two parts of a whole, deeply connected. With him by my side, the world felt less intimidating. We had our own way of communicating, our own private jokes, a shared history no one else could truly understand. He was my confidant, and my protector. Our bond was a silent understanding, a comforting presence that meant I never really felt alone, even in crowded places. Our shared room was our entire world, a safe haven where we could be ourselves, free from outside pressures.

Life, however, has a way of pushing us out of our comfort zones. The day my twin packed his bags and moved away for further studies, my carefully built world shifted dramatically. He was starting a new chapter, an exciting adventure, while I stayed in our hometown, continuing my journey on a more familiar path. The first few days were a strange mix of quiet relief and a hollow feeling. I had always wanted a bit of independence, a space that was just mine. But as days turned into weeks, the silence in our once lively home became overwhelming. The echoes of his laughter, the familiar rhythm of his presence, were replaced by an unsettling emptiness.

It was during this time of deep absence that a clear realization hit me: I missed my twin. Not just having him around, but the comfort of his understanding, the easy friendship, the unspoken promise of always having someone on my side. The world, which had always felt manageable with him, suddenly seemed vast and daunting. I felt like an island, lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces and unexpressed emotions. The privacy I had unknowingly desired now felt like isolation, the silence a heavy blanket.

In my search for comfort, I found myself drawn to our terrace. It was an ordinary space, a concrete area often used for drying clothes or storing forgotten items. But as evening painted the sky with orange and purple, and the moon, a kind eye in the vast sky, began its nightly watch, the terrace changed. It became my refuge, my place to confess, my quiet companion. I would sit there, legs crossed on the cool concrete, and simply talk to the moon.

There's something deeply healing about speaking into empty space, knowing that no one is truly listening, yet feeling completely understood. The moon, with its ancient, knowing gaze, became my silent confidant. I poured out my worries, my fears, the quiet ache of missing my twin. I talked about awkward encounters at college, the struggle to express my thoughts in class, the strange new feeling of being truly alone. The silence after my confessions wasn't empty; it was full of understanding, a vast, comforting space that absorbed my worries without judgment.

This was a place where I didn't have to act, didn't have to be anything but myself. There were no expectations, no social rules to follow. It was just me, the moon, and the cool night air. The gentle breeze whispered through the trees, and the distant hum of the city became a comforting lullaby. This wasn't just privacy; I actively created it. I wasn't given this space; I made it out of my need, out of a deep desire for a burden-free moment.

The terrace wasn't a room in the usual sense, but it became my room. It was a place where my identity, once so connected with my twin's, began to unfold and form on its own.

In the quiet solitude, I started to understand my own thoughts, the subtle parts of my own emotions. The struggle to make friends still existed, but on that terrace, under the wide night sky, it felt less like a flaw and more like a part of who I was. This acceptance, this quiet change within me, brought a profound sense of safety.

The privilege of privacy, safety, and belonging is often taken for granted by those who have always had it. For me, and for countless others, these aren't given freely; they are hard-won battles. My "tiny room" was the concrete expanse of the terrace. My "music at 2 a.m." was the silent conversation with the moon. This space was my sanctuary where I dropped the defenses of social expectations and simply be.

The terrace became a place of immense power. It was the power over myself. It was the power to reflect, to process, to heal. It was the power to cry, to laugh freely, to simply exist without needing to explain. This new sense of independence, born from loneliness, began to reshape my sense of possibility. If I could create such a meaningful space for myself from nothing more than a desire for quiet and a connection with the stars, what else was I capable of?

Under the monsoon skies, as the rain drummed a steady rhythm on the neighboring roof, the terrace became even more magical. The smell of wet earth, the cool spray on my face, the blurred outlines of the city lights was a full sensory experience that grounded me, centered me. It was during these moments, surrounded by nature, that I felt most alive, most connected to something larger than myself. The very act of choosing to be there, of embracing the openness of the air, was an act of quiet defiance against the discomfort of the world.

The terrace taught me that belonging isn't always about finding your group; sometimes, it's about finding your own inner guide, your own true path. It's about creating a space, however small or unusual, where you feel completely at home within yourself. My twin's departure, though painful at first, was what led to this deep discovery. It forced me to face my own introversion, to seek out and create the very privacy and safety I hadn't realized I needed so much.

The moon, my silent witness, saw my growth. It saw the shy, struggling child slowly blossom into a more confident young adult. It saw the tears, the quiet smiles, the moments of deep self-reflection. And through it all, it reminded me that even when alone, there's a vast, connected universe waiting to be explored, both inside and out.

My terrace, that simple concrete slab, became the blueprint for my future sense of belonging. It taught me that while human connection is important, so too is the ability to develop a rich inner life, to create spaces where one can retreat, refresh, and simply be. It was there, under the watchful eye of the moon, that I truly found the room of my own. And in finding that room, I found myself.

- Ananya

#RoomsOfOurOwn

There was a time I felt invisible.

For most of my childhood, the idea of having my own room felt like a distant dream, a luxury reserved for someone else’s story. I grew up in a railway quarter where rooms were shared, walls were thin, and privacy was almost a myth. The spaces I occupied were never entirely mine. My world was made up of shared beds, constant chatter, and a quiet wish tucked into the corners of my mind  to one day have a space that was just for me.

That wish came true years later, but not in the way I imagined.

It was during my first year of college, when I moved into the girls' hostel, that I finally had a room of my own. I was already months late joining classes due to financial constraints. By the time I walked through the gates of my new college life, friendships had formed, circles had closed, and stories had already begun without me. I entered the hostel alone, dragging my suitcase behind me, heart heavy with worry and hesitation.

My assigned room was on the fourth floor, modest in size with white walls, two wooden beds, two desks, and one barred window that overlooked the central courtyard. I was assigned a senior as my roommate, who was kind in her way but distant. Our conversations rarely went beyond a polite nod or a borrowed charger. The silence between us was not uncomfortable, but it was empty.

At first, I thought the loneliness would pass. But days melted into weeks, and the isolation deepened. My batchmates, unaware of the storm I had navigated before arriving, assumed I preferred being alone. They whispered I was an introvert who enjoyed solitude. But that wasn’t true. I was grieving not a loss of a person, but a loss of stability, of familiarity, of a version of life I thought I’d have.

Each day, I sat by the window, watching the groups of girls walk to the mess together, laughing, sharing earphones, skipping in the rain. I longed to be part of that world, to be seen, to be included. But instead, I watched a silent observer in my own story. My room, though technically shared, felt like the only place where I didn’t have to pretend that I was okay.

There was a strange comfort in that loneliness. I began talking to myself. I’d whisper my fears into the walls, cry quietly into my pillow, and then wake up the next day a little lighter. I started decorating the desk with my favourite pens, clipped photos of my family, and wrote affirmations on sticky notes. Bit by bit, I carved my identity into that space. The room didn’t judge me for being quiet or withdrawn. It didn’t ask me to explain. It simply held me.

As time passed, something shifted not outside the room, but within me. I started spending less time looking out the window and more time reading, writing, or simply thinking. My perspective changed. I began to enjoy the quiet, not because I had no one, but because I was learning to be with myself. For the first time in my life, the noise around me did not define me. I was discovering my inner voice.

Gradually, I opened up to others. I made friends slowly but surely. Some were classmates who noticed me in lectures. Others were girls from the hostel who knocked on my door one evening, asking if I wanted to join them for tea. I remember that moment clearly. I hesitated, then said yes. That tiny act cracked open the walls I had built around myself.

By the time I reached my final year, that same girl who once sat silently by the window was now organising group study sessions, laughing in the corridors, and sharing stories late into the night. I eventually moved out of the hostel into a rented flat with two friends. It was a different kind of freedom shared again, but by choice.

Yet, despite all the changes, it was my hostel room that remained closest to my heart. That room, which had once felt like a cage, had, in truth, become my sanctuary. It saw me in my rawest form broken, afraid, confused. It gave me the space to fall apart and then taught me how to rebuild.

The room never clapped for me, never offered advice, never told me I was doing great. But it listened. It held the echoes of my doubts and dreams. It saw the girl who walked in with a cracked spirit and watched her walk out with a quieter, stronger soul.

Today, I live in another city. I have different walls around me, different responsibilities, and different fears. But whenever I feel overwhelmed or lost, I close my eyes and return to that little yellow-walled room on the second floor of the hostel. I see my younger self, curled up by the window, unknowingly becoming someone stronger, braver, and more self-aware.

That was the first space I could truly call my own. Not because it was fancy or filled with things, but because it gave me what I needed most, a place to be myself, unapologetically and fully.

In a world that often demands we wear masks and fit in, my room allowed me the rare freedom to fall in love with solitude, to embrace my silence, and to understand that being alone doesn’t always mean being lonely.

It was never just a room.

It was the beginning of me.

#RoomsOfOurOwn #RoomsOfOurOwn  #Sanjana'sDiary

अक्सर समाज स्त्रियों को ‘देवी’ की उपाधि देता है —

"अगर मुझे देवी बनाना ही है — तो मुझे मेरी पूरी शक्ति दो: मेरा विरोध, मेरी आवाज़, मेरा निर्णय। वरना अपना ‘सम्मान’ अपने पास रखो।"

In the world full of discriminations..our subjects also face discrimination some of you might find it funny and think what kind of discrimination.. as we all know after completing 10th every student have to choose any stream. some of them choose science, commerce but some, like me choose humanities also known as art's. The journey of choosing humanities was quite tough for me but interesting as well.. because choosing humanities was unacceptable by my parents and some unknown people too.. but some of them supported me. I'm sure that every student who choose humanities also face this dilemma.. As I remembered when I went to my new school for admission and the teacher asked me in which subject I want to take admission in and I said humanities, then she saw my marksheet and said that you have scored well then why are you taking humanities so I told her that I am interested in this subject, I thought this reason would be enough but for her that's not so I told her my career plans, then she said that you can do it after choosing humanities too and after some time I found out that she was teacher of political science..

मैं पेशे से एक रिसर्चर हूं अलग अलग चीजों पर अलग अलग राज्यों में बहुत ही ढंग से तरह तरह की रिसर्ज या जानकारियाँ खोज करना मेरा काम है

लगभग में हमने सारे राज्य घूमे हर जगहों का अपना एक अलग ही अनुभव मिला

हर जगहों की अपनी एक अलग कहानी है

अभी जल्द ही मैं छत्तीसगढ़ के कुछ ग्रामों का मण्डला मध्य प्रदेश की तरफ से घुसते

सर्वे किया

मण्डला क्षेत्र पूरा आदिवासियों के बाहुल्य का क्षेत्र है

वहाँ पर पानी की बहुत बड़ी समस्या है

कैसे कैसे जगहों को देखा कि रुलाई सी लगने लगी लोगों को देख के उनके पीने के पानी को देख के

उसी की एक कहानी है एक गाँव की

गाँव–भीमडोंगरी, मण्डला (म.प्र.) — एक दुखभरी सच्चाई

भीमडोंगरी, मण्डला ज़िले की एक छोटी-सी आदिवासी बस्ती है — पहाड़ियों से घिरी, हरियाली के बीच बसा हुआ गाँव, लेकिन बिना पानी के यह हरियाली भी सिर्फ एक भ्रम सी लगती है।

यहाँ के लोगों की सुबह सूरज उगने से पहले शुरू होती है — लेकिन पूजा, पढ़ाई या काम पर जाने से नहीं, बल्कि *पानी की खोज* से।

गाँव की मुख्य पानी की स्त्रोत – एक सूखा कुआं जो अब मवेशियों की मिट्टी लथपथ आवाजाही से गंदा हो चुका है। महिलाएं 2-3 किलोमीटर दूर एक पहाड़ी ढलान से पानी लाने जाती हैं, जहाँ एक चट्टान के नीचे से टपक-टपक कर बूंदों में पानी निकलता है — उसे इकट्ठा होने में घंटों लगते हैं।

एक माँ की कहानी:

सरस्वती बाई की 5 साल की बेटी *रेखा* को बुखार था, लेकिन उसे दवा देने के लिए उबालने लायक साफ पानी नहीं मिला। मजबूरी में उसी गंदे पानी से दवा दी, और 3 दिन बाद बच्ची को अस्पताल ले जाने से पहले ही उसने दम तोड़ दिया।

स्कूल के बच्चे:

बच्चे स्कूल नहीं जाते क्योंकि या तो पानी लाने भेज दिए जाते हैं, या बीमार होते हैं। शिक्षक भी कहते हैं कि पढ़ाई से ज़्यादा समस्या बच्चों के शरीर की हालत है — गंदा पानी, कुपोषण और संक्रमण आम बात है।

सरकारी योजना:

2 साल पहले गाँव में पाइपलाइन बिछाने की योजना आई थी, पाइप भी पहुँचे, एक पत्थर रख कर शिलान्यास हुआ — लेकिन उसके बाद कोई अफसर दोबारा लौटकर नहीं आया।

पंचायत की मजबूरी:

गाँव के सरपंच खुद कहते हैं — "कहाँ कहें, किससे कहें? न जनप्रतिनिधि सुनते हैं, न अधिकारी आते हैं।" गाँव के लोग अब आसमान की ओर देखते हैं — बारिश ही उनकी आखिरी उम्मीद है।

भीमडोंगरी की एक पुकार है:

"हमें स्कूल नहीं चाहिए, न सड़क चाहिए, पहले पानी दो... ताकि हम ज़िंदा रह सकें, तभी कुछ और मांगेगें।”

यह कोई कहानी नहीं, यह हकीकत है उस भारत की, जो दिखता नहीं, लेकिन जिंदा है — पीड़ा में, संघर्ष में और उपेक्षा में।

✍️तुषार शर्मा

I still remember the first time I attended Adda by Gorakhpur Medhavis. I was hesitant — not because I didn’t want to be there, but because I was scared of opening up. I had carried this story inside me for years — about being discriminated against, about being made to feel less. I never really said it out loud, thinking maybe no one would understand, or worse, they’d judge me.But something about that circle — the warmth, the comfort, the genuine way people listened — made me speak. I shared my truth. My voice trembled at first, but slowly, I found strength in it.And what happened next truly surprised me. People didn’t just listen; they shared their thoughts, their own experiences, and gently reminded me that I was not alone. They offered perspectives, support, and strength — not in a way that silenced my pain, but in a way that helped me rise above it.That day, I realised Adda is not just a gathering. It’s a safe space. A space where every story matters. A space where healing begins. 

A space where Anshika — me — was truly heard.

#RoomsOfOurOwn

Need Electrical Services in Hernando County?

If you live in Hernando County, you know the mix of quiet neighborhoods, small towns, and scattered industrial spots. It’s a place where power issues pop up when you least expect them. That’s why knowing about hernando country electrical services before things go dark is just… practical.

Let’s keep it simple. Here’s what you actually need to know.

What Do Electrical Services Cover?

In Hernando County, electrical services usually include:

Residential repairs like outlets, switches, ceiling fans

Panel upgrades for older homes

Stand by generator installs (so storms don’t ruin your day)

Commercial electrical services for shops, clinics, small warehouses

Safety inspections and surge protection setups

They handle the boring but essential stuff. You don’t think about wiring until your lights flicker. Then suddenly it’s top priority.

Why Consider a Standby Generator?

Florida storms are no joke. A stand by generator keeps your fridge, well pump, and phone chargers running. It’s especially handy for people working from home or those with health equipment that just can’t go out.

Most hernando country electrical services companies offer generator installs. They’ll check your panel, recommend the right size, and set it up safely so you’re not fumbling with extension cords in the rain.

Commercial Electrical Services in Hernando County

Running a small business? You’ll need commercial electrical services sooner or later. That might be:

Adding new circuits for equipment

Upgrading warehouse lighting

Installing exterior security lights

Emergency repairs after a breaker trip

Local companies also handle code upgrades. Inspections can shut a business down fast if things aren’t wired properly.

Nearby Counties Matter Too

If you’re on the edge of Hernando County, you might end up calling companies from Pasco or Pinellas. Many electrical contractors cover multiple counties, including:

pasco country electrical services

pinellas country electrical services

This is useful if you live in Spring Hill but work in New Port Richey, or if you manage properties spread across counties. One contractor handling everything saves headaches.

How to Pick the Right Electrician

Here’s the honest take:

Check licensing and insurance. No exceptions.

Ask about experience with your exact issue. A ceiling fan install is different from rewiring an old panel.

Look for real reviews. Facebook community groups are good for honest rants or recommendations.

Don’t just go by price. The cheapest quote can cost you double if done wrong.

Final Thoughts

Hernando country electrical services are easy to overlook until something fails. Whether it’s for your home, business, or getting a stand by generator, knowing what services exist and who offers them saves you stress later.

And if you’re in nearby areas? Pasco country electrical services and pinellas country electrical services offer similar setups with local knowledge that’s hard to beat.

#RoomsOfOurOwn

I was watching Chutti TV, the Tamil cartoon channel, after school when Appa came home with his usual tired, pale face. He whispered something to Amma, and she started to console him, but was also irritated. My brothers and I had no clue what was going on. That night, we started packing. It wasn’t for a trip; it was our third house shift in the last few years.

The next day was Friday. We packed everything and shifted on Saturday. My two brothers and I were used to it by then. As always, I started to calculate the new distances – how far it would be to my school, my friends' homes, the cricket ground. I had to prepare myself to make new friends again.

I’ve never really had an attachment to something called space. Either the owners, neighbours, or someone around would remind us constantly that it wasn’t ours. We were told not to play too roughly, not to break anything, and not to be too loud. If we did, the owner would complain. And it would be my Amma who had to go and apologize. That image of her standing at someone’s doorstep, saying sorry for something we did, has stayed with me. From childhood, I’ve been deeply triggered by the idea of apologizing when no apology is owed.

Now, we live in our own house. But some habits don’t go away. Every time Amma cooks beef, she still collects the bones, wraps them in a separate plastic cover, and disposes of them quietly. That behaviour comes from our years in rental homes – seven rental homes, six schools, in just ten years, all within the same small town in Tamil Nadu.

Finding a house with cheap rent was already a challenge. But if people found out we were Dalits, everything became harder. Your food habits became suspect. There were always questions, judgments, and comments. We were trained to say “mutton” instead of “beef” whenever anyone asked what was on the menu for Sunday lunch. These weren’t just survival tactics; they were silent admissions that even our food wasn’t allowed to belong.

It wasn’t just how we ate, it was also about what we owned. We used to think twice before buying anything heavy. A steel bureau? Too much to carry around. A big cot? Not worth it if you might need to vacate in a month. Even buying extra vessels, books, or plastic chairs was something we debated as a family. Every possession came with the burden of future movement. What if the landlord asks us to leave again? What if we have to carry everything down three floors? Along with affordability, we also need to consider what our homeowner will think of it.

For years, none of us had a bed of our own. We shared whatever was available, floors, mats, and borrowed furniture. So now, having my bed in a room that is mine feels like luxury. Feels like a protest.

In my entire life, I finally got a room of my own only at the age of 28, when I joined a PhD program. I used to fantasize about it as a child, having a private space, designing it, organizing it, maintaining it. But when even collective space is a constant struggle, where you're always being monitored or reminded that you’re an outsider, having a private space never even enters the discussion.

I always wanted to paste Ilayaraja and Ambedkar posters in my room. But of course, we were never allowed to. Pasting posters meant damaging the wall paint, which meant we’d have to pay extra when we vacated. So the first thing I did after shifting into my single private room was paste as many posters as I wanted on the wall. That moment felt like claiming something.

I know this goes here and there, but that’s how my memory of space is. It has never been linear. Every home meant learning things from scratch: where the switches are, which corner floods when it rains, which part gets unbearably hot in summer. I had to teach myself how to find the torch or matchbox when the electricity went off. I would practice walking to them in the dark, switching off all the lights just to make sure I wouldn’t bump into anything.

Even sleep wasn’t simple. I can’t just lie down and sleep in a new place. I always take time to figure out which corner of a room feels safe. Once I got used to a space, its routes, its timings, the shopkeepers nearby, the cricket ground, we would be told that we had to move again.

And then the biggest issue: the address. I never wrote my rental home address on any official form. I always gave my village address instead, because I knew I might not be in the same place by the time a letter arrived. That’s the kind of unrooted life we led. Even mail didn’t know where to find us.

So when I finally got my room, it wasn't just about privacy or peace. It was about finally feeling like I had the right to exist loudly, to paste what I love on walls, to sleep on a bed that’s mine, to eat what I want, not to say sorry.

And yet, some of those lessons of movement, adjustment, and survival haven’t left me. Even now, sometimes, I still hesitate before turning the volume up. I still catch myself memorizing the location of a torch. I still double-check how easily something can be packed and moved.

Because when you’ve spent a life negotiating space, even ownership feels like something you might lose at any moment.

#RoomsOfOurOwn