From College Hostel to My Own Dormroom: A Journey to Independence

The city was new, unfamiliar, and mine to discover. My father, ever cautious, enrolled me in our community hostel for my first year of college. With him, my mother, and brother stationed in West Africa running the family business, he needed the peace of mind that came with knowing I had a safe place to call home.

Life at Hostel for 1 Year Then Moved to Room

Six single beds lined the walls. Six iron cupboards stood at attention. Six lives intersecting in one room with no pretense of luxury—just the bare essentials, almost military-style in its simplicity. And somehow, I loved it.

The MJV hostel in Paldi, Ahmedabad, had a certain charm: a sprawling central ground anchored by a massive tree, a catering area that filled the air with the aroma of home-cooked meals, a library I rarely visited, and activities I never quite found time to explore. My routine was different from most.

While my roommates attended lectures and lived on a conventional schedule, I was somewhere else entirely—lost in the glow of my laptop screen, learning everything I could about computers. Late nights stretched into early mornings. Sometimes, I'd go two or three days without sleep, then crash for a full 24 hours to recover.

Looking back now at 35, I marvel at that version of myself. These days, one sleepless night leaves me drained and irritable. But back then? I was invincible.

The hostel had its advantages:

• Companionship whenever I needed it
• Good food, included and reliable
• Spacious common areas
• A single yearly fee instead of monthly payments

But it also had its limitations:

• No proper workspace in our crowded room
• Constant noise and energy from others
• No true solitude for deep work

I craved something more—a space that was entirely mine, where I could set up a proper workstation and dive deeper into my learning without distractions.

The Decision

I made my choice without consulting my family. They were thousands of miles away, and I knew how these conversations would go: endless deliberation, concerns, objections. I'd never been the type to ask permission, wait for approval, and try again. I was a doer.

So I left the hostel and moved in with my maternal uncle—Laam Mama, as I called him. He worked at a news channel in Ahmedabad and lived alone in a single room. When he offered me a place to stay, it seemed like the perfect solution.

The first few days went well enough. Then I began to notice the signs. The indirect suggestions that I should return to the hostel. The uncomfortable silences. Eventually, I understood: Laam Mama drank every day and didn't want me to witness that part of his life. He wasn't being unkind—just honest about his boundaries.

Alone in the World

It was my first real encounter with the world beyond my parents' protection. Finding myself suddenly without a place to stay, I spent a few days searching before finding a room through a broker. I paid his commission from my modest savings and moved in.

Without telling anyone, I arranged for my belongings—a work table, some furniture—to be transferred from my hometown. I handled the broker, negotiated the terms, moved my things, and settled into that tiny interior room. It had no fan, only lights, and summer was in full swing. But I was happy. Genuinely, deeply happy.

For the first time, I had no one to answer to. This space was mine.

I lived there for exactly one month.

The Scam

When the house owner appeared at my door with the broker beside him, asking me to vacate within a week, I felt the ground shift beneath my feet. "Relatives are coming," they said, their faces betraying nothing.

Later, I would understand it was a scam—a scheme targeting desperate students like me. Take the brokerage fee, let them stay a month, then force them out and repeat the cycle with someone new. I didn't know about rental agreements back then. I didn't know about much of anything, really.

I had taken these steps entirely on my own, which meant I had no one to turn to for help. My family was far away, and telling them would bring a storm of scolding before any assistance. I didn't need judgment—I needed solutions.

So I stayed in that room for two days. Alone. I skipped college. I cried—deep, wrenching sobs that came from a place I didn't know existed. The walls absorbed my frustration, my fear, my helplessness.

On the third day, I wiped my face and went outside.

The Shop Uncle

I asked a shopkeeper if he knew of any available rooms. Something in my face must have moved him because he didn't just give me information—he took me to his own society, where a family lived on the first floor with a vacant room on the ground floor.

They weren't looking to make money. They wanted to help a student. After a brief negotiation, we settled on 1,500 rupees per month.

I moved in with my bed, my work table, and a simple chair. The room was small, but it was mine. Truly mine. And this time, nobody could take it away.

The Room Where Everything Changed

I lived in that little room for five years.

Five years of uninterrupted learning. Five years of growth. Five years of peace.

With no one to disturb me, no noise to break my concentration, my journey of learning reached heights I couldn't have imagined in that crowded hostel room. That family gave me more than just four walls and a roof—they gave me the space to become who I was meant to be.

I owe them so much.

Now, as I write this, I make myself a promise: the next time I'm in Ahmedabad, I'll visit that place. I'll find that family, see how their children have grown, and thank them properly for the gift they gave a struggling student all those years ago.

---

Sometimes the path to finding yourself requires losing your way first. Sometimes independence comes at the cost of two days spent crying alone in an empty room. And sometimes, just sometimes, a kind stranger with a spare room changes the trajectory of your entire life.