Reel Saturated

Aargh, why do I feel these days like movie scripts are a waste of actors, and half the time actors are a waste of scripts?
Have the scriptwriters lost their own attention spans? Are they writing a few punchlines and getting a sixth grader to fill in the rest of the pages?
Half the punchlines, I see the pleading faces of an embarrassed actor on screen: please do laugh when you hear this!
Some seem bored, some are boring, and why is it that the one day I ditch my nonexistent schedule for a movie it must be such a bore?
Yes, I did go for a movie, and I carried a backup with me that did end up saving me a few hours of cringing: my phone, with noise blocking earphones I scored off my mother. (Mine don’t block out noise.)
Well if you asked me if it was worth my time, I’d say it was, because I caught the decent parts of a movie and watched 2 episodes of Arrow!
Now that’s a few hours well spent, I feel proud.

On a related note, if you’ve spent too long around physics textbooks, I think sometimes, it can screw up your movie-watching experience. (Quite literally)
I sat in the hall with muffled sounds in my ears, I could hear when I wanted to, and I heard a bit of dialogue at a point. Seemed interesting, I paused my episode.
There was someone named Helix getting beaten up by the hero.
I’m thinking, oh, how interesting, there’s a guy named Helix. Never seen that before. I’m not even sitting for a sci-fi movie where a bad guy ‘screws’ everyone over, what’s the deal?
Right on cue, Helix tumbles down a staircase rolling, might I mention, in helical motion.
Ah, that must be why a self-proclaimed comedy film has a baddie who spirals down staircases, named Helix.

Fast forward two hours, I realised his name was really Alex all the while.
Boy, am I saturated with physics.

An Ode To The Doubtful

No, there’s nothing wrong with you
It’s just something you do comes off as new
Don’t mistake their curious look for a stare
Live your life, don’t have a care
Half of your doubts are only your own
And what it makes you do depends on you alone
When you know you don’t have a crystal ball
Don’t be your own downfall
Don’t try to interpret, read their minds
You may never know, a search won’t bring up any finds
But worse, don’t draw a blind
Set the rope on your wrists, bind
You’re someone, so is the next
What you are, only you can do best
Your doubts may reflect in the rest
So know that we’re all the same
Yet we’re all different
Don’t try to blend in, don’t try to stick out
Just stand as naturally as you can.

Facing the Blues

I think I’ve finally figured out why I dislike Facebook.

Since the age of eleven, I’ve been on it and come off thrice, and every ‘on’ period has lasted three days.
The longest one was fifteen days, and gosh, I thought I’d finally gotten over my Facebook distaste then!

I’d always thought it had a little bit to do with the interface.
Horrible, I hated the blue.
While most apps have gone on to use deeper, more vibrant colours, there’s Facebook, with its dull, faded blue. Argh. (Actually, is it still that blue? I haven’t checked it in… three years.)

I also thought it definitely had something to do with laziness.
I can’t imagine the effort it takes to maintain a Facebook account. To just have an account where you’re scrolling through stuff you aren’t actually even looking at, and one where you just watch two-minute impressive life hacks that you know you will actually never try yourself just seems a bit redundant, doesn’t it? …I will justify my having a YouTube account by saying that it’s linked to Gmail, which I do use, and without which I may not have been here blogging about it!
And yes, call it ironic, here’s a blogger talking about being too lazy to maintain an account.
Heck, I’ll just butter y’all and say I’d prefer devoting my energies here than to Facebook!
Actually, I may not be screwing around about that. It’s true.
But I really do think I have immense respect for anyone who’s able to maintain an actual, live Facebook, at least one where the content doesn’t seem redundant, or is for a business. I’m talking about a personal account.

Today, I think I figured it out.
The internet has really made our lives so strongly webbed, hasn’t it?
I read the book Silas Marner, where after having his entire world come crashing down on him, Silas decides to move to a new town and start afresh, and eventually, does end up rebuilding his life to be a beautiful happening.
It’s not cowardice, I’d say.
It’s one thing to stand up and face any mess that’s thrown at you, but there is a line, and a time when you have to admit that there is nothing more that you can do. It’s another thing, then, to look under your feet and see that the line’s been crossed, and you’re too far away to be able to make it back.
And at that point, it’s alright to pack your bags and leave, try again.
It’s not cowardly, because it takes strength, I think, to be able to start all over again and rebuild yourself from scratch.
Not only are you leaving the messed up, the troubles behind, you’re also leaving behind everything you built for yourself all the while.
You’re pulling the foundation you painstakingly laid down right from under your feet.
That takes something.

And many of us do it.

So when my family moved cities, while for the first few months my energies were only focused on somehow going back, all by myself if I had to, and returning to my beloved city, I eventually came to see another angle: it was a blessing in disguise, a chance I’d got to finally begin all over again.
No longer would I have to hide from those who spent their childhood bullying me.
No longer would their faces bring back horrible memories.
No longer would I have to freak out if the backdoor was locked.
This was it, I was free. They were no longer a part of my life.
There was no one here who knew me, knew my past, no one could mock me for how easily I had let myself get pushed over, I couldn’t possibly be the focal point for everybody’s dark creativity to emerge and bloom, because no one knew anything about me!
I could be who I wanted to, I could show, this time around, that I was a lot stronger than they back home had thought me to be, no one could accuse me of crying.

(Okay, that was a huge tangent. I’m sorry.)

Point is, that is why I hated Facebook. I was happy knowing that these folks were out of my life for good. I was happy knowing that this was my new life, and it was a lot happier. I could forget the past, and just let my present be my reality, mixed with lessons I’d learnt, invaluable experience I’d gained from the trials from so long ago.
And then, there came Facebook.
I did not need these people’s faces popping up on my phone, I did not need to be reminded of them, their ways, and my old self- and I couldn’t allow myself to slip back into the past, whether in memory, or behaviour.

My mother often marvels at the power of Facebook. It has reconnected her with long-lost school and college friends from over twenty years ago, and she says there, your friends will always remain friends, because Facebook has lessened the distances between people so much. There are no more boundaries. You can cherish your friendships forever.
Maybe distance is not always such a bad thing.
Most of us must have had days when we’ve wanted a break, just a temporary distance from a friend, just to allow yourself to recuperate (and it may not even be your buddy’s fault), give yourself a little space.
That’s alright too.
So boundaries and distance may not always be bad. You don’t owe it to anyone.
We’re not into self-torture. And there’s nothing wrong in walking away.
So I come on, and drift off. And then, may want to connect with someone, come on for a day, for five minutes perhaps, then forget that account exists altogether.

It does bring me to crossroads, though, as I roll through my last year of school.
When it’s all done and dusted, there will be people I’d definitely want to keep up with. There are friendships I wouldn’t want to die.
There will be a decision I will have to make.

Will I let my past keep haunting me, and in the process miss out on something that may not be half as bad as I feel it may, or will I steel and face it? Will I find out, the line was crossed, and who, what really defines the lines?

The Madness Continues

It’s that time of the year again.
Bring on the pounding drums, the drama, the dark circles, the late nights, light heads, manic laughter.
Bring on anxiousness and double checks.
I’m a twelfth grader, and a science student at that.
And no, I’m not talking about my exams.
The time it is, for my little sister’s half-yearlies.
And our house is losing it.

Neither of my parents have been very big on history. I’ve always kinda liked it, and they’ve always looked at me like I was insane.
I’ve been urging them to apply for posts as history professors now.

See, my sister is one of those people who belongs on the face of a meme.
She so chill.
She don’t care.
Be like her.

When her exams come rolling by, which thankfully isn’t as often as mine do, our entire house loses it.
And it’s a funny sight.

There’s my mother sitting with five books open before her, my dad making notes for her from work, or on a weekend, pouring over maps and battles of old, memorizing names of rulers and dictators and dates and dates like they’ve never been on, placing bets on which questions seem important and will most definitely be asked, sitting with pencils in hand and underlining as they read a history textbook; I don’t believe they bond more than they do over a geography book these days, discussing battles and climatic zones, and wildlife and Constitutions, rights and duties, and there, sitting beside them (hopefully), yawning and stretching out in a corner, purely there for moral support, is my little sister.
Every once in a while, she helpfully glances over at her textbook to add a little excitement to their study sessions, you’d see my mum shuffling back and forth between studying teaching my sister and feeding her because she can’t dirty her hands as she studies, and you’d see the little party at 11:30 in the night, my sister sitting as calm as a still lake while my parents prepare for their test the next day… wait, I meant her test!

My dad has reported having had dreams of historic battles.
My mum’s had the classic exam bell ringing dream before my sister’s papers.

When she brings back her test scores, they feel like they’ve just finished their own exam week.
I swear I’m not making this up, they hold hands, heave a sigh of relief and cry out, thank goodness!
The hardships are over with! We can finally sleep!
(And there’s me laughing my head off in the background: hey, I’m the twelfth grader here!)

My parents have an arsenal of knowledge now, they pretty much know the timeline from the B.C.’s to today.
I’m sure mum would be embarrassed and would give me the look for posting this one, but I can’t help it, it’s hilarious!

It’s like the Muse song went, “Is it just Madness keeping us afloat?”

Let It Roll

“Boys don’t cry”… isn’t that their greatest weakness?
The freedom to let loose and just cry your heart out till you shiver is something stigma robs the boys of, doesn’t it.
I’m not implying that we should all be running down the streets with tears in our eyes; I myself am nothing more than a closet weeper- but what I mean is, crying isn’t something anyone- male or female- should be ashamed of. It’s a mark of one’s humanity, of the fact that, in an age of constant drifting apart from ourselves, we still have emotions. If we can admit to writing poetry, (… I’m turning the closet door…) why can’t we admit that crying is just as natural? We consider other forms of expression art, crying too is release!

One reason why I’m a closet crier is for historic reasons. (My history)
As a kid, if I got upset, I cried. And soon, all the other kids despised me- either avoided me, or bullied me, and heck, bullied me to the point that I’m still skeptical of human goodness, an instinct alerts every time someone’s really nice to me and I find myself wondering how and why anyone could be so nice- weren’t they all out to get me?
But anyway, I’ve been pushing such pointless thoughts to the back of my head and basically learning to smile at almost everybody around.
(I feel it’s really something to think about: if you know what it’s like to have a really messed up day, why would you want to ruin someone else’s day, unless you really have to?)
But that doesn’t change the fact that as mean and rough and tough as I make myself out to be (most of the time), I do need to cry sometimes.
I’ll even admit, there are times when I don’t feel like crying, but I wish I could.
I’m no masochist who likes crying, but it is elevating at times. Rise above it all. After a good cry, your troubles aren’t as big, immediate or threatening. They’re just muddles and puddles on your life.

This post actually began as I was listening to the Cure song, Boys Don’t Cry.
I have noticed that girls are open to talking about anything. There will be a slight apprehension to begin and an initial fear of judgement, but once they start, it’s sisterhood stuff, you can spill and cry, we’ll be right behind you.
With the boys, no matter how much brocode may say ‘We boys stand together’, it’s more about standing in solidarity and silence than talking about it. It’s alright to stand together and cry, if you can’t stand strong, isn’t it? Shouldn’t it be?

Everything we are as human beings today is for a reason.
Once upon a time, when humans were still swimming and hunting in water, a white layer from the sclera used to form as a protective film over the eyes, allowing the humans to keep their eyes well open underwater, but no one has those anymore.
Evolution. As we began keeping more and more to the land, natural selection deleted it from our hard drives.
Appendix. Useless today.
Arms and legs, noses and eyes and tongues are still here- at least, at the moment, even as prosthetics and artificial muscles are on the rise (for good, of course)- all for a purpose.

Similarly, if we can still cry, it’s clearly here for a purpose in our stressed human lives. Use it before you lose it, I suppose.

Human beings’ biggest asset has always been their ability to think, and it’s also probably our biggest drawback.
We drew the lines. Evolution has no issues: both males and females have the ability to cry, biologically. It is societal inability that inhibits is, and I guess those stereotypes affect both genders, as in this world of having to prove yourself against every stereotype, a girl finds the need to publicly do away with this release she is entitled to. It bombards the boy before a single tear has been shed: Boys Don’t Cry.
(Don’t worry, the song is against that, not for it. It’s a decent listen too!)
I don’t even know how it must be affecting the third gender. I won’t speak out of non-existent experience.

Are we all sadists? Ironically, by not allowing someone their space to be sad, yes we are.
If the world would frown upon us being happy when things are rough, the least they can do isn’t poke their nose and allow us to be sad.
Let’s not kill ourselves and the few things that separate us from the droids and lifeless planets!
If there were all those songs we’d heard as kids about being happy and knowing it, smile, there’s no shame in it, it’s about time we open up on sadness too. Lessen the load. Don’t kill yourself emotionally.
If you’re sad and you feel it, cry.
It’s nobody else’s business.
Sob, let them roll, stop controlling it. You’ll feel as good as you did when you were happy and smiled.

Screw the limit.

I think the best part about blogging is not having word limits.

They’re everywhere.
They’re all over the English papers, right from elementary to grade 12, dogging you all your life; they’re even in your admission essays!

I’ve always felt trapped by word limits.
That’s because even when I’m on the writing skills section of my English tests, I’m writing for myself, and if I’m not satisfied with it, I don’t care how many marks it may fetch me, I can’t let myself say I’ve had a decent paper. (And then there’s my undoing: when I scratch everything off, everything I could regret towards the rushed end of the exam… and I won’t comment on my teachers’ satisfaction levels then!)

My English paper this time was handed back to me with two and a half paragraphs scratched off and a remark: “Too long!”

Anyhow, that’s besides the point… I was saying, I really like the idea of blogging because there are no word limits. My only ‘limit’ is my eyes’ capacity. A whole different story, that one.

Here’s a fact about me, I was initially hesitant to blog.
The whole idea seemed… well, cliché. I didn’t want to turn into that emotionally overflowing garbage can spouting out deep reflective posts every week, I despised the idea!
The only reason I did begin blogging was because I needed a space to publish the surveys.

I don’t really remember how or when it happened, but I slowly began to actually use my blog. I’d post big-long monologues I’d have with myself. It was no different from thinking, except since what I thought was in front of me, I was less likely to lose my train of thought.
And then, it began flowing.
Pretty much the way I described it above: garbage.
But it felt good. It felt relieving.
It felt like a good puke, if you know what I mean, when you’re sick.
I’m hesitant to use the word therapeutic, because- you know, I’m a rough tough mean not sensitive/emotional kid yada, but well… it was unloading. Let’s leave it at that.
I was beginning to enjoy the process itself. No one ever read them, of course, but there was some sort of satisfaction in hitting the ‘Done’ button on Notes, just scrolling to the top and saying, hey, I’ve had a thought, ooh, look who was supposed to be studying. 😛
Nevermind that…
It’s actually been a year since I began blogging. I’m embarrassed, but I actually remember the date.
8th August, ’16.
Also remember it because it’s my idol Kane Williamson’s birthday. I’m turning into a walking fact-spewing machine. Ah.
I don’t know if I’d consider it that way… when I really began blogging was when the blogger tag fell away.
It’s not really blogging.
Let’s just call it talking.
Me, talking to myself before an invisible audience from all over the planet, most as human as I.
Surprisingly, while I do sometimes feel a bit conscious, that’s the very thing that pushes me to hit the publish button- Shakespeare did say that the world was a stage, and I here stand to be the playwright!


Am I in poor taste?
The product of fallacy and haste?
When life strolls by in everlong grace
I follow in her footsteps and fall on my face

Another assignment laughs at my state,
Remarks I’m the child of a miserable fate:
Endless procrastination and always being late
And my rotten luck
Could give a pessimist run for the buck
Glass half empty or full, I think I broke it

Clockwork world ticks on by
I’ll sit and watch unfazed
I don’t think I can make me try
I’m a waste, waste, waste.

Blue fish
Changing everyday
Idolised by all the parents
For what not to be

Fickle minded, star struck-blinded
Nothing seems to make any sense
Every move’s at my expense
What’s new if I care?

Clockwork world ticks on by
I’ll sit still and unfazed
Nothing you say can make me try
I’m a bored, frustrated waste.

One step forward, two back
Is a life motto- give your toe a crack
Scribble poetry as you sit in the dark
Life’s an amusement park

I’m out of juice and bone dry
I’ll sit around in a daze
Doing nothing is sitting high
Just a bored, frustrated waste.

The Cactus Story

Over the past six months, many people have asked me about this very weird connection I have with cacti.
They’re a symbol of peace, if you ask me.
Instead of saying the same thing over and over again, I’ve decided to put it out— like this.

My school has its classes across two buildings. One building is theirs, in the other, they’ve got a few floors under them.

The topmost floor is a part of our school, and it’s almost isolated from the rest of the school, in a good way.
I love that floor.
It’s also where we have computer class.
The floor’s got two classes connected with a balcony. It’s awesome.

This balcony, high up in the sky, on the 11th floor, is not just for our use during computer.
It’s also where a lot of events are hosted. (Probably because it’s the best hangout spot in school.)

This one time we had a school Open mic, and it was on the terrace. It was the last one before 11th grade got over, so it was kind of special.

My friend was taking part, so I decided to tag along.
(Personally, I was still too afraid to take the stage myself, though I’d wanted to try my hand at poetry.
I’ve been up on a stage before, but being up there to share your feelings with 40 blimming people is something new and made me feel very vulnerable, so I’m still telling myself, next time. I’ll wing it, but I’ll push myself to try. At least to try.)

So I went along, only because my friend was taking part.

She was nervous too, and I was trying to tell her it was going to be okay.
She was doing a standup routine. And she was worried, what if no one laughs when they’re supposed to?

I told her I will, and I’d do it so fucking hard, that the rest of the audience daren’t not join me.

She still looked nervous.

I told her then, that if anything screwed up, I’d open up a chasm below her feet and have it engulf her. She’d never see embarrassment, not on this day!

At least she laughed at that.


Now the mic was held after school. So my pal and I headed out early. [Such distance we had to cover; we needed to cross a threshold and enter the other building, then take the elevator to the 11th floor. Oh, well.]

Her nerves were rubbing off on me too. I found myself pacing around restlessly waiting for her as she talked to some other people on our way. So I told her I’d go on ahead and bag us good seats for the show and wished her luck.

Just my luck, I was the first person to arrive there. The terrace was quiet.

The chairs were set up for a small audience, with empty space: the “stage”, which only looked like one because the colouring of the floor was a bit off there. It’s not exactly in level either, (it was covered with plywood sheets) so it’s an obvious choice for a stage.


This was during the month of February. Believe you me, here, it gets hot in February. I was standing 11 storeys high and sweating.

There was a pull string fan on the wall.

I went over to the fan, next to the “stage”, and pulled the plug.

The fan was only on its lowest speed, and a hot and fidgety me pulled on the plug twice in rapid succession. Fidget spinners weren’t big back then. (I don’t dig those anyway.)

I expected the fan to switch off then, but the strangest thing happened.

Gravity began to come into play.

The stage fell through. It was a secret trapdoor, which had been covered up with plywood.

A passage led through the trapdoor.

Of course, all the fidgeting went out of me. I also realised that I could make my suggestion to my buddy happen.
Of course, though, my friend would rather I didn’t!

I peered down the passage. It led to the eighth floor.

Since our school is in a commercial building, I wasn’t peering down anyone’s house.
(How shocked they’d have been to learn that a trapdoor leads down through their roof!)

On the eighth floor is a horticulture company’s office.

I decided to interfere no more with secrets and legends of old; I pulled the fan plug again. Twice in succession.

The trapdoor closed.

I turned up the fan speed and sat down with an amazed sigh.

Two minutes later, civilisation reemerged, and it felt like the familiar eleventh floor balcony once again.

The kids organising came up, and my friend soon after.
She was to go first. I looked at her in amusement and gave her a thumbs up.
I think she’ll manage without my help, I tell her.

They’d got guest performers from
another school that day, because it was the last of the monthly Mics we’d had, for the year.

A few teachers are up there too.

The performances begin.

My friend opens with her standup routine, and she does fine.
I find her jokes funny, some are concerning me, her puns had the desired effect (that they usually don’t have on me in class,) the audience laughs, and she does fine. No help needed.

The performances go on. A kid has come late. He wants to sign up. The performers were supposed to be here before time. Maybe they’ll accommodate the kid. Maybe they won’t. It’d be sad for him, since he’d obviously have had prepared something, but shucks, I’m not a big fan anyway. Maybe we’d all do better without it.

The guest performers were to go last. But I think the new arrival may end up messing that order up.
Sitting in the audience, they haven’t had a chance to be informed.
The organisers too are kids our age, spare them! They say, screw it, let things take their course.

Some performances are good, some are extravagant, some I’m applauding on because I feel bad for them. I may come back too, you know. I don’t want to begin with boo’s or snoozes.

The guest performers get up in turn, as their hosts introduce them to the audience; the late guy will have to wait.
If anyone else is going to stick around to watch him yap on.

The guest performers are honoured, our authority, pleased, and the guest stars have some interesting stuff to share.

All in all, it’s been a neat wrap, and everyone’s happy.
Oh, almost everyone.

I forget, there’s still that little ink blot.
There now, he’s getting up.
The principal has gotten up and is shaking the guest performers’ hands, congratulating them.
Unofficially, this means we’re through.
Now I can understand you’d feel horrible if someone skipped you altogether. But it would look more embarrassing if this knowledge were made public.
So the organisers say nothing, but look a bit nervous.
But pins are made for a purpose: pricking.

Well, I’ve been enjoying the show so far, and my friend’s got a smile on too, so it just wouldn’t do to ruin the mood here.
Why would you want to screw up the very last event of the year!?

But Mr. Hotshot walks through the pandemonium.

That’s it, I’ve had it.

I decide to use my newfound weapon.

Right behind the guests and the principal, Hotshot walks across the stage.
Of course no one notices him.
There are first time performers revelling in a job well done (managed?), there are guitars and airs and praise.

That’s when I make my move.
Click, click!

Slip, slide, silence.
And no one’s seen a thing.
A clean act!
I think even today, I’m particularly fond of pull-plugs.

(The organisers ought to thank me, by the way.)


On a completely unrelated note, that building our school is in is practically a melting pot.
I did mention once that there are horticulturists there.
I’ve heard of a new trend that’s been doing rounds: apparently, it’s now fashionable to be doing things that are off-season.
In the winter of the city, these guys were growing cacti in their office. Bulk.
I ought to go shopping.



About twenty minutes later, we’re all walking down, asking the organisers when the event will return next year.

And then there are noises.
Weird stuff.
I glance up, oh, we’re passing the eighth floor.
I shrug and say, whatever, I don’t want to find out.
My friend is concerned.
Maybe someone’s dog is hurt?
I tell her I’ll meet her down.
I’ll clear a path for her and the paramedics.

I met her about ten minutes after she discovered an “accident”.

She informed me that our guy is in the hospital, will be for a few months, and will never be able to reproduce again.

I visited him a few months ago, and gifted him a cactus as a little memento.

Survey #36

Temporarily on a hiatus from being lazy, hence a survey.


Q: What do you think would make a good wifi password?

[Disclaimer: This survey’s answers do not indicate that they may be the concerned person’s actual password. The surveyor absolves of all responsibility in this regard. However, if you try any, and you’re in, remember who to come to if you’re interested in having the next survey out anytime soon, considering your super-lazy and slow survey publisher.
Also, I’ll report you after that.
Now that that’s been said, survey results!]

Saarthak: BaapKoBolWifiDalwaye

Marc: Gofryyourbrainandeatit

Sakshi: #…$#…A…B…C…#.
[C#, eh… I should stop conducting these during computer class.]

Rashiv: Speedbreaker

Harshit: cout
[again, reconsidering mixing computers and surveys.]

Adhvait: Getyourownwifi

Shubhankar: eitnekhesjvtj2804
(Anything will do if you know how to use it: birthdate)

Akshay: cout<<“Appadi podu”;

[cout<<“that’s it, I give up”;]

Anushka: tiptip barsa pani, pani mein aaglagaya.

Netra: RowRowRowYourBoatGentlyDownTheStream

[I don’t think passwords can be as long as theirs, actually.]

Saahil: No wifi for you.

Yusuf: Tumsenahopayega.

Anandita: Meralelebhikhari

Anandita #2: WrongPasswordTryAgain

Anandita #3: TellYouWhenIHaveJio

Maulishri: Incorrect/Crackthisnigga

Neha: [the process]
Run the date of the day through at least five different number systems. Then Unicode. Then get a six year old to make it longer by artistic keyboard smashing. Write it on a piece of paper. Put it in a bottle and throw it into the ocean. It’ll come back to you when the time is right. It will.

Mohak: !@mzj#u#s#t@t#r#o#l#l

Shania: NOOOOOO!!!
Shania #2: 123456sorry12345
Shania #3: Whywouldihavewifi??

Richa: YOLO#2020

Jai: Radhema123

Ashay: blowmefirst

Eesha: Sorry?
[I fell for this one five times.]

Manish sir: wifepassword

Unnati: 2444666668888888
(When someone asks you for your password, you say ‘123456’)

Zeba: Thiruvananthapuram

Satchit: password
[yas, I assure you you shall never be hacked.]

Shamila ma’am: <explains me a system of password setting where the particular letter’s number on a phone keyboard is used>

Shalini: wifipassword!

Rishbha: 123451234

Aaliya: 2444666668888888. Then you can say that the password is 12345678.

Anushree: Stude@10. You’re welcome.
[<insert sinister laugh>]

Mahima: DearBeautifulLookings

Lamha: Nowififoryou

Arjun: Aayushiisthebest

Arjun #2: thewifiisslow

Khushi: “The Chemical name of titin. Look it up.”

Anshul: L I L G R T G Q
(That’s “password” in enigma language settings W T F
99% of the people would need an enigma machine (M3-1939) to understand this.)

Aayushi: password
[<bells toll>]

(Nirmiti) Hangry: iknowyouknowit

Nirmiti: MTNLkewifipepornunavailablehaibro.

Vedika: pi3g0n2suck!

Ani: My LIFE, because it’s difficult.

Manasi: “Lebhikarile” is an open wifi in my area. Another one is “CUNTRACTOR”.
-I’ll be right back with 17 more…

Aayush: “Enter button”
[comp kids, why does this sound familiar…?]

Vani: pig30nsuck_

Kritika: pig30nsuck123

[I see a new fan club coming up.]

Shivani: Dobaramatpuchna.

Shrinjay: Nops4u@$$hoLE

Deepan: JohnCena.

Pranav: <Differential Equation>

Lamha: NoNoNoNo / IDontKnow

Manvika: Gottabecliche

Radhika: Sikandar.

Aakansha: いいえあい

Kruthika: getthefuckoffmywifi

They say a goodbye wifi password (a day) keeps the hackers away.

We believe in putting forth a new philosophy: set a wifi password so bad, you absolutely turn off the hacker. For good.