As We Are
MESSAGE FROM DIRECTOR
Another academic year comes to an end as we say goodbye to our graduating batch. Leaving behind the normalcy of life accumulated over the four years, be it going back home to your friends in the hostel at the end of the day, finding solace in the company of like minded people in clubs or frantically pacing around trying to gather notes and books a day before an exam.
I hope this magazine remains as a testament to the time spent here - shaping your future decisions, your interests, ideology and most importantly, you as a person. As you step into a new realm, navigating through much more of life than what was explored here, let “As we are” serve as an alley towards reminiscence of “the good old times”.
I wish you all the very best for your future endeavours. Each one of you is much more capable than you assume yourself to be. Always be ambitious, and most importantly, believe in yourself.
Dr. Anupam Shukla Director
MESSAGE FROM DEAN STUDENT WELFARE
Every year, we watch a new batch arrive—curious, and full of potential. And every year, we watch another batch leave — wiser, and ready to carve their own path. It is the nature of an institute that students move forward, while the teachers remain.
As you step beyond these gates, remember that what you take with you is far more than what was taught in lectures. Over the years, you have not just trained yourself in the theories of engineering, you have trained yourself to think in a certain way—to break down problems, find patterns in chaos till they collapse to give way.
You may not return to these classrooms, but the lessons you carry will serve you long after you’ve left. Stay curious, stay adaptable, and most importantly, trust in your ability to find your way.
Dr. S. R. Patel Dean (Student Welfare)
MESSAGE FROM CHAIRPERSON, RENESA
Stepping out of college is stepping into a whole new world —one that is unpredictable, challenging, and exciting all at once. College changes you in ways you don’t always realize, shaping you into the person you are today.
To the Batch of 2025, you have been an amazing bunch. The hard work you’ve put into sustaining clubs and the legacy you leave behind speaks volumes about your impact on SVNIT. While this year marks the end of your college journey, many new adventures await.
Leaving behind a familiar, repetitive system will bring with it a lot of mixed emotions. Starting from the pain of parting with friends to missing the institute you’ve called home. All good things come to an end, but they leave behind memories to treasure and cherish.
One piece of advice I’d give to the graduating batch: trust your strength, even in your lowest moments. Rejection can be daunting, but it brings invaluable lessons and experiences that shape your path forward.
As the Faculty Chairperson of Renesa, I take immense pride in the effort and dedication the team has put into this edition of the magazine. Their thoughtfulness in creating something meaningful for the graduating seniors is truly commendable. This magazine is a heartfelt farewell, capturing the essence of your journey.
Wishing all the graduating students the very best in their future endeavors.
Dr. Shilpi Gupta, Faculty Chairperson, Renesa - SVNIT
THE EDITORIAL
This is it- the moment we say goodbye to our shared home, our alma mater. Moments of bittersweet contemplation for some, a filmi-styled grand affair as others might make it out to be; a meridian in your life nonetheless. While some might tell you to blink away your tears and not look back, we believe in cherishing the memories that shaped us. This magazine, 'As We Are 2025,' is our way of remembrance: a keepsake of your journey.
Remember when you first stepped through those gates? Wide-eyed and unsure? Time has flown by, transforming you from naive newcomers into the professionals and scholars you are today. The whirlwind of tutorials, class tests, late-night grinds at projects, mentorship sessions with juniors and flash preps for OAs was not always easy. But as those with the green in the blue of their eyes would confirm, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." We hope, that when you look back, you see these years with a smile- as a time of profound growth and unforgettable moments.
What do we have in these pages for you, you ponder? There are pieces ranging from light and hilarious to profound and contemplative. The essence of each department in the form of departmental photos, a few musings of wisdom and care in the guise of exchanges of messages between seniors and juniors (plus a surprise from an alumnus), visual appeal in the form of vivid and elaborate illustrations- we have it all, but what makes all this truly special is you, the only thing we will soon begin to miss.
This magazine is a labour of love, a torch passed down from our seniors and nurtured by our small, passionate team. We aimed to create something meaningful- something you would be proud to hold. And we believe we have achieved that. We hope you feel a sense of peace knowing the club is in capable hands. We will miss the banter, the deliberations over chaas, the encouragement and the occasional, well-intentioned reprimand—all of which made us who we are.
Renesa continues to expand its horizons and grow, venturing into new fields of media and content while still managing to fulfil its core objectives. We will be honest; the weight of this legacy has been challenging. But we are committed to carrying it forward, and we believe that is what truly matters.
To all of you, for the years and the love, thank you. This magazine would not exist without the unwavering support of our faculty advisors. Their guidance was invaluable. And finally, to you, our reader, thank you. Your engagement makes our passion worthwhile. We are grateful you have chosen to share this moment in time with us.
Onwards and Upwards, to the Chasers of the Sublime,
Sebastian John Chacko Chief Editor
Renesa
ARCHITECTS UNSEEN of the
Written By: Prerana Veerla
A foundation is only as strong as the hands that build it. The spotlight does not linger on the silent hands that shaped the present, nor do the voices chant their names. Yet, every corridor, every event, every collective’s gathering carries the imprint of unseen efforts.
The halls once stood dust-laden and silent. Stepping into these halls after the viral outbreak came with its challenges. In the
Designed By: S K Deeraj
forgotten corners of the hostel, a new hand opened a door. The room was an abandoned nest rather than a place to stay —books scattered in haphazard stacks, feathers caught in the corners, dust settling over everything. Much like that neglected room, the collectives were in disarray, struggling to reclaim their form. Scattered ideas, strained efforts, and fading traditions craved steady hands to restore them.
Restoration was not a collective endeavor, not a movement fueled by numbers. A few shoulders bore the weight, and a handful of minds pieced together what was barely surviving. The fewer the shoulders, the heavier the burden. But it was carried anyway. A room once only spoken of in requests now echoes with late-night singing and dance rehearsals. From our hostels, we hear the music, the laughter, the occasional out-of-tune note—it’s become a space full of life.
Claiming that room came with relentless paperwork, endless back-and-forths, the kind of patience only desperation can fuel. The other collective’s publication stumbled on the edge of oblivion. Once forced to stake accreditation in the name of accountability, it stood on fragile ground. It was built by too few and raced against time. Hands worked through starvation, too lost in the ink.
ARTIFICIS IMPEDIMENTO
Written By: Dhanyashree Hegde Designed By: Mansha Maulee
Amongst all the clamour and hubbub of college life at SVNIT, a site of tranquility and a semblance of stillness is at the wall painting, where students lose themselves in the world of hues and tones for almost a month before the fests arrive in spring, serving as a visualization of the abstract themes and a touch of art to the otherwise monotonous atmosphere.
I'd been curious about the know-hows of
painting a wall for a while. Indulging in an art form that seemed so deliciously close to vandalism piqued my interest, and ever since the wall had been whitewashed and a story had been on Instagram about the same the previous night, it'd been a rodent in my brain. Intrigued by the prospect, I find myself up early (read: painstakingly, of course) on a weekend, walking towards the canteen cements. A stream of people assembled, bustling with enthusiasm, before the chalky white wall waiting to be shaded with creativity and meaning reminding me of a naive student entering college anticipating novel, seemingly lifechanging experiences to colour the next four years of his/her life.
The seniors walked us through the reference pictures while dividing them into grids to offer a framework to the endeavour. Grabbing pencils and scales, we started off with sketching rough outlines and altering our drawings until the proportions were satisfactory. Resisting the urge to keep the brand-new stationery for ourselves, we made to leave after having decided on a time to continue the next day. The drawing was an interesting distraction from the academic downhill of the even semester.
Music blared around us from the speaker as we work fabricating a barrier between us and the rest of the world. Gradients of a
myriad of colour palettes begin to emerge on the wall - on one hand the bright orange tapering into grounded hues of brown, while lavender blended into cerulean skies on the other like moments of calm sprinkled amidst a turbulent storm. There was a certain intimacy in unsaid understanding. Although sometimes idle conversation flowed, pirouetting as tinted fractals across a liquid with exchanges of ideas, art forms, mediums and the like. Working on one of the panels, we continued to blend shades of blue and purple with quick strokes of brushes lest the paint should dry out midway. Eventually ending up improvising, brandishing new colours and mixing ratios hoping they matched and merged together smoothly as empty paint tubes began to accumulate. Every colour we lathered on mirrored a new decision, layered onto the many previous shaping up the opus.
Gradually, I found myself walking towards the wall out of habit after my classes, desiring the solace of the hush. We'd developed a rhythm of consonance over the two weeks of painting and seniors essentially overseeing it. Every once in a while, it felt as if eyes of nostalgia peered at us. With the backdrop completed, we were at crossroads with the layout and details of the other elements. Rummaging through stock photos for inspiration, the discussion quickly devolved into a fit of giggles as we stacked up absurd ideas, each one worse than the other. The poor wall remained a forgotten side quest as the laughter
continued for a good hour before we turned back to it.
Time felt simultaneously as transient as a rainbow while stretching out like the daylight of a summer evening. At a six week mark, the novelty of a new habit had worn off along with the completion of the major part of the piece. Every day a new detail was waiting to be finished, a new flaw to be fixed, a minute highlight to be added. The eyes had a visible layer of paint from being redone multiple times, windows were yet to be added to the buildings, and the time loom needed colour. It'd started to seem like a chore as barely anyone came, and the work appeared to multiply. Like a guest who'd overstayed their welcome. Alas, The drudgery of working through finishing an art piece by no means decreases the gratification of finishing it.
When the wall had had its last dab of paint on it, fitting our foresight, we gathered at the wall one last time for group photos. While the completion was a bittersweet sight to us - primed into routine, we found out it's a kind of tradition to climb onto the wall. Elated, we got on with it, standing atop the wall, posing in goofy ways as people stared as they walked by. In a place seemingly unfamiliar, finding a sense of belonging among strangers is not an easy feat, but oftentimes a fleeting moment of working on something you like, working together on something you like, can make all the difference.
THE SEAS WE SAIL
Written By: Mythrayi
Construction is complete, and the cargo is loaded—smoke curls gently from the chimneys. The ships are ready. Today, the anchors rise, and each vessel is free to chart its own course.
College experience arrived in waves—fests, Garba, mid-sems, Diwali, end-sems—each with its own rhythm. Some waves crashed hard, pulling us under deadlines and stress, while others lifted us up, letting us surf on
Designed By: Sri Vishal Narlanka
celebrations and camaraderie.
But beneath it all, a structure kept us afloat. Even on days when motivation ran low, there was always something to settle into— classrooms, assignments, shared struggles with peers. The goal was clear: graduate first, contemplate life later. This structure imposed order, preventing chaos from swallowing us whole. But now, as we leave, the anchors lift. The weight that once grounded us fades, just as it did when we left school. Outside these structured enclosures, we gain freedom—or so it seems.
For years, we moved through systems that shaped our actions in different ways—first discipline, then control. School was discipline: uniforms, timetables, bedtime rules. Everything was dictated, individuality irrelevant. Order was imposed, obedience expected. It was productive, ensuring tasks were completed, but freedom and autonomy remained trapped under the low ceilings of discipline. Then came college, which promised freedom by trading disciplinarian structure for something subtler—control. The walls expanded, the ceiling rose, and the rules softened. Deadlines, exams, and academic structures still guided us, and we learned to navigate them on our terms—deciding when to study, when to sleep, when to party. We followed
FROM VOID
Written By: Harini Mandapaka Designed By: Varsha Shabolu
11/11/2021
Thursday
Dear Diary,
"The day was grey, its air still and heavy, the clouds seeming to crouch on the roofs, waiting." –Virginia Woolf (The Waves)
I do not recall how I arrived here, only that the weight of something nameless pressed
me into this chasm. Time drifts, untethered. The days melt into nights, the hum of distant conversations fading as I float around the campus. It’s strange how quickly everything dulls. The colors, the noise, the people. I thought solitude would be peaceful. It isn’t. The world moves on, bright and oblivious, while I linger in the spaces between. I’m the shadow who sometimes doesn’t know whether I want to be seen or simply disappear.
Poetic whispers filled the air. An ominous voice said, “This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” another echoes. The tears pooled up involuntarily, and I helplessly watched them flow because I know they’ll eventually dry; they always do. The worst part is that I just cannot pinpoint the reason behind this insurmountable grief either. I keep worrying about the future with a nagging sense of being good, but never enough. The darkness threatens to swallow me whole. I don’t resist but I can’t seem to succumb either. “And indeed there will be time to wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’” a faint voice nudged.
As I fought a losing battle to silence the voices, yearning for a moment of peace,
I swirled sluggishly toward those same old stairs to bide time before retiring for the day. There was something different in the air, something new yet vaguely familiar. I found a group of enchanting shades of grey engrossed in a discussion, unbothered by their surroundings. The discussion seems to be about opinions on a novel I recently finished. I lost myself in the discussion and let out an uninhibited chuckle at a hilarious comment, garnering all of their attention. After a few beats of awkward silence, one of them scooted over. I released a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. As they naturally welcomed me like I always belonged, I pondered about how many weeks it has been since there has been any semblance of a smile on my face. That’s not what surprises me the most, though; it’s the flickers of colors that pop when they passionately talk about their opinion. I wonder if I’ll ever be capable of that, but deep down, I know I’ll stick around to find out. The discussion slowly turned into gossip, and it felt like the frog from the well is out in the ocean. As I walked back, for the first time in forever, the thought that my abyss isn’t as deep as it seems tinkered my brain. Now that I know deeper chaos and that uncertainty on a level more unimaginable than mine exists in those enchanted greys, I feel a tiny bit lighter.
I grin to myself as I finish reading the
entry written on a folded piece of paper from three and a half years ago. There are small stains in the corners, perhaps from spilled tea, or the careless touch of time. I hold it up to the dim light of the auditorium, and for a moment, the past breathes again. I carefully tuck the paper back into my pocket.
It still feels surreal, like how it all happened only a couple of weeks ago. I distinctly remember how on days I couldn’t bear to be me, their stories of survival and adaptation kept me going, propelling me to fight the war with all I got. Today, I, as a survivor, am grateful for that one random day they took me in.
I step onto the stage, the weight of years pressing against my ribs. The auditorium is foreign, belonging to an institution that is not my own in any sense, a fitting irony I suppose. The degree is placed in my hands, a symbol of what was lost, what was salvaged, and what was rebuilt.
I look out at the faces, some familiar, some distant, some imagined. I nod to the void, which nods back.
I am not what I once was.
But I am.
INTERNAL AFFAIRS
Written By: S K Deeraj
________________
File: Internal Restructuring Notice
Subject: Role Reallocations & Operational Adjustments
To whom it may concern,
An extensive internal review has determined that certain long-standing
Designed By: Poojita Mukundan
personnel within the Emotional Governance Department will undergo role adjustments. These entities—hereafter referred to as emotional constructs—have historically played key roles in cognitive processing and overall psyche maintenance. However, operational inefficiencies have necessitated reassessment. This is not a termination notice. Select roles will transition into advisory capacities. While certain constructs may no longer have direct authority, their insights remain available for consultation. We advise all personnel to adjust accordingly. Interviews with HR to review these role adjustments will be scheduled soon.
Regards.
“Next.”
________________
The door opened with all the enthusiasm of a student showing up to an 8 AM lecture. the faint scent of yesterday’s coffee clung to them like an old habit.
"Can we do this at never o’clock on the 32nd of Neveruary? I have a riveting documentary about paint drying that I simply cannot miss."
HR didn’t look up. Their pen scratched
"Existential crises over paper cuts aren't sustainable." Angst scoffed. “Let me tell you something—when the weight of adulthood crushes you, and your Spotify Wrapped is just sad jazz and tax reminders? You’ll miss me.”
"For now, we have assigned you an advisory position in Reflection and Artistic Expression. Moments of frustration or nostalgia will still call upon you—but as a guide, not a decision-maker.”
Angst exhaled through their nose but stood. They left the door slightly ajar—because slamming it would be too obvious.
A heavier presence followed, unannounced but unmistakable. The chair across the desk was already occupied. HR didn’t remember them entering.
“Surprised to see me?” their voice was silk over steel.
HR exhaled. “Not really.”
Change smiled. “Always shuffling the deck chairs on the Titanic, aren’t we?”
HR tapped the pen against the desk. “That’s the job.”
Change leaned forward, elbows on the table, and whispered, “No, darling. That’s me.”
HR flipped to the final page of the report, the one that had been signed long before this meeting began.
‘Change: Permanent Residency.’ The ink had never really been wet.
"We continue," HR said.
"As always. Though, ‘continue’ is such a linear concept."
Change stood, but so did HR. Two movements, one action. Two figures, one presence. A trick of the light, perhaps.
“They never see me coming,” Change murmured, almost absentmindedly.
HR exhaled. “They never see us coming.”
Change smiled — the kind that wasn’t meant to comfort.
"Yes. That.”
HR looked down at the papers. It had always been theater. There had never been a choice, just the comforting delusion of agency. People believed they had control, but Change never asked.
HR pushed the folder aside.
“We should go.”
"We already have."
The chair scraped back. Footsteps echoed in an empty office. The door swung shut behind no one. On the desk, the nameplate caught the last slant of light from the window.
A small, polished plaque:
CHANGE, Head of Human Resources.
And just beneath it, a sticky note, scrawled in handwriting that wasn’t there a second ago: “See you soon.”
The office was empty. But the work continued. And somewhere in the filing cabinet, a familiar document waited:
File: Internal Restructuring Notice
Subject: Role Reallocations & Operational Adjustments
The date on it? Tomorrow.
The labour of relocation is a consequence of an observed law: At rest if at rest, in motion if in motion, unless. We observe the abhorrence of change by the grand machinery of the universe and yet, the laws which favour stasis also allow for elemental madness: entropy. Life, as an antithesis of disorder, demands expenditure of energy. Animals migrate vast distances in a Darwinian test of strength, risking life and limb, driven by the primal need for sustenance, growth and evolution. While human ingenuity has made travel remarkably convenient, the fundamental challenge of the preparation itself remains. Have we truly transcended nature's trial; the survival of the fittest, in all its forms?
In the yearly ritual of changing hostel rooms, a student can embrace relocation as an opportunity. With each passing year, people vacate haunts for fresh faces, while simultaneously inheriting the caves (and the formulae inked on the walls) of those who stayed before. In a way, we become inheritors of memory and legend.
The annual self-audit of possessions becomes a calibration of the self. We evaluate our connections —new, old, broken, or beyond repair. In an almost meditative process, we learn to travel light, to discern what to leave behind and what to carry with us into the next year, the next room, the next chapter.
Every hostel common room has a multitude of stories with each wrapped package. Every mattress left behind is a familiar comfort abandoned for progress- to work towards a better mattress. Every new year, locals bear their stuff homeward, and the distant leave theirs to rooms and keepers' care. On their return, the slate is washed fresh and new lines of growth are drawn, rarely straight, but onwards and upwards. Friends convene with snacks from home, and all is well until one is alone.
It remains to unbox what had been sealed. If only packing and unpacking were as easy as compressing and extracting .zip files. A new business idea for Haldiram’s, perhaps?
APPROVAL CHRONICLES
Written By: Samridhi Singh Designed By: Karthik Suryanarayanan
called him at two today.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Ringggggg…
Hrishab sighed and looked up at the clock, ten o'clock it said. Hrishab looked at his watch, which said two. He contemplated fixing it again but then decided against it. After all, he liked watching his orangutanesque senior, Adarsh, all startled with the sound, hitting his bulbous head in the process. Oh, how he wished it was ten. He recalled how Pashmina madam had
He didn’t want to visit the approval section anymore; it wasn’t his job. His subordinates are now in charge of the to-and-fro for the documentation. Approvals were a hard job. You needed the patience and perseverance of a monk and the oratory skills of Churchill to go about it. Hrishab had mastered the art, he’d go there at the right time, sweet talk the manager, Pashmina, and the peon, Saksham, and fill them in on the office chronicles. At times, he had to spend hours waiting for the concerned officials to arrive. Casual conversations kept him going. As much as he had grown fond of the receptionist Ms D'Souza’s Mysore paks, or Saksham’s endless vows towards celibacy, he was done with that work.
Fate, however, forced him to visit the approval section every week, waiting hours on end. This time, it was the roadway repair of the Ambala-Kalka highway, the monsoon was forecasted to arrive in a week, and the work should’ve started two weeks ago. But the PWD department wasn't clearing the construction papers. The papers were being returned citing ludicrous reasons, somehow the quotations were always wrong, the names had discrepancies, or worse, the alignment was incorrect. Hrishab’s subordinates were frustrated and begged him to get it done.
When Hrishab reached the section, it was more chaotic than usual. Before he could process the setting, he was swiftly handed a samosa by Saksham. Upon questioning, Saksham replied that the senior manager was finally blessed with a daughter after ten years. In his words, “ab aap bhi humare department ka hi hissa ho, almost daily you come”.
The final line hit Hrishab like a truck, he felt as if his progress, his work, his promotions, all were reduced to that one line, with the amount of time he had to spend doing its work, he technically was still a part of that department. He internally promised himself that this was his last run for permission ever. The plan was to quickly hand the sheet to Pashmina ma'am and leave the collection to his juniors. ________________
Pashmina's cabin was what the Indian government stood for – the amount of work done was always equal to the amount of work still left. He sighed, looking at the peeling walls stacked up with ancient files. He internally lamented the monotonous nature of work here, and that too, without the perk of permanence. Musing along the way, he reached her desk which was busier than usual. Pashmina quickly took the document from his hand without looking at him.
“Arre yeh fir overquote kardiya aapne?" said Pashmina and handed it back almost as soon as she took it.
“But now it's fine, I checked personally,” said Hrishab as Pashmina looked up.
Pashmina, surprised to see Hrishab here, greeted him.
She carefully took the papers back again and whispered,
“See, these papers are not going to be forwarded for two weeks. After that, I'll make sure this gets fast tracked. The contractor's
daughter is due to get married this week, and the highway is the route for dulhe ki baraat, I am invited too,” she said, swiftly handing them back.
“We have terrible rainfall predicted for the entire month, we cannot wait that long. The vehicles have to be rerouted and the construction has been long due, a baraat can wait. Besides, why this contractor only?” said a frustrated Hrishab, getting louder with every word.
“Ashok sir is the official government contractor, you could quote the lowest possible number and yet he'll win the tender,” Said Pashmina casually.
“But-”
“What but? Also, how can a muhurat wait? See, I can't help you with it. Ashokji can help you out or maybe his right hand, Rajubesides God, of course”, said Pashmina, joining her hands dramatically.
_______________
Right-hand Raju had been on the police’s hitlist for shooting the magistrate’s dog over a tender argument and had been missing ever since.
Hrishab, scared by this new revelation yet firm, decided to meet the contractor himself at his quarters. If this was his last permission, he had to get it signed.
Ashok Agarwal's quarters were a testament to a contractor’s paycheck. He was welcomed by a howling German shepherd and two enormous lion statues. He spotted Adarsh with his scooter near the pan shop. Hrishab didn t know that fatty smoked. Had known, he could’ve saved the auto fare to Ashok s house. As the door was opened by his staff, Hrishab s eyes met hideous banners saying “Disha weds Sahil” and a ginormous LED placard that said #SahiDishaMein.
Welcome welcome, lighting or flower-wale
NOT STRANDED so
Written By: Dhananjay Gopal
“Hair’s everything.”
~Fleabag
Day 50
“Alright, you woke up at 9 am on a Sunday for this,” you say to yourself. The drudgery
Designed By: S K Deeraj
of the morning routine is a soporific obligation. The sun is beating down in all its glory as the trees sway in distress, their branches whispering words of calm to alleviate the starlit fury. The Freshers’ Party is just a couple of days away, and your hair is a denser crop than an evergreen canopy. A consultation with the Council of Cousins (CoC) has ascertained that you must get a trim before the all-important blastoff of your social life. Looking ‘cool’ is paramount, the need to do so being the driving force as you tread towards the salon your roommate recommended.
You enter the salon armed with a photo of Tommy Shelby, the embodiment of nonchalance, as prescribed by the CoC. The shop is a solemn establishment, with mirrors lining both walls, while the entrance is adorned with photos of celebrities. The counter is decked shabbily with an assortment of hair and beauty products, not organised in the apparent order of application. A single barber mans the salon, “My partner has gone for tea and snacks. He’ll be back in a while. I hope he brings something for me as well, that tyrant,” he says. He takes a look at Tommy, and his face instantly lights up.
You urge yourself to sit motionless and watch as your evergreen crop sheds its leaves like in the fall. A drop of clear liquid
is on your forehead; is it sweat or the hair spray? You pluck your nails and fidget with the apron straps. Is this your most confident decision? Not at all. But, as Disraeli said, you prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
Day 500
It is that time again. You have procrastinated for as long as possible but are now helpless in the face of your parents’ displeasure. “We aren’t letting you go to college looking like a mushroom,” says dear Mother.
You drag yourself to the nearest salon you find and plop yourself down on the chair. The cloudy sky reflects your lethargy. You feel your smooth, silky hair in all its glory for one last time. The salon itself is decent, clean, and organised, equipped with all tools and amenities, but not too extravagant. “Just cut it to medium-length,” you tell the stylist. You surrender to him as he rolls your head around, sneaking periodic peeks in the mirror to ensure it is not headed toward disaster. Kumar Sanu bellows out of the speaker, the scissors and spray being his percussion, while the trimmer provides the backing melody.
However, an unnerving self-consciousness creeps in as you are transformed from a mushroom to a pineapple. The ‘what-ifs’ begin to pop up, shrouding you in uneasiness. “Good enough?” asks the stylist as he turns you towards the mirror. You feel a lump forming in your throat as you try to find a morsel of elegance in the deluge of disappointment. You look for objects to curse but come up blank. Your face contorts itself in a twist of anguish as the stylist tidies up. You look for something to
salvage what’s staring back at you.
However , “It’s great, thank you,” is all you utter as you exit the shop. The world’s eyes fall on you; embarrassment churns your insides. All you do is pray that the post-cut shampoo spares your blushes.
Day 1000
Your first interview is scheduled in the evening. Your only assignment for the day is getting a competent, professional
haircut, having studied all you could have. After intensive research, you have picked the city's crème de la crème of salons. Multiple stylists buzz about the parlour, each carrying out different regimens with obscure-looking tools. Showcases filled with top-of-the-line beauty products line the passage. Lemon from the air freshener mingles perfectly with the smooth jazz in the background.
“Trim the sides on 4 on the trimmer, then shorten the front just a bit,” you say.
The specificity of your instructions makes the stylist grow a determined look. Your decision fills you with confidence as he gets to work.
As the rhythmic snip of the scissors fills the air, you recollect everything you have studied, taking mental notes and highlighting important points. You try to concentrate but soon realise you are as prepared as possible. You try to anchor your mind to the present, but the buzz of the trimmer, the fragrance of the spray, and the falling hair tug at something deeper. Haircuts have always marked transitions.
Every trim has left an imprint, from the sleeper-hit Tommy Shelby cut at the Freshers’ Party to the now-infamous pineapple cut. The moments in between come rushing in—from skirting the rules, the thrill of mischief, and the exhaustion of all-nighters to lessons in resilience and finding strength in adversity.
You exhale as you sink into the memories, inviting a glower from the stylist.
Just as the past threatens to pull you under, you are jolted out of your reverie by a sharp stroke of the razor along the back of your head, refining the lines of the cut. The strokes are deliberate and precise, just like the person you have become. With the final
clip, you take a look in the mirror. For a moment, you see a sprout at the back. But one brush with your hand and it’s gone. Now, there is no apprehension, only the quiet certainty of knowing you are ready. As you step out into the clear of the day, head held high, you feel a surge of optimism along with a warm gust of wind.
“It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”
MESSAGES for the graduates
To: Hrishikesh Makwana
You have been more than just a senior to me since our first interaction. You have been a great friend, it's a friendship I'll cherish forever. It has been an amazing experience to work with you filled with laughs and learnings. Your constant trust and support have meant a lot to me. I want to thank you for all the help and wish you the very best for the journey ahead.
From:RatneshRanjan
To: Geetanjali G
You’ve been that quiet force—steady, sharp, and always there when it mattered. It’s strange to imagine college without you, but yeah, ‘How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.’ Wishing you all the warmth you so effortlessly gave. Wherever you go next, may you always find the quiet kind of magic you’ve left behind here.
From:Anonymous
To: Siddharth Bharad
I had an absolute blast with you last year, it will stay in my memory always. Glad to have crossed paths with you and thank you for introducing to your amazing set of friends who were always there by my side. Farewell, and best of luck in everything you do.
From:Pratyasha
To: The Renesa Seniors, Batch ‘25
Meeting you guys was one of the best things to happen to me, and for that, thank you.
From:Deeraj
To: To all my seniors
A Farewell Note to the Class of '25
It feels bittersweet watching the '25 batch prepare to leave these hallowed halls, knowing we are now, a year closer to our own . Time really does slip through our fingers like the last grains of sand in an hourglass , doesn't it?
This note isn't about us though. It's for my seniors of the '25 batch. You people possess wisdom and knowledge that I can only aspire to , and I'm not here to offer advice like some sage. Rather, I'm here to be the unofficial historian of your SVNIT journey.
Let me remind you of your college life. Those countless memories you have gathered like precious stones , all these years.
Remember the laughters you people had at the College Canteen, long after the classes ended? The impromptu meets at the CRC lawns , and the ritual pilgrimages for the Vadapav and Sugarcane Juice outside the main gate , our unofficial college cuisine , that sustained both our body and pocket. The people who started as strangers and somehow become the family you never know you needed.
Now as you enter into the real world , a jungle more vast and untamed than our protected campus ecosystem , I wish you courage for the journey ahead. The world may be bigger and occasionally meaner than expected , but remember , you were forged in the crucible of allnighters, deadlines, tests , submissions, which seemed impossible until you aced them.
As you step into your next chapter , go boldy , break boundaries , and rebuild them with better blueprints than before. After all, we're engineers.
From:ASaiKoundinya
MESSAGES for the juniors
To: Fellow free-spirits
By the time I entered this college, I was listless and grey-eyed. I did not have preferences, ambitions, or excitement, not after all three of these and my free-spiritedness had been given such little power and time over the last two years. However, by the time I’m writing this to you, I’m different. Different for the better.
What specific turns my life took in these streets of SVNIT isn’t of special significance. What I’d like you to know is that a lot can happen in your few years here. What I found was that there existed ways for me to express my freespiritedness while doing this thing called engineering. That if I worked hard enough, I could live two lives at the price of one.
So, all I’d like to say to you is this – if you feel like you’re surrounded in a world of snow, but your heart feels made of flames; if you’ve ever felt the creative urge in you, restive and uprising, then please never neglect to give such feelings power and time. Let them grow and burn your heart away!
From: HimanshuThakur
To: James Mejulan
Thambi
Keep working hard. Make the most of your time and wish you find what means the most to you through these years in college
From:ArunKumarM
To: LAC members
It feels surreal to write this message, as I never imagined that my journey with this club would continue until I graduated. My love for quizzing drew me to the club, but funnily enough, I was least involved in the quizzing aspect during my time here.
What this truly showed me is that this club is a place where people with diverse interests come together. They agree and disagree, but most importantly, they learn to explore new interests and form meaningful connections. To all the first-years in the club, I hope you stick around long enough to experience all sides of it. It might feel slow at first, but once things start picking up, you’ll grow to love this place. To the second and third-years—keep engaging in discussions, uphold the integrity of your batchmates and juniors, because only unity will take you forward.
I have had some of the best moments of my college life here. From being a member to a joint secretary and finally the secretary, I have seen people who initially felt out of place but eventually grew to love this club wholeheartedly (maybe I am one of them too). This place teaches you the importance of community while also placing individual responsibility on you.
My best wishes to the entire committee in all their future endeavors. It has been a pleasure to be a part of this club and to serve it to the best of my abilities. As one of my dear seniors once acronymed LAC as "Love Always Conquers," I hope the spirit of love, in the form of friendships, keeps you all together, bringing even more success.
From:HrishikeshMakwana
MESSAGES for the juniors
To: All juniors
Work hard and aim for good placements. NIT is one of the best platforms for growth, so always compare yourself with others, not in terms of success, but in terms of the hard work you put in. Remember, we all have the same NIT platform; what matters is how you use it for your personal and professional growth. All the best, focus on securing a good placement because, at the end of college, being placed is what truly matters. Avoid showing off, and keep your friendships and relationships private.
From:VinithaHanumanthu
To: Every junior out there
Diverse backgrounds are a reality in the world, but maybe not at SVNIT.
This may contribute to the homogenity of the peer group. This puts us at a disadvantage compared to other IITs and NITs.
To prevent this, engage in different pursuits, and learn the subject, rather than running behind 30 LPA packages.
Think long term.
Enjoy your time in college.
Learn a lot, build a lot.
From: Dhruv Kulkarni
DEPARTMENTAL PHOTOS
CIVIL ENGINEERING
DEPARTMENTAL PHOTOS
MECHANICAL ENGINEERING
CHEMICAL ENGINEERING
DEPARTMENTAL PHOTOS
ELECTRICAL ENGINEERING
ALUMNI MESSAGE
Once Upon A Campus
By: Dr. R. Kailasham
I took a flight from Indore to Surat on 6th October 2024. I subsequently boarded the BRTS bus from the airport to SVNIT main gate. Neither of the above sentences would have been true in 2013, the year I graduated from SVNIT. A chance meeting with Team RENESA on campus the next day led to a podcast and this article. Here is what I would like to share with all my juniors on campus:
When Moses freed the Jewish people who had been enslaved by the Pharoah of Egypt, they did not immediately reach their Promised Land upon crossing the Red Sea. It took about 40 years of wandering through the desert, before they could fully rejoice in their freedom. Along the way they figured out their own identity, responsibilities, and rules for self-governance. I cannot think of a better metaphor to describe the four-year transition period from school student to engineering graduate.
Follow your true north. In my case, it was thermodynamics. I had two departmental electives worth of this subject and when an elective was being offered in the Mechanical Engineering department, I jumped at the opportunity. I followed the trail of thermodynamics and statistical mechanics whenever I could, so much so that my research career is built on these topics.
To know what your true north, you need to be acutely perceptive of your own gut feelings and instinct. Stay away from anything that numbs or dulls your sense of perception. As a corollary, develop a thick skin. Learn to distinguish between the criticism of your wellwishers, and that of those who seek to belittle you.
Learn to cook. Learn to drive. Get a drivers’ license. Read Murakami and Huxley. Explore the city by bus. Learn at least a few lines of Gujarati. Visit the Narmad Central Library. Probe the edges of your comfort zone.
The phrase “alma mater” literally means “nourishing mother” and is an indicator of the best possible use of your time in the institute. Plant a fragment of a dream while you are within the walls of the insti, and watch it multiply a hundredfold. I started a blog in my second year of college, and the material I wrote since then became the core of the short-story collection “No Stranger Conversations” that I published nearly eight years after my graduation.
To the ones graduating this summer: the world is an ocean of conditional love, in which you would be lucky to find an island of unconditional love. Cherish whoever belongs on that island. The world owes you nothing. You are now a link in a golden chain that stretches both ways in time: from the inception of the institute to the as yet uninitiated students. Keep the chain intact by giving without being asked and receiving without hesitation.
DISCLAIMER: The views expressed in the article are solely subjective, and do not represent the opinions of the author's employer.
GUEST SUBMISSION
Winner Looser
By: Anirudh Peri
Let me introduce you to someone, a character that might’ve been considered full of personality a few centuries ago. Today, he is an indisposition. Winner Looser is, upon first glance, a rather principled individual. He speaks like a gentleman, talks like a diplomat, and has the understanding of a scholar. Maybe this itself, in today's day, is telling.
Within Looser’s mind, a certain neural mapping had developed pretty early on, when he was more mature than his peers. A combination of curving and ever expanding paths that made sure that he would never be wrong. And how could he ever be? He stood by his principles, he studied as much as he deemed necessary, and he never cut corners. How could he cut corners, when all the paths in his brain were smooth curves?. Ofcourse, it need not be said that he was smart, and any person with principles and sense knows that you don’t go around announcing your principles. Looser was clear about this, he always made sure to let people know his opinions but of course, there was a time and place for everything. He knew that speaking should be done discreetly, lest it cause him any inconveniences.
Looser knew without a doubt that qualified people always made it big. People always said that he, Mr. Winner as people liked to call him, had the potential to make it big. Naturally, he knew they were right, because he was always right. He’d be somewhere to make a difference, he’d be qualified enough that his choices would alter the course of whoever he was affiliated with. He just had to put in as much effort as he could and get there. No possible way for that to be short of enough, he just knew it.
He realised that this made the choice of where he put his efforts doubly important. He wanted to be at the right place, for that place to matter. But not all the right places could compensate him for his skills, and he wasn’t sure he’d enjoy being uncomfortable. Even if it was for the good of others, why should he suffer? Yet, he liked being challenged. All famous people overcame hardship, and maybe he should face hardship to prove himself. But then, could he face the hardships from his couch? would make it trouble-free, right?. Sometimes though, Looser felt that life could’ve at least helped him realise his potential. Instead, he had experiences he couldn’t share with anyone. For who would even understand him and what he has been through. Heck, he could be so much more if he didn’t have to deal with so much. Truly, life is what made him more mature than his years.
Now that you know Winner Looser, you should definitely talk to him. There’s so much to be gained from talking to such personalities.
GUEST SUBMISSION
Eclipsed in Time
By: Ishika Sanghavi
Made of stardust, Entangled in wanderlust. All confined in one universe, Justifying their own curse.
Although no philosophy taught, Everyone has something to plot. We gathered to confirm our parity, Wish there existed some clarity.
When the scientist in us failed, Tesla Newton Rutherford hailed. Each face had something to say, Not sure whom and how to pray.
There is no glitch in the Matrix, We got nothing but grave risks. We were and are meant to be here, Not a mistake, but a beautiful fear.
I look back at what I call home, And I gasp at the pale blue dot. A realm of infinite emotions, Where space weaves futuristic notions.
This journey now comes to an end, Exploration is my only friend. How do I face my fading light, When life was never truly bright?
Time to fade from this place, Hoping to leave an eternal trace. Waiting for the loop to end, Making sure we don't bend.
DOWN THE MEMORY LANE
DOWN THE MEMORY LANE
Sebastian John Chacko Chief Editor
Samridhi Singh Junior Editor
Mythrayi Junior Editor
S K Deeraj Junior Editor
WRITERS
Harini Mandapaka Senior Editor
Anantha Narayanan Junior Editor
Prerana Veerla Junior Editor
Bhumika Patel Junior Editor
Misbah Shaikh Senior Editor
Dhanyashree Hegde Junior Editor
Dhananjay Gopal Junior Editor
Divya Iyer Junior Editor
DESIGNERS
Varsha Shabolu Chief Designer
Mansha Maulee Senior Designer
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S K SeniorDeeraj Designer (C, BS)
Shrutika Ingole Senior Designer (CS)
Karthik Suryanarayanan Senior Designer (BS)
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