“Main akela hi chala tha janib-e-manzil magar,
Log saath aate gaye aur karwaan banta gaya.”
Every farewell has a story behind it. This one did not begin in sarees and smiles. It began on the first day young women walked into , some overdressed, some underconfident, and most pretending they knew exactly where Room no. 12 was.
They did not.
They also did not fully know who they were.
Some came from strict homes where speaking loudly was considered rebellion(Still living in the 18th century era).Some came from schools where marks defined identity (they don’t. No one really asks me about my class 7th percentage now. ). Some arrived with confidence that looked solid on the outside but cracked the moment a teacher said, “Start with your presentation.”(She will not be giving internal marks anyway)
That is where this story begins. Not at that unofficial farewell party, but at uncertainty.
If someone had told them then that one day they would stand here, arguing fearlessly in classrooms(perhaps about fans being switched off or on in the classroom), negotiating group projects like diplomats, and choosing their own paths without asking ten people for validation, they would have laughed. (They might still do, because it is not a bollywood movie where a character visibly transforms within the span of a 5 minute motivational song)
So growth here was not dramatic. It was subtle. It happened in small, almost forgettable moments.
The first time a student disagreed with a professor and did not immediately apologize.
The first time she said no to something that made her uncomfortable.
The first time she chose her own opinion over approval.
That is where the change began.
Somewhere between lectures and chai breaks in the Pandey canteen, they stopped being background characters in their own lives. Take the debates, for example. What started as random arguments about the college website being down slowly turned into discussions about careers, independence, marriage, and choices. The same girls who once said, “I will just do what my parents decide,” gradually began saying, “I think I want something different.” Oh, how do I not focus on the fact that today she ordered a burger for herself while her friends opted differently for a plate of chilli potato. There was a time when she would just say- I can’t choose, please order for me.
Today in the most subtle form, she is choosing to become the woman she was supposed to be.
Not loudly. Not rebelliously. Just honestly.
And that honesty is where strength comes from.
Now comes the saree.
For many of them, this was their first proper saree experience. It involved chaos. Safety pins everywhere. Pleats that refused to cooperate. One friend holding the pallu, another watching a YouTube tutorial, and someone in the corner dramatically declaring, “I cannot breathe in this.”
And yet, once it was done, something shifted.
They looked at themselves differently. Not just for an Instagram worthy picture but a look in the mirror that was somehow a version of the mirror of ERISED in our favourite Harry Potter series.
Today they looked at themselves as the women they desired to become.
The saree, often seen merely as a symbol of tradition, suddenly became something else. No restriction. Not expectation. Expression.
“Because on this day, they were not wearing it because they were told to. They were wearing it because they chose to.”
That difference matters.
It changes everything. No one can impose their choices on us now. Be it an oversized t-shirt, a western top, a chikankari kurti or a saree. It is now up to us to decide( yeah, of course except our girl gang- those goofballs always decide my outfits over video calls)
It is undoubtedly our college life where we experience peak girlhood. All those shared stories, lipgloss, trauma, advice and support.(thank you for recommending those Kashmiri chooris- I love them and I love you) And as they bid farewell to each other they never bid a farewell to the girlhood. It stays and lives with them for the rest of their lives.
Now,
There is a comparison here that feels impossible to ignore: the idea of vidai. Being a girl and witnessing that moment on a tired morning after a joyous wedding was nothing short of a canon event. I remember standing there puzzled and wondering why all the grown ups were crying while ‘Babul ki duayein leti ja’ played in the background.
Of course the same girls now cry similarly at their farewell but there is a stark difference.
In many Indian traditions, a woman leaving a place is often associated with adjustment, compromise, and stepping into roles already written for her. There is emotion, but there is also expectation.
This farewell is not that.
They are not leaving to fit into something.
They are leaving after shaping themselves.
They are not stepping into predefined roles. They are stepping into choices.
And if those choices do not exist, they now know how to create them.
Let’s also recall that another thing college quietly teaches is unlearning.
Unlearning the idea that being “too ambitious” is a flaw.
Unlearning the habit of shrinking opinions to make others comfortable. (Even if that makes you a vamp in an Ekta Kapoor serial)
Unlearning the belief that confidence has to look a certain way.
Here, confidence took many forms.
For one student, it was speaking on stage.
For another, it was simply introducing herself without fear.
For some, it was walking away from friendships that no longer felt right.
Not everything was glamorous. Not everything was poetic. But everything was real.
And of course, it would be dishonest to pretend these years were only serious and self-reflective.
They were also the generation that panicked five minutes before submissions.
The ones who confidently declared, “This semester, serious padhai begins,” only to repeat the same promise every term.
The ones who made elaborate life plans during emotional evenings and forgot them by breakfast.
They laughed loudly. Sometimes at the wrong time. Sometimes for no reason at all.
And maybe that is what made this place feel like more than just a university.
It felt like a space where they were allowed to be incomplete.
If someone were to look at them today, they would not just see students graduating (as I now do, dear seniors).
They would see individuals who learned to question, to choose, and to stand their ground, even if their voices shook.
The sky belongs to them. The wings are their own, and they don’t need permission to fly.
So what are they really saying goodbye to?
Not just classrooms. Not just routines. Not just to societies.
They are saying goodbye to the versions of themselves that were scared and silent. They grew, they adapted and they thrived.
And now they leave carrying something far more valuable than a degree.
Clarity.
Not about everything. But about enough.Enough to know that their lives will not be defined by a single role, a single expectation, or a single version of themselves.
So this farewell is not a conclusion. It is a checkpoint.
A quiet pause before everything begins again. And as they walk out, adjusting sarees, fixing hair, laughing over last-minute photographs, they carry something invisible yet undeniable. The ability to choose. And that, more than anything else, will define them. Not just as students of Lucknow University but as women who learned, slowly and quietly, how to become themselves. And I hope one day I see each of them on LinkedIn or Instagram and feel so proud of all those girls who not just created a place for themselves but also- as the GenZ say, slayyyed!
And here is a cheesy-little paragraph I wrote for you:
“कारवां चलता रहता है यूँ ही,
मुसाफ़िर कभी रुकते नहीं।
हौसले को साथ लिए हुए,
किसी सफर से डरते नहीं।
मुड़ के मत देखो पीछे,
उस जमीन को- जो रह गयी नीचे,
साथ ना हो फिर भी,
अपने यूं बेवजह बिछड़ते नहीं,
और खुले आसमान के परिंदे हो तुम,
घोंसले में यूं ठहरते नहीं।”