Scenes certain diffuse visual divinity to an extent the ambience begins feeling spiritually aromatic. If senses seldom fail us, they have as well mastered the art of enhancing new sensibilities. The candle smiled at me. Its scent was my imagination.

Just when I was ruminating the possibility of dropping down dead with sleep, I heard the call for prayer. The Youth Festival was the first time I got to stay away from home. It felt strange and wild (forty-eight hours made me a daredevil in the head). Competitions are always fun. Some make no sense, but are still fun. College outscores school in several ways. An all-girls' institution means freedom in a refreshingly original form. No rote learning and topper classes. Maybe I learnt more theorems and botanical names in high school than now. Maybe there was a greater degree of academic regularity achieved than now. But there is tons more that I have learned as a person in the past two years that I never would trade for all the gold in the world.

I hurried to join the little semicircle formed in the living room to offer a prayer to Christ (before the lovely little red glass gel candle and the Holy Bible) for the contestants about to leave for their respective venues. The language was new to me, but it did not matter. This congregation gathered for not less than five times a day, and I did not mind joining in. Being an atheist never stopped me from cherishing the little things that came with religion. In fact, it liberates you from the narrow confines of a particular belief system and allows you to choose and pick favourites from all of them. Some of the best people I admire are deeply pious and not all non-believers are the enlightened beings they claim to be. Being human matters most, and this quality I found in people bypassing beliefs and faith.

The breakfast announced its readiness from the kitchens. Never the one to side with household chores, I have a sincere reverence for our NSS volunteers. One of the nicest persons I know was a volunteer and I call her "The Bee." They made me feel like a black hole every time I did my dishes the two days - sucking in the gravity of my own existence. Such good care was taken of us. It felt odd having home-cooked food that was not of my mother's making, but I was too caught up taking in every detail of my experience that I loved it. Forget cheeseburgers and Starbucks. South Indian cuisine is the best. It defines us. It's home.

Being a good team-player and a lonewolf simultaneously is a wholesome feeling. Every interaction is a chance to learn something, which is always for the good - some teach you how to be and some, how not to be. Loneliness is beautiful, and my frustration mounts when people equate it to a condition restricted to sadness. 'Feeling lonely' is one thing and 'the state of being lonely' is a whole other thing. How am I supposed to imagine aliens and stardust with humans around all the time? If introversion helps reflect on our actions and rectify our mistakes with new tools, the extroverted self deserves laurels too. Probably more than the loner. Much as I love isolating myself with a book for days, the bustle outdoors is real life. School stories minus the club activities, extracurriculum and sports are nothing. There is so much that can be achieved as a team, and like the time we spent painting the walls at the Port Trust to the times with students from foreign cultures, college has been an adventurous ride in all its simple ways.

The student union's chairperson, a senior from my department - all I have to do is replace awesomeness with a person to describe her. A devout Christian, agile worker, modest, smart, big-hearted and a strict disciplinarian, she is one of my most favorite immediate seniors and a firm pillar of motivation to me. We had a couple of seniors from our department elected to the union this year, and we could not be any prouder. The entire union was extremely supportive and encouraging. It was later that I understood that those two days had taught me more than a whole one year in the classroom.

If experiences do not make us stronger, nothing can. Talking to victims of sexual abuse is traumatizing even as a listener. When I first began interactions, I figured it was a world in itself - a world of survivors, surviving every fleeting second of their existence, like a matchstick burnt halfway through. The flame swinging uncontrollably between life and death. A world of pain and unimaginable levels of suffering. Headlines are but media commercials, and nobody who has ever talked to a victim could even remotely capture the weight of the suffering. Fire is a luxury until it touches the finger. Will the one who physically or mentally inflicts harm on a stranger sit back and watch the same happen to his sister, wife or daughter? Will the reaction be passive, forgiving and one of saintly understanding of the human follies? Absolutely not. It is striking how double standards and justification of immoral behavior function successfully in the society. "You serve me a purpose now. Then I either discard or destroy you. But if someone so much as thinks of my sister, he dies first."

Obviously the darkest hour, I turned to art and music for comfort, which undeniably is the equivalent of a believer turning to his religion for hope. There is no weakness in despair. We all fall. Rising up with strength matters. Strength is grace, and grace is a beautifully well-balanced combination of silence and solidity. If I found companionship in writing at a very young age, I discovered the life-changing quality of good music not long after.

The way words work is wonderful. Reflections of our selves, they are as reliable as a man's actions. But there is a subtle and yet gigantic difference between them. The most misleading? The spoken word. The naked truth? The written word. There is no man in hiding in his writing. Even more interesting is how a reader perceives and weaves multiple interpretations out of a single line. The way some words are easily forgotten and how some get engraved in the memory like inscriptions, promising to come with us for life, is pure magic. Writers are magicians. But I still have no clue why Bella Swan is more popular than Katniss Everdeen.

The first night, I left the venue after the writing contest back to our senior's residence, and the events were to span well past midnight. More exciting than the fact that I was representing the college, the hustle of students from all around the district culminating to celebrate art was an overwhelming sensation. There were boys, girls, teachers everywhere; lights and classical music made the arena whole. It somehow felt like the right place to belong to.

I had another contest the following day. So I was served dinner and put to bed like a kindergartner by the NSS team. I lay listening to the same old playlist. The night air brought in the fragrance of the fresh spring through the open windows, as March was slowly deciding to turn the heat up. It again felt different without mother by my side. Home is a calling we never escape.

My NSS friend caught me awake. "You should be sleeping." The fan was behaving oddly, so she set up the air cooler for me.

"Yeah, but I never sleep this early," I protested.

"Today you will. Good night," she laughed, punched me and left the room.

"I'm literally being put to bed."

This whole phenomenon was a strong community of women working together to get things done. How much cooler can anything ever be? And I know I was happy to have my role. Thoughts rushed in one after the other, and I fell asleep before I knew it.

The next day, the prayer routines were followed as usual. When my second event was finished up in the afternoon, I was finally free to enjoy my stay. The Western music students and other batches were to arrive that night for the following day's events, and the volunteers were hopping about the house like squirrels. A friend from another department arrived that morning and we lamented together about our performances. As a hosteler, no wonder she was times homesick than I was. Along came a senior, a sportsperson and a former student of our institution, who joined the college's Youth Festival team every year just to encourage the participants. (Why are some people too awesome?) No, no TEDx talks. Just a few kind words before the events and a few after. She is at most four years older than me, but I was awestruck by how wise beyond her age she was. "You ought to be happy for the skills you possess. Performance is secondary. I am not rich, nor am I insanely talented like most of you here. But we're happy as a family. That we are. You need to work hard, but be grateful for what you have today all the same. People might say this is ages-old advice. Tell you what - this right here is the truth. Learn to be thankful before discontentment becomes your existence." She explained to us how the college helped mold herself and that she wanted to do her part as a little token of gratitude. We spent the whole afternoon discussing everything from books, the pollution in New Delhi to "I'm buying a horse someday and naming it Angus."

One of my other seniors and a close friend of mine was consoling me every now and then from getting anxious. Our winning points added to the college championship. I did not worry half as much for my board exams. "Relax. It's only a competition. Either you win or you learn. No loss," she said. It is amazing how the definition of strength varied widely among people. To some, it is the courage to stand back up and stay in one piece inspite of failure and yet to most, it was attacking others to derive satisfaction and earn a mock sense of superiority. We read about leaders around the world standing up for rights, sacrificing themselves in the process, and then we look around - good people are closer by than we thought. Not all of them make their way to global fame and recognition. The two days I was increasingly reminded of my days as a thirteen-year-old working in the Social Club under one of the best tutors to ever exist. We visted orphanages, mental asylums, shelters for the old and homeless, farmers and rural folk, the exposure shattering the creamy fictional world we envision with an impact that gifts a new perspective to study the people around us in the most realistic manner possible. They mostly had heartbreaking stories to narrate. But you could sense the strength there. If we think for a moment Ellen DeGeneres, Wonder Woman and the fashionably self-proclaimed "feminist" actresses on the screens are the real empowered women and not the woman working her life away in the fields or SHGs or as a manual labourer to make ends meet, then our confounded idea of 'celebrity feminism' is in desperate need of an upgrade. And sadly enough, it is the case. However, I was thankful for how the brief stay had aided me in reconnecting with my old self.

That evening the folk group performances were to be conducted nearby. The team of beauticians were busy getting the dance girls ready. The NSS, teachers and even the sisters (we call the nuns "sisters") offered to help them. I had nothing exactly purposeful to do, so I joined in. It was quite distracting to sit down with a book anyway.

If there is one thing the Youth Festival prioritizes as the most important, it is time, and unfortunately for us, the timing for the event was preponed by a half hour. We had ten minutes now. One second late and we get disqualified. Our Dean was knocked into a frenzy, placing call after call to the Festival coordinators, pleading with them to extend the time. The entire scenario turned to confusion in a matter of seconds. The beauticians were trying their best not to scream their heads off as the facial makeup itself was far from complete. Since the theme was actual representation of folk dances, there was no messing around the tradition. No compensating a black bindi with a red one. Every minute detail is a criterion on the judges' pads. The teachers and students lost their cool and entered a yelling contest.

"Not this one! The other long necklace. It's in the master bedroom!"

"Ayyoda, idhalla! Eda, earringsinde box evvadaya? Edutthondu vaa. And be quick now!"

"Smaller pins! I need smaller pins here!"

Wow. Entropy looks amazing. It went from an organized operation to Mad Max in seconds. I was running back and forth with the ornaments and accessories from the rooms and getting the girls to wear them, and some participants last in line were yet to get their faces done. The last girl started crying in panic. If I remember correctly, our chairperson's mother and aunt were also helping to their level best. So high-pitched was the pandemonium in the house that I am sure the neighbors never regretted their life any worse.

Just then, something unexpected happened. One of the sisters broke into a song. I was at a loss for words. "Seriously? Are we praying now? In the midst of this apocalypse?" I could only wonder with shock. Prayer is not the solution here, but action. But strangely enough, she did not slow down her activity in any way. Soon, an older sister joined in, then one of the teachers and then a few students. "What is happening here?" I whispered in disbelief, sorting the necklaces. The scene was now a peculiar mixture of panic and music. But slowly, a strong realization hit and froze me numb. Amidst all the anarchy, somewhere the repeating hymn was healing the agitation in the room. It did not hinder the activity, but was helping to calm down and focus. The music was soothing us unconsciously. It set me down on a rollercoaster ride to my toddler days. Nursery rhymes, father's picks from the '60s, Indian classical music, Western genres - hard as it was for me to assimilate, I have been obliviously touched by music all my life. So is every one of us. I remembered how some songs brought order to my world as a growing teen, and in the many conversations with my friends that followed, we discovered together how words exerted power across languages, borders and cultures. It is a uniting life force.

Which was exactly what was happening here. The hymn was Christian and the language was new, but I soon incorporated the verses. We had two minutes. It was decided the final touch-up would be given on the way. We had to walk to the main street where the college bus stood, and bless Saturn and its rings! It began drizzling just as we stepped out of the house. Blow.

Cabs were booked in madness and they were dashed off to the venue, leaving me and five other girls behind. We could only lock up and hope the party makes it on time.

A circle was again formed for prayer, and I was asked to join. I was tired of praying and thought it was most definitely not going to help, but still sat with them. Though a major portion of all religions are founded on fiction, it is irrefutable that they were initially developed to serve a purpose in the society. Holy centres and festivals give us an opportunity to meet as a community. Religions worldwide have contributed a good chunk of the art and literature we know of. Faith, which is under no obligation to be solely religious, does not provide with an excuse to be subhuman. If an unethical, inhumane act is committed claiming 'It is said so in my holy book!' or by saying 'I believe neither in gods nor love. Hail Satan and wreak havoc!' it is much the same thing. An atheist is only free from the clutches of an established belief system already in place, not from individual or social morality or from faith itself. An artist or a poet places his faith in nature. A scientist has faith in the orderly functioning of the universe. A politician has his faith in the ignorance of the population. A serial killer believes in the weakness of his victims. We do need professions as superficial labels in a pretentious world, but what we are and what we do and love define the true us.

We waited, then videocalled a friend and watched the entire performance, which was on point and the group totally killed it.

The last batch of the day was to leave that night to the open air theatre in the town where the group performances were hosted, on the way home, and the last thing I remember seeing when I left the house was the little red candle. Burning bright as ever. Why I get attached to inanimate entities like candles, coffee mugs and paint bottles has no standing explanation.

There were folk dances representing the different states of the country. We spent almost an hour lost in the colors, vibrancy, music and dynamism emanating from the stage - an unadulterated display of art and culture reviving to life. A Tamil folk song popped up every now and then. It was a huge throng of college students and townsfolk gathered to taste art for what it is. A significant characteristic of the crowd as I observed when I looked around was there was very less distraction. From elderly men and women to kids, the audience was more attentive and focused than any I have ever seen. Somewhere between cultural misrepresentation by the overrated film industry and a half-cooked globalization process, all our rich local arts are fast dying. The initiative taken by the government of Kerala to host a Kerala School Kalolsavam for the schools in the state to encourage arts is said to be the biggest cultural event in Asia. Ours is a university edition, and every year the fire is up and blazing for the cup.

We waited for the folk dance results in the college bus, holding our breaths and whispering. I had been regularly updating my circles with our scores for the past two days, and I found myself fidgeting restlessly. It was around one in the night. I wished for the thousandth time to be in bed back home.

And we won the first! The bus exploded into screams, songs and chants for quite a while before sleep got the better of everyone. Exhaustion knocked on my eyelids, but there were just too many things that went through my mind that I decided to stay awake. When in the end we lost the overall championship to another college in the city by a meager twelve points, it was heartbreaking, but I only had the positive side to see. With Lorde singing Team into my ears and thence to the heart, I looked out the window. Maybe life was never in the shining careers, bulky salaries or the international acclaim that we were taught to dream of. Maybe it was always within us. That tiny inner voice? It never lies.

Some days, dreams are cosmic big and others, I just want to paint street walls for a living.

I wanted to go again next year. And we are.

Life is where love is.