har dil jo pyar karega woh khana khaye ga.

About two months ago, we had to give our juniors a welcome party, as all senior classes must. Twas quite a nice one too; we had a rather good time ridiculing them as much as possible without being criminally offensive while they sat there looking sad... And the food, oh what lovely food was had! 

*cue rapturous music*

The leftovers were seen being furtively carted off to the male hostel once the thing was over, and I waved goodbye to them as they passed by, for I knew no one would see or hear from them again.

But wait! The next day my friend and I espy one of our girls walking about with a little plate full of kababs. Kababs that look suspiciously like the ones I had so mournfully bid adieu to the night before. I am flabbergasted and I am bamboozled. 

'What!' I ask her. 'But where! But how!'

It turns out her boy had brought her the food. How sweet of him.

I turn to my friend and a conclusion is wordlessly, simultaneously reached, a very important one at that:

Scene on kar lo. Kabab milein ge.

Anything for food.

(cake like) inconsistency

I fear that this may be one of those nights that are spent embroiled in existential crises and extensive cleaning of rooms and laundering of clothes, nights spent rooting out chips wrappers and empty juiceboxes from corners and crevices and filling up garbage bags, nights that end with a nice shower and an intense need to sleep for the longest time possible. The latter part will not be possible though I fear, for classes are to be had in the morning and studying has to be done; for this, this utter beghairati, can go on no more.

your orange peels have fallen

(a precarious tower in flames

cemented with seeds and

white, lacy, membrane)