There must be hundreds and thousands of articles on how college has made someone who they are today or broke the person they used to be- for better or for worse. This one is a little different, or as I am starting to write it, I can only hope that it is.
Not because my five years at the Army Institute of Law were wildly unprecedented, or because I discovered some revolutionary truth about adulthood, ambition, or the law. But because when I try to think of what AIL did to me, the answer refuses to arrive neatly packaged. There was no singular transformation. No clean “before” and “after.” Just a slow accumulation of moments, some loud, some painfully quiet, that altered me in ways I only recognise now, at the very end.
AIL didn’t make me brave overnight. It didn’t hand me clarity or confidence with a welcome kit. If anything, it specialised in discomfort. The kind that doesn’t announce itself as growth while it’s happening. The kind that looks like questioning your choices at 2 a.m. learning to sit with being wrong, and realising that intelligence is far less impressive than integrity or at 9 a.m. when you’ve realised ki first lecture to nahi ho payega.
I arrived here carrying a version of myself I was quite attached to. She had opinions, certainty, and a carefully constructed idea of what success was supposed to look like. Over five years, that version didn’t disappear, but she did get interrogated. Repeatedly. By deadlines, by friendships, by failure, by unexpected kindness, and by the quiet, unglamorous and tiring discipline of just showing up. For yourself and for the fools you call family.
There is a very weird and unexplainable, almost demonic relationship that all those from AIL share. Something that you get as part of the premium package, which includes but is definitely not limited to the most typical experiences (AIL surprises you every single day). The 34 pages battle we fight 2 times a semester. The 15 min break for Raj bhaiya’s cold coffee/magic concoction or a hushed cigarette from Khan Sahab. The useless runs to the supermarket. The spring rolls with a chutney that has a lethal dose of food colouring. Jam sessions with dada at the café right before he closes up. Walking by the college stationary and hearing the faint noise of Arun sir’s radio playing evergreen songs. Food from Uttam being a rite of passage. Extra-curricular activities happening a kilometre away from college that shall remain nameless. THAT ONE GOOGLE DRIVE (truly a blessing). The explosive diarrhoea from mess food (or is that just me?). Wide variety of parathas for breakfast throughout the week that somehow taste the same (???). Finding the entire college at cold fusion when there’s kadhi for lunch. Spending hours at the market stationary deciding what pen fits your personality best. Ordering in at ungodly hours cause healthy sleep schedule naseeb mein toh nahi hai. The collective happiness for all those who end up at fauji academies. And the collective cribbing over how much we hate this college.
Somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, between shared cigarettes, shared notes, shared drinks, shared food poisoning, and shared breakdowns, something quietly solid formed. A found family. Not the kind you perform for, or carefully curate, but the kind that shows up anyway. The kind that sees you at your most inconvenient and stays. That lets you exist without explanations. The one that becomes your safe space without ever announcing itself as such.
I think there’s a strange intimacy in spending five years in a place that doesn’t let you be anonymous. AIL is not the kind of institution you pass through unnoticed. It sees you- sometimes uncomfortably so. Your habits. Your shortcuts. Your excuses. And eventually, your effort. It teaches you that potential is a deeply overrated concept unless accompanied by consistency. That talent without accountability is just ego in nicer packaging.
Somewhere along the way, I learned that growth doesn’t always feel like progress. Sometimes it feels like unlearning. Letting go of the need to always sound smart. Accepting that being thoughtful is not the same as being loud. Understanding that ambition without empathy is hollow, and empathy without boundaries is exhausting.
This place didn’t give me answers. It gave me better questions. About who I am when no one is watching. About what kind of lawyer (or one at all) I want to be, but more importantly, what kind of person I want to be. About the difference between achievement and meaning, and why the gap between the two matters more than we’re willing to admit.
As I am almost about to leave, I don’t feel like I’m closing a chapter with a flourish. It feels quieter than that. Like placing a bookmark somewhere important, like I know where to go when I need a reminder and a place to unabashedly just be. I know I’ll return to it, often and unexpectedly. In the way I think. In the way I argue. In the way I listen. In the way I crib, bitch and cry. And in ways I probably would never expect.
Five years ago, I thought college was supposed to shape me into something recognisable. Instead, AIL taught me how to sit comfortably with becoming. And perhaps that is the most honest farewell I can offer, not gratitude wrapped in nostalgia, but acknowledgement.
I started writing this article with a hope that it wouldn’t turn out sounding sappy, but I guess some things need to be typical to be felt with a passion. This place didn’t make me who I am today. It made me aware that who I am is always under construction. And in the process, it gave me people, places, and moments that felt like home. I hope everyone finds that; in college or elsewhere. A space that holds you gently. A family you choose. A place you can return to, even if only in memory.
And for that, I will always carry AIL with me, quietly, deliberately, and without needing to announce it.
-From “ayye first year” to Ipsi ma’am.
[This article has been written by Ipsita (5th year)]
