Zeenat Ansari | IBDP Faculty: Hindi Lit & Self-Taught; Wada Parent-Wada 4
The question came to me one morning in late August during this orientation week, drifting in with the cold rain and with all my memories of the batch 22-24. “To be or not to be”—a person of the hill, a person from the hill, a person of MUWCI, from MUWCI, or in MUWCI. It wasn’t a question someone asked me; it simply arrived, like the white cat that you all call broken ear. The question settled quietly in the corner of my mind, its gaze on me, its presence undeniable. I was getting ready to go to a session in the MPH so I made tea, pulled on a sweater, and tried to ignore the feeling, but the question remained, racing into the spaces between my thoughts.
It wasn’t an easy question, either. Not like, “What’s for breakfast in caf?” or “Should I bring an umbrella if it is going to get lost anyway?” It was deeper than that, heavier, like something followed me from the bottom of the Mula River that I tried to see from space. “To be or not to be.” What does it even mean? It felt like MUWCI, like something whispered by a stranger in a dream.
I drank my tea slowly, watching the rain on the glass. Somewhere far off, I could hear a symphony; maybe it was coming from Subarna’s house. The campus was waking up. Old and new faces of students were going to caf, having conversations, buttoning their raincoats, and of course screaming in the rain. The world around me went on, indifferent to the question.
“To be” in MUWCI is such a simple phrase, yet it carries the weight of everything. To exist. To breathe. To think. To think more. To wake up every morning and face the same sky, the same Wada road, the same quiet longing that all of us came here with that sometimes feels like an old friend and sometimes feels like a stranger you can’t shake.
Being in MUWCI is strange, isn’t it? It’s both too much and not enough. Some days, it feels like the MUWCI dream, the desire to do something different, to be different, is pressing its full weight on your chest, leaving you breathless. Other days, it feels like you’re floating, as if you might drift away entirely because you have seen a glimpse of the dream into reality.
And yet, there are moments that keep you connected. A song you forgot you loved suddenly playing on your playlist. The smell of MUWCI rain. The cold ground of the MPH but warmth of your people. Knowing that you are cared for and loved by some and loved by many. The way the light filters through the trees in Wada 4, golden and soft, as if the world is apologizing for all its sharp edges.
These moments aren’t grand or loud. They don’t shout for attention. But they’re there, scattered like MUWCI lingo, leading you through the maze of being. You can miss them if you’re not careful, but if you notice them—truly notice them—they’re enough to keep you going.
Being isn’t about always understanding. It’s about wandering, stumbling, and sometimes falling. It’s about sitting on a bench in the library lawn that I call the wisdom bench of MUWCI, watching trees and birds and the people you know and don’t know. It’s about finding meaning in the meaningless or simply accepting that not everything needs to have meaning at all.
“To not be” in MUWCI is a different kind of thing. It’s quiet, like the moment just before sleep, when the world dissolves into shadows and whispers because Wada 4 people have finally gone to sleep. It’s the space between thoughts, the silence that fills the room when the music stops. There’s a kind of peace in the idea of not being. No more noise, no more struggle. Just stillness.
But peace can be deceptive. It can feel like standing in the empty Wada 4 courtyard, the air too still, the silence pressing against your ears. It’s a space where nothing happens, where nothing can happen. It’s the absence of chaos, sure—but also the absence of warmth, of connection, of that strange, inexplicable feeling that makes everything worthwhile. The idea of not being in MUWCI is tempting on some days, especially when the world feels heavy and full of sharp edges. But the world is also full of soft places. You just have to look for them.
Outside, the rain was falling harder now. I thought about the times I’d wanted to stop being in MUWCI. Not in any dramatic way, but in those quiet moments when life, meaning, purpose, and understanding felt like they weren’t there anymore. I thought about its weight and the way it wrapped itself around me. And yet, even in those moments, there was something that kept me going. A book I hadn’t finished reading. A class that I hadn’t taught. A student I hadn’t met yet. It wasn’t anything big or profound. Just small things. But sometimes, small things are enough.
“To be or not to be” in MUWCI isn’t a question you answer once. It’s a question you carry with you every day in the way you live your life here. It’s in the choices you make, the paths you take, the moments you hold onto, and the ones you let go of. Being in MUWCI isn’t perfect. It’s messy and confusing and full of strange, empty spaces. But it’s also full of wonder. The kind of wonder that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. A stranger’s kindness. The first sip of hot and very sweet tea and coffee on a slow morning in caf. The way the campus smells just before it rains. Not being, on the other hand, is simple. No questions, no mess, no uncertainty. But it’s also empty. A silence that stretches on forever.
The rain was lighter now, more of a drizzle. I finished my tea and stood by the window, watching the rain. I imagined the students in it—dreamers, each carrying their own version of the question.
“To be or not to be.” in MUWCI. Maybe it’s not about success or failure at all. Maybe it’s about the moments we choose to lean into being, despite everything. The moments we pick up the pieces, even when we’re tired. The moments we choose to stay, to try, to see what happens next. Life in MUWCI doesn’t always have clear answers. Sometimes it’s just a series of moments strung together like the fairy lights on a wire. Some are dim. Others are bright enough to guide you to your wada at check-in. I watched the rain disappear into the fog. Somewhere out there, life was waiting. And for now, that was enough. I picked up my bag and stepped into the rain.
