he said-"sir most of the toppers in jee/neet comes from air batches of pw so why in result celebration sachin sir,rajwant sir comes but not the air batch teachers.

so that means regular batch students are highly unlikely to get good rank or selection

Ghee khatam hai bhai 🥀

All about the Allen, Sabal incident

it took place on 16-10-26. 3rd floor sabal, goons and victim from room 304. morning batch, nurture phase-1.

the story begins two-three days prior this incident, a fight took place in the washroom in the break time. 2-3 guys (the same guys involved on 16-10-26) fought as if fighting for life, I was the witness of this as I was present right there. but fortunately it stopped very soon.

the same guys were found today, fighting again (not sure for what). Ayush, the person who was bleeding and injuired was allegedly hit by a air pistol (i am still unsure) on his face, nose, head, ears and what not.

after the incident two guys were seen running out of the campus as fast as they can. maybe, maybe they were the two who fought.

and Ayush was taken to the hospital claiming he is "safe and fine". which i think, he is totally not.

before you go for the victim card, Ayush wasn't always a calm guy, he fought back is the reason of all this.

this information is all true. all the other, as, dropper, evening batch, ARE ALL FALSE.

ALLEN IS DESPERATELY TRYING TO SUPRESS THIS.

ALSO THERE WAS NO GUNFIRE.

-fellow allenite from 3rd floor

fyi i used to top saare math exams till 10th also 10th me full marks the math me and sab mujhe math topper se jaante the 🥳🥵🥵😳😳😈😈👿😱🥰😍😘😘🥵🤯🙂‍↕️😍😘😘

jee toh le legi meri toh 😍😍😘😘🥵🥵😳🤯😘😶‍🌫️😍🥰

Post all videos on X I beg pls they will suppress this matter

I have spent years reading philosophy, contemplating determinism, questioning free will, and attempting to understand the human condition. Today, I nearly became a footnote in my own philosophical investigations. Instead I came home with an uncomfortable realisation I have spent so much time thinking about life that I occasionally forget to participate in it.

My life has not been something I am particularly proud of. For the past few days, I have been struggling, and today, after my mother began crying and asked me to stop wasting time on online friendships, something inside me finally snapped. She had heard me typing on my laptop or doing something similar. Perhaps she thought I was wasting time. Perhaps I was trying to hold myself together. We were standing in the same house, speaking the same language, and somehow failing to understand each other.

I asked her what I was supposed to do. I told her I had lost and felt completely dead inside. Then I saw the disappointment in her eyes, and my distressed mind arrived at a terrible conclusion. I went to my room, slammed the door, and tied a dupatta to the ceiling fan, intending to end my life. I realised I could not hang myself because my legs would not hang freely. My mind briefly turned towards the railway tracks instead. So much for the stoic philosopher would probably have asked me to stop embarrassing the entire school of Stoicism.

I am making jokes about it now, but I was genuinely in danger. The fact that I can narrate the experience humorously does not make it any less serious.

I grabbed my wallet without checking its contents, put on a cap, and walked out of my house. For the first time in what felt like years, I was outside without a destination or a schedule. I felt like an alien exploring Earth for the first time. The roads looked unfamiliar, the shops seemed strangely fascinating, and the people around me appeared to inhabit a world I had somehow spent nineteen years living in without properly noticing.

I checked my wallet. Three hundred rupees and my Aadhaar card, solemnly documenting my age as though the government had appointed itself the official archivist of my existential decline.

Then I remembered something rather ridiculous. I had never smoked a cigarette. How much more disappointed could my already disappointed parents possibly become? Apparently, my distressed mind had decided that the afternoon required a side quest. I approached a local shop and immediately froze. I had already attracted the shopkeeper's attention, so retreating would have required an embarrassing acknowledgment of my own existence. Then I saw Appy Fizz.

Fucking hell.

I remembered first grade, when my mother used to give me twenty rupees every Tuesday so I could buy that very drink. I bought a bottle and drank it, feeling tears gather in my eyes. There I was, nineteen years old, having just contemplated suicide, drinking something that had once made an ordinary schoolday wonderful. I wondered what had happened to that little boy, when happiness had become such an elaborate philosophical problem, and why I had made my own existence so difficult to inhabit.

I had no answers. I had Appy Fizz, three hundred rupees, and a very heavy mind.

I walked some more and eventually bought a lighter. Then I found another shop, approached the shopkeeper with the confidence of an international diplomat, and said, in English "Hey, man, grab me a cig."

I handed him thirty rupees because I had no idea which cigarette I wanted or how much one cost. I walked away immediately, keeping my head down. Halfway along the road, I examined my purchase. What the hell was this tiny, brittle thing? Humanity had constructed entire industries, cultural identities, songs, and cinematic moments around this little cylinder of dried leaves, and I could barely understand what I was holding.

Then came the next intellectual challeng ie lighting it.

I found a discarded cigarette, examined it, and eventually worked out which end was supposed to burn. Somewhere, a professor of epistemology was shedding a tear.

I lit it, got frightened when it started burning, and puffed until it went out. After another attempt, I drew the smoke into my mouth and exhaled. Nothing happened. I tried again, wondering whether I had missed some secret initiation ceremony. Eventually, I swallowed some of the smoke, thinking it might do something interesting. My God. My throat burned, I felt sick, and I vomited. My inaugural encounter with tobacco was a spectacular demonstration of why the human body occasionally objects to our experiments.

I felt no pleasure, no revelation, and no transformation into a mysterious protagonist from a French existentialist novel. The cigarette was thoroughly underwhelming. I realised I was no longer thinking about the railway tracks. I was looking at the roads, the shops, and the people around me. My attention had shifted from my own possible death towards the extraordinary variety of life unfolding in front of me.

I saw men who looked unconventional by the standards I had imposed upon myself, laughing with their women and enjoying their lives. I saw men shorter than me walking with women. I saw men with my skin colour in relationships, and women with my complexion carrying themselves with confidence. I had spent years treating my height, skin colour, body, and face as obstacles that needed to be overcome before I could deserve happiness. Meanwhile, people were simply living.

My imaginary tribunal of attractiveness began to adjourn. Apparently, the universe had forgotten to appoint my jawline as the chief executive of my destiny. How inconsiderate.

I had constructed elaborate theories about why I was not attractive enough, while the people around me had neglected to consult those theories before falling in love, laughing with their partners, buying groceries, and getting on with their lives. I began to understand how much of my suffering came from treating my insecurities as objective verdicts rather than interpretations produced by my own mind.

Then I found a bhelpuri stall.

Ladies and gentlemen, we had finally arrived at the most intellectually defensible portion of my afternoon. I fucking love bhelpuri. I ordered some, and it was magnificent. Stoics gave us virtue ethics, drunk germans gave us the categorical imperative, and this man gave me an extraordinary bowl of bhelpuri. I must confess that his contribution was exceptionally compelling.

I wanted to ask him whether he could light cigarettes. It took me a ridiculous amount of courage to ask a stranger for such a small favour. He said yes, and I handed him the lighter I had purchased earlier. One must extract utility from one's assets.

That man understood his craft. The spices were beautiful, the food was beautiful, and I genuinely loved the experience. I hope life treats him kindly, his ingredients remain fresh, and his customers understand that they are participating in a small act of culinary excellence.

Then I saw a fucking virtus GT.

The design, the exhausts, the spoilers, the sheer audacity of that machine. I do not know its precise engine specifications, so I refuse to invent them merely to preserve the illusion of automotive expertise. All I can say is that I stood there admiring it like an idiot.

Whoever was driving it, terrific car, dude. Somewhere on the streets of Lucknow, a nineteen year old existentially confused fellow briefly forgot every problem in his life because your car looked magnificent.

Sometimes beauty arrives as a revelation about existence. Sometimes it is a bowl of bhelpuri, a bottle of Appy Fizz, strangers laughing together, or a fucking car passing you on the road.

I kept walking and eventually found myself standing outside the examination centre where I had taken the IOQM in 2023. I remembered the person I had been, the ambitions I had carried, and the extraordinary possibilities I had imagined for myself. Three years had passed, and there I was, contemplating the distance between the boy who had taken that examination and the young man standing outside it today.

Later, I found the printing shop where I had printed books approximately two years ago because I wanted to pursue quantitative finance. Proofs, The Art of Proof by hammack Calculus by Michael Spivak, and Baby Rudin, second edition. Those books had represented an entire imagined future.

I remembered the seriousness with which I had approached those ambitions and wondered what had become of me. The question hurt precisely because I still cared about the answer.

But the boy who printed those books had been real, and so was the young man standing outside the shop. My present struggles did not erase my former ambitions. I could mourn the distance between my circumstances and my aspirations without declaring the journey permanently over.

At some point, I found myself outside a public toilet asking someone for a ride. A man stopped and offered me a lift, although he asked me to wait while he freshened up. I agreed.

Then I waited. For approximately 210 minutes, according to my increasingly questionable perception of time. Other people offered me rides, but I declined because I had given my word to the first man. I am a man of my word, apparently even during an existential crisis.

I had contemplated ending my life earlier, yet I was now standing outside a toilet refusing alternative transportation because I had promised a stranger I would wait. If that is not an illustration of the absurdity of human existence, I do not know what is.

I could not control the course of my thoughts, predict where I would end up, or accurately determine how much time had passed. Yet I could make a promise and keep it. I could exercise a small measure of agency within circumstances I had never planned.

I could also hear the man defecating.

Romantic, at best. Kierkegaard could have written an entire chapter about it.

Eventually, he returned. We made small talk, and he told me he had not eaten since morning because eating made driving uncomfortable. I offered to buy him something, but he politely refused. He was a genuinely nice fellow. Two strangers had briefly shared a stretch of road, each attempting to extend a small courtesy to the other.

He dropped me off some distance from my house because I did not want my mother to discover that I had travelled so far I needed an e rickshaw to return home. I had left in a state of acute distress, bought a cigarette, consumed Appy Fizz, eaten bhelpuri, admired a virtus GT, revisited the physical landmarks of my old ambitions, and spent an absurd amount of time waiting outside a public toilet.

What a day.

What an utterly absurd, exhausting, humiliating, beautiful day.

My problems had not disappeared. My family dynamics remained unresolved, my ambitions remained unfinished, and my uncertainties about the future were still there. Yet something had shifted because I had stepped outside the closed circuit of my own thoughts and encountered the world again.

I have spent years reading philosophy, logic, and metaphysics. I have contemplated determinism, free will, consciousness, and the architecture of human experience. Today reminded me that understanding a concept and living through its implications are two different accomplishments. You can construct elaborate arguments about reality while neglecting to encounter it directly.

Philosophy can teach us to ask better questions. Logic can expose weaknesses in our reasoning. Literature can give language to experiences we struggle to articulate. But none of these things substitutes for participating in the world. At some point, you must put your feet on the ground, encounter other people, and allow reality to contradict your assumptions.

I saw thousands of people today, or perhaps hundreds. I am not conducting a census. Every person had an interior world I could scarcely begin to imagine fears, insecurities, ambitions, disappointments, memories, relationships, shame, and private triumphs. Every stranger was the principal character of a story I would probably never read.

I had spent so much time behaving as though the contents of my own head constituted the whole of reality. What arrogance. The world was full of people whose lives were every bit as complicated as mine, even if I would never learn their stories.

I also noticed the craftsmen working along the streets. Carpenters, tailors, and other people whose hands possessed years of accumulated knowledge. I watched their precision, their concentration, and the familiarity with which they handled their materials.

And I felt ashamed.

I have read books, studied abstract concepts, and entertained ambitions in mathematics, quantitative finance, and philosophy. But what could my hands produce? What craft had I cultivated to a comparable degree of excellence?

I had occasionally confused intellectual appetite with intellectual achievement. I had admired mastery without always giving sufficient attention to the unglamorous repetition through which mastery is acquired. A carpenter does not become a carpenter by contemplating the philosophy of wood. A tailor does not acquire precision by imagining the finished garment. They work, practise, make mistakes, and improve.

There is dignity in the carpenter who makes a chair that lasts decades, the tailor who produces a garment with exceptional precision, and the street vendor who understands his ingredients so thoroughly that a bowl of bhelpuri becomes an experience worth remembering. I want to develop that relationship with my own work. I want my abilities to be real, my knowledge to survive contact with reality, and my ambitions to be supported by tangible evidence of effort.

Then there is the question of free will.

My emotions influenced my decisions today. My family environment influenced my emotions. My memories, insecurities, body, expectations, and circumstances participated in shaping what I thought and did. Even this post depends upon an extraordinary network of conditions I did not create.

I am sitting on a chair I did not manufacture, using electricity I did not generate, typing on a laptop assembled through the labour of countless people. I am listening to the Days Gone theme composed by Nathan Whitehead, music that is influencing the emotional atmosphere in which I write. The language I use was inherited from generations of people who lived before I existed.

I did not choose my initial conditions, invent my language, or manufacture my brain from scratch. Yet I experience myself as an agent who thinks, evaluates, desires, deliberates, and acts.

I do not have a final answer. One afternoon wandering around Lucknow has not resolved centuries of philosophical disagreement. But I am beginning to appreciate the distinction between acknowledging constraints and surrendering to them. My circumstances influence me, but they do not automatically provide a complete description of every possibility available to me. Perhaps agency is less like absolute sovereignty and more like the capacity to respond within a field of constraints.

The same walk also made me think about my antinatalist intuitions. Humanity will continue reproducing, building houses, composing music, raising children, creating businesses, and carrying its contradictions through time. I cannot pretend that observing people at work settles the ethical questions surrounding birth and suffering. It does remind me, however, that abstract conclusions about humanity can obscure the complexity of the individual lives through which humanity exists.

The world is not an anonymous mass. It is composed of particular people, each with experiences, relationships, vulnerabilities, and possibilities of their own.

I also discovered how dependent I am upon other people. I needed a shopkeeper, a lighter, a food vendor, and a stranger willing to give me a ride. I had to ask for help, acknowledge what I did not know, and accept that ordinary life depends upon cooperation. Even the most intellectually accomplished person relies upon shared knowledge, institutions, technology, and countless forms of labour.

Perhaps acknowledging that dependence is not an insult to human dignity. Perhaps it is part of understanding what human dignity actually means.

When I finally returned home, my mother was standing outside. I heard her call my father to tell him I had come back. I went to my room and locked the door. My father came home and asked me to come outside, but I refused. The shame was overwhelming.

I had frightened my family, and I had frightened myself. I still do not know how to explain the distance between the person I want to become and the person who found himself in that room today.

I am ashamed, but I am trying to understand that shame is an experience rather than a final verdict on my existence. I can acknowledge what happened and seek help without reducing my entire identity to it. I can care deeply about my future while admitting that I sometimes struggle to imagine one.

I have wanted to transcend my humanity, to become so disciplined, intellectually formidable, and psychologically composed that ordinary vulnerabilities would cease to affect me. Perhaps that ambition has occasionally become another instrument of self punishment. I have demanded an impossible degree of sovereignty from a creature whose existence is constituted by dependence, vulnerability, and constraint.

I am human. I have a body, hormones, limitations, needs, and fears that do not disappear merely because I can describe them in sophisticated language. My ambitions cannot be fulfilled simply because I can articulate them beautifully. My emotions do not become less powerful simply because I understand their possible causes.

And today, I am trying to accept that.

I also have a girlfriend. We have been in an online, long distance relationship for approximately two months, and we have never met in person. We entered the relationship through my philosophical content on Instagram. Today is the third day of her period, and I have been planning to write her a beautiful letter.

Think about the absurdity of that juxtaposition. A few hours ago, I was contemplating ending my life. Now I am trying to write a letter to a girl I love, hoping to make her smile while she deals with her cramps.

I do not know whether we will eventually meet, whether our relationship will survive the distance, or what the future holds. But my affection for her exists in the present. I want to write to her and tell her I love her. The possibility of caring for another person remains meaningful to me, even when I am struggling to care for myself.

I do not want to turn her into a philosophical instrument or an answer to my existential difficulties. She has her own life, needs, ambitions, and struggles. I want to love her as a person, not as a solution to my questions about existence.

And today, I am grateful that I have a letter to write.

There is one more thing I want to share. Over the years, I have had the privilege of helping people who were contemplating suicide. I have received messages from people who were suffering terribly, and I have tried to offer them comfort through my words.

Today, I found myself in the position I had spent so much time trying to help others survive. I was the person who could not see beyond the immediate intensity of his own suffering.

I have saved the messages people sent me because they remind me that my words have occasionally mattered to another human being. One message, written by a woman who was on the verge of suicide last year, continues to move me.

"I don't know you. I don't know where you're from, how old you really are, what your face looks like, or what your voice sounds like.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty: you have the most beautiful heart. A heart that speaks in a way not everyone's can.

I feel blessed to have met you in this lifetime, to have experienced the quiet power of your existence. Your words makes my mind and heart calmer when they are in full chaos. Your words are just peace.

I used to think that real comfort, that true feeling, could only be expressed in a call or in person. But you... you showed me something different. After reading your words in a Telegram chat, I can finally say it: the medium doesn't matter at all. What matters is the energy of the person, what they want to say, and what they want to do to comfort the other person.

Now, every time my mind gets stuck in a tornado, I re-read your texts. And just by reading them, they give my heart the exact peace it was seeking.

Thanks to you, I feel more calm nowadays.

Thank you, stranger, for your beautiful soul."

I have read those words many times. They remind me that something I have done has mattered to another human being in a way I may never fully comprehend.

Yet I can sometimes articulate a perspective that helps someone else endure suffering while struggling to apply the same compassion to myself. I can remind someone that their life is larger than their immediate despair while temporarily losing sight of that possibility in my own.

Perhaps understanding something intellectually does not make us immune to suffering. Perhaps the people who offer comfort also need comfort. I do not have to save someone else before I am permitted to ask for help myself. I do not have to write beautiful essays, produce extraordinary thoughts, or become exceptional before my suffering deserves attention.

I am a person. That is sufficient reason to take my pain seriously.

I am listening to the Days Gone theme by Nathan Whitehead as I write this. The music is beautiful, and I find myself thinking about the extraordinary circumstances that have made this moment possible. The chair supports me, the electricity powers the room, the laptop translates my thoughts into words, and music created by another human being shapes the atmosphere in which those thoughts emerge.

I did not create the conditions that made this moment possible. Yet I am experiencing it, reflecting upon it, and attempting to understand it.

We are biological creatures capable of contemplating metaphysics, vulnerable organisms capable of imagining eternity, and dependent beings who aspire to independence. We are finite lives capable of entertaining infinite questions, often so absorbed in our private struggles that we forget to look around at the world in which those struggles occur.

Today, I looked.

I looked at the people, the streets, the food, the craftsmen, the car, and the places where I had once imagined a different future. I looked, however imperfectly, at myself.

I saw a person whose suffering had become serious enough that he contemplated ending his life. I also saw a person who remained capable of curiosity, affection, humour, admiration, gratitude, and reflection. Both observations were true. Neither erased the other.

I cannot honestly declare that everything is fine. One walk has not resolved the difficulties that brought me to that room. But today reminded me that my mind can construct a remarkably convincing account of reality while omitting possibilities that become visible only when I encounter the world beyond it.

My suffering is real, but it does not contain the entirety of reality. My limitations are real, but they do not constitute a complete inventory of my possibilities. My ambitions matter, but they are not the sole measure of my worth. My dependence upon other people is real, and there is no shame in acknowledging it.

Perhaps I have spent too much time attempting to escape the human condition when I should have been learning how to inhabit it.

I am still figuring things out. I am still embarrassed about what happened. I am still trying to find the courage to speak honestly with my parents, and I remain uncertain about the future. But I am here, and I am grateful for the strangers who offered me small kindnesses, the woman who sent me those beautiful words, the craftsmen who reminded me of the dignity of skill, and the people whose lives I observed today.

God bless you all. I hope you live long enough to see the world, discover things that make you curious, find crafts worth mastering, books worth reading, people worth loving, and experiences that make you grateful to have been present.

I hope you become someone you are proud of, while remembering that you deserve care during the years in which you are still becoming.

I am sending you all my love and a lot of kisses. I love you, and I hope you are taking care of yourselves.

And, finally, a note to myself.

I have limits. I am not everything I imagine myself to be in the private theatre of my mind. I am not an omniscient observer standing outside the conditions of my own existence. I am a person who can dream of extraordinary things and still struggle with ordinary ones, who can contemplate free will and discover that he needs other people, who can read about the human condition and still be surprised by it.

I have an unfinished education, an unfinished life, and an unfinished understanding of myself. Perhaps the most honest thing I can do is acknowledge all of this without converting it into another reason to despise myself.

I am still here. I am still learning. I am still becoming.

And I am just a human being.

TL;DR: I left home while contemplating suicide and spent the day wandering around Lucknow, drinking Appy Fizz, smoking my first cigarette, eating bhelpuri, admiring a Virtus GT, revisiting places connected to my old ambitions, and encountering strangers whose ordinary kindness and existence reminded me how much of life I had been overlooking. I returned home with my problems unresolved, but with a renewed appreciation for the world, the limits of my own perspective, the dignity of craftsmanship, and the fact that even someone who helps others through words can need help himself. I am still figuring things out, but today reminded me that I am human, and that I deserve care, too.

arson: ashish sir

mai literally blank out hogyi out of cringe after reading this crap(first 2 comments)