Time here unfolded the way mornings do—
slow, a little awkward,
with sleepy steps and the first bell sneaking up on you.
Then suddenly—light spilling over hallways,
the chatter, the smell of chalk and wet floors,
and somehow, ten years passed quietly,
folding into memory without us noticing.

The morning bell, the steady walk past the guard—
who somehow became a friend over smiles and greetings—
the buzz of voices before class,
the awkward line-ups, the whispers and giggles—
these tiny things became the heartbeat of our days.

In classrooms, ideas stretched themselves,
sometimes painfully, sometimes brilliantly,
and we learned that learning isn’t a loud thing—
it’s in the tiny victories:
the scribbles in margins,
the accidental aha moments,
the quiet debates with friends who didn’t let you give up.

Achievements piled up without fanfare—
MUN halls where we stumbled, then soared,
Round Square where we found a little more of ourselves,
projects and competitions that didn’t ask for applause,
just taught us how to keep going,
how to aim, how to fail and try again.

Sustainability wasn’t a poster on the wall—
it was the gardens we watered,
the small routines we followed,
the tiny changes that made us care
about the world we were leaving behind.

And nostalgia?
It lives in tiny corners:
the library in the last period,
books that still smell of old stories,
a stubborn little flower clinging to the corner wall,
and that same butterfly that shows up every season,
like it never forgot to check if we were still here.
The soft hum of corridors after the rain,
the window where we always tried to catch sunlight—
these small things knew us
longer than we knew ourselves.

Now, as the gates swing open to a world that feels too big,
we carry more than notes or grades.
We carry mornings that taught patience,
laughter that taught courage,
small kindnesses learned without realizing it.
Jaipuria didn’t just send us forward—
it breathed in our steps, whispered in our choices,
hovered in the corners of every sunbeam,
alive, imperfect, enduring,
like it’s a heartbeat we take with us,
long after the applause fades
and the classroom lights go dim.