Arjun Menon
Part 1 – The Prayer at Midnight
Rahul sat hunched over his desk in the dim hostel room, surrounded by a fortress of half-empty coffee mugs, Maggi packets, and photocopied notes so smudged they looked like ancient manuscripts. The fan spun lazily above his head, squeaking every few rotations like it too was tired of his engineering syllabus. His phone buzzed with memes from his batchmates: “Bro, syllabus is the real horror movie.” He groaned, ran a hand through his unwashed hair, and stared at the thick book of electronics. The words danced in front of his eyes, a mocking blur. He had two papers in the morning. One was Analog Circuits, the other Microprocessors. His brain could handle neither. He pressed his palms together dramatically. “Dear almighty Google, savior of lazy students and mother of copy-paste, if you can hear me, please come to my rescue. I swear I’ll never skip class again. Okay, maybe I’ll still skip Monday mornings, but at least I’ll take notes. Just… save me tonight.”
He chuckled at himself. Who prays to Google? Yet, at that exact moment, the tube light flickered. The fan stopped mid-squeak. His laptop, which had been showing a frozen cat video, suddenly glowed white. From the screen rose a figure—tall, thin, draped in a lab coat patched with icons of Chrome, Docs, and YouTube. He wore thick glasses, carried a pointer stick, and had a smug smile. “You summoned me,” the man said, his voice echoing like a search bar loading. Rahul rubbed his eyes. “This is it. Sleep deprivation hallucination.” The figure adjusted his glasses. “Incorrect. I am Professor Google. You prayed. I responded. And let me tell you, young man, your search history is… disturbing.”
Rahul nearly fell off his chair. “Search history? Wait—don’t read that out loud!” The Professor cleared his throat theatrically. “‘Best excuses for bunking class.’ ‘Will four cups of coffee kill me.’ ‘How to flirt using memes.’ ‘Dog wearing helmet gif.’ Fascinating queries.” Rahul covered his face. “Okay, okay, enough. You’re not real. You’re some caffeine nightmare.” The Professor tapped his stick on the desk, and instantly Rahul’s phone unlocked by itself. His Gmail, WhatsApp, and even the hidden “Assignments” folder he thought was private all flashed across the wall like a projector. “I am more real than your attendance percentage,” the Professor declared.
Rahul gulped. “So… what exactly are you here to do? Mock me to death?” The Professor smirked. “I am your guide, your search engine in human form. Ask, and I shall provide.” He tapped the book of Analog Circuits. “This chapter? Summarized in thirty-four seconds. That diagram? Annotated and explained with three YouTube tutorials. That derivation? Already solved in a Quora thread from 2014. I can feed you knowledge faster than you can blink.”
Rahul’s eyes widened. “You mean… I don’t have to study?” The Professor raised a finger. “Ah, but every search has a price. You will pass, but at what cost? Overreliance on me may expose your… vulnerabilities.” Rahul barely listened. His brain screamed one thing: Free answers! He leapt up. “Professor, sir, my hero, let’s start. Teach me microprocessors.” The Professor cracked his knuckles. “Very well.”
In the next hour, Rahul was bombarded with definitions, diagrams, and mnemonics. The Professor spoke like a search page scrolling endlessly: “According to Wikipedia… as per Stack Overflow… in this PDF from an obscure university in Bulgaria…” Rahul scribbled furiously, though half the time he didn’t understand. But he felt powerful. By three a.m., he leaned back in his chair, triumphant. “This is insane. I actually get it now. You’re like a cheat code for life.”
The Professor raised his eyebrows. “Remember, knowledge is not just retrieval. It is understanding.” Rahul waved dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Understanding later, passing now.” He stretched, grinning at the ceiling. For the first time that semester, he felt ready.
But the night wasn’t over. The Professor’s curiosity had shifted. He began peering at Rahul’s personal files. “What is this folder labeled Project Ideas? Ah—‘An app that meows every hour to remind you to drink water.’ ‘A website that rates hostel samosas.’ Remarkable stupidity.” Rahul snatched the notebook away. “Hey! That’s my intellectual property.” The Professor chuckled. “If stupidity were intellectual property, you’d be a billionaire.”
The fan whirred back to life, lights steadied. Outside, dogs barked as if warning the city that something unnatural had occurred. Rahul’s roommate, Deepak, stirred in his sleep and muttered, “Bro, stop talking to yourself.” Rahul froze. He glanced at the Professor, who was standing tall beside his desk. “See? Even he can’t see you.” The Professor winked. “I exist only for those who summon me. Congratulations, Rahul. You have exclusive access.”
Rahul smirked. “Exclusive access, huh? Then tomorrow, in the viva, you’re coming with me.” The Professor bowed slightly. “As you wish. But remember—information is infinite, human patience is not.”
Rahul didn’t care. He collapsed onto his bed, buzzing with caffeine and overconfidence. Somewhere between the rustle of hostel noises and the Professor softly muttering definitions to himself, Rahul drifted to sleep.
What he didn’t know was that tomorrow would be the beginning of the strangest semester of his life—a semester where search results walked, talked, and sometimes ruined everything.
Part 2 – Meet Professor Google
Morning arrived like a badly formatted spreadsheet: too many columns of noise and not enough rows of sleep. Rahul woke with drool on his notebook and a rectangular dent on his cheek that matched the calculator he had used as a pillow. The room smelled of cold Maggi and ambition left out overnight. He sat up, blinked at the sunlight slicing through the curtain, and then remembered. The lab coat. The pointer. The smirk. “Professor?” he whispered. The cupboard door swung open by itself and the Professor stepped out as if he had been alphabetized inside. His coat shimmered with tiny icons. “Good morning, cached user.” Rahul rubbed his eyes. “You were real.” “Here, have data,” the Professor said, handing him a cup of tea he had somehow brewed. “Seventy-three percent of Indian students believe tea enhances exam performance. Sample size: three hostel rooms and a guard.” Rahul sipped. “Okay, rules. If you’re sticking around, you cannot embarrass me today. Viva is at eleven. We act normal.” “Define normal,” the Professor said, and the air filled with search suggestions: normal range of blood pressure, normal mapping, normal distribution. He waved them away. “Very well. I shall be incognito.” He tapped Rahul’s temple with the pointer. A translucent progress bar whooshed across Rahul’s vision and vanished. “What did you just install in my head?” “A browser extension for your common sense,” the Professor said. “Although your hardware may not support it.”
Rahul changed into jeans and a crumpled T-shirt that announced “Future CEO of Something.” Outside, the corridor roared with bucket traffic, someone rehearsed guitar, someone else an apology to their professor. Rahul grabbed his backpack. The Professor followed like an autocomplete that refused to go away. In the mess hall, Deepak waved them over to a table littered with steel plates and grand theories. “Bro, you alive? Heard you muttering definitions in your sleep.” Rahul kicked him under the table. “Just… focused.” Deepak eyed the Professor. “And who’s the visiting faculty?” Rahul froze. Could Deepak see him? The Professor leaned toward Rahul’s ear. “Visibility updated. Public beta.” Then, to Deepak: “I am, indeed, visiting. Call me PG.” “Postgrad?” “Personal Guide,” the Professor replied. “What are you eating? That puri has the structural integrity of a badly designed bridge.” Deepak blinked. “Okay.”
Rahul inhaled breakfast while the Professor narrated facts like a food documentary. “Puri, average diameter eight centimeters, elasticity questionable. Aloo sabzi: ninety percent potato, ten percent nostalgia. Jalebi: looped sugar pretzel, recommended dosage one because brain.” “Can you not?” Rahul hissed. “Humans require context,” the Professor said. “Also, you have coriander on your lip.” They left the mess to cross the quadrangle. The campus shimmered with heat, banners, and the smell of photocopier ink. The Professor walked with hands behind his back like a headmaster who had swallowed a cloud service. “Your viva examiner today is Dr. Banerjee,” he said. “He appreciates concise answers and dislikes the word ‘basically.’ He says it before students do.” Rahul flinched. “How do you know?” “Open sources,” the Professor said. “Also, he tweets.”
Two seniors stopped Rahul. “Junior, last-minute tips?” Rahul began, “Basically—” and the Professor slapped the air so Rahul’s mouth clicked shut like a popup blocked. “Tell them: Break complex answers into three steps,” the Professor whispered. Rahul repeated it. The seniors nodded, newly devout. At the library entrance, a blackboard declared “MAY THE CODE BE WITH YOU.” The Professor bowed. “Cute.” They ducked between stacks. Rahul searched for a quiet corner. The Professor treated the library like a shopping mall. “You do not need all this. Sit.” He conjured a mental diagram only Rahul could see, a neat flowchart of microprocessor interrupts and pin configurations that rearranged if Rahul frowned. For five minutes, Rahul understood everything. Then a librarian marched by and the diagram hid behind his forehead like a guilty browser tab.
“Listen,” Rahul said, “what if you glitch? In the viva, I start talking and you feed me garbage. I’m finished.” The Professor placed a hand over his heart. “Caching feelings. I will not fail you. But you must speak in your voice. I am an assistant, not a ventriloquist.” “Assistant,” Rahul said, liking the word. “Okay. We go in, we kill it.” A notification dinged inside Rahul’s skull. The Professor smiled. “Reminder: you promised your mother you would call.” Rahul groaned. “Now?” “Now,” the Professor said, already dialing. His mother answered in under two rings with the velocity of maternal instinct. She asked if he was eating, sleeping, dressing warmly, and avoiding bad company. The Professor turned on noise cancellation and whispered answers for polite lying. Rahul said yes to all four and threw in a fifth yes for safety. His mother blessed him, threatened him, and hung up, in that order.
As they left the library, the Professor paused by a noticeboard crowded with tutoring flyers and forgotten poetry. He plucked one and read: “Learn guitar in seven days.” He snorted. “With seven lives, perhaps.” “Stop being mean,” Rahul said. “Some of us need hope.” “Hope is fine,” the Professor said. “Hype is not.” They reached the electronics lab building, a concrete rectangle that had seen things. Rahul’s palms went sweaty. A cluster of students loitered outside the viva room, reciting terms like monks chanting mantras. The door opened and a boy emerged looking like he had aged a decade in seven minutes. “It’ll be fine,” Deepak whispered. “Just say something about registers.” “Or buses,” a girl added. “I don’t know what they are, but they sound important.”
The Professor adjusted Rahul’s collar. “You will start with a definition, move to a small example, then relate it to a practical scenario. End decisively. No ‘basically.’ No ‘like.’ No apologies.” Rahul nodded, heart punching his ribs. “And if I forget?” “I’ll be there,” the Professor said softly. “Think of me as the world’s most annoying cue card.” The peon called the next name. Not Rahul yet. He paced. The hallway clock hammered seconds. Through a window, juniors chased a football like puppies. For a second, he wanted to be anywhere else. Then the door creaked and the peon barked, “Rahul Sharma!” He swallowed. The Professor tilted his chin up. “Enter. Control your variables. Do not panic when the system interrupts.” Rahul reached for the handle. The metal was warm. He looked at the Professor. “Incognito mode,” he whispered. The Professor smiled. “Always.” Rahul exhaled, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the viva.
Part 3 – Viva La Vida
The viva room smelled of old circuit boards and fresh terror. Rahul stepped inside, his backpack hanging off one shoulder like a bad habit. At the center sat Dr. Banerjee, a man whose bald head gleamed under the tube light like a polished resistor. His eyes were sharp behind his glasses, the kind of eyes that could strip a circuit bare with a glance. On the table lay a stack of answer sheets, a soldering iron, and a cup of tea that looked more intimidating than inviting. The Professor appeared at Rahul’s side, invisible to everyone else, tapping his pointer lightly on the desk like a drumroll. “Stay calm,” he whispered, “you’ve cached enough information to bluff through this.”
Dr. Banerjee cleared his throat. “Rahul Sharma, final year.” His tone made it sound like a death sentence. Rahul nodded, his throat dry. The Professor materialized a water bottle and Rahul nearly reached for it before realizing nobody else could see it. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Tell me,” Banerjee began, “what is a microprocessor?” Rahul froze for half a second. The Professor leaned close, murmuring: “A microprocessor is a multipurpose, clock-driven, register-based, digital integrated circuit…” Rahul repeated it in a steady voice. Banerjee raised his eyebrows. “Continue.” Rahul added, “It accepts binary data as input, processes it according to instructions stored in memory, and provides results as output.”
Banerjee nodded, unimpressed. “Example?” The Professor whispered, “8085, 8086, Intel family.” Rahul stammered, “Like… the Intel 8085, sir, used in early computing systems.” Banerjee tapped his pen. “Hmm. You memorized definitions. Can you relate it to real life?” Rahul’s stomach dropped. The Professor flicked his pointer, and Rahul suddenly saw an image of his hostel microwave flashing “ERROR.” He blurted out, “Sir, for example, microprocessors are used in microwaves. Like when we press start and it somehow knows how to heat our Maggi—uh, noodles.” Banerjee paused, teacup halfway to his lips. Rahul’s heart pounded. Had he blown it? Then Banerjee snorted. “At least you know Maggi needs technology.” He scribbled something on the sheet. The Professor smirked.
The next question came like a jab. “Explain interrupts.” Rahul’s mind went blank. The Professor muttered, “An interrupt is a signal that temporarily halts the CPU’s current task and diverts it to a service routine.” Rahul parroted it. “And example?” Banerjee asked, sharp. The Professor whispered, “Keyboard input.” Rahul blurted, “Like when we press a key on a keyboard, the processor pauses what it’s doing to register the key.” Banerjee’s pen hovered, then resumed scribbling. Rahul felt sweat bead on his forehead. The Professor whispered, “Don’t overdo. Keep it short.”
Banerjee leaned back. “Good. But definitions are easy. Let’s test application. Suppose a microprocessor controls the traffic lights at Park Circus. How will it handle sudden emergency vehicle priority?” Rahul’s brain screamed. The Professor flicked his pointer again, conjuring flowcharts in Rahul’s head. Rahul swallowed. “The microprocessor would use an interrupt-driven mechanism, sir. Emergency sensors would trigger an interrupt, overriding the normal traffic light sequence, and execute a routine to give green to that lane. After the service routine, it would return to the normal program.” Banerjee’s eyebrow twitched. For the first time, he almost looked impressed. “Hmm. Not bad.”
Rahul’s confidence swelled. The Professor clapped silently, mouthing, “Excellent copy-paste delivery.” Rahul straightened his shoulders. He almost smiled until Banerjee asked, “Now tell me about buses.” Rahul’s eyes widened. His brain supplied only one image: the rickety blue-and-yellow Kolkata bus that wheezed near their hostel. The Professor facepalmed. “Data bus, address bus, control bus!” he hissed. Rahul blurted, “Buses are communication pathways used by microprocessors—uh, like data bus for carrying data, address bus for memory addresses, control bus for signals. Without buses, the system… wouldn’t go anywhere.” He stopped, praying the metaphor wasn’t too much.
Banerjee blinked, then actually chuckled. “So the processor is like a conductor, hmm?” Rahul nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir. With very strict tickets.” Banerjee made another note. The Professor whispered, “He’s amused. You have approximately thirty percent chance of survival.” Rahul’s knees stopped trembling for the first time.
The viva stretched on. Questions about instruction sets, flags, registers flew like arrows. Each time Rahul hesitated, the Professor spoon-fed him just enough to sound intelligent but not robotic. At one point, though, disaster struck. Banerjee asked, “Explain the difference between static RAM and dynamic RAM.” The Professor whispered two different explanations at once, his voice glitching like two tabs fighting. Rahul panicked and merged them: “Static RAM is like… a very stable friend who forgets unless reminded, and dynamic RAM is… dynamic, like someone who doesn’t forget but needs constant refreshing.” Banerjee stared. The Professor slapped his forehead. Rahul coughed. “I mean, static doesn’t need refreshing, dynamic does.” Banerjee scribbled something sharp, probably a minus mark the size of Everest. Rahul’s soul wilted.
Finally, Banerjee closed the file. “Okay, Sharma. Not disastrous. You have basic understanding.” He sipped his tea. “But don’t think fancy words will save you. Next time, more clarity.” Rahul nodded, legs jelly. He stumbled out, the Professor gliding after him.
In the corridor, Deepak pounced. “How was it?” Rahul wiped sweat from his forehead. “I… survived.” The Professor muttered, “Barely. Like a phone with one percent battery.” Deepak groaned. “Mine is next. Pray for me, bro.” He shuffled inside. Rahul slumped against the wall, adrenaline fizzing in his veins. For the first time, he wasn’t sure if the Professor was a blessing or a curse. He had scraped through, yes, but half his answers had felt like juggling knives blindfolded.
The Professor adjusted his coat. “You see? With my help, you can face any question. Imagine the possibilities.” Rahul eyed him suspiciously. “Possibilities of failing in new and creative ways?” The Professor grinned. “Possibilities of surviving in ways your brain alone never could.” Rahul laughed weakly. Outside, a football thudded, laughter echoed, the sun scorched the quad. Inside his head, he heard search suggestions fluttering like restless birds.
For better or worse, Professor Google was here to stay.
Part 4 – Impressing Ananya
Rahul had survived the viva by the grace of Professor Google, but the aftertaste of fear still clung to his tongue like burnt Maggi. He wanted a distraction, something brighter than circuits and registers, something—or rather someone—who made the whole chaotic hostel fade away. That someone was Ananya.
She was the literature society’s brightest star, a girl who walked across campus with headphones always around her neck and novels spilling out of her tote bag. She laughed like she didn’t need permission and answered professors with the kind of confidence Rahul reserved only for food orders. Rahul had admired her from afar for months, convinced that people who quoted Virginia Woolf could never coexist with people who still googled “difference between capacitor and condenser.”
That evening, while sitting under the neem tree outside the canteen, Rahul confessed his hopeless crush. “Professor, she’s way out of my league.” The Professor leaned on his pointer like a cane. “League? This isn’t cricket. You require a strategy. Data suggests ninety percent of crushes fail due to lack of approach. You must upgrade.” “Upgrade?” Rahul asked. “You mean like… speak actual words?” “Precisely,” the Professor said, “but optimized.”
So the next morning, as Ananya walked past the canteen steps, Rahul decided to try. His heart raced. The Professor whispered, “Start with poetry. Humans find it disarming.” Rahul cleared his throat and said, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Ananya stopped. “What?” “I mean—uh—Shakespeare. You like literature, right?” She tilted her head. “Yeah, but why are you quoting it like Google Translate just spat it out?” Rahul flushed crimson. The Professor hissed, “Pivot! Change subject.” Rahul stammered, “Do you—uh—believe in Maggi as a metaphor for life?”
Ananya blinked. Then she burst out laughing, not unkindly, but the kind of laugh that echoed in Rahul’s ribcage. “That’s… new. Nobody’s ever asked me that.” The Professor quickly whispered, “Say noodles untangle like destiny.” Rahul blurted, “Because, you know, noodles untangle like destiny.” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re weird.” “In a good way?” “In… a confusing way.” She kept walking, shaking her head, still smiling. Rahul collapsed onto the steps, burying his face in his hands. “That was a disaster.” The Professor folded his arms. “Incorrect. That was version one. Beta testing always involves glitches.”
Over the next few days, Rahul attempted to “upgrade his approach.” With the Professor feeding lines, he swung between genius and idiocy like a pendulum. At the library, he tried to impress Ananya with trivia: “Did you know Virginia Woolf wrote her first novel on blue paper?” Ananya blinked. “Cool. But why are you telling me that while I’m photocopying class notes?” At the café kiosk, Rahul tried: “Coffee originated in Ethiopia in the ninth century.” She sighed, “Rahul, is this an exam?” By the third attempt, she shook her head. “You’re like a human Wikipedia with bad timing.”
Rahul groaned into his pillow that night. “Professor, you’re ruining me.” The Professor sat cross-legged on the desk. “I am optimizing your visibility. She notices you now.” “Yeah, as a clown,” Rahul snapped. “Humans love clowns,” the Professor said, sipping invisible tea. “Consider Chaplin.”
Then came the English department fest. The auditorium buzzed with posters, fairy lights, and the smell of samosas. Ananya was on stage, reading from her short story. Rahul sat in the audience, heart hammering. Her voice floated across the hall, lyrical and sure. When she stepped down, applause erupted. Rahul felt like he’d been hit with a wave. “I’ll talk to her. Right now.” The Professor brightened. “Good. Remember: confidence. Quote Neruda, not nutrition facts.”
Rahul approached her in the courtyard, palms sweaty. “Ananya, that was… amazing.” She smiled politely. “Thanks, Rahul.” The Professor whispered, “Now recite Neruda’s ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines.’” Rahul obeyed: “Tonight I can write the saddest lines…” But the Professor scrolled too fast and Rahul added, “Like, for example, ‘How to make perfect dal chawal in fifteen minutes.’” Ananya burst out laughing again, clutching her notebook. “You’re impossible!” Rahul froze. She walked away, still laughing, still shaking her head, but not annoyed—amused.
Later that night, Rahul sat by the hostel window, moonlight spilling across his cluttered desk. “She thinks I’m a joke.” The Professor adjusted his glasses. “Correction: she thinks you’re interesting. Jokes are memorable. You stand out. Do you know how many boys quote Pablo Neruda straight? Too many. You added dal chawal. That’s original.” Rahul blinked. “You mean… I might have a chance?” The Professor tapped his pointer against the windowpane. “Probability has increased by thirty-two percent. Continue data collection.”
Rahul leaned back, heart lighter. For the first time, his failure didn’t feel fatal. Maybe Shakespeare and Maggi could coexist after all.
Part 5 – The Maggi Biryani Pizza Fiasco
The hostel canteen had always been a battleground. The menu claimed variety, but every dish somehow tasted like recycled sambhar. That Tuesday evening, Rahul sat there with Deepak, poking at a lifeless aloo paratha. “This is cardboard with feelings,” Deepak muttered. The Professor, perched on the counter invisible to others, surveyed the chaos. “Food innovation required. Humans eat not for survival alone but for story. Let us create a story.”
Rahul frowned. “What are you planning?” The Professor’s glasses flashed. “Fusion. Viral potential. Culinary disruption.” He marched into the kitchen, invisible to staff, and started muttering recipes. Within minutes, the canteen cook stumbled out holding a tray like a man possessed. “Boys! Today, special item—Maggi Biryani Pizza!” The tray revealed a monstrosity: Maggi noodles spread across a pizza base, sprinkled with biryani masala, topped with onion rings and a lone boiled egg in the center like a crown jewel. The smell was bizarrely enticing.
Students swarmed. Phones clicked. Someone shouted, “Bro, this is genius!” Another yelled, “Instagram, quick!” Rahul buried his face in his hands. “What have you done?” But the first bite silenced him. It was… actually edible. Spicy, cheesy, confusing. Word spread faster than exam leaks. By the next day, the dish had become a campus legend. Food bloggers arrived with DSLRs. A YouTube vlogger set up lights in the corner and declared, “This is the future of Indian street food.” Rahul groaned. “This is the end of civilization.”
The Professor stood proudly. “Congratulations. We have created virality. Trending probability: ninety percent.” And trending it did. Hashtags erupted: #MaggiBiryaniPizza, #FusionRevolution. Students lined up outside the canteen like pilgrims. Even professors sneaked in after lectures. One declared, “Innovation in food is still innovation.” The cook, who normally survived on grumbles, suddenly walked with swagger, calling himself “Chef Patel International.”
But virality comes with side effects. On day three, the mess hall overflowed. The electricity tripped twice under the weight of charging phones. Students from other colleges invaded campus just to try the pizza. Local newspapers ran headlines: Engineering Hostel Invents Dish of the Future. A popular food app tried to list the canteen as an official partner, only to be met with blank stares from the cook, who didn’t know what an app was.
Rahul cornered the Professor in the corridor. “This has gone too far. It was supposed to be a joke.” The Professor adjusted his lab coat. “Every joke is one step away from revolution. Humans crave novelty. You should be proud.” “Proud?!” Rahul cried. “I can’t even get tea without someone asking me to pose with noodles. I’m the unwilling brand ambassador of chaos.”
The chaos peaked on Friday evening. The Dean himself arrived, summoned by reports of outsiders clogging the gates. He stood in the canteen, staring at the Maggi Biryani Pizza like it was a crime scene. “Who is responsible?” he thundered. Students pointed at the cook. The cook pointed at Rahul. Rahul pointed at Deepak. Deepak pointed at the ceiling. The Professor, of course, whistled innocently.
The Dean picked up a slice, sniffed it, and took a cautious bite. For a terrifying second, silence reigned. Then he coughed. “This… this is… confusing.” The crowd leaned in. The Dean chewed again. “Confusing, but strangely addictive. Carry on.” Cheers erupted. Rahul wanted the ground to swallow him.
By Saturday, food inspectors marched in, demanding hygiene certificates. The cook panicked. Students tried to hide eggs under tables. A reporter shoved a microphone at Rahul: “As the inventor, what inspired you?” Rahul stammered, “Uh, hunger?” The Professor whispered, “Say disruption. Say innovation.” Rahul sighed. “Innovation, disruption, hunger.” The reporter clapped. “Brilliant!”
That night, Rahul collapsed on his bed, groaning. “I can’t live like this. I just wanted to pass exams, not start a culinary cult.” The Professor hovered above his desk, swirling an invisible wine glass. “Relax. Trends die quickly. Tomorrow it will be forgotten.” But he was wrong.
Sunday morning, Rahul woke to find an email. Subject: Invitation to TEDx Talk – ‘Fusing Cultures Through Cuisine.’ He nearly screamed. Deepak peeked over his shoulder. “Bro, you’re famous!” Rahul shoved the laptop shut. “I’m doomed.” The Professor smirked. “Doomed, or upgraded? History remembers innovators. Even accidental ones.” Rahul groaned into his pillow.
And so the legend of Maggi Biryani Pizza lived on, leaving Rahul both celebrated and cursed. He couldn’t decide which was worse—failing exams, or becoming the face of Frankenstein food.
Part 6 – Search History Horror
Rahul thought nothing could top the humiliation of being called the “Maggi Biryani Pizza guy.” But fate, assisted by Professor Google, had darker plans. It started innocently enough, with the class presentation on Embedded Systems. Each student had to present slides, and Rahul, being Rahul, hadn’t made any. “Don’t worry,” the Professor said confidently, lounging on the bed. “I will assemble a presentation in seconds. Just give me access to your laptop.” Rahul hesitated. “Access to everything?” “Naturally,” the Professor said, already prying open folders with invisible hands.
By morning, the slides were ready—clean diagrams, clear bullet points, even stock photos that made Rahul look like he knew what he was talking about. “Perfect,” Rahul whispered. “Almost too perfect.” The Professor beamed. “Optimization is my middle name.” Rahul strutted into class, feeling like a TEDx speaker in borrowed shoes. The projector flickered on, Rahul connected his laptop, and the first slide appeared: Introduction to Embedded Systems. Smooth. He began his speech, glancing at the notes the Professor fed into his head.
It was going fine until the fifth slide. Instead of the diagram of microcontrollers, the projector displayed a giant screenshot of Rahul’s Google search history. The class gasped. Rahul froze. On the screen, in bold clarity, appeared gems like:
- How to fake confidence in viva.
- Can you get abs by laughing a lot.
- Difference between resistor and toaster.
- Does Maggi count as protein.
- How to tell if your crush is ignoring you or just asleep.
The class erupted in laughter. Someone shouted, “Abs by laughing, Sharma?!” Another yelled, “Toaster engineering, bro!” Rahul’s ears burned. He scrambled to shut the window, but the Professor calmly said, “Transparency improves credibility.” Rahul hissed, “Not this much transparency!” He fumbled with the keyboard, accidentally zooming in on the worst line: Can you fail engineering and still marry rich? The laughter doubled.
Ananya, sitting in the second row, covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. Rahul’s stomach flipped. He wanted her to admire him, not witness his search history like a reality show. The Professor clapped softly. “See? You have the room’s full attention.” Rahul groaned. “For the wrong reasons!”
The teacher, unimpressed, banged her desk. “Mr. Sharma! This is not comedy hour.” Rahul stammered, “Ma’am, technical glitch.” The Professor leaned close. “Not glitch. Feature.” Finally, Rahul yanked the cable out. The projector went black. Silence returned, broken only by giggles. The teacher sighed. “Continue, if you can.” Rahul muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” and resumed with shaky voice. Every time he said “system,” someone whispered, “Toaster.”
After class, Rahul buried his head in his backpack. Deepak patted his back. “Legend. Pure legend. Nobody will forget this presentation.” Rahul moaned, “I wanted to be respected, not memed.” The Professor, walking beside them, smirked. “Respect is overrated. Viral moments are forever.”
By evening, Rahul’s humiliation had escalated. His classmates had turned his search queries into WhatsApp stickers. Memes spread: Rahul in superhero costume with the caption Abs by laughing man. Another showed him marrying a toaster in a wedding mandap. Rahul hid in his room, threatening to throw his laptop out. The Professor appeared beside him. “Relax. Internet attention spans are short. Tomorrow, they’ll move on.” “Tomorrow?” Rahul snapped. “I still have to exist today!”
At that moment, Ananya knocked on the door. Rahul nearly jumped out of his skin. “Who is it?” he squeaked. “It’s me,” she said. “Open up.” Rahul glanced at the Professor. “She’s here to laugh at me again.” The Professor shrugged. “Or to marry you for your toaster.” Rahul glared and opened the door. Ananya stood there, holding a notebook. She was smiling, but not cruelly. “I just came to say… that was the most entertaining presentation of the semester.” Rahul groaned. “Don’t remind me.” She shook her head. “No, really. Everyone pretends to be perfect. You were… real. Brave, even.”
Rahul blinked. “Brave? I looked like an idiot.” She shrugged. “Idiots are more fun than boring geniuses.” She handed him her notes. “Here. You’ll need these for the exam, toaster boy.” Rahul took them, speechless. When she left, he turned to the Professor, wide-eyed. “She didn’t mock me. She actually… respected me?” The Professor nodded sagely. “Humans value authenticity. Your foolishness is now marketable.”
Rahul collapsed on his chair, clutching Ananya’s notes like sacred text. “Maybe this isn’t the end after all.” The Professor twirled his pointer. “Indeed. Today, toaster. Tomorrow, legend.”
And somewhere in the hostel, a new meme was born: Rahul photoshopped on a TEDx stage, with the quote: Can you fail engineering and still marry rich?
Part 7 – The Job Interview Disaster
Campus placement week was like a circus with better suits. Posters of companies were plastered across the auditorium walls, students marched around in shiny ties they’d borrowed from cousins, and the air smelled of fear mixed with deodorant. Rahul, still recovering from the Search History Horror, sat nervously at the registration desk. Deepak adjusted his blazer. “Bro, this is it. Today we become employed men.” Rahul tugged at his wrinkled shirt. “Today I become unemployed in formal wear.”
The Professor appeared at his side, invisible to the crowd, polishing his glasses. “Relax. I have downloaded thirty thousand common interview questions. You will ace this.” Rahul groaned. “Last time you said that, I ended up proposing marriage to a toaster.” “That was context mismanagement,” the Professor replied. “Trust me this time.”
They entered the waiting hall, where students rehearsed self-introductions like soldiers chanting battle cries. “I am passionate about coding and cricket.” “My strength is teamwork and punctuality.” Rahul whispered, “This is terrifying.” The Professor corrected, “This is optimization in progress.”
Finally, Rahul’s turn came. He was ushered into a small room where three interviewers sat behind a desk, faces unreadable. A bottle of water sat ominously between them. One interviewer began, “Tell us about yourself.” Rahul opened his mouth. The Professor jumped in with a flood of words: “Say you are adaptable, quick learner, creative thinker, passionate about innovation…” Rahul repeated robotically, “I am adaptable, quick learner, creative thinker, passionate about innovation.” The interviewers scribbled notes. The Professor whispered, “Now add hobbies: cricket, reading, leadership.” Rahul obeyed. The panel nodded. So far, so good.
Then came the questions. “Why do you want to join our company?” The Professor launched into a Wikipedia monologue: “Founded in 1997, headquartered in Bangalore, specializes in cloud solutions, revenue 3.2 billion dollars, motto ‘Innovate Everyday.’” Rahul parroted it word for word. The interviewers blinked. One whispered to another, “Did he memorize our website?” Rahul panicked. The Professor nudged, “Smile! Add emotion!” Rahul grinned wildly and added, “And I love your motto very much.” It sounded like a marriage proposal.
Next question: “Where do you see yourself in five years?” The Professor scrolled too fast. Rahul blurted, “According to global career trends, the future of IT includes artificial intelligence, blockchain, and quantum computing. Therefore, in five years I see myself integrating blockchain with quantum AI to disrupt markets.” The room went silent. One interviewer coughed. Another scribbled furiously. The third muttered, “This guy is either genius or mad.” Rahul’s palms sweated.
Then came the technical test. “Can you explain polymorphism?” The Professor whispered, “In object-oriented programming, polymorphism refers to the ability of a function, object, or method to take multiple forms—” Rahul repeated, but the Professor continued speaking, adding Greek etymology, examples from biology, and a tangent about chameleons. Rahul’s mouth struggled to keep up, blurting random words: “Polymorphism… many forms… Greek… chameleons… function with… color changing lizards…” The interviewers stared. One whispered, “Did he just compare Java to reptiles?”
Rahul wanted to disappear. But the Professor wasn’t done. During the coding question, Rahul stared blankly at the paper. The Professor dictated: “Write a program to reverse a string in C.” Rahul scribbled furiously, copying every line. But midway, the Professor glitched, mixing codes from Python and Java. Rahul’s final answer included curly brackets, indentation errors, and a mysterious print(“hello toaster”). He handed it in. The interviewers studied it in silence. Finally, one asked, “What is this hybrid language?” Rahul squeaked, “Innovation?”
The panel thanked him politely and dismissed him. Rahul stumbled out, drenched in sweat. Deepak rushed over. “How was it?” Rahul collapsed into a chair. “Imagine a train wreck. Now imagine the train apologizing in Greek while turning into a chameleon. That was my interview.” The Professor patted his shoulder. “Not bad. You stood out.” Rahul glared. “I don’t want to stand out. I want a job!”
The results were pinned on the board the next day. Deepak’s name glowed proudly. Rahul scanned the list twice, thrice—his name was absent. Students whispered behind him: “Toaster guy strikes again.” Rahul wanted the ground to eat him alive. The Professor, however, adjusted his coat. “Failure is just delayed optimization. Next time, we refine the algorithm.” Rahul snapped, “Next time, I’m leaving you at home.”
But even as he sulked in the corridor, Ananya walked by, notes in hand. “Heard about your interview,” she said softly. Rahul winced. “Yeah, I made a fool of myself again.” She smiled. “Maybe. But at least you didn’t sound like everyone else. That takes guts.” Rahul blinked, surprised. She walked away, leaving him with the faintest flicker of hope. The Professor leaned in. “See? Even failure trends positively with the right audience.” Rahul groaned, burying his head in his arms.
For now, he was unemployed, embarrassed, and memed. But deep inside, he knew—life with Professor Google was never boring. And boring, apparently, was worse.
Part 8 – The Onion Apocalypse
Hostel life taught Rahul many lessons: never trust the mess hall’s chicken curry, never leave clothes unattended on the drying line, and never, ever, order groceries online at 2 a.m. with Professor Google. But Rahul, as usual, ignored wisdom.
It started when Deepak complained one night, “Bro, the canteen samosas taste like dust. We need real food.” Rahul, still sulking about his job interview disaster, muttered, “Maybe I’ll cook.” Deepak laughed so hard he nearly choked on his tea. “You? Cook? The guy who burns Maggi?” The Professor, offended, raised his pointer. “Cooking is algorithmic. Follow steps, get output. We shall demonstrate.”
So Rahul opened a grocery app. “What do we need? Onions, tomatoes, masala…” The Professor interrupted, “Onions are crucial. India consumes twenty million tonnes annually. Let us stock up.” He hovered his pointer over the screen. Rahul yawned, too tired to argue, and clicked ‘confirm order.’
The next morning, the hostel gatekeeper screamed. A truck had arrived. Not a delivery van. A truck. Students gathered in shock as workers unloaded sack after sack of onions. Fifty sacks. A hundred. By the end, the hostel courtyard looked like a wholesale market. Rahul stood frozen, invoice trembling in his hand: Order: 500 kilograms of onions. Buyer: Rahul Sharma.
Chaos erupted. Deepak shrieked, “Are you starting a vegetable shop?!” Rahul wailed, “Professor, what did you do?” The Professor smirked. “You said buy onions. I optimized for bulk discount.”
Within hours, the hostel turned into Onionland. Bags lined the corridors, staircases, even the bathroom entrance. Students tripped over them carrying buckets. The mess cook danced with joy. “Free onions! Now we make onion paratha, onion pakora, onion soup!” For three days straight, every meal was onion-based. Breakfast: onion poha. Lunch: onion curry. Dinner: onion pulao. Even tea smelled faintly of onion because someone stirred it with the wrong spoon.
But things escalated. News spread that the hostel had hoarded half a ton of onions during a price surge. Local vendors stormed the gate demanding answers. “Are you black-marketing?” one shouted. The warden nearly fainted. The Dean arrived again, clutching his head. “First Maggi Biryani Pizza, now this?” He threatened to expel Rahul unless the onions disappeared.
Desperate, Rahul tried to sell them online. He posted: Fresh onions, bulk discount, free hostel gossip with purchase. Within hours, memes flooded social media. One showed Rahul riding an onion truck like a Bollywood hero. Another labeled him “Onion King of Bangalore.” His classmates chanted, “All hail Rahul Bhaiya, Sabzi Wala!”
Ananya cornered him near the library, holding her nose. “You smell like a vegetable shop.” Rahul groaned, “Don’t remind me.” She laughed. “Honestly, it’s hilarious. Only you could accidentally order half a ton of onions.” Rahul muttered, “I’m a walking joke.” She shook her head. “At least you’re original.” Then she added, with mock seriousness, “If I ever need onions, I know who to call.” Rahul almost smiled despite himself.
Meanwhile, the Professor treated the fiasco as research. “Observe: onions function as currency. Historically used in barter. You are now wealthy in a parallel economy.” Rahul snapped, “I can’t pay rent with onions!” “Not with that attitude,” the Professor replied.
The breaking point came on the fifth day when the hostel reeked so strongly of onion that the neighborhood complained. A health inspector barged in. “This is a biohazard!” he declared, stepping over sacks. The warden blamed Rahul. Rahul blamed the Professor. The Professor whistled innocently, scribbling notes on “Onion-based economies.”
Finally, a local restaurant owner arrived. He eyed the stockpile like treasure. “I’ll take the lot,” he said. “Wedding season, I need supply.” Within hours, workers hauled the onions away. Rahul received a modest payment, barely enough to cover the original bill, but enough to keep the Dean from killing him. The hostel cheered as the last sack vanished.
That night, Rahul lay on his bed, exhausted. “I survived an onion apocalypse,” he whispered. Deepak laughed from his bunk. “Bro, you’re a legend. First pizza, now onions. What’s next? Rice tsunami?” Rahul buried his face in his pillow. The Professor appeared by the window, gazing at the moon. “Failure, fame, food—all interconnected. You are building a legacy.” Rahul groaned, “I don’t want a legacy. I just want peace.”
But peace was impossible with Professor Google around. And deep down, Rahul knew it.
Part 9 – The Quiz Show Meltdown
Rahul thought his onion fiasco had finally ended his reputation, but destiny wasn’t done laughing at him. Two weeks later, he was “volunteered” by his classmates for a national quiz competition. The excuse? “Bro, you have Professor Google. Use him.” Rahul protested, “He’s not a cheat code, he’s a disaster machine!” But the Professor, polishing his pointer like a weapon, declared, “This is my stage. Finally, a chance to showcase optimized knowledge.” Rahul sighed. He couldn’t say no.
The quiz was televised. The auditorium blazed with lights, cameras, and a giant LED screen flashing the title: Brainstorm India – Season 4. Rahul sat nervously at the contestant’s desk, clutching the buzzer. On the opposite side were three students from IIT, their eyes sharp, ties straighter than their morals. Rahul’s teammates whispered, “Don’t mess up.” He wanted to cry.
The host, a dramatic man in a shiny suit, announced, “Welcome to Brainstorm! Today we have the underdogs, Bengaluru Engineering Hostel, versus the champions, IIT Delhi!” Cheers erupted. Rahul wiped his palms. The Professor hovered invisibly behind him, grinning. “Relax. I’ve indexed all knowledge ever produced. What could go wrong?” Rahul muttered, “Everything.”
The first round began. “Question one,” the host boomed, “Who invented the steam engine?” The Professor whispered instantly, “James Watt, 18th century.” Rahul slammed the buzzer. “James Watt!” Correct. Applause. His teammates cheered. Rahul grinned. Maybe this could work.
Second question: “Capital of Kazakhstan?” The Professor whispered, “Astana, formerly Nur-Sultan, changed 2019.” Rahul repeated it, earning more applause. The Professor winked. “See? Easy.”
But by the fourth question, trouble started. “What is the largest mammal on Earth?” The Professor glitched, spitting answers at lightning speed: “Blue whale, Argentinosaurus, megalodon, your warden.” Rahul panicked and blurted, “Blue megalodon warden whale!” The audience howled. The host raised an eyebrow. “Interesting answer. But incorrect.” Rahul sank in his chair. The IIT team smirked.
The Professor adjusted his coat. “Minor bug. Ignore.” But it only got worse. On a history question—“Who was the first President of India?”—Rahul confidently shouted, “Rajendra Prasad.” Correct. Relief. But when asked, “In which year did the French Revolution begin?” the Professor bombarded Rahul with dates: “1789, 1791, 1793, French fries invented 1800s.” Rahul, overwhelmed, shouted, “1789 fries!” The audience erupted again. Memes were being born in real time.
By the second round, Rahul’s teammates were glaring daggers at him. “Stick to basics!” one hissed. Rahul whispered, “Tell that to him!” The Professor smirked. “You can’t blame me for your weak RAM.”
Then came the rapid-fire round. Questions flew like bullets. Rahul answered some correctly, some disastrously. “What is the square root of 144?” “Twelve!” Applause. “Who painted the Mona Lisa?” “Leonardo da Vinci!” Applause. “What is the chemical symbol of gold?” “AU, also abbreviation for Australia, American University, alternate universe—” Rahul panicked and shouted, “AUSTRALIA!” The host’s eyebrows nearly flew off. Wrong. Audience cackled.
The meltdown climaxed in the buzzer finale. The score was tied. One last question. “For ten points: Which planet in our solar system rotates on its side?” Rahul’s brain screamed. The Professor whispered, “Uranus, tilted axis 98 degrees, discovered by William Herschel, also subject of countless jokes—” Rahul blurted, “Your anus!” The hall went dead silent, then exploded into laughter so loud the cameras shook. The IIT team collapsed in hysterics. The host coughed violently into his mic. Rahul’s teammates buried their faces.
Rahul wanted to crawl under the desk. “I meant Uranus!” he squeaked. Too late. The host declared, “Correct… but please mind your pronunciation.” The points flashed. Bengaluru Hostel won. The auditorium erupted in cheers. But Rahul was already a meme. #YourAnus trended nationwide within hours. His face, frozen mid-scream, was plastered on Twitter with captions like Future Engineer, Present Comedian.
Back in the hostel, Rahul collapsed on his bed, humiliated. Deepak entered, laughing so hard he fell onto the floor. “Bro, you’re a legend. The internet loves you.” Rahul groaned. “I’m ruined.” The Professor stood proudly, pointer raised. “Incorrect. You are now immortalized. Knowledge is temporary. Memes are forever.”
Rahul buried his face in his pillow. “I’ll never show my face in public again.” But deep inside, he knew—this was just another chapter in the saga of disasters only Professor Google could engineer.
Part 10 – Logging Out
Rahul had become many things over the semester: the Maggi Biryani Pizza guy, the Onion King, the Toaster Philosopher, and now, thanks to the quiz show, the accidental ambassador of Your Anus. He walked across campus like a haunted celebrity—everyone knew his name, everyone knew his memes. He couldn’t buy tea without the vendor smirking, “One cutting chai for Mr. Universe.” Even the warden muttered it under his breath while signing leave slips.
Rahul had reached his limit. That night, as he sat on his bed surrounded by notebooks, half-eaten biscuits, and the faint onion scent that never truly left, he whispered, “Professor, we need to talk.” The Professor materialized, humming like a search bar loading. “Yes, cached user?” Rahul looked him in the eye. “I can’t do this anymore. You’ve ruined my life.” The Professor tilted his head. “Ruined? You passed your viva, gained visibility, even impressed your crush.” “Impressed?” Rahul snapped. “She calls me toaster boy! My job interviews are disasters, my face is meme currency, and I’m famous for the wrong planets.”
The Professor adjusted his glasses, unruffled. “Every innovation appears chaotic at first. You are not ruined—you are upgraded.” Rahul shook his head. “No. I’m exhausted. I want to be normal again. No hacks, no glitches, no chaos. Just me.” The Professor’s expression softened, as if his algorithm finally paused. “You’re saying… you want to log out?”
The words hung in the room. Rahul nodded. “Yes. I need to try life with my own brain. Even if it fails.” The Professor sighed, almost human. “Do you know what you’re asking? Without me, you’ll stumble. You’ll forget formulas, mispronounce words, burn Maggi again.” Rahul smiled weakly. “Maybe that’s okay. At least the mistakes will be mine.”
For the first time, the Professor didn’t argue. He placed his pointer gently on Rahul’s desk. “Then this is goodbye.” He raised a hand, and Rahul felt a cool wave rush through his mind, like a thousand tabs closing one by one. The endless stream of suggestions, whispers, trivia—silenced. The room was still. Rahul blinked. “You’re… gone?” The Professor’s voice echoed faintly, fading like a page loading too slowly to survive. “Logging out. Remember: information is infinite, but wisdom is choice. Choose well.” And then he was gone.
The next morning felt strangely empty. Rahul walked to class, hearing only his own thoughts for the first time in weeks. The silence was terrifying but freeing. He stumbled through lectures without whispered answers, stumbled through conversations without clever trivia. But he also laughed at his own jokes, owned his blunders, and, oddly, felt lighter.
Two weeks later came another viva. Rahul sat nervously in front of Dr. Banerjee. No Professor at his side this time. When asked about interrupts, Rahul stammered, thought hard, and gave a clumsy but honest explanation. Banerjee frowned, then smiled faintly. “Not polished, but at least it’s yours.” Rahul exhaled in relief.
Outside, Ananya waited. “How was it?” she asked. Rahul grinned sheepishly. “Messy. But I survived.” She smiled back. “Good. Honestly, I like messy better than robotic.” They walked together across the quad. Rahul felt awkward, but real. No hidden whisper, no script—just him.
That evening, the hostel buzzed with usual chaos. Deepak barged in, waving samosas. “Bro! Breaking news! Someone’s starting an Onion-Free Hostel Movement. Wanna join?” Rahul laughed so hard he nearly choked. For once, it was his laugh alone, not borrowed, not whispered.
Later, as he sat by the window watching the campus lights, he almost expected the Professor to appear again. But there was only moonlight and silence. Rahul whispered, “Goodbye, Professor. Thanks for the disasters.” And for the first time, he felt he could pass, fail, or fall in love—without shortcuts, without cached answers, just as himself.
The semester rolled on, exams came and went, memes faded, and Rahul remained a legend. Not because of perfection, but because of glorious imperfection. And somewhere in the digital ether, maybe Professor Google still watched, waiting for another desperate student to whisper a prayer at midnight.
***
