Spoiler: CBSE grades, Instagram clout, and GPA decimals don’t matter, but the freedom in that irrelevance? Chef’s kiss.
When I first walked through the gates of Manipal University Jaipur (MUJ), I carried three things: a CBSE marksheet that had been photocopied more times than my Aadhaar card, a phone gallery curated with Instagrammable pictures I thought would earn me instant campus clout, and a foolproof 4-year plan that screamed “I have my life together.” Within the first week, MUJ ripped all three to shreds.
Because here’s the truth nobody tells you at orientation: the things you think will matter, don’t. Nobody at Dome (other than the admissions office) is impressed by your 12th grade percentile. Your follower count means nothing when you’re stranded in LHC without friends to guide you to class. And that glittery 9.2 GPA? It won’t buy you Maggi when the mess food betrays you.
Uni is not the stage where you perform your past accolades; it’s the chaotic rehearsal space where you figure out who you actually are. And the best part? The irrelevance is freeing. Once you stop clinging to school-era trophies, you get to play, experiment, and find your own weird, wonderful way of belonging.
MUJ doesn’t care about your past. It cares about whether you’ll show up and build something real.
CBSE grades are the ghost of your past life.
There’s a special kind of delusion you carry into MUJ with your 12th board marksheet tucked neatly in your bag, laminated as though someone here will actually ask to see it. In school, those numbers were currency. They got you applause at family dinners, a thousand “proud of you beta” WhatsApp forwards, maybe even a box of your favourite dessert.
But once you enter uni? CBSE toppers, ICSE prodigies, IB veterans, we’re all just lost kids in AB1 trying to figure out why the timetable says “Lab” but the class is happening in a random lecture hall on the third floor.
The first week is the great leveller. No one cares that you once solved a physics paper with extra time to spare. What matters is whether you can locate your classroom without ending up in the wrong block (which you inevitably will), or if you can keep a straight face when the Face-ID doesn’t recognise you for the seventh time in one day. CBSE doesn’t train you for that.
And the hilarious part? Even if you want to flex, the audience has moved on. Everyone is too busy struggling with coming to a new city, juggling club recruitments, or sprinting to mess before the paneer runs out. Your marksheet becomes like an old Facebook post: vaguely embarrassing, irrelevant, and only useful when someone needs a laugh.
Pro-tip: If you really want to show off, brag about how you managed to survive mid-sems without crying into your Maggi. That’s the flex everyone respects.
Instagram followers ≠ automatic respect.
If CBSE grades were the first lie, Instagram clout was the second. I arrived on campus convinced that my follower count mattered: that the right angles, VSCO filters, and clever captions would translate into instant respect. But here’s the gag: nobody gives two likes and a comment.
You could have 10k followers, but if no one saves you a seat in the canteen, what’s the point? At MUJ, friendships are forged not in curated grids but in ugly candids, in jogger’s “picnics”, in blurry post-fest afterparty photos. People will post you anyway, and usually mid-bite, with zero regard for your face angle.
Social media currency doesn’t buy chai, unless you’re an influencer. But even if you are, no one is going to fawn over you for that. I have 4k followers from 2 accounts and an on-going brand collaboration, but is anyone asking me about it? Giving me the highest social status for it? NO.
The people who matter are the ones who lend you ₹100 when you’re broke, drag you out of your room when you spiral, or tag you in random memes at 2 a.m. That’s community.
Pro-tip: Ditch the obsession with the algorithm. Show up in real life. Your stories will be chaotic, but they’ll actually be yours.
Is MUJ’S first-year GPA just decorative flex?
I treated my first GPA like it was my Shaadi.com bio: proof that I was smart, stable, desirable. But as semesters passed, I realised it was basically wall décor. Unless you’re chasing Ivy League apps or placements with ridiculous zeroes, your GPA is not your destiny.
At MUJ, professors care more about your attendance than your genius. You can write code that saves the world, but at least showing up and giving your 100% is what matters. The GPA panic is a rite of passage, but it shouldn’t be your personality.
What actually matters? Balance. Networking. Finding people who’ll push you through late-night projects. Learning enough to not combust when placements roll in. And yes, passing. Try for 10 GPA but learn to stop if it starts killing you inside.
Forget the OOTD fantasy. It’s time for Crocs supremacy.
Pinterest-me thought MUJ would be straight out of a college drama: latte art, tote bags, effortless chic. Reality? Crocs. Pyjamas. That one hoodie worn for three consecutive weeks. Comfort is the campus couture.
Your “first day fit” might be remembered by your roomie, maybe. But by week three, everyone’s survival dressing. When you’ve trekked from hostel to AB2 in 40°C heat, the last thing you care about is contour. You just want AC.
And honestly? It’s refreshing. You’re freed from the tyranny of looking “college perfect.” You show up as you are: messy buns, half-zipped bags, and socks that don’t match. And nobody cares. Because everyone else is just as fried.
Pro-tip: Save the statement fits for Oneiros. For the rest? Pyjamas, Crocs, and a dream.
The four-year plan got cancelled mid-sem.
When I entered MUJ, I had my life mapped out: coding queen, M.Tech. abroad, corporate ladder. Reality? Six abandoned journals, three failed start-up ideas, one Spotify playlist career, and a thousand existential crises.
Because the truth is, no one here knows what they’re doing. And that’s liberating. The mech kid might become a stand-up comic. The law student might launch a clothing brand. The coder might open a café. Uni is where plans die and dreams mutate.
Confusion isn’t a glitch. It’s the syllabus. You’re meant to try, fail, pivot, and laugh at the absurdity of it all. Your major is just your alibi. Your real story is what you build outside the classroom.
Pro-tip: Be delulu. Try it all. That’s what uni’s for.
Being the “Cool-kid” is an urban legend.
Here’s the spoiler nobody shares: there’s no “popular group” in college. MUJ isn’t a high school drama. Cliques dissolve faster than hostel ice cream.
The real bonds form in group projects at 3 a.m., in jam sessions, in shared Maggi after crying through submissions. The “cool kid” isn’t the one with the biggest squad. It’s the one who makes you laugh after a lab disaster, or drags you to dance when you swear you can’t.
Cool fades. Kindness is forever. Also: whoever brings the Bluetooth speaker to hostel desks? Eternal legend.
So here it is: the grand reveal. None of the things you thought would matter actually do. Not your JEE rank, not your Insta aesthetic, not even your GPA decimals. What matters is presence. Showing up for yourself, for your people, for your chaos.
Uni isn’t about proving your worth. It’s about shedding old baggage, building strange families, laughing at mess food, dancing under fest lights, crying over deadlines, and finding pieces of yourself you didn’t know existed.
Welcome to irrelevance. Welcome to freedom. Welcome to MUJ, babes.
Want more late-night hostel confessions, fest fails, and Dome-side wisdom? You’ll find it all at Her Campus at MUJ, where chaos is curated and comfort is communal. And if you’re curious who’s behind this manifesto of Maggi packets and misplaced ID cards: hi, i’m, Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ.
Here’s to sprinting across blocks, surviving mess pasta, chasing sunsets from hostel terraces, and realising that the best degree you’ll ever earn is in friendship, foolishness, and finding joy.