The early bird gets the worm. The early worm gets eaten.

~ Sometimes being first comes with a hidden paradox ~

Recently, I came across a reel that said:

"The early bird gets the worm. The early worm gets eaten."

 

At first, I smiled and scrolled past it. A few minutes later, it brought back a memory from my college days. It happened during one of our lab exams. I honestly don't remember the name of the lab anymore. Time has deleted that file from my memory, but the incident somehow survived the cleanup process.

 

Our batch was the first batch to enter the lab. At that moment, it felt like a privilege.

No waiting.

No last-minute panic.

No rumors from previous batches.

 

Just us, the computers, and a bunch of programs waiting to test our confidence. Surprisingly, most of us got easy programs. For a brief moment, life was beautiful.

The code compiled.

The output appeared.

Our confidence level reached heights usually reserved for successful software installations.

 

Then came the viva. The external examiner looked at us with the calm expression of someone who knew exactly where the hidden bugs were. The questions started. One after another. Questions so tough that even students who had just executed their programs successfully suddenly began rebooting internally.

 

I still remember looking around the lab. Everyone who had been happily coding a few minutes earlier now looked like a computer displaying: "System Error: Confidence Not Found." By the time our viva ended, we had collectively experienced what I can only describe as a manual stress test.

 

After escaping the lab, we immediately shared our experience with the next batch. We warned them. We explained the questions. We prepared them for what was coming. Naturally, we expected them to suffer the same fate. But life had other plans. Or perhaps the external examiner had other travel plans.

 

The next batch entered. The programs were completed. The viva started. And then something unexpected happened. The examiner had limited time. She needed to return to her hometown. As a result, only a few students faced detailed viva questions. Some students barely had one or two questions. A few didn't even get enough time for a proper viva.

 

Meanwhile, our batch stood outside watching this unfold like users who paid full price for software on launch day while everyone else received the discounted version. That's when I realized something interesting. We thought being first was an advantage. And it was.

 

We got the lab first. We got the computers first. We got the programs first. But we also got the toughest round of questions. The later batches had to wait longer. Yet they received the benefit of our experience and a much shorter viva session.

 

Suddenly, that reel made perfect sense.

The early bird gets the worm.

The early worm gets eaten.

 

Sometimes being first gives you opportunities. Sometimes being first makes you the unofficial beta tester. And occasionally, life reminds us that what looks like an advantage from one side can look like a disadvantage from another.

 

Ever since then, I've become careful about assuming that the people ahead of me are always lucky.

Sometimes they're simply facing challenges that the rest of us haven't seen yet. Just like in that college lab.

 

We got the first turn.

The next batch got the easier ending.

And somehow, both of us thought the other group was luckier.

💻 “Every advantage has a hidden side that only 

the person experiencing it can see.”

⏱️‍️ Timing changes the experience.

🖋️ Until next line of code…

My Most Patient Cryptography Student Had Feathers

My Most Patient Cryptography Student Had Feathers

~ The only student who couldn't walk out of my lecture ~

Most of my blogs are about learning things the hard way.

This one is about learning things the weird way.

 

Back in my college days—whether it was third year or final year, I honestly don't remember—I had a subject called Cryptography. Unlike some subjects that felt like punishment disguised as education, Cryptography was actually interesting. I enjoyed learning about secret messages, encryption, keys, and all those mysterious concepts that made me feel like a part-time spy.

 

There was just one small problem. I never bought the textbook. For the entire semester, I survived using library books, shared notes, and occasionally borrowing books from friends in other departments. Somehow, through a combination of luck, friendship, and academic acrobatics, I managed.

 

Then came exam time. Two days before the semester exam, reality hit me. I needed the book.

 

Desperately.

 

So I approached one of my friends. She was from my village, and thankfully she owned the Cryptography textbook. She agreed to lend it to me.

 

But under one condition. "You can keep it for only one day. I need it back by tomorrow evening."

 

Honestly, her condition was completely fair. After all, it was her book. I had two days left for the exam, but only one day with the book. I accepted the deal immediately. I started studying.  Everything was going well for a while.

 

Then I hit a problem. I realized I was reading and understanding the concepts, but they weren't staying in my memory. I've always noticed something about myself. The fastest way for me to learn something is to teach it to someone else.

 

So naturally, I looked for a student. My first target was my mother. I began explaining Cryptography. My mother listened for approximately three seconds before rejecting my free educational services.

 

Apparently, she had no interest in encryption algorithms. So there I was.

A teacher without a classroom.

A lecturer without an audience.

A Cryptography expert without a victim.

Then I noticed the chickens.

 

We had a few chickens at home for eggs. Since childhood, I had spent enough time around them that some of them even recognized my voice. A brilliant idea entered my mind. Or what seemed brilliant at the time.

 

I selected one chicken.

Not an aggressive one.

Not a rebellious one.

A calm, obedient, innocent chicken.

 

The poor thing walked toward me happily, probably expecting food.

To gain its trust, I offered a few peanuts.

The plan worked.

 

Then I gently wrapped it with an old cloth, leaving its head and neck visible. The chicken was never harmed and was simply wrapped gently so it wouldn't run away during my "lecture."

 

The chicken had no idea that it had just enrolled in a Cryptography course.

 

What followed was probably the longest lecture in chicken history. For nearly one and a half hours, I explained Cryptography.

Encryption.

Decryption.

Keys.

Algorithms.

Concepts.

Examples.

Everything.

Without interruption.

 

Think about it. Most humans struggle to survive a 40-minute lecture. This chicken somehow endured two lectures back-to-back.

 

At one point my mother walked by, looked at the scene, and asked: "Why are you torturing that poor chicken?"

I replied confidently: "I'm not torturing it. I'm teaching Cryptography."

 

I don't think that explanation helped my case. By the time the lecture ended, I had covered almost the entire syllabus. The chicken looked emotionally exhausted.

 

Honestly, I think it understood neither Cryptography nor why it was chosen for this responsibility. But something magical happened. By teaching the concepts aloud, I remembered everything.

 

Exam day arrived.

I wrote confidently.

Results day arrived.

My friend—the actual owner of the book—scored 81 marks in Cryptography.

I scored 82 marks in Cryptography.

Just one mark more.

Naturally, I expected congratulations.

What I got instead was a loving fight.

She looked at me in complete disbelief and said: "How dare you score more marks than me using my own book?"

 

Honestly, it was a valid question.

She bought the book. She owned the book.

She generously shared the book.

Meanwhile, I borrowed the book, borrowed the knowledge, taught Cryptography to a chicken, and somehow ended up with one extra mark.

I was shocked.

She was shocked.

The chicken was probably still recovering from my Lecture.

The credit doesn't belong entirely to me.

It belongs to the most patient student I have ever taught.

 

After the exam, I offered the chicken extra food as a thank-you gift.

Peanuts.

Treats.

Good food.

Everything.

Yet every time it saw me afterward, it looked nervous.

As if it was thinking: "Please don't teach me Cryptography again."

And honestly?

I can't blame it.

 

What I Learned

Sometimes learning isn't about reading more. It's about finding a way to explain what you've learned. My study partner just happened to have feathers. And while Cryptography taught me about secret communication, that chicken taught me something else: If you can explain a concept clearly enough for a chicken, you'll probably remember it for the exam too.

📖 “Some people use flashcards.

Some people use mind maps.

Apparently, I used livestock.”

🐔‍Anyone can learn from anyone and anywhere.

🖋️ Until next line of code…

 

The Doorman Fallacy of AI

~ When efficiency quietly replaces connection ~

Yesterday, I came across an Instagram reel that introduced me to something called the Doorman Fallacy. The example was simple. Imagine a luxury hotel deciding to reduce costs. Management looks at the doorman standing near the entrance and thinks: "His job is just to open the door."

 

So they replace him with an automatic sliding door. On paper, it looks like a smart decision.

•  The door opens automatically.
• No salary.
• No breaks.
• No complaints.
• Technology wins.

Or does it?

What management failed to see was that the doorman's real job was never opening the door.

• He greeted guests by name.
• He smiled at tired travellers after a long journey.
• He recognized regular visitors.
• He helped carry luggage.
• He hailed taxis.
• He quietly provided security.
• Most importantly, he created a feeling. A feeling that someone was happy to see you.

 

The automatic door could open. But it could never welcome. And somewhere along the way, guests stopped feeling connected to the place. The hotel had optimized a process but accidentally removed an experience. That reel stayed in my mind longer than expected because it reminded me of something happening around us today.

 

AI.

 

For the last two years, AI has been everywhere.

•      Emails.
•      Presentations.
•      Social media posts.
•      Messages.
•      Even simple greetings

At one point, it felt like every sentence needed AI's approval before being sent. I was doing it too.

Need an email? Ask AI.

Need a LinkedIn post? Ask AI.

Need a message that sounds professional? Ask AI.

Everything became faster. Everything became polished. Everything became grammatically perfect. Yet something felt strange. The more polished the words became, the less they sounded like me.

 

That's when I realized something. AI had quietly become my auto-correct. Now, auto-correct is incredibly useful. When you accidentally type "teh" instead of "the," it saves you. When you're in a hurry, it catches mistakes. But imagine if auto-correct started rewriting every sentence, changing every emotion, replacing every phrase with what it thought sounded better.

 

Eventually, the message would be correct. But it wouldn't be yours. That's the boundary I've started thinking about.

• Technology should correct my spelling.  It shouldn't replace my voice.
•  Technology should help me organize ideas. It shouldn't decide what I feel.
• Technology should save time. It shouldn't remove humanity.

 

The problem isn't AI. Just like the problem wasn't the automatic door. The problem begins when we mistake a tool for the entire experience.

• An automatic door can open an entrance. A doorman creates a welcome.
• AI can generate words. A human creates connection.

 

Today, I still use technology. I use AI to brainstorm. I use it to learn. I use it when I genuinely need assistance. But whenever I write something personal, something meaningful, or something that carries my own experiences, I try to switch off the auto-correct in my mind and let my own voice speak first.

 

Because people rarely remember perfectly optimized sentences. They remember sincerity. They remember imperfections. They remember the human behind the words. And maybe that's the lesson hidden inside the Doorman Fallacy. Not everything that can be automated should be. Some things are valuable precisely because they are human. Just like a hotel entrance isn't really about opening a door, communication isn't really about producing words.

 

It's about making someone feel welcomed on the other side. And no matter how advanced technology becomes, that human touch should never be auto-corrected away.

 

🧾 “Some roles do more than the task they perform.”

🎰‍️ AI can generate words. Humans give them meaning.

🖋️ Until next line of code…

The Day I Betrayed My Bed

 

The Day I Betrayed My Bed

~ When curiosity became stronger than comfort ~

People who know me personally know one thing for sure.

I can sleep. Not normal sleep. Professional-level sleep.

  

I have always been someone who lives in what I call Hibernation Mode. Sometimes it feels like escaping reality and enjoying my own little dream world. Maybe it was my way of staying away from the double-faced people who show fake affection on the outside while hiding something else inside.

 

And honestly? I love sleeping so much that nobody ever doubts where I am.

 

Back in my hostel, if someone missed the common prayer, people would immediately become suspicious.

"Where did they go?"

"Did they sneak outside?"

"What are they doing?"

 

But if I was missing, the reaction was completely different.

"She must be sleeping in her room. Go wake her up."

That's it.

No investigation.

No mystery.

No suspense.

Everyone knew exactly where I would be.

So naturally, I preferred staying inside my comfort zone most of the time.

 

Most of my days ran in Comfort Mode. College. Home. Food. Sleep. Repeat.

 

But during my second year, first semester, something unexpected happened. I found C++ difficult. Not because I hated it. Actually, I wanted to learn it properly. The problem was that I hadn't learned it in the correct order, and many concepts felt confusing.

 

My daily schedule was already exhausting. I boarded the college bus around 7:30 in the morning and usually reached home only around 6 in the evening. For someone running happily in Comfort Mode, that itself was enough work for one day.

 

But curiosity had other plans. Without realizing it, my system performed a Mode Switch.

 

Instead of going home and resting, I joined an extra coaching class to learn C++. Every evening, I got down from the college bus around 5:30 and waited for the tutor until 6. During that waiting time, I revised the previous day's lessons.

 

Then came nearly an hour of class. By 7 PM, I headed to the bus stand and finally reached home around 7:45. Honestly, it was exhausting.

Some days I was tired.

Some days I was drained.

And some days I wondered if my bed had filed a missing-person complaint against me.

 

But something had changed. My usual Hibernation Mode had quietly become Learning Mode.

Even though it was difficult, I loved learning it. That made all the difference. Slowly, the burden started feeling lighter. The exhaustion started feeling meaningful.

 

In our OOPS class, our HOD regularly asked us to write small programs. I enjoyed those sessions because every day I could feel myself improving little by little. The girl who was famous for sleeping was now spending evenings debugging programs. That itself was a surprising Mode Switch.

 

Then one day, our HOD gave us a program containing a bug and asked us to identify the mistake.

Nobody could find it. After checking it carefully, I found the issue and corrected it. That moment felt special. Not because I was smarter than everyone else. But because I realized those late evenings were actually working.

 

After that day, whenever there was a bug in a program, he often called me to check it. One day, the entire class was struggling with a problem. Without much discussion, he simply looked toward the third row, first (Where I sit).

Then he casually said, "After she completes the correction, copy it." I still remember that moment.

Not because everyone copied my answer. But because someone trusted my effort.

 

That confidence wasn't built in a single day.

It was built during those evenings when I could have gone home and slept.

It was built while waiting for the tutor.

It was built during crowded bus rides.

It was built during revision sessions.

It was built during six months of running in Learning Mode when every part of me wanted to return to Comfort Mode.

 

Looking back now, I realize something. The biggest achievement was not learning C++. The biggest achievement was that curiosity was powerful enough to trigger a Mode Switch in someone who loved comfort more than anything.

 

Even today, whenever I feel exhausted, I remember those days.

I remember the long journeys.

I remember the late evenings.

I remember the effort that nobody saw.

And I remember that the best things in my life happened when I allowed myself to switch modes.

 

Because growth didn't begin when I solved a bug. It began the day I stopped running only in Comfort Mode and chose Learning Mode instead.

 

And yes...

I still love sleeping💤.

Some habits never change😉.

 

🏅 “Life rewards us for choosing curiosity over comfort.”

💡‍️ Don't underestimate daily practice.

🖋️ Until next line of code…