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There are eleven of us.
Not ten. Not twelve. Eleven. The pod is closed.
A closed group of eleven classmates. One trip a year. Every year. For the rest of our lives.
Claim seat →Eleven non-negotiables. They exist so we never have to argue about them — at the airport, at dinner, in the chat.
Not ten. Not twelve. Eleven. The pod is closed.
Until someone dies. Then we toast them and keep going.
Skip a year and the seat sits empty. We don't fill it. The photo just has a gap.
Not your partner, not your cousin, not "this guy you'd love." The pod is the pod.
We pick places all eleven passports can land in. No one gets left behind on a technicality.
One person runs each year. They choose dates, destination, lodging. Everyone else says yes.
Year One: Pranav. After that, the queue.
Every year. Public. In the chat. IN or OUT, no maybes.
Same pose. Same eleven. The frame is incomplete without you.
Opening dinner, closing toast, group song. Repetition is how this becomes sacred.
Pay your share, on time, without being asked. That's it.
Announcing soon. Hold the calendar.
Type your name. IN or OUT. The seat is yours, or it's empty — but it's never given away.
One photo per trip. Same pose. Same eleven. The frame is incomplete without you.
This page fills up over time. Year three is when it starts to hurt to miss one.
Honor system, for now. We'll move it to a real pool once we lock the destination.
| Who | Amount | Date | Note |
|---|
Honor system. Not real money yet.