The English Literary Journal 2010-11

FOUNDERS’ 2010

THE ASSAM VALLEY SCHOOL

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

- Charles Baudelaire

Table of Contents

~Prefatory Note~ Literature appeals to that faculty of the brain that can generate and synthesize the most disparate forms of the imagination into a reality that is organic and whole. Here we have an anthology by the alreadyestablished laureates of AVS, as well as the aspiring Dantes, Petrarchs and Wildes on a voyage to the unexplored horizons of their capabilities. Bear with us as we humbly revive the culture of literature for literature’s sake in a world overcome by a Postmodern tendency towards the material.

Each pupil’s originality cuts through the resistance of somnolence, not for the reader to draw an inference from a hasty glance at the little pieces of budding enthusiasm, but for it to be enjoyed over a steaming cup of chocolate, after the heat of a whirling day has cooled into a lazy, cold wintry evening.

Ladies and Gentlemen, art delivered to you in an almost spontaneous frenzy that would cascade upon the sensitively-souled, the brave-hearted and the deeply impressionist, and make you privy to those spirited beings of our community whose ‘creative geniuses’ are bursting out of the casements of their imagination. We have faith that this rhapsody is encouragement enough for those reticent artists awaiting a suitable canvas.

As for those among us who spend most of their indefinite time in AVS in a reverie, let us hope that the brilliant, uncanny colours of their minds’ palette turn into a vividness that we can behold.

Mrinanda Baruah

1

~EDIT|ORIAL~ As the editor of this journal, I wield my pen and begin to scribble down the myriad thoughts entering my mind. As I do so, I have before me the previous few issues of this journal, and I observe the intellectual dimension given by my predecessors with trepidation. Though the idea of the journal had nudged me from time to time, it was only after I stepped into an unknown territory that I could give full rein to these fledgling thoughts.

The past few days have been a roller-coaster ride—collecting all the articles from Aviators eager to have their thoughts find a voice; getting our young artists to sketch and illustrate the articles; and finally going through every article over and over again, advising the writers on how they can improve their work. It was exhausting, but I would not take back a minute of it even in a million years. As I, along with my team, went through the articles given to us, we were entrusted with a golden pass to our fellow Aviators’ deepest thoughts and feelings. We were witness to a stark display of their love, joy, pain and suffering, usually bottled up in their hearts.

This simple realisation galvanised me. It made me believe that it doesn’t matter whether I am as good as my predecessors; all that matters is how hard I try to convey what my fellow Aviators want me to through their articles.

Within the pages of this journal, or rather, a treasury of youthful thoughts and aspirations, lies the key to exploring AVS, not cursorily, but at a much deeper level. I do not claim that what we have is ‘the best’, but it is certainly a truthful account of their experiences, and we pride ourselves on that. From the dark gloomy pits of tragedy, to the unnerving mental trauma of insanity, and finally to bright exuberant ecstasy—you name it, we have it all. We only wish our readers to experience the same mental revelation that we did while working on this treasury.

Finally, looking back on the moments of exhilaration and nagging anxiety, I can unreservedly say that Voyages would, somewhere in the middle, have lost its way had it not been for the sustained emotional and intellectual support we received from the staff editors. Without their stoic patience in the face of our many faltering and countless technological blunders, we could not have made this journey. We are deeply grateful to the whole of the English Department for their advice and to Mr. Hemi Rawat for his passionate commitment to ideating the cover illustration.

Rohan Tandon STAFF EDITORS: Mr. Supratim Basu Mrs. Ruby Pradhan Ms. Mrinanda Baruah STUDENT EDITORS: Rohan Tandon, X Vedant Jain, XI Chetan Damani, X PHOTOGRAPHER: Himangshu Arya, X

ARTISTS: Shreya Lahkar, X Rakshanda Deka, X Hlingdeikim Changsan, IX COVER ILLUSTRATION: Shreya Lahkar; Rakshanda Deka CONTRIBUTORS: Yaniam Chukku, X; Jita Moji Jini, X; Rahul Rajkhowa, XI; Nishesh Bharech, X ; Sneha Khaund, XI 2

Poetry Corner

+You are only young once and if you wish it right, once is enough.”

– Vasundhara Rajbongshi,„08

+

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Stars & Fireflies AKANKSHA JAIN, VIII

Had it not been You

When dusk passes and comes the night, When there's darkness, there is no light.

Then something in the sky catches my sight, Not one but many stars, dim and bright.

And through the dark as I'm passing by, I see something bright moving in the sky.

To figure what it is, I try and try, Till I follow it to a field— and discover a firefly.

I stand in the field and stare wide across, There's light twinkling from the skies to the grass.

Fireflies linger on bushes as far as I can see, The clear sky is full of stars, better it can't be.

Free from all worldly bounds, In the tranquillity of the night, there was no sound.

I felt simplicity with a beautiful essence, I was freed, humbled. I felt true innocence.

+A hero in the battle of life is the one who can smile in the face of affliction.

-Dignator W. Singh, 09

DIKSHA SINGHI, X Had it not been you, I would not have known what love is, Had it not been you, I would not have known who a friend is, Had it not been you, I would not have known what a family is.

You are the only one whom I call for.

Had it not been you, I would not have learned my first words, Had it not been you, I would not have taken my first steps, Had it not been you, I would not have understood my first lesson.

You are the only one whom I call for.

Had it not been you, I would not have appreciated life, Had it not been you, I would not have empathized with God, Had it not been you, I would not have recognized myself.

You are the only one whom I call for.

You shine and sparkle even in the darkest of nights, You love and care even in the most heartrending days, You value and appreciate me even when I fail.

Mom, you are the only one whom I call for‌

ILLUSTRATION BY RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

4

ILLUSTRATION BY JITA MOJI JINI, X

Give me a chance

A Message SWATI BHATTACHARJEE, X

SIMRAN AGARWAL, IX

For years and years, They held me back, Bound by chains, Hopeless and black, But I am finally free now, And I thank the humans for welcoming me back.

You’ve always been harsh to me And treated me like your slave.

You’ve suppressed me in your most difficult times At least now, let me out of that cave.

You’ve been bullied throughout your life But did you ever utter the word ‘no’ To peer pressure or before friends and enemies?

For goodness sake, don’t bend so low.

They call me ‘terror,’ They fear the fact that I am back, Oh! How I miss the horror on their faces, In the Hiroshima-Nagasaki attack.

I hope they can recognise me, For shameless as I am, I stay in all places uninvited, I have an invincible stand.

You can be an all-rounder, I doubt if you have any more hope; You can come out in flying colours, I’ll help you, it’s not too late to cope.

At the end of the day, Unlike them I don’t sleep, I wait and wait till I get lucky, And hear the policeman’s jeep.

For my sake and your happiness: “Let me out!” I shriek.

How will you spend your life like this?

Please stop being so meek.

Every death, every day, Yes, it is caused by me, Sometimes I feel guilty, But in the end, it is you who chose me.

You always seem to be in a trance, Being compliant can never help you.

You always listen to everyone, Now please listen to me, too.

How foolish can they get?

Wars and wars all along, I am happy while you keep me busy, But you are losing what you love, all along.

I’ll help you change your life, Listen to me, I’m not your foe; ‘Give me just one chance’: Me, your inner voice, begs you to do so.

I don’t mind helping them out, It won’t do me any harm, But if it’s advice you seek for, I’ll be honest and not say something wrongMy dear humans, Violence does not stop till you blow the horn.

ILLUSTRATION BY SHREYA LAHKAR, X

5

Many ,Many Years Ago ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

LEIMA CHANU SHAKTI YAMBEM, X Treacherous leaves scatter, amidst pale dust The aqueous shadow of the fallen moon trembles Upon the Nile that slithers and dances to time A strand of precious blood slides along the horizon.

A creak is heard, in the echo of silence, As the cradle of the royal Charlatan rocks.

An infant sleeps, covered in a skin of honeyed milk, And the faint moonlight veils the next Pharaoh.

The chariot of vengeance rides along, The continuous wheels of envy burns.

The phantom of death heard the war cry And in a corner, an old woman weeps.

A silent dagger haunts the haunted night.

The zephyr carries the last cry of the child.

Alas! Red wine spilled over the white feathers of innocence, A drop of blood in a bowl of milk.

+

Sharing Dreams

Emily Dickinson wrote over 1,800 poems. Only seven were published in her lifetime, all without her consent.

UDOYODITYA KONWAR, VII

Dear Earth, the land of my dreams, Thank you for planting shade under the trees, And for the water in the coconuts near the seas, And for the colourful flowers, for the humble bumblebees, But again, I’m sorry for blindly cutting down your trees.

Now I realize that this has broken your dreams, I wish I could undo my deeds, And instead plant lots of trees.

ILLUSTRATION BY YANIAM CHUKKU, X I wish I could repair your need And give you all the water you please.

I wish I could clean up your streets And make you big and green.

But these wishes and dreams won’t be fulfilled Until we all learn to work as a team.

6

The Street -Lamp

ILLUSTRATION BY RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

RAKSHANDA DEKA, X Rooted here, from the era of ancestors you know not, I'm living, much against your assumptions and thoughts.

And doing so many shades better than you, For I'm plagued by no hollow angst and held by no taboo.

Last dark, I saw that bloody crash, The bike flew almost to my chest.

And Jim—stock-still — crossed the Great Divide, Finally escaped, no more to hide.

At cock-crow today, this man engaged, Halted the lorry, pointed the baton—enraged, The victim fed the baton-hole a dollar, He smirked, cleared the jam and caught the next collar.

Had I a tongue, I would save a few lives, For the unknown, the unwanted float in my eyes Clear memories of each death, each mishap blurs my vision With tears that emerge on every such reflection.

Even so, I'm deemed heartless, dead and metal; It daunts me to be consigned to oblivion; Your fathers came and now are gone; you, too, will be there soon, But I will be forever rooted and still, dead—yet a boon.

She Doth Not Know

+

VEDANT JAIN, XI

The famous author of Robinson Crusoe changed his name in 1703 from Foe to Defoe. He believed that Defoe was “more socially and upward sounding” than Foe is.

7

She doth not know, She doth not know what she wants.

Sometimes she wants the moon, Sometimes, the stars.

Sometimes she wants attention, Sometimes she just wants to be alone, Sometimes she wants to laugh, Sometimes she wants to be laughed at.

Sometimes she wants to walk away, Sometimes she wants to forever stay.

But in all these times, She never wants me.

Pardon

Black, White and You

DANI NAGYANG, XI

SHREYA LAHKAR, X

The night you left the scars on her, You also stole away her humanity.

It is the greatest loss ever, For you as well as for her.

Since then there is no turning back, Only evil plans to be devised.

The slap right across her love needs to be avenged, It is only through revenge— many may call it so…

Alone and vulnerable, An easy prey of the predator.

Concealment and disguise present themselves as the only options.

Should she or should she not?

The treacherous venom flows in her veins, Constantly activating her neglected pains.

Her desperate thirst urgently needs to be quenched, Through retaliation—many may call it so.

The universal cycle cannot be altered, Many may have tried, but it does not falter.

Spite makes you spiteful, Hate makes you hateful.

A thorough searching of her soul Leaves an answer in the whispering wind.

Finally, the current of her desire will be overwhelmed with satisfaction.

Pardon is the deed for thee.

The paths are stretched, Quite unsure of when it might end.

To value what’s ahead Is something inconceivable.

You fill the void With dream catchers and Yin-Yangs, And I feel so, not since my world is black and white.

But because you’re always there In my multidirectional thoughts.

So sometimes, I close my eyes And hope what lies ahead, May all fit in like the pieces Of a fateful enigma, Just like it did, in the distant past.

+Part of Lewis Carroll‟s classic, “Through the Looking-Glass,” was only made public after107 years.

+

Deep down in the pit of her heart, There flows a current of desire, Not of fame or of possession, It is but the extreme end of human emotion, It is her day-and-night obsession, Vengeance—many may call it so…

+The arrogance of age must learn to submit to be taught by youth sometimes.

– Clifford War. 09

ILLUSTRATION BY SHREYA LAHKAR, X 8

Guilty Conscience ROHAN TANDON. X Jared looks at the path of life That's almost ended with a serene smile; He stands near his wide open grave, Being a step away as it calls to him; “Here I come,” is all he says.

The second before his death, His life flashes before his eerie eyes; “Oh! Why did I ever pull the trigger?” he cries.

His conscience eats into the crevices of his being; He’s reminded of the night—the night he made Judas proud of him, When he shot a man.

His grave draws away and he realizes with grief that his life-support worked.

“You’ll be just fine.” The guy in white scrubs says.

Is that an angel? No, that is simply the doctor.

His conscience deals another excruciating stab at him, But outside, he’s cured and sent back home.

God gave his life a second chance, but Lucifer urged him to come again.

He shuts his eyes, takes the pills and makes a second attempt; His grave is back and closer than ever; God won’t always show clemency, will He? He hesitantly takes that step and falls below, Doomed to damnation, as the lights dim and eternal darkness prevails.

The Plane SUYAASH SHARMA, X It happens every time, every day and night.

My plane crashes down, just before the flight.

Engulfed by inhibitions, bowed down by restraint, Although I always wanted to, but can’t trust my instincts.

That’s only what I feel, it’s just a mental block.

It’s time I find the key - it’s time I open the lock.

Enough of the crabs pulling me down.

I only want to smile now, no more frowns.

9

Like a phoenix, I’ll rise from the ashes.

My plane will take off, even if it crashes.

It’s high time now, I have to break the chains.

No more listening to anyone, no more refrains.

The plane is about to take-off—I aim for heaven.

I hope the journey’s smooth, and there’s no 9/11!

DAD

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

AKANKSHA JAIN, VIII He calls me the sunshine of his life, He says I'm the apple of his eye, He gets his camera to shoot pictures of me, He comforts me whenever I feel shy.

He makes me escape from boring daily life, For holidays, dinners and ice-creams.

There's shopping, picnics, and other adventures, too, And I love it when we're near the glade by the stream.

He gives me hope and makes me strong, He pampers me and tucks me in bed.

He considers my happiness his own, And makes sure I execute whatever is said.

He orders me at times, but doesn't push too hard, He is a little strict, but not at all bad.

He hugs and apologizes for being late with excuses, And I simply stand there and say "DAD!"

Laughter SNEHA AGARWAL, IX

Laughter every day keeps sadness away, Laughter every day makes a happy day.

Glorious and pleasant becomes our day, When laughter is there throughout the play.

No relationship can last without laughter, And therefore, laughter every day Makes a beautiful day.

Laughter gives a sensation of freedom, Laughter gives a feeling of peace, Laughter cures mental pressure Which entangles us throughout our lives.

Laughter in our jokes makes a sad man happy, Laughter in our jokes makes an angry man smile.

All the worldly fears have one solution— Laughter, Laughter and Laughter.

So laugh and laugh even in hard times, As there is a solution to every problem.

When there is no one with you to make you happy, There is your laughter with you to make you happy; After all laughter is never futile.. Hahaha!!!

The only secret of a mother's happiness Is her baby's laughter, The only secret of a couple's happiness Is each other's laughter.

ILLUSTRATION BY YANIAM CHUKKU, X 10

ILLUSTRATION BY RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

Waiting for you ARANTXA TALUKDAR, X The baby was born in May and the parents say “Oh! It’s a girl!”—in a sarcastic way, They seemed to be longing for a boy.

“What can she do?” was the question on their mind, For they thought she could be of no use, As time passed, the girl grew up into a twelve-year-old child, And this was the time when she was bid goodbye; She was abandoned—their dream for a boy could never come true.

And now the girl would cry and say, “Mother! Where am I?” But the lonesome reverberations never seemed to fade.

She screamed, she shouted. But there was no reply.

Years passed, she sleeps on the murky streets, Eats from leftovers, drinks from pipes, Not knowing what is wrong or right—she only waits over there.

People pass her by, looking at her helpless eyes, But they don’t care; yet, she still waits.

Should we help her? It is up to us to decide.

The Mosquito

+

KARKEN BADO, XII

Now awake and alert, Then you blurt, 'Take that, you scamp!'

You miss.

+

It is there.

Somewhere.

You cannot see it.

Though you very well hear it.

Always buzzing.

As if taunting.

Never settling.

Very provoking!

Avant-garde means "advance guard" or "vanguard".The adjectival form is used in English Silence bellows. to refer to people or works that are experimental Pain follows. or innovative, particularly with respect to art, culYou realize at hind-sight, ture, and politics. Avant-garde is considered by You’ve slapped yourself tight! some to be a hallmark of modernism, The darkness blinding.

Carpe diem is a phrase popularly transThe Vampire prowling. lated as "seize the day". Carpe literally means "to Then it lay, pick, pluck, pluck off, cull, crop, gather", but Ovid 'Patience' you say. used the word in the sense of, "To enjoy, seize, It draws – full measure, use, make use of".

At its leisure, Your blood for its pleasure.

Hamartia is a term developed by Aristotle You swing – not a miss. in his work Poetics. The term can simply be seen And then... as a character’s flaw or error. In Greek dramaItch! What bliss. turgy, hamartia is the tragic flaw of the protagonist in a given tragedy.

11

Jasmines ALOY BURAGOHAIN, XII

The crickets whistle and the doves coo In the calm of this late cerulean afternoon that offers its dying arms To the evening that glides into our world of joy.

And my mind walks back to those streets of pomp, Crowded with people, people and more people…

This dawn I had been to our neighbour’s bower, Drawn by the fragrance, the pure enticing aroma Of the jasmines, the snow-white jasmines falling like flakes of snow On the dewy floor of the half-frozen earth, to rock whose cradle Divine Power Herself, the Goddess, the Mother descends, from the heavens above On an elephant, a horse, palanquin, or a boat That sails across the turbulent seas.

Still a wreath of white flowers prettifies the half-naked boughs of the jasmine trees That few dare to touch, in the cool, unruffled, frosty morning breeze That cools even the sun that has just proposed the glow of dawn to the Mother.

And I, lost in the plenteous joys of choosing those jasmines strewn on the soil, Behold the warmth, the splendour on Mother’s picturesque being That rouses us, the corporeal, into a truth that bathes us, In a fragrance forever.

+In downtown Lima, Peru, there is a large brass statue dedicated to Winnie the Pooh.

+

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

12

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Life’s Race

There is so much time…..

VEDANT JAIN, XI

HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Life is but a race, Never intended to be lived in grace, But in enjoyment and in sorrow, Neither for yesterday, nor tomorrow.

Your eyes are deep as the sea; When you’re around, there’s nothing else I can see, So, my dear, won’t you please Just stay with me?

Forever I’ll hold on to these sweet memories.

Your beauty brings me ecstasy.

Now that you’re mine I want you to know I think about us all the time and I’ll never let this go.

So won’t you stay, stay a little while?

As we gaze together, eye to eye Don’t worry. There’s so much time…

Finding you has been so hard I’m bruised, but healing from these battle scars, We were so close, but still so far, You were always there, like a guiding star.

Blind was I, for I couldn’t see, But now, I’ve found you, finally.

So won’t you stay, stay a little while, As we gaze together eye to eye Don’t worry, there’s so much time.

I promise we’ll be together, We’ll make this last forever, We’ll face all endeavours, These memories I’ll forever savour.

As night turns to day And darkness fades away, Here in your arms I silently lay.

When you’re around, I have nothing to say, So won’t you stay, stay a little while, As we gaze together, eye to eye Don’t worry, there’s so much time…..

Each time that we fall, Yet pull ourselves up again, stronger and tall.

We continue our course Made better by the loss.

Sometimes we gasp with pain, Sometimes we fight for gain.

Sometimes we yearn for the grave, To end this life of a slave.

But it is those that fight back, Who never let their hearts crack, Who conquer this evil and this strife, Are the winners of this race called Life .

True Advancement DIGVIJAY BHARDAJ, VIII Advancement, We claim to reach it.

Morality, We perhaps deface it.

Civilization, We pretend to be in it.

+

Humanity, We speak highly of it.

In medias res or medias in res (into

the middle of things) is a Latin phrase denoting the literary and artistic narrative technique wherein the relation of a story begins either at the mid-point or at the conclusion, rather than at the beginning, establishing setting, character, and conflict via flashback and expository conversations relating the pertinent past.

But to tell the truth, It is true advancement, It is true civilization Where things are considered With humanity and morality.

13

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

FREE FROM BOUNDS AKANKSHA JAIN, VIII Her innocent face droops sadly, And tears fill her eyes.

Shivers go down her spine, She sits in a corner and sighs.

She is tied by the cords of love, And imprisoned by the one in her heart.

She can’t forget the one she loves, Even though he tore her heart apart.

Betrayal and pain is all she has, Her ‘dream-come-true’ has faded away.

But deep in her core, she still has hope, To win him back some day.

Don’t do this, he doesn’t deserve her.

She doesn’t need his sympathy, She is trapped by his friendship, Let go of her, she needs to be free.

Free from all bounds, To heal all her wounds.

14

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Paradise Realised ALOY BURAGOHAIN, XII Resting alone in the mighty arms of the Brahmaputra And listening to the soft whisper of the gentle wind that breezes by, Like a son wrapped in his mother's arms after an arduous day, I lie, Basking in the cool warmth of the blood-flushed evening sun.

In the ecstasy of being free, in the upsurge of youth, I cry.

Eulogizing the sacrifice of my countrymen, Immortalizing the beauty of my mother, I am prepared to fly To the welkin of change from where, when I gaze at my country, I see not the dirt, throes, and ravenous craving in every brother's heart, But I see every man feeling, healing another's pain.

When I look down, let me never see irreverence, profanity and indifference amid the youth; But honour, valour, and a vision— To build a nation, to define a Republic.

When I enter the temple of justice, let my eyes not witness Prejudice, blind verdict and injustice; But spotless truth, realised law, and integrity.

When I peep into every office, on every chair of responsibility, May I witness naught but lowly pride, tireless service and duty.

And my longing heart says, one day my dreams will come true.

And that day, the hallowed soil of my motherland will no longer be torn apart Into a million pieces by shallow cracks of creed, tongue and difference.

But all would be oneAn Indian.

‘Tis getting dark now; and in the shimmering twilight, In the unfathomable waters of the Brahmaputra, I feel the sanctity of the holy Ganges.

In the thick canopy of the Sunderbans, I see the lofty blue Nilgiris.

In the dense jungle of Kaziranga, I hear the roar of the lions of Gir. In the vast green fields of Punjab, I can smell the exotic spices of Kerala.

And in the arctic womb of the glaciers of Ladakh, I see the unborn Indian Ocean.

In the dazzling eyes of every Indian woman, ever holding the hand of her family, I see the brilliant reflection of the beauty of Mother Earth doubled.

On the face of every Indian child, who is the face of tomorrow's world, I see my yesterday.

In the bold arms of every Indian man achieving the impossible, I see my tomorrow.

'Cause I am the youth of today— The INDIA of today.

+The Separatists may keep demanding for an independent Assam or an independent Bodoland, but I want to remind them that the mighty Brahmaputra will continue flowing with the same force, the same strength.– Aloy Buragohain

+

15

ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Without You

Rest in Pieces, Friend

VENUS HAOBAM, IX

NISHI LAL, IX

I sit alone in my lonely world, Remembering your lovely words, I’m confused and I don’t know what to do, Because everything seems scary without you.

The following lines are dedicated To my faithful friend Who had always been beside my bed – Right until the very end.

I try to convince myself that you’re not here, But my heart is always ready to fight the claim.

I know that you have already gone there, But how can you leave me, dear?

At the crack of dawn or early morning, When all the world’s still slumbering; In your shrill piercing voice you’d articulate That I’d better get up and outta bed Before I get late.

I pray for you day and night, Even though you’re somewhere beyond my sight.

I wish you were here by my side, Because you were the only one behind whom I could hide…

I was happy when you were here by my side But I’m really sad you’re gone…

Why did we ever meet?

If we were destined to split…

Begrudgingly I’d arise from My haven – comfy, cosy and warm; And cuff you hard on the head, till You lay soundless, motionless On the bed.

They say you never know How much you own Till it’s dead and gone…

I must admit how I lament, And mourn and grieve That you’re no more – a fact That I can’t yet believe!

Your shoulder— the only thing I could lean on When my happiness was gone…

You were always there to wipe my tear, But now, I’m left with this constant fear…

You’re the person I’ll always miss…

May you rest in peace.

+I do not have the right to be unfair to anyone. Not even God. Othermay call me arrogant, but I am only being honest. -Gaurav Agarwal, Head Boy „08

So dearly regret the day, when I Took out my anger on you: I struck you so hard on the face; Oh! You flew straight across the room!

And there you lay, in a million pieces, A mere pile of gears, springs and dials, And a huge crack stretching across your face Distorted your beaming smile.

And though your hands were broken and limp, Yet, your splintered, faded face Still smiled at me occasionally, with A wretched, yet glorious grace.

+

Now, I guess this’d be the last time That you’d ever tell me the time; Last time I’d hear your tick-tock, tick-tock Goodbye, my dear alarm clock.

16

My Walk BEGUM AKIFA YESMIN, XI I like walking unaccompanied.

At least, I don’t have to compromise my pace.

Moreover, I’m left alone with my surroundings, Soaking in the sounds I want to hear, And, of course, my mind’s continuous blabbering.

I’ve stepped between a big dark cloud And a green field.

I am anticipating rain; I want to see how it feels to walk While the sky is pouring.

I’m soaked to my bones, I feel like I have been purged, clean and pure.

Had I been with someone, I’d have never been really here.

The rain has stopped.

Abruptly.

As I walk, I like to feel the grass blades Caress my bare feet.

But if I am to encounter a snake or, God forbid, anything as horrendous, Indignant at being disturbed, My apologies to myself: I’d probably be dead by the time I figure out what got me.

As of now, I am still alive and Revelling in the teasing squelch of the wet grass.

Clean, fresh, pure air Smelling of primroses and freshly-cut grass.

I am still loving my walk alone and I give my watch a peek.

It’s a twelve-hour watch but, lo, It’s showing thirteen!

It’s the twenty-fifth hour of today!

Funny how you cannot be alone, Even when you sneak from teeming humanity At least not virtually: The clouds are walking with me, The air is walking with me, My soul is walking with me, And in my heart I know God is walking with me.

I think I’ve lost track of time; Maybe, my time has passed.

Maybe, I’ve walked into a different world, A new realm, Aimless as ever before.

I have lost all purpose though.

Silly, I remember I never wanted a purpose in the first place.

To be boxed in with intents and goals.

That’s why I still love my walk alone.

Absolutely.

ILLUSTRATION BY YANIAM CHUKKU, X 17

ILLUSTRATIONS BY SHREYA LAHKAR, X

Smoke

The Beast

SHREYA LAHKAR, X

KIMBERLEY LAMAR, VII

This city of smoke Makes her vision choke.

As the mirrors begin to crack, Her once-strong convictions mingle with fiction.

She carves little lines and sings pretty rhymes.

All boundaries fade in a day, And all principles snap; She starts to relapse Into the vices and sins of decay.

Nail marks on the wall as she tries not to fall She struggles to grasp There’s nothing in the darkness, but fear.

Even though she knew She could have returned From cages no one could escape, She kept on lying, ignoring, and dying, Until it was finally too late.

At the dead of night as I was walking alone, A creature followed me. On high, the moon shone.

I was not able to make out what it was, I tried to run, but it was a lost cause.

As I reached home, I latched the door, Thinking that he could not frighten me anymore.

But the creature came up to my door and waited, And I began to think I was pretty ill-fated.

With bravery and courage I stepped outside, To face him and face my fears, beside.

He was covered with hair from the top to bottom, He was an ugly old thing and not at all handsome.

This creature turned out be a friendly beast, An old shaggy dog, toothless and half-blind, But friendly and incredibly kind.

And to harm me, he cared not the least.

18

ANURAAG BAISHYA, IX I work hard to achieve this dream, my destiny, In my heart this dream echoes, and I foresee.

That I have become a man of capability, My dream, at last has turned to reality.

To achieve this dream I fight, Twenty-four seven, during the day, at night.

To achieve his dream is not easy, Trying and trying at times I go crazy.

But at last I achieve my dream, With happiness and joy I scream.

What I foresaw has come true, From me, inspiration was what people drew.

I sill have dreams, during day, at night, And somehow it feels right.

I see everything I wish to see, For it's my dream and what I can be!

At night when I go to sleep, Into my soul I peep.

In my eyes I see my dream, At times I laugh, sometimes I scream.

Sometimes I dream during the day, Especially during the hot month of May. When my body cannot take the heat, An image of an ice-cream my mind does meet.

But then these dreams are not reality, They are glimpses of my minds’ creativity.

These are the dreams that I see, When my mind is absolutely free.

But at all times I have a dream, This neither makes me laugh, nor scream.

I dream of becoming a person of capability, And this, my friend, can be a reality.

A lampoon in contemporary usage is a work created to mock, comment on, or makes fun of an original work, its subject, author, style, or some other target, by means of humorous, satiric or ironic imitation.

Mimesis is a critical and philosophical term that carries a wide range of meanings, which include imitation, representation, mimicry, nonsensuous similarity, the act of resembling, the act of expression, and the presentation of the self. Mimesis has been theorised

by Plato, Aristotle, Philip Sidney, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Sigmund Freud.

Magic realism or magical realism is an aesthetic style or genre of fiction in which magical elements are blended into a realistic atmosphere in order to access a deeper understanding of reality. These magical elements are explained like normal occurrences that are presented in a straightforward manner which allows the "real" and the "fantastic" to be accepted in the same stream of thought.

+

Sometimes I dream of travelling to the stars, Then I dream of driving fast cars.

I dream of going to far-away lands, Amidst beautiful shores and golden sands.

+

19

A Canopy of Short Stories & Essays No subject is so old, that nothing new can be told about it.

– Gaurav Agarwal, Head Boy „08

+

+

Canopy of Rain ROHAN TANDON, X I was aware of the impending doom.

The dark clouds had gathered and I was driving down a lonely country lane at five in the evening.

I stepped on the accelerator, hoping desperately to reach the nearest town about half an hour away. I silently sent up a prayer, wishing that I could make it before the storm broke, or worse, before I ran out of fuel. If anything were to happen here, I was in no doubt that It would be days before I'd get any help and I'd probably have to walk all the way to the nearest town.

Soon, the first shower poured down. Bedraggled, because I'd left my convertible top back home, I had to peer down the lane somehow to see beyond the five-metre radius of my vision. I drove on, scared, shivering and aware of the ominous darkness that surrounded me. Up ahead, I could faintly make out the outline of a gas station. I just lost my concentration for a second, but when I looked back at the road, I spotted a deer. I immediately swerved to the right and my car began to skid. From the corner of my eye, I could spot the deer merrily trotting away into the woods. I felt a weird mix of anguish and relief. I knew that at this moment I was supposed to see my life flash before my eyes at the fraction of a second. I was also supposed to curse the deer for having brought my demise. But none of that happened.

Letting go of the steering-wheel, I waited for the inevitable, for the death blow. Well, at least I would pass out near a gas station, so I could hope for a decent funeral pyre. I bit my lower lip, so hard that it bled. The strong, bewildering taste of iron intermingled with the pouring rain made me nauseous. Life seemed to move in slow motion when awaiting death. Now I knew what senior citizens in retirement homes felt like.

My eyes were shut tight, so I couldn't see anything. I prayed fervently, and it sounds, but I could not feel the swirling motion of my car anymore, nor hear the screeching noise of tires or smell the burning of my tires against the metallic road. The only thing which now engulfed me was the noise of rain pattering on the hood of my car and the burning sensation on my numb lips.

Having watched so many movies, I realized that in such a moment, life was supposed to be really slow, but 21

this was simply ridiculous. Slowly and steadily, I opened my eyes, terrified of discovering what they had to behold. I blinked a few times to regain my vision.

Looking around to see what saved me, I found a tree right next to the highway, just before the small drop down the cliff. Apparently, my car was fortunate enough to bump against it. The slope was not very steep and would have caused no harm if someone were to jump down it. But my car would have certainly been set ablaze. I could see that one of the tires had already given in and was now burning. It was only a matter of time before the fire reached the petrol tank. I had escaped with only a few bruises and probably a concussion, but all of that seemed so mild compared to the bigger picture at hand. I opened the door and tried to make myself move. I could not. I tried again and failed yet again. I tried again, desperately this time, but the attempt was in vain. The flames now seemed to engulf me. I was sweating heavily, despite the frigid environment. And then it hit me—-I could not feel my legs.

The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was the panic accompanied by the realization that I was trapped. But I did not die. I was saved by a man driving past. He had managed to catch a glimpse of my car through the flash of lightning.

As I write this now, a year has gone by since fate played a cruel game on me. After the accident, I spent months completely absorbed in "What if's". "What if it hadn't rained?", "What if the deer had not come up that moment?", and the most blasphemous of them all, "What if I had not saved the deer?" But then the realization dawned on me that I could not change the past, and I gradually learnt to move on. I am in a wheelchair now, staring at the subtle drops of rain pattering on the rooftops. A few children are busy dancing under it. It is ironic really, I lost my life under the canopy of rain and dark clouds, while under it these children celebrate theirs.

+Arthur Jean Nicolas Rimbaud (1854-1891), the great French Symbolist poet, wrote almost all his notable Poetry between the ages of fifteen and twenty.

In 1879, after having spent his adolescence and young adulthood in wandering, scandal, and debauchery, Rimbaud suddenly repudiated his art, travelled to the Middle East, set up a business in Ethiopia, and spent the rest of his life as a merchant. He never wrote another poem.

+

+ 22

A †alç Re†old MEGHNA SIDDHANTA, X It was a cold blue night. The moon had just crept out of its cotton-candy blanket of clouds.

She was walking all alone by the edges of the dark forest. She did not know where she was going or even what she was going there for. There was just an undying fire in her which made her walk on and on. She could feel a presence, a divine force leading her way.

She clutched her robes as she stumbled across the rocks. As she walked along, all her thoughts and bitter memories rushed through her mind like a crashing wave. All the insults, jeers and tears came back to her and she began to weep copiously. Not once had she ever confided in anyone, rejection and neglect blocking her path. Her one mistake had turned her life upside-down. From the shy, introverted woman she used to be, she had turned into a public entity.

But that wasn’t her anymore. As the moon shone bright above her, her destination became clearer to her. She was heading towards the house of the man who had entranced her ever since her eyes had found his. She had stopped seeing people since then and her house had started smelling of incense instead of corporeality. The villagers had started talking even more about her, yet for once she did not mind. Her heart and mind seemed pure. She prayed for him, to him, day and night. She dreamt of him every night, of the calm and austere, bearded face. She cried for her heart’s peace, until she would doze off to sleep.

That night, too, she had slept thinking of him, until a cool and sharp breeze woke her up and she found herself walking. Despite the cool breeze, she was sweating now and she wiped away the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her red hair flowed down her back, making it a garment of itself. She had not seen him ever since she had shut her doors to all despite his many pleas.

Her chain of thought broke when she suddenly stepped somewhere outside a humble sheepcote. The cottage shone, brightening up her extraordinarily beautiful face and her scarlet hair. Tears ran down her cheek as she bent down for the final prayer. She closed her eyes and thought of that serene face. Slowly, all pain, fear and thoughts left her and calm descended upon her. There was a bright light all around her as her soul rose up to the final abode, where she would be serving her lord forevermore.

He watched the body slump down on the ground, her face adorned by the sweetest smile. He looked away with tearful eyes; not watching the ravens feed on her body.

23

The Last Exam CHETAN DAMANI, X "Sir, I'm here for my exam" The doctor looked up. He noticed the young boy with very short hair and a brown complexion. He looked just like all the other patients who came to see this doctor. But this boy definitely looked younger. A tear ran down the doctor’s face.

"What's wrong, doc?"

The doctor was silent. He seemed to be thinking.

"Are you alright, sir?"

The doctor snapped out of his illusion. “Y-yeah, y-yeah, I'm fine. It’s just something in my eye." He then stood up. "Okay, follow me."

The doctor led the boy into a small room. It was square and for some reason, high-ceilinged There was something strange about this room. There were no windows or air vents, for that matter. Just four walls of the room.

The air was peculiarly thin.

The doctor turned, “So, you're finally getting out of here?"

"Yes, Sir, and I can't wait to see my family again. I've been here for nearly a year now."

The doctor looked down when the boy said that. He thought to himself for a few seconds. Then he continued setting up the wires. He told the boy to lie down. "I'm just going to run a few tests to ensure that you are healthy enough to go back home."

The doctor continued, "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

"I'm 17 now. It was my birthday last month. I was 16 when I was placed in this dump."

"You seem to be too young for this place, isn't it?” the doctor asked as he started to push the wires through the boy’s skin. There were hundreds of wires.

"I guess. The rest of the guys in here said the same."

The doctor carried on with his test.

"So, what's it like out there now?"

"What do you mean?"

The boy answered. "I mean, is it nice? Or has a lunatic taken over the world going around punishing all the bad guys out there?" The boy laughed at himself.

24

The doctor, surprisingly, put down his tools and thought about this question for quite some time.

"Well, is it nice out there or not?" The young boy asked again.

"O-oh yeah, it's pretty much civilized," The doctor said as he thought to himself. "Yes. The world is more humane now. This isn't wrong. Actually, this is the right thing to do."

The boy was smiling. He seemed to be so excited. Most importantly, he was happy. This was the right time.

The doctor walked back a few steps and said, “Okay, this is the last check. Sit still."

He walked up to a small switch and slowly counted to three. "One," he paused... "Two," he stood there and quickly thought about things for a few extra seconds. Then when he was ready, "Three!" The doctor turned the switch. There was a horrendous flicker of lights and a strange buzzing sound. Then there was a tense silence. He looked over at the boy who was now still for eternity.

"He deserved it." The doctor whispered to himself. "He was a murderer." He continued. "If I didn't, he could have done it again."

The doctor kept trying to think whether he had done the right thing. He had done it to many people before. “At least the boy was happy,” he thought.

Under the Boughs KUNAL SINHA, X My childhood, unlike that of most others, had not been a happy one. I rarely had friends – and the few that I had, could not have been called friends in the truest sense, as they were people whom I could not have counted upon in times of stress or sorrow.

My mother, who came from a typical Bengali family, never made an effort to sit down with me and spend some time. For her, it was more vital that a sumptuous five-course meal was served every afternoon, and that the lamps in the little temple outside the house were lit before dusk set in. My father was mostly away on business trips, so I did not get any time to spend with him either. Ours was the biggest house in the area and my family had money, so it was appalling that I should spend my time making mud-cakes with the servant’s children.

I went to the missionary school about five miles away and as soon as school was over, and while other boy’s played football, I was whisked away in my father’s tonga and brought home.

Hence, I lived like a recluse. There was a wizened old tree in our backyard. The tree never bore any fruits or flowers, but it gave me something which none else could – peace, warmth and a feeling of security. I spent my lonely hours under the boughs of that tree. I would dream of distant lands and seas which I would visit one day. I could almost hear the splashing of the sea waves and taste the ocean brine. My imagination flew far and wide like a free dove, only to be brought rudely back to earth by my mother’s shrill voice calling 25

me for lunch.

The few days which my father would spend with us were also flooded with quarrels and querulous arguments between him and my mother. During such times, I would retire to the worn but warm embrace of my wooden friend with a book, to drift in a sea of my imagination like a rudderless vessel. Those stolen hours which I spent under the spreading branches of the tree helped me build a strong foundation for my language.

Good books were hard to come by, so I had to grab whatever I could. The school library, with its few cheap and well-thumbed books, and my father’s library, with its handsome leather-bound volumes, became my island of comfort. I would take anything that caught my fancy and run to ‘my tree’.

In the soothing autumn evenings, I would run my hands over the nooks and corners of the tree and feel its rough lacerated surface. I would put my face close to the bark and inhale the subtle woody aroma. I would put my ears upon the thick indented trunk and hear the feeble tree’s heart-beat, and then be filled with such a fiery passion for life that I almost forgot my misery. And soon the tree became for me a living breathing being. Times without end I found myself speaking to the tree and, more than once, I felt the wind bringing in the whispering responses.

Soon I went abroad for higher studies. The new life had me going for a while and one day, in the amidst of a flash of ochre silk and a reverberation of carefree laughter, I saw Ria. At that point of time, I had no reason to believe that I would end up marrying her. But I eventually did. I had not informed my parents of my marriage to Ria. I had not felt the need to do so. I did not hate my parents; rather, I felt next to nothing for them.

They were nothing more than strangers to me now.

I got a job as a lecturer in English in a renowned university. But there was a hollowness in me that I knew only one thing would fill. I longed for home, and I realized that real happiness for me may lie probably in the vistas provided by the muddy Hoogli and my benevolent tree. I decided to inform my mother – first about my marriage and then, my arrival. Over the crackling line of the overseas call, I could clearly make out my mother’s shock and sense of betrayal. She told me many things: what an irresponsible son I was, how the ancestral property was falling to ruins and about the wrath of my forefathers that I had incurred by marrying below me. She also mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that my Father had taken ill and had been confined to bed for a while now.

I arrived at my house to be greeted by people whom I vaguely remembered. Sadness adorned their faces. I knew what had happened. My father had passed away. I felt a vague sense of sorrow but, more than anything else, I felt like a perfect stranger. I longed to find that one single point of reference, that one thing that had comprised the whole of my childhood memories, and that one thing which had brought me back. I decided to look for my old and only friend... my tree.

There it was, but it did not hold any resemblance to the tree from my childhood memories. My tree had been cut down and the stump was the only testimony of that proud being. Later, I was informed by my mother that they had needed the wood for the funeral.

That night I chipped off a thin sliver of bark from the stump and put it into my suitcase. I was ready to leave again, and this time for good, but this memorabilia would serve me as a reminder of all the times I had spent under the boughs of my friend.

26

“Seeing is Believing” or “Believing is Seeing” Nangluhomseng C. Daosong, XII One can never be on one side and say “Seeing is believing” or cross over to the other side and then declare that only believing will make us see.

These two concepts are strange bedfellows, but somehow two separate beliefs. Take a poll and you will find the majority agreeing with “Seeing is believing,” but very few with “Believing is seeing.”

It is true “Seeing is believing,” but it applies only to physical entities. This word, which is full of faith, religion, emotions, feelings and beliefs, on the other hand, shows its inclination towards the “believing is seeing” factor. Religion, which comprises such a major part of every one of us, is purely based on believing, thus making us ‘see’ so many things like happiness, faith, hope and love.

We cannot find one person who can truthfully say that he has actually seen God physically. But ask him and he would say that he believes in God because he sees His creations around them.

Ask a scientist, and he will say everything was created by scientific reactions. He will say that the universe was created due to collisions of matter, the solar system by the Big Bang, all the living organisms by organic reactions and pressures on earth. Yet even a person studying science, still believes in God. Albert Einstein, one of the most famous scientists, himself believed in God, “God is subtle, but he is not malicious.” His words are enough to show his belief in God. Who, on this face of earth, has ever seen God? Idols are just the imaginations of man, his idea of God. Thus, what we see is what the common man believed but ideas, philosophies,—they were never seen. They were imagined and believed.

Religion cannot be seen. However, people live in the name of religion, they act in the name of religion.

Through this belief, they see the way of life.

Love, for instance, can be felt but cannot be seen, still people believe in love. They even give up material gain for love. All the feelings, so abstract, are believed in as much as people believe in the physical appearance that they see.

Albert Einstein was thrown out of school on account of being too stupid to be educated. His mother, however, believed in her son, kept him at home and educated him. Today, he is supposed to be one of the “know -alls” of human kind. What his teacher could not, his mother could see because of her belief in him—his genius.

Thus, even though I do not actually see what it really looks like, I believe that “Believing is seeing.”

“God is the only being who, to rule, doesn’t even have to exist” Charles Pierre Baudelaire

+Where has the peace gone? Were Hiroshima and Nagasaki not enough? Has rationality been lost in this battle for a few acres of land?

- Vivek Raj Singh, 08

+

27

Should Religion be Banned?

SNEHA KHOUND, XI In one of the most defining moments of the century, tragedy exposed its hideous face in the city of cities, New York, when jihadi terrorists on the 11th of September, 2001 crashed their aircrafts into the World Trade Centre, killing hundreds and triggering further destruction for years to come. From the Big Apple, cut to the golden serenity of the Golden Temple amidst the lush green field of Amritsar. Every day since the temple’s birth, hundreds gather here for meals provided free of cost to all by the temple.

The examples, mentioned above, share two interesting feature that, perhaps, intrinsically link them: the first being the presence of a large number of people but destroyed in the first case and benefited in the second. The second link is Religion. This leads to the burning question: Should Religion Be Banned?

To delve into the topic and formulate my argument, I would like to begin by interpreting Religion as ‘an organized belief including customs and rituals’ according to the definition of Swami Dayanand Saraswati.

My first argument springs from my individualistic nature. Although not of the stature of Guevara, I am a rebel at heart and my mind automatically rejects anything that is imposed by others. Therefore, it is natural for me to protest against the most extreme and irrational form of criticism—banning. Banning reveals an overwhelming insecurity, an inability to face issues and deal with them in a mature way and a tendency to find superficial solutions and brush prickly matters under the carpet. We like to think of ourselves as civilized people, but have we thought about what distinguishes us from the savages of the ancient past? The fundamental points of difference between ‘them’ and ‘us’ is an ability to think deeper and more tolerantly. Banning is not the solution; it is a shortcut that reeks of intellectual dwarfism. As the saying goes, live and let live.

Banning is myopic. Let us be more mature and liberal in our views.

Religion, some would say, creates divisions among humankind, but I would say religion integrates people.

By giving them a common belief, religion brings people together. The ugly communal riots and incidents like the demolition of the Babri Masjid might illustrate differences among various religious groups but, the uproar over these conflicts and caught in the throes of emotion, we tend to overlook the fact that no religion preaches violence. All religions were initially conceived to help people find themselves and foster brotherhood in the community. All the conflicts and acts of violence committed in the name of religion inevitably point to the selfish designs of an individual or a group of persons. The idea and aim should be to make the people of all the different religious groups realize that since all their faiths are founded on the belief that a Divine Power guides humankind, all religions are fundamentally the same. The spirit of tolerance should be fostered. Thus, there is no need to be hasty in calling for a ban on religion. Instead, what is required is patience. Patience to look beyond propaganda and violence, patience to develop tolerance and patience to understand religion.

Human beings are continually in search of inspiration and that which is greater than the limitations of human nature. Religion provides something to believe in, a cause and something to fall back on. In most cases, religion determines the way we act, or think, or behave in a certain way, whether consciously or subconsciously. Religion explains concepts that science has no answers to and gives direction to the lives of people; it gives purpose and significance. I do not see what is wrong in that.

+A neologism is a newly-coined word or phrase that may be in the process of entering common use, 28

+

but has not yet been accepted into mainstream language.

Moreover, as defined in the beginning of the essay, religious is basically a structured belief. Religion in its organized and structured form can be banned, its manifestations can be erased. Even if banned, its spirit will always exist, because it is, most importantly, and after and before everything else, a Belief. A belief can never be banned because a ban can only be exercised on material and physical plane, but a belief is something that the eye cannot see. It can only be felt and experienced, it exists only in the mind. Religion provides the foundation of the lifestyle of people. In the simple habits of man, the influence if religion is exhibited.

From the way we live and think to how we eat and travel; all the minute details of everyday life are, in fact, the manifestations of religion. Religion provides the framework for society and, without it, human life would be in chaos. Banning religion would thus, be an act of futility and extreme impracticality.

It is worth putting so much at risk? My advice would be to let sleeping dogs lie and not go looking for trouble.

Religion, on a personal note, does not play a guiding role in my life. It does not define who I am and does not consciously affect the way I behave. The banning of religion would, therefore, have no direct effect on my life. Despite this, I would vociferously protest against a ban on religion because, as a human being and a person, I cannot accept something as extreme, myopic, superficial, and dictatorial as a ban, whether it be on issues such as films, books or music—or even Religion.

+

Though it is not widely known, the Italian painter

Michelangelo (1475-1564) was considered by his contemporaries to be one of the greatest Poets of all time. About 250 of his Poems and sonnets have come down to us today and are still read by scholars, historians, and poets.

+

29

Bend it like Blanka “To be or not to be”.

On a seemingly sunny day, Blanka decides to…

Nevertheless, he tries again.

After many more tries...

“Tada!”

RAHUL RAJKHOWA, XI 30

~Brainteasers~ VEDANT JAIN, XI

Across 4.

8.

Down

A musketeer

1.

‘____ of the D’Urbervilles’

Considered one of the greatest short-story writers He had only fifty people as his audience and earned no more than 40 pounds from his writing while alive

2.

A horse's dancing step

3.

He said, ‘To be or not to be’

12.

Unscramble ‘shingle’

6.

The only word in the English language that ends in ‘mt’

14.

Munchkin land is part of it

7.

These stones gather no moss

15.

He was Poet Laureate for the longest period of time: 42 years

9.

16.

Pen name of H. H. Munro

10.

‘The Count of Monte____ ‘

19.

His death inspired Shelley to write the poem ‘Adonais’ The best-selling writer of books of all time He wrote ‘The Hunchback of NotreDame’

11.

Monkeys chatter, lions roar, birds tweet and mice____

13.

Written by American author Herman Melville (two words)

17.

Poem by Rudyard Kipling

18.

She wrote ‘Little Women’

20.

Author of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’

11.

21.

22.

5.

A great dramatist and play-wright who was born in Stratford-upon-Avon

‘Tithonus’ by Lord Alfred Tennyson was originally written as____

31

An Autobiography of an Empty Glass JOYEETA DUTTA, IX I am purposeless, aimless, useless and valueless. At least that’s what they say, the elite class – the filled glass. I am just an insignificant piece of glass that has no value in this world full of filled glasses. I stand near the sink, idle. I have never had the privilege of being filled like an impressive and majestic goblet with the most exotic liquors of the world, for I have no place of importance in this world. I have never carried some sparkling wine within me, nor have I shown off my charisma with some world-class champagne. To be honest, I have a position of such insignificance and negligence that I have not been lucky enough to moist my dry skin with some water. I pity my dry state, rather, my empty state.

So, in my ‘unfilled’ hours while I was out of work and on the dole, my mind started pondering about various things (I am an empty glass, but I am certainly not in possession of an empty mind). It was during these tides of thoughts, swelling in my mind, that realization dawned upon me. I finally woke up to the truth.

I ultimately understood the depth and essence of being an empty glass. I realized that we glasses are not very different from people.

A glass that is full may be rich and complete. But it is also crammed, while complete. Simply put, it is overflowing with too much of everything, just like a self-centered and self-obsessed narcissist; a person who is overpowered by smugness and snobbery and enveloped in vainglory and vanity. A filled glass is nothing but egotism filled to its brim. He just cannot accept any criticism for he is too full. He can only spill and splatter.

Well, I may be ‘purposeless, aimless, useless and valueless.’ That is what they say and they are never wrong, but I can be right, too, at least sometimes, if not always, and I also have my own opinions. I am like a humble and modest person who is receptive and amenable. I may not embody great quantities, but my being does embrace great qualities.

I am empty, yet so happy. When all the filled glasses around me are competing for more and spilling much more in the process, I stand there, welcoming as ever, to criticism and judgement. I stand near the sink empty, but with a strong desire to allow the void in me to be filled. I know I am hated by everyone around me for being so idle and leading such an ignoble life, but my life is beautiful like a bed of wild flowers which may not be cultivated yet their beauty is unparalleled. Similarly, I am not filled, not used, but there lies the capacity in me to be filled, to be utilized.

I am empty. I am transparent. I am straightforward. There are no dark secrets which govern me and I am not motivated by agents of evil deeds. I am clear as a crystal and my intentions are pure. I have no ulterior motives in my life, but all my desires and ambitions are limpid and clear. I am prismatic. When a ray of white light passes through me I refract pale rays and convert them into rays of majestic colours. I bring light, I spread light. I am… light.

A light piece of glass, I have no burdens. I am free-spirited and light-hearted. I am modest and mundane. I am an ordinary glass yet, an extraordinary one!

32

Autobiography of a ‘Stiletto’ SRADDHA DUTTA, VI Hello everybody! I am ‘stiletto,’ and at present I am in a showroom, ‘Metro,’ with my cousins and relatives like ‘wedges’ and not to forget ‘Gladiators.’ It is summer-time and the air-cooler is on.

But I must tell the story about how I was manufactured. At first, I was black in colour. I was put into machines, nails went inside me which did hurt me, but I came out shining like my fellow stilettos. And then we were put into shiny racks. I remember being jealous of my neighbour, ‘Miss Pink ‘Wedge,’ but that must have been because she was sold before me and at a higher price.

But pretty soon, a beautiful young lady, Miss Swift, bought me. I was put into a box and after that I was left, literally, in the dark.

Indeed, the next time I could see light, I found myself in a new home, or rather, a palace. We were in a most exquisite room and before long, Miss Swift was trying me on. However, she could not wear me for long, as it was soon lunch-time, and I was left alone on the carpeted floor. With some curiosity, I looked around the beautiful room. To my astonishment, I saw over fifty stilettos, wedges, etc. I was still reeling in awed surprise when a maid came into the room and, on spotting me, picked me up and placed me on a black, shiny rack, not unlike the racks in the showroom. By communicating with my neighbour shoes, I found that she wore different shoes for different occasions and purposes, such as shoes for walking, jogging in the garden, partying, etc. I was found to be best suited for the purpose of shopping. But she has worn me only seven times and I am already all worn out. This is my life. Would you like to be me?

Answers to the Brain-teasers on page 31 Across 4.

Athos 8.

Chekhov 11.

Shelley 12.

English 14.

Oz 15.

Tennyson 16.

Saki 19.

Keats 21.

Christie 22.

Hugo 17.

If 18.

Alcott 20.

Swift

Down 1.

2.

3.

5.

6.

7.

9.

10.

11.

13.

Tess Prance Hamlet Shakespeare Dreamt Rolling Tithon Cristo Squeak Moby Dick

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~Vocabulary Corner~ COMPILED BY ROHAN TANDON, X HUMOROUS WORDS: TYPEWRITER: The word typewriter is one of the longest words that can be typed using only the top row of a standard QWERTY keyboard.

"JOURNAL" does not have any letters in common with the Latin word from which it is derived: dies, "day." Intermediate steps in the word's development include the Latin diurnus, the Italian giorno, and the French jour "DREAMT" is the only English word ending in "mt".

WONDERING WORDS: A LAZY SUSAN: A Lazy Susan is a rotating tray, usually circular, placed on top of a table to aid in moving food on a large table. (It is a big question why such an instrument is called the ‘lazy susan’. Perhaps because it suggests that the original Susan operating it was too lazy to move the food herself. I don’t know, what is your opinion?).

The word "KINDERGARTEN" comes from the German for "children's garden". Friedrich Froebel, who coined the term, originally was planning to use the term "Kleinkinderbeschäftigungsanstalt" instead!

AWFUL OXYMORON: In our lives, we tend to say things which completely contradict one another. We have taken the liberty of listing a few of them:

OXYMORON (plural oxymorons or, more rarely, oxymora) (noun) is a figure of speech that combines two normally contradictory terms. Oxymoron is a Greek term derived from oxy ("sharp") and moros ("dull").

Thus, the word oxymoron is itself an oxymoron.

ALL ALONE: Probably one of the most common oxymorons used by us, and we are not aware of it.

HORROR COMICS: We often tend to label particular comics as ‘horror’ or ‘thriller’ comics. What we don’t take into account is that ‘comic’ itself means something hilarious!

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THE ASSAM VALLEY SCHOOL