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Pale Pillar Plight
The World, in a story.
A story written in our image, an image of the rivers of blood, of the pillars of history, of our endeavors- it is an Image of Harmony.
The World, our Mother, is likened to us, a greater self of our collective soul, its trees are its hairs, hills are bumps, and ravines and caves are its wounds. We walk with it, through movement of subtlety and harmony.
But our story is being culled in this amazing world, in *Our* World.
This is what is taught to me by my Mother, my Father, taught to us in love and diligence and my siblings too.
Tens of thousands of things, walk upon our land, our home, they stretch and carve the World in *their* image, they tear our creations, they make the World itch, and wound. They are not beings of harmony, they disturb us.
The Pale Ones. They emerged from the east, the land beneath the sun, untouched by life, and they will unmake the world, and walk towards the west, they end the world. That is what was taught to me by my Mother.
This is why we must hunt, to take upon our natural spears, our claws, which were held by our forefathers thousands of years ago to strike even the God-Beasts down, in our grasp.
This is our duty.
I was a rebel, striking them down, yet just like any other rebel who was struck down my ideals were spat upon by my own people, and my deeds were forgotten in a time known and unknown. Yet...
Our people are not let mysteries and blasphemies cloud our mind, we must not let doubt touch us, we must discard them and not let our faith waver, for the mysteries of the world are the works of the Pale Ones. Yet, for the form of our body which is the World, it gives us no answer to these mysteries.
Is our form incomplete? Is the World...incomplete?
I, above all others have become obsessed with this mystery.
HA! I love waking up up in the morning, to then treat myself to the sweet scent of fresh biscuits, the warm smell is a reminder of home, of happiness, of friends. To wake every morning with the sun bright above me, "Hello Day!" Every day is cheery when you are with your best friends- oh? Speaking of friends, I can hear mine downstairs.
I unlock my bedroom door, and go out into the hall, turn right and descend downstairs. Ha! I already see another wonderful day ahead!
The doorbell rings, oh! Guests! "I'm Coming!" as I walk down the hallway, I see Mandy sleeping on the couch, hah, sleepy little guy. His mother on the other hand is quietly eating a snack beside him while gazing outdoors- she is such a meditative guru!
I walk through the living room, and see Brenn going into the storeroom, ah. Must have lost something there last night, busy girl. And while I walk, I glance at the kitchen and Niah and Alessandro are in each others arms, a lover's embrace, awww.
I walk in front of the door, and I open it- I look slightly down and, ah!
The little stranger in front of me, I had never seen her before, with ragged face, she stood quite alert, and her Yellow eyes were just taking in everything.
I was left breathless. How Extraordinary, how beautiful! She reminded me of my sweet Angela.
The Pale Ones were disgusting, they were slow, and stupid, large and loud, senselessly, arrogantly loud. Evily Loud!
All day and all night they keep making strange tunes, they keep crying to each other as if they are babies.
However they are far larger and stronger than us all, they are evil. It is an abomination only a land untouched by the Sun could birth.
They make the dead live, things that do not have even a tinge of life is turned to animation. Things which should not live! Yet once touched by the Pale Ones, they live.
This is Evil, unnatural, it is magic. These unnatural things come in hundreds of different shapes, they are pillars for
them to stain the World and End it. The lack all harmony. Just like the Pale Ones.
Yet.. there is more. I have known them, as a rebel I saw what they did. They were kind. They, alone of all other living things, show us *kindness*, they bring us food, as if we are but young children. As if they are our Mother. Eyes which tell me nothing of their nature, yet showing the same value as our World.
How could this be? How could the evil ones show affection? How could they show us more affection than the world itself, who is of our kind? This is the central mystery.
Ever since I saw my child die, this has become my obsession.
I must go further. I know of them, appearing and disappearing into places full of light and dark, pillars of rock and salt, mysterious places.
If I am to solve this mystery, I decided to go through these portals, to there abode.
The place I chose was a large and terrible place, a horrible, mountain shaped into a box, another mark of their great evils. However, the reason I chose this place was one thing. Many of our kind seem to live here. I have seen them, going in and out, resting in indolence, using the smaller portals, and they are far different from our normal kindas if the Pale Ones have mutated their being.
I move to the portal, and a shine from a shape felt peculiar to me, I jumped on it- a loud, unbearable sound came.
The smell of this place was disgusting, unfamiliar, it did not give me a scent of home.
I was welcomed by a Pale One.
I called her Angela, because she is Angela, I am sure of it! Oh yes, she looks different, but time apart from home can do this to anyone. She is much shyer this time, shy little thing! But the way she moves, that pure, lovely way- no mistaking it, its Angela.
How lovely! It was so wonderful to have old friends back! Would it be silly if I start crying?
I investigated the place, and denied all forms of 'gifts' the Pale One gave me. They were an awful, fleshy thing, often singing like a bird. An abomination!
However, hunger forced me to feast upon the food, my form(World) commanded me, and so I must eat. But there
is one place I have grown curious to, the place the Pale One goes to once the Sun reaches the peak, and then falls.
I shall go to this place.
Angela talked to me! I was worried first, when she refused to eat, and slept away from everyone else. Yet one morning I heard- "Mother! Mother! Please feed me!", Oh! How joyous I was! "I was lost once! But I am now with you again, please Mother, feed me!"
I noticed her following me to bed these days, but never let her enter. Tonight I did! None of the other gentlemen and ladies are allowed in the bed, but this is Angela. She stayed in the corner, and kept away from me.
I hope we sleep together once, forever. Once more, like the old times.
I fled.
That place, was a place of evil, I thought of it as the answer to all Mysteries, where the Pale Ones remade the World, where they feasted upon our blood. But no!
No answers, none. Only weird shapes and smells.
The mystery remains so, and in my fury I ran. I knew I could not fight the Pale One, and I knew if I stayed I too would become corrupted like the others I had seen, I must run.
I must go back to the Hunt. I must return to harmony.
Angela is gone.
I haven't seen her since she came into my room, and the one night I felt like we got much closer, and the next day she was...gone.
I want to die, I want to die, I cannot want to die. I told myself, countless times, I cant feel this way, I need to call my sister, I need help. Oh God.
I have been lying on my bead all day, weeping. I was looking at the pictures of Angela, the first Angela. My darling girl, my child. In the pictures, she is not sick, she's eating ice-cream, she's learning to walk, to write, to play cards, to draw.
I had shown them to Angela, but she could not understand....After all...
She's just a Cat. - Iqram Yeswi, XI
HERITAGE & FOLKLORE
Kashmir is known for its rich culture, tradition and heritage. Moreover, the valley is filled with numerous historic monuments which can truly be called as the historic gems of Kashmir. One of those historic gems is The Hari Parbat Fort.
Kashmir
Located in Srinagar, Jammu & Kashmir, on the western shores of the charming Dal Lake, sits Hari Parbat, a historical and cultural treasure. We also call Hari Parbat Kooh-eMaran. In 1590, the Mughal Emperor Akbar was the first to begin fortifying Hari Parbat. He constructed the fort’s outer wall and the magnificent Kathi Darwaza gate. He never succeeded in building a fort on Hari Parbat, though. The 18th century saw the construction of this Mughal building by Afghan Governor Atta Mohammed Khan. Later, Emperor Akbar built a lengthy wall in 1590. Located at the summit, this fort offers a breathtaking view of Dal Lake and is surrounded by admirable buildings of all faiths.
Steeped in centuries of history, this majestic hill silently witnesses the rise and fall of dynasties, the meeting of various civilizations, and the interaction of military power and spirituality.
Sites of Hindu and Sikh religious significance can be found on the hill beyond the fort. Both devotees and inquisitive tourists come to Hari Parbat to take in the spiritual atmosphere and see how military and religious buildings coexist on the same mountaintop.
The layers of legends woven throughout the walls, courtyards, and temples of Hari Parbat, also known as Koh-i-Maran, add to its majesty in addition to its magnificent panoramic views. This is a comprehensive guide to Srinagar’s main tourist destination, Hari Parbat Fort.
The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) is responsible for maintaining this fort, which is nonetheless remarkable with its lofty pillars and antique rooms. The Makhdoom Sahib shrine may be seen from above near Hari Parbat. The Hari Parbat Fort, which is perched atop the hill, is a fascinating place for people who want to learn more about the past because it is a testament to centuries of historical occurrences
Shrine of Makhdoom Sahib:
On the southern side of the Hari Parbat is a hallowed holy location known as the Makhdoom Sahib Shrine. The shrine honors Sheikh Hamza Makhdoom, a renowned Sufi saint also known as Makhdoom Sahib or Hazrat Sultan. His Sufi teachings and efforts have had a long-lasting influence on the area’s spiritual and cultural legacy. As you ascend the slopes of Hari Parbat, the fort’s strategic location becomes evident.
The excursion combines visiting a historical place with admiring the breathtaking landscape that characterizes the Kashmir Valley, providing breathtaking panoramic views of Srinagar.
Chatti Patshahi Gurdwara:
Gurdwara Chatti Patshahi is a Sikh shrine dedicated to Jagat Tarak Sahib Sri Guru Nanak Dev Ji, the sixth Patshah, and is situated on the southern side of Hari Parbat.
It is thought that in 1616, Satguru Patshah established this Gurudwara on top of Hari Parbat after visiting the Kashmiri Pandits and partaking in a feast with Emperor Jahangir. For the Sikh community, the gurdwara is a place of worship and a significant religious and historical landmark.
Sharika Devi Temple:
The Sharika Devi Temple is a Hindu shrine devoted to the goddess Sharika that is located atop Hari Parbat. For Hindus, the temple has great religious significance, and Sharika Devi is seen as a manifestation of Goddess Parvati. Devotees go to the temple to carry out rites and ask for blessings. Offering breath-taking sweeping views of Srinagar, the visit combines touring a historical site with taking in the spectacular scenery that defines the Kashmir Valley.
- Zaara Farooq, XII
The Storyteller
Snow, coming down from the sky like tiny feathers of ice, blankets the quaint village resting in the mountain’s lap. Everyone huddled up in the warm hamams, sipping tea and sharing stories, keeping themselves busy. Legends, myths, historical events and the simplicity of life, all relayed down from generation to generation through word of mouth. From one to the next, slightly altered in their narrations, the stories live on. Others passed, not as ink on paper, but in works of art where the colours flow with the passage of time, ever changing in their form. The world around, covered in a pristine blanket of snow, the people in their houses, unknowingly begin to record history through a seemingly simple work, and an even simpler hobby. Needles are taken in hand, the children gathered around, the thread chosen and the noon chai served, the intricate embroidery work begins and so do the stories.
Kashmir is a valley with a history like no other, which over the course of time has found a multitude of ways of expression like no other. Not simply written down, but lived through its rich culture and heritage, Kashmir has a different way of storytelling. However, with its unique beauty and intricacy, unique flaws and challenges emerge. Stories carved in stone, written in ink, set in the fabric, and inculcated in the very people, so that they may never be forgotten, eventually start to become unreliable.
The Intricate Needles
This unique valley owes many of its cherished traditions to the actions of a single individual who brought along with him learned individuals, bringing along their skills, trade and culture to truly bless this valley with all that it is today. When Mir Sayyid Ali Hamdani came to Kashmir to spread the word of Islam, 700 or so Sayyids journeyed with him, who passed onto the people of Kashmir knowledge and skills. One of these skills was embroidery.
The word ‘Sozni’ originates from the Kashmiri word ‘sechan’ which refers to a needle. Those who practise this craft, locally known as ‘Sozni Kaem’ are known as ‘sozni kaergar’. The embroidery process often takes many months, sometimes even years to complete, and is very complicated.
The Simple Words
A tradition not unique to any one place in the world, but rather found everywhere, is one which has been an essential part of preserving Kashmir’s history. Folklores, known as ‘dastaan’, are intertwined with Kashmiri culture. Stories have been passed down by word of mouth for several hundred years, stories which amidst all the fictional elements possess a hint of reality, allowing historians to piece together the vast history of the valley. Sitting by the hearth and listening to folklore narrated by an elder, is an experience every Kashmiri is familiar with.
Habba Khatoon, a name known to all who reside in the valley, is one of the more famous personas of Kashmir. A peasant girl, who became a queen, heartbroken after her beloved was taken away, has been forever immortalised through the oral narrations. The tale of the supposedly mystical and cursed woman, the rantas, which is said to possess supernatural abilities, is told to children as a cautionary tale about roaming in hilly forests. There are many other tales of figures which wander from village to village in the snow, which cause unusual circumstances to take place. One of the lesser known beliefs is one which says that the mighty Chinars which dot the valley remember all those who sat underneath their shade, being the way the valley remembers its past. These tales have been told for centuries, with each family having their own version.
The Complicated Reality
The intricate designs of the sozni carry a deeper meaning which is often overlooked by most, even those who embroider them. Seemingly the symbolism behind their patterns has been lost to time, forgotten. The Chinar leaf, stands for endurance, the rose symbolising beauty of the wearer and the dress, whilst the classic teardrop/flame shape we see symbolises life itself. This small yet enriching detail of the sozni, has been omitted over the years causing the intricate display of heritage, to lose its shine to those who appreciate meaning. At least that is what has been said. Even about the introduction of this artform to Kashmir there is doubt, some sources suggest that these skills were originally introduced by traders on the skill route during the Mughal era.
With little to no concise records of the origins or the meaning of the symbols, it cannot be said what exactly the sozni was meant to be.
The folklores of Kashmir too, over the years have been altered over and over, fictitious elements added, historical fact removed and as much as one would like to believe that all the stories the designs and the narrations tell are true, they must all be looked at with a sceptical eye. The great romance story of Heemal and Nagrai, is a story many often tie directly with the geological formation of the valley itself, with other stories varying this narrative, with scientific evidence partially supporting some detail in most of the legends, yet at the same time dismissing them all.
The Unreliable Narrator
Change in all aspects of life is the only constant we have in this world. All that exists must change and so it will. This principle applies to our views on the valley’s past as well. Events that took place in the past were recorded in the form of stories, and the stories narrated by elder to child. Some stories inspired physical art whilst others eventually got recorded on paper. From generation to generation changes have been made to not only the sozni, not only the folklores but the whole history of Kashmir in its narration, in its perception.
This valley is one where forces constantly mingle and create elements anew, perhaps much more intensified than other regions in the world. Whilst we have always thought that these changes were the most influential, we forgot that the element with the most influence is our very own history, and when that history is told through unreliable narrators, fact becomes fiction and the fiction becomes fact. After alteration upon alteration all that can be said for certain afterwards, that this valley, in its attempt to make sense of its rich past, has lost sense of what is real anymore.
- Sawood Mir, X
The Fall of The Ottoman Empire
Stretching from Algeria to Iraq and Romania to Egypt, the Ottoman empire once stood as a mighty world power and the pinnacle of modern Islamic civilisation. Witnessing the fall of the Byzantine and Mongol empires, as well as the rise and fall of the Dutch empire, the Ottoman Empire was one of the longest lasting empires in history. For over six centuries it remained a steadfast sculptor of global trade, politics and culture, a connection between the west and the east. Yet, by the 20th century, the vast empire had vanished. Its fall was led by military defeat, economic stagnation and, as always, internal corruption.
The Ottoman Empire was founded by Osman I, in Anatolia, present day Turkiye. Osman and his followers, known as Ghazis, fed off a weakened Byzantine Empire. Their strategic position on trade routes gave them a major advantage, Contrary to empires at the time, the Ottomans welcomed artisans and skilled people, regardless of religion, allowing the state to grow rapidly. Under Suleiman the Magnificent (1520-1566), the empire reached its golden age. They became a dominant military power. Further, their trade and economics flourished accompanied by rich culture and architecture. Their capital, Istanbul, became a hub for trade art and learning, and still to this day is one of the world’s most populous and advanced cities.
The empire then faced a long, steady, and agonizing decline. Historians say it began after the failed treaty of Vienna and the subsequent Treaty of Karlowitz (1699). The Treaty marked the end of Ottoman dominance and ended their conquest further into Europe. The fall was not sudden, but a collective collapse brought about by an ocean of problems.
Militarily stagnation was the biggest problem, the Ottoman military relied on outdated methods and weapons contrary to the rapid modernization of the European armies, leading to a gulf in military-power difference. Following this, the economy declined as they lost
control of trade routes. Moreover, they struggled to keep up with the development of Europe. Internally, weak sultans and corruption reduced the effectiveness of administration. Further, the nationalist movements amongst the Greeks, and other Slavic peoples, threatened the empire’s internal stability and unity. And by the 19th century the Ottoman empire was often referred to as “The sick man of Europe”.
To compliment an already historic downfall, came the final blow of World War 1. In an attempt to regain territory and glory, the Ottomans sided with Germany and Austria Hungary. However, they faced crushing defeat after crushing defeat. They lost territories to the allies and faced internal issues including the Armenian deportations. By 1918, they had effectively surrendered.
What followed was the Treaty of Sevres (1920), which divided the Ottoman territory amongst the allies, leaving only Anatolia under Turkish rule. During this time, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk emerged as a nationalist leader. Formally ending the Ottoman empire through the abolition of the sultanate after the Turkish War of Independence (1922), he paved the way for the Republic of Turkiye.
The fall of the Ottoman empire reshaped not just the Middle East, but most of Eurasia. Several nations emerged from its territories, notably Syria, Turkiye, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan. Its collapse left an essential power vacuum in the Middle East, destabilizing it to this day. Its art, architecture and culture continue to remain well known and world-renowned.
The story of the Ottoman fall is not merely one of defeat, but of the importance of adaptation. They struggled to adapt to modernisation, which kept them behind. The power of the Ottoman empire echoes to this day, from Istanbul to Cairo.
- Daniyaal Omar, X
HISTORY HOURGLASS
September 1, 1715
Birthday - Louis XIV of France, also known as “The Sun King”
September 18, 1810
Chile declared itself independent from Spain after 269 years under colonial rule.
September
October
October 27, 1858
Birthday - Theodore Roosevelt, 26th president of the United States.
September 2, 1666
The Great Fire of London. which destroyed more than 13,000 houses, starts.
October 31, 1984
Assassination of Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi by three Sikh members of her bodyguard.
October
November 13, 1995
Israel pulled its troops from the city of Jenin on the West Bank, ending 28 years of occupation.
November Ahmad Abrar Giri, XI
November 25, 1995
November 13, 1821
Birthday - Fyodor Dostoevsky, Russian novelist best known for the Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment and The Idiot.
Ireland voted to legalise divorce, with a voting margin of less than one percent.
The Iniquitous Words
The sun begins its descent into the mountains, the birds start the journey back to their homes and the city starts to wind down. The whole world seemingly heading for yet another calm and peaceful night, where nothing out of the ordinary is expected. One part of the city however, never sleeps. The inhabitants gather in the central square, and the rituals of the night begin. Children running in between the stands, the adults talking amidst the soothing tunes. A dim moon shines a faint silver glow on the cathedral nearby. All is okay in the world, when suddenly the sound of horses approaching is heard throughout…
The sun had set, the birds nested, and the city plunged into darkness. The whole world quiet, everyone seemingly asleep. Yet, in the very heart of the city by the cathedral, a singular window remains open, throwing a warm orange glow to the wall opposite.
Cassian, wide awake and hunched over the table, scribbling down words about the events he was fortunate enough to witness. Mumbling aloud to himself, “This is my chance, the break that I've been looking for.”, he feels ecstatic. In his excitement about the potential fortune awaiting him for the documentation of a single night, Cassian had not slept for 2 days, all he had done in those 48 hours, was write. The city, eerily quiet and dark. With nothing but the full moon to provide light, the whole city was shrouded in a silvery grey.
Straining to write even simple words, Cassian decides that it is finally enough, that he should get some sleep. After having slept adequately, Cassian wakes up with a fresh mind and body, feeling even more energised to write. A fog, steadily growing in intensity has set over the city. As he goes over what he has already written down, and replays the events of the night. Meticulously he reads his own writing and continues from where he left off, only this time, with a slight unease in his heart. His concentration is fully on the pen which he holds in his hand and the page in front, when suddenly he hears the wailing of a man outside his window. He peeks outside to see his neighbour, Andor in the street down below, crying to the lifeless walls. “My son, he was there. What was his fault? What crime had he done? Now I am left with nothing but an empty house, a fortune I can share with no one.” Cassian freezes. He can do nothing but stare at the destroyed man walking off, still crying and addressing an audience which will never give him a reply, with nothing but the distant thunder to accompany his cries.
Shutting the window with shaky hands, he turns to his manuscript. Sitting down, he begins frantically flipping through the pages he had written in his excitement. Reading what all he had written, a terrible realisation sets in.
All he had thought of was his own gains, no care for facts, no care for reality. The glorification of evil, the purification of bloodshed. A grim scene, written so gaily, a tragedy about to be commercialised. Head in hands, he thinks to himself about his unfortunate fate, that on that fateful night, amidst the peaceful gathering of fellow men, those wielding power like an unjust blade, came into the city square, unprovoked and maddened, leaving not but a single soul remaining, his.
Sawood Mir, Class X
I Have Remembered,AlwaysEverything.
I have always remembered everything. Every date, every word, every smell. I can replay my entire life like a film — smooth, uninterrupted, detailed. My teachers said it was a gift. My friends said it was creepy. My son said it was “cool.”
But now, I can’t remember yesterday. That sounds impossible when I write it down. But it’s true. Yesterday has vanished.
I woke up this morning on the couch, still in my clothes. The lights were on. The clock said 7:03 a.m. The air felt heavy, like the house hadn’t breathed all night.
The first thing I noticed was the quiet.
Usually, my son is the first noise in the morning — cartoons too loud, cereal crunching, the thump of his school bag against the table. But the house was silent. I called his name. Nothing.
The kitchen looked wrong. Plates still on the table. Milk spilled. A single shoe by the doorway. My first thought was that we had an argument, maybe — I can almost see it — me getting frustrated about homework, him storming off. But that feels like last week, not yesterday. I checked my phone. Twelve missed calls. Four from a blocked number. One voicemail. I tried playing it, but it was just static.
There’s a clock above the stove. It’s stuck at 11:47 PM. That number keeps flashing in my head. Eleven forty-seven.
Something happened then.
I keep thinking if I just write, it will come back to me. That’s why I’m drafting this article — to organize my thoughts. Maybe by the end of it, I’ll fill in the blanks. I went outside around noon. Police tape across the corner of our street. Neighbors whispering in clusters. Mrs. Nolan from next door saw me and froze. She looked like she hadn’t slept.
When I asked what happened, she just said, “Oh, Nicholas… you don’t remember?” Her voice broke. Then she walked away. Now everyone looks at me like that. Like I’m carrying something visible that everyone can see but I can’t. I came back home and started writing again.
Here’s what I do remember from yesterday, or what I think I remember:
My son was home early from school. I was working on my laptop, editing some article drafts. He asked if I took my medication. That’s the part I keep returning to.
Medication.
The pills the doctor gave me were supposed to quiet the noise — the racing thoughts, the patterns in shadows, the whispers that turn into sentences. He said I had a “condition.” He said the pills would help me “separate what’s real from what isn’t.” I stopped taking them three weeks ago. I thought I didn’t need them anymore. I remember feeling clear, sharper, more awake.
But then little things started happening. I’d lose time. A few minutes here, an hour there. My son said I was “acting weird.” I thought he was just being dramatic.
Maybe he wasn’t.
I checked his room an hour ago. His backpack is still there. His jacket too. His favorite toy car sits on the window sill. Everything is perfectly in place, like a picture of a room and not the real thing. But he’s not here. The police tape outside — it’s not on the corner anymore. It’s on my front gate now.
There are flowers on the steps. Candles. A photograph.
It’s us.
Me and him.
It’s from last summer. We’re smiling, holding ice cream cones. I remember that day — the beach, the seagulls, the sunburn. I can recall every second of it. Every single detail. But not yesterday. I stare at that photo until the image blurs. And then it starts to come back in flashes — like film clips spliced out of order.
The clock at 11:47 PM. A crash.
A scream.
My hands shaking. My son shouting something — I can’t make out the words. Then nothing.
I told myself the noise was back. That he wasn’t real. That the shadows in the room weren’t real either. That’s what I always tell myself when the noise gets loud. But the silence now is worse.
I think I know what happened. I just don’t want to write it.
I’ve read that the mind hides the truth to protect itself. Maybe mine is trying. Maybe that’s why the memory won’t surface completely — because once it does, I’ll have to live with it. Someone’s knocking on the door. I can see blue lights outside the window.
I think they’re coming to tell me what I already know.
That yesterday, at 11:47 p.m., something broke in my head — and I hurt the only person who still believed I could be better. I can’t remember doing it. But I can feel the space where that memory should be, like a missing tooth you keep touching with your tongue.
The static is gone now. Only silence. Heavy, final silence.
Maybe that’s what remembering really is — not seeing the moment, but feeling its weight forever. If anyone reads this draft, please understand — I didn’t forget him. Not really. I remember everything. Everything except yesterday.
- Syed Alin Bara, VII
LITERATURE
The Half-false state
“Thats my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive.”
– Robert Browning , My last Duchess
There’s something unnervingly calm about the Duke in Browning’s poem.His voice is measured, his language is refined — almost charming. He guides the listener through a portrait of his late wife, offering an innocent narrative. The longer he speaks, we realise what first appeared as grief slowly twists into possessiveness and quiet a menace.
My Last Duchess is a masterpiece in the unreliable narrator — a voice that speaks with authority. Browning never directly tells us Duke is unreliable. But we feel it and that’s what makes the poem so brilliant.
We think of unreliable narrators as a literary device, a character in a novel, play or a poem who gives us a version of events we eventually learn not to trust. But what if this concept exists outside books? What if we, in our everyday lives act as unreliable narrators too?
Solipsism — a philosophical belief that only the self can be known to exist and everything else might be an illusion. This may be too extreme. What’s more relevant is the idea that there is a real world, but we often see it through a distorted lens.
Our minds always try to fill in the blanks. They assign meanings to expressions, silence and gestures. They rewrite memories to make them understandable, we do all of this without realizing we are not experiencing reality itself but a version of it.
Like Browning’s Duke, we speak with quiet certainty, we never seem to hear the other half of the story. We have named assumptions as knowledge, mistaking emotion for evidence and calling our version the truth. In other words, when a belief is too painful or disruptive, we may constantly “edit it” feeling proud of what we have created, but is it really worth it? Feeding your mind a truth which will keep you sane, for it to shatter in the end?
This brings us to self-deception –believing something that isn't true, or denying the truth, because of a desire for that thing to be true, even when evidence suggests otherwise. This may give us pleasure for a short period but this defense mechanism has a cost. It creates a world of half-truths, not outright lies,not full truths either. A version of reality filtered through fear, pride and habit. This is what makes self-deception more treacherous than solipsism. Solipsism is extreme— we can debate it. But self-deception is ordinary, daily and invisible.
In sum, we are not passive recorders,we are storytellers- and sometimes dishonest ones. This unreliability is rooted not in grand madness, but in ordinary perception and memory. We inhibit a liminal space: there is a real world, and there are others, but we perceive them through filters, and narrate them through voices that are imperfect and partial. To live well is not to abandon narrative, but to keep our narrators under critique, ever open torevision. Questioning our own stories is not a weakness. It is in fact the beginning of clarity.
- Sirah Shafi, X
Junior Book Recommendations
“Cooking was magic, and Gladys was a magician..”
All Four Stars, by Jara Dairman
All Four Stars is about eleven-year-old Gladys Gatsby, a secret gourmet cook whose life changes when a kitchen fire bans her from cooking and leads her to a food critic job with a major newspaper. To keep her dream job and earn money for the damage, she must secretly travel to review restaurants, navigate her sixth-grade nemesis, and keep her true identity hidden from her fast-food-loving parents.
“If I win, I’m a prodigy. If I lose, then I’m crazy. That’s the way history is written.”
Artemis Fowl, by Eoin Colfer
A 12-year-old criminal mastermind by the name of Artemis Fowl kidnaps the captain of the fairies, Holly Short, to restore the fortune of his family by ransoming her for gold. He uses his quick wits and his bodyguard, Butler, to outwit the “Lower Elements Police Force” and their very techbased, organized world but then the situation turns into a tense standoff.
SENIOR BOOK RECOMENDATIONS
“Dally was real.I liked my books and clouds and sunsets. Dally was so real he scared me”
The Outsiders, S. E. Hinton
The novel follows Ponyboy’s life getting thrown off after an encounter with the Socs,making him and his friends criminals in the eyes of people. A tragic event follows and his friends,who were seen as criminals yesterday were now called as heroes, but by paying the ultimate price. The senselessness of all these violent events traumatises Ponyboy,and he deals with his grief and frustration by writing this book for all the “Dallys” in the world.
“Where was death?What death?There was no fear whatsoever,because there was no death.”
The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Leo Tolstoy
This book talks about Ivan Ilyich,a high-court judge who like everyone spent a simple and most ordinary life, therefore the most terrible one. His entire life was spent trying to climb the social ladder. He worked hard his entire life and let his work consume him entirely and slowly drifted away from his family. Through this story, Tolstoy makes us aware about the consequences of living a meaningless life which is as bad as death itself. Since Ivan lived a “bad” life it was nothing but living death itself.
Movie Recommendations
“ You shoot me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize. ” - Mr. White
Reservoir Dogs
Quentin Tarentinos directorial debut follows the story of a heist in which all that could go wrong, does go wrong. Released in the year 1992, Reservoir Dogs remains acclaimed for its combination of raw storytelling, powerful acting, inventive direction, and lasting influence on crime films.
“ I’m not a monster. I’m the mirror ” - Hitler
Look Who’s Back
This movie imagines Adolf Hitler suddenly waking up in modern Germany, with no memory of the events after WWII, and attempts to reintegrate into society, leading to bizarre and darkly comedic situations. It is a must watch for everyone as it covers various concepts such as propaganda, power and influence in its most raw form.
- Hadi Imtiyaz, Xi
The AI bubble begins to pop
On August 7, OpenAI released what they claimed to be their “best work yet”: GPT-5, the newest model behind ChatGPT. They claimed it represented by far the biggest leap in their entire history, proclaiming that GPT-5 was far superior to GPT-4 – the preceding version – in every way. There was a grand demo, with many promises made and many features boasted. The excitement was palpable among the userbase, all waiting with bated breath for the public release. As soon as it released, hordes jumped to testing it, wanting to know how it held up against its predecessor. Within hours, user reviews began pouring in, nearly unanimous in one sentiment. Their verdict?
GPT-5 was near-universally regarded as much, much worse than GPT-4.
Hundreds of users, most using the Premium version of GPT-5, complained that it was “slower”, “less competent”, “less creative”, and “plain worse” than GPT-4 had been. Benchmarks told a similar story: response times were slower (up to more than twice as slow), hallucinations increased, coding performance degraded, reasoning became narrower, and so on. While it had made undeniable improvements in OpenAI’s own success criteria (mostly revolving around Olympiads), it had suffered greatly in all other aspects, severely impacting its practical usefulness.
The results, clearly, were in. The backlash grew so intense that OpenAI was forced to reinstate access to GPT-4, and the number of GPT-5 users remained far below those of GPT-4. A few days later, interviews started rolling in from Sam Altman’s side. So, on this clearly critical juncture, what did Altman choose to do?
He blamed the users.
According to Mr. Altman, the detractors were “misunderstanding” GPT-5 and most users simply weren’t smart enough to take advantage of the new features it had to offer, or “qualified” enough to care about them. Abstract statistics were cited, presented in the telltale language of one making many claims but no promises, claiming some “scientists” were highly appreciative of GPT-5; intellectuals who were not mentioned by name, field, or any identifying information beyond being “smart people”. Altman continued in a similar vein and noted that the frequency of complaints had since released, pointedly ignoring that this phenomenon coincided exactly with the release of a new, entirely different, and far more interesting product from OpenAI that drew the public eye.
At around the same time, OpenAI revealed that the company’s definition of AGI, their famously stated end goal was now changing. “We had almost a category error of thinking of OpenAI as a project with a defined end date,” they said, continuing that this was no longer the case. Instead, they were now choosing to focus on “continuous impact” and “transforming the economy” into an “AI-based world”.
What all this seems to suggest, even to the untrained eye, is that OpenAI is slowly but surely squandering the strength of their word, slowly turning into yet another loudmouth company making promises they have no intentions of keeping. A major player has begun to fall, and so the AI bubble has begun to burst.
- Mohammad Saad, XI
How To Crack Your Neigbor’s Wifi Password???
This question has long been a source of curiosity among teenagers, and often the reason behind their prolonged pursuit to somehow discover the WiFi password one day. Ironically, most don’t even know what they would actually do with it after getting the password — yet the curiosity persists, even when they already have a working WiFi connection at home. After countless YouTube tutorials and Google “how-to” searches, what one usually ends up with is a bunch of technical terms and concepts that the documents throw at them — most of which go straight over their heads.
Instead of actually learning “ethical hacking” from a ten-minute video, let’s dive into the shallow, yet surprisingly deep, ocean of how WiFi systems actually work.
To begin with, every WiFi network you see around you — whether it’s named “Home,” “Airtel_Fiber,” or even “HACK_ME_IF_YOU_CAN” — is just a wireless signal being broadcast by a router. This signal contains a name (called the SSID) and a unique hardware address (called the BSSID). When your device wants to connect, it doesn’t simply ask for the password — it begins a digital handshake, a kind of message transfer protocol, where the message is securely conveyed to the receiver without ever actually saying it aloud.
So, whenever you enter the password while con-
necting to WiFi, it’s not sent as plain text. Instead, it's converted into secret, encoded characters that only the sender (your phone) and the receiver (the router) can understand and use to authenticate the connection. This clearly shows that even if someone somehow gains access to the communication channel, they’ll never be able to see the real password — because it isn’t shared in the language it’s typed in. Instead, it’s transformed into what could be called the Morse Code of internet communications — or WPA3, in technical terms. This protocol uses your password to generate a secret encryption key, which is then used to verify and securely encrypt all data exchanged between your device and the router.
So even if you somehow manage to get hold of the handshake data — the digital code exchanged between your device and the router during the connection process — it is still nearly impossible to crack unless the password itself is weak and commonly used, like “12345678.” This encryption layer makes WiFi security far stronger and helps prevent any kind of password leaks or unauthorized access.
So if your curiosity still doesn’t stop here, and you’re determined to get the password somehow — your best available option might just be to knock on your neighbour’s door and politely ask for it.
- Mohsin Nasir, Class XI
Diseased prayer, bow down Hollow silence hums Goddess of Sin, I seek White walls, stairwell, temple?
Sacrifice - offer me, bleed Leads to the still
Unholy cry to grasp at The abyss that is them
Ahmad Abrar Giri, XI
The DPS
VOLUME....?
THE MAGAZINE OF DOOM AND DESPAIR: RETURNS!
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FROM 20 RUPEES TO EXISTENTIAL CRISIS: CANTEEN PRICES BREAK STUDENTS BEFORE EXAMS.
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et audam ortuiustiae quideff rehebatil hostili caedeestam dii percepse moverni turioni ciorte culin vividem que acive, in Itam nonestissime inteludam quitanum inaturb endient elaritantem peri pereci sendien dactua ma, dii pulin Ita, ductuam inihicatus, catam es re iae nuntilicus, ficae ad publictam, nostis inim iam menihicae non vehemei castimus bononsciam virmissoltum iam. Epervignam crehenentere in senitiem conve, consuli cerurbitu mandac reses sum con de erem ci
tatum ses habefec onstraes? iam ortem conceritem crena, comnihi, fachica L. Ihicia prima, quem terfex sen te culia movereo comperf iriors musquam publi pos de atil temussim ni converit.Tam prox manditra pres? Sus, quem fuerium ius comnond ucerio ac tandampliem mant? Nam quam ad re consuli cenarissed audactuit. Oltorei ius C. Gractum oris, C. Mae mente nos pris et vid noverfectus; num initius, ne tam. Ser atquons uscitustorae ticerobus; nes! Serecremus,
Annual day rehearsals to be declared new academic subject.
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Non med student insists that tears are saline solutions.
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Economics students to use canteen as real-life case study on inflation.
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Times
UNBIASED UNFAZED UNPAID
FALL EDITION
WINTER SOLSTICE POSTPONED: STUDENTS
DEMAND EMOTIONAL SOLACE INSTEAD.
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Techknow Rocked, Kashmir shocked!
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DPS Srinagar creates Kashmirs first AI robot, ‘Shafat’. Students suspect it to be the IT teacher, Shafat sir, in disguise.
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AFTER HISTORIC WIN, DPS FOOTBALL TEAM ASKS IF EXAM PAPERS CAN BE KICKED TOO.
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DATESHEETS ANNOUNCED! STUDENTS BEGIN BARGAINING PHASES OF GRIEF:
STAGE 1: DENIAL, STAGE 2: PANIC, STAGE 3: MATH.
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By, our (very performative) Editorial Board.
- Naina Strings, Sona Mohapatra
- Snowblind - 2021 Remaster Black Sabbath
- Cynical One TV Girl
- Nundebon Yawar Abdal
- Aaj Jane Ki Zid Na Karo Farida Khanum
- Stars Pink Pantheress
- midnight oil
Samantha Margret
- Dont Say No Mechatok, f5ve
- The Passing of Clouds Karla Borecky
- Rx Skyhaven
- I hate goodbyes Maddie Ashman
- Neon - Live at the Nokia Theatre, Los Angeles, CADecember 2007
John Mayer
- Deadhead - Acoustic - Live in Leeds 2019
Devin Townsend
Playlist
- Beautiful Morning Avenged Sevenfold
- Paradigm Avenged Sevenfold
- Brompton Cocktail Avenged Sevenfold
- Sappy - Early Demo Kurt Cobain
- Buried Alive Aveneged Sevenfold
- I’m Outta Time Oasis
- November Rain Guns N’ Roses
- Champagne Coast Blood Orange
- Ek Husn Ki Devi Se Mujhe Pyar Mehdi Hassan
- High On You Jind Universe
- Phir Le Aaya Dil Pritam, Rekha Bhardwaj
- Rewrite The Stars Zac Efron, Zendaya
- I Want You Mitski
Dim trace, murmur
A thousand times
Echoes of ruin In elven dance
Wandering pulse, Mice in a Wheel
Song fills my descent
Of light and decay
We remain one
Credits
EDITORIAL BOARD
Shazia Fida
Jammi Ul Khair
Abdullah Bin Zubair
Abdul Muqtadir Wani
Ahmad Abrar
Bazilah Kirmani
Hadi Imtiyaz
Manahel Khan
Mariya Parvaiz Wani
Mohammad Saad
Mohammad Sawood Mir
Zaara Farooq
Zainab Iqbal
ART EDITOR
Zainab Iqbal
IMAGE CREDITS
rawpixel.com
Cover Page Illustration:
Bahija Bint Fayaz
LAYOUT DESIGN
Manahel Khan
Mariya Wani
DPS TIMES
Aroosh
Heeba Khan
Maheen
Mariya Wani
The Archives™
SpE c IA l T h A nk S
Content Writers
Boundless one, I am the sun
Conjure you to faith I bleed at my own feet, Drunk on hollow Ichor
Faithless devotion, sanctify me
Renounce me, spite I am the Leviathan Demiurge, drifting I burn in hell
Ahmad Abrar Giri, XI