Message from Director
It is with pride and admiration that I introduce the Spring Edition 2025, the Renesa Theme Magazine. This edition, centred on the concept of "Will," resonates deeply with the spirit of SVNIT, embodying the essence of our institution's pursuit of knowledge, creativity, and innovation.
Just as the Renaissance, a beacon of intellectual and artistic revival from the 14th to 17th centuries, sparked a transformative era, so too does the varied interpretations of a single theme ignite a fresh wave of inspiration within our institution. Our campus life, a story woven with the threads of student ingenuity, faculty mentorship, and the steadfast support of our entire SVNIT family, finds expression within these pages. Spring Edition 2025 is an exploration of the multifaceted dimensions of "Will." It is a testament to the power of human determination, inviting us to delve into the depths of our potential. I commend the dedicated team who have poured their passion and creativity into bringing this project to fruition. Their meticulous attention to detail, both in the written word and the visual artistry of the design, coupled with the invaluable guidance of esteemed faculty advisors, has culminated in a thought-provoking and exceptional work.
I extend my warmest congratulations to the entire student community of SVNIT for their collective contributions across all disciplines. May this magazine serve as a catalyst, igniting the spirit of "Will" and bringing out dedication and commitment to excellence in all who engage with its insightful content.
Warm regards,
Dr. Anupam Shukla Director, SVNIT
Message from Dean (Student Welfare)
It is with immense pride and admiration that I introduce to you the Spring Edition 2025, the Renesa Theme Magazine, a testament to the enduring spirit of "Will”, the force that propels human ambition and the pursuit of excellence.
Much like the inherent human drive to transcend limitations initiates moments of profound transformation, this magazine endeavors to spark a renewed inspiration within our personal and professional life. I am delighted that our collective efforts have culminated in this magazine, where the varied interpretations of one theme within these pages invite us to delve into the depths of our potential, in the spirit of the institute where Vigyanam Saarthi Nah Syatt - The Charioteer of Science forges new avenues of discovery. The team has poured their passion into this project from the initial stages of conceptualization to the meticulous crafting of each page. The will of the students coupled with the invaluable guidance of our esteemed faculty advisors, has resulted in a thought-provoking and visually stunning magazine.
May this magazine serve as a catalyst, igniting the will to excel and become better citizens of tomorrow.
Regards,
Dr. Sanjay R. Patel Dean (Student Welfare) SVNIT
Faculty Messages
This year’s Theme magazine beautifully encapsulates a concept that lies at the core of human ambition and resilience. The theme of this year’s magazine, “Will,” resonates with this duality, celebrating resilience, determination, and the power to shape the future. Through its articles, the magazine delves into the multifaceted meanings of will, inspiring readers to explore their potential.
The students at Renesa have demonstrated remarkable dedication in bringing this publication to life. I am pleased to see such creativity and effort reflected in this year’s magazine, sprouted from the walls of SVNIT.
As you journey through its pages, may you find motivation to embrace challenges, pursue your aspirations, and turn your dreams into reality. Let this magazine remind you of the incredible potential within each of you.
Warm wishes,
Dr.Shilpi Gupta Chairperson, Renesa
Despite being an academic institution renowned for its technical prowess, SVNIT has always been an academic institution renowned for its technical prowess, yet never neglects fostering a spirit of creativity and perseverance, a forefront of which is Renesa. This year's magazine, themed Will, is yet another testament to their dedication. Will, often the cornerstone of success, encapsulates the essence of human determination—the power to push beyond comfort, overcome adversity, and achieve the seemingly impossible. This issue brims with literary brilliance, exploring the theme through poetry, fiction, essays, and thought-provoking reviews. A worthwhile read for all readers.
Dr. Sourav Gupta Co-Chairperson, Renesa
College life is defined not only by the lessons learnt in the classroom but also the experiences gained beyond them. The innovative technical fests, vibrant cultural events and festive celebrations are a testament to the legacy of excellence that the students uphold so skillfully year after year.
In keeping with this tradition Renesa has proved its mettle once again with its brilliant theme magazine. As you turn these pages, I hope you draw inspiration from the stories, articles, and art that reflect the power of "Will." Each page is a reflection of the students' perception of the topic, which will definitely resonate with everyone. Kudos to Renesa for upholding the creative spirit of our college and making this extraordinary edition possible. Your hardwork and passion shine through every page.
Happy reading!
Warm regards, Dr. Sanjay Tolani
Co-Chairperson
Editorial
From the embers of fading inspiration, a fresh wind ignites life. Not a fleeting passion, but the enduring spirit of voluntas— the faculty of will. The Renaissance, a rebirth itself, was fueled by this very force, propelling artists to create, scientists to discover, and explorers to chart new worlds. So too, with each passing year, new faces breathe fresh ideas and renewed hope into the vibrant tapestry of campus life.
Life can quickly become monotonous. Yet, within us resides the will to persevere, to strive for greater heights, and to reach beyond perceived limitations, whether a defined goal currently exists or not. Each day, each semester, and each year presents an opportunity to be lived, rather than passively accepting life's circumstances. Capturing this driving force—the essence of will—was the challenge we embraced in creating this magazine. Within these pages, we invite you to explore the labyrinth of ideas that has captivated us as creators, a journey into the heart of what it means to will. Read on and discover a tale of escaping the social matrix, holding on through the warmth of small things, exploring murder, morals and conscience. Learn the journey of a young man navigating life and ethics. Find out if learning the truth sets you free, how a collective spurring brings about a way to survive, acknowledge the blurred line between a request and a demand, and what ensues when the will of a nation rests on one man and so much more.
This project wasn't simply completed; it was a labor of love, passionately brought to life by our talented team. We poured our ingenuity and creativity into this magazine, resulting in what we genuinely believe is one of our finest works to date. While we may not be the most modest, we can't help but consider this magazine a work of art, the product of some serious brain power. The design team's remarkable attention to detail truly shines through in every aspect. And of course, none of this would have been possible without the invaluable guidance and support of our faculty advisors, to whom we extend our sincere thanks. We appreciate your engagement with our work and the thought you put into understanding it. We'll continue creating, hoping our work finds its way to curious minds like yours. We're thrilled to welcome you to our theme magazine for this academic year, Spring Edition 2025.
Himanshu Thakur
Sebastian John Chacko Chief Editors
Math—it’s the only thing that makes sense. Numbers don’t shift, they don’t lie, they stay anchored. Equations, proofs, answers—all these things are orderly, unlike the mess we call life. I can hold them, twist them, bend them, and they obey.
These thoughts crowded my mind as I was jolted awake by a prick on my finger from one of my classmates. It was a compass—the instrument used to draw perfectly symmetrical figures—serving as a reminder of my flawed existence. It's funny to think that these were the same people who treated me as if I could order the world with a flick of the wrist. But that was before they broke into the principal’s office, found my admission form, and uncovered my "mixed blood." Suddenly, everything shifted— the equation flipped. Think a singularity is hard to understand? Try being a walking contradiction in a village like Ambasamudram, where symmetry is worshipped. They wanted purity. They got me.
But no, don’t think for a second that this is a sob story—because even as a misplaced decimal in their perfect sequence, I held my ground. I shifted values just enough to be noticed, but never enough to change the sum. Besides, I wasn’t completely alone.
There was Kela, my constant—a fixed point amidst all the chaos. Together, we endured the drudgery and the bruises life dealt us along the
Mansha Maulee
Written By
Misbah Shaikh
way. Somehow, though, those blows never seemed to land. We focused solely on our mission: taking back control. It was like plotting functions on a graph, one tiny axis shift at a time —a delicate process, yes, but as precise as any equation.
Day after day, we ticked off steps from our mission—breaking rules, pushing boundaries. From slipping through the village after dark without a trace to asking too many questions in class, where we were treated like we didn’t belong! Every act of rebellion was proof we weren’t weak. Like that time I broke the principal’s son’s nose when he tried to humiliate me. Funny memory. That one backfired, though; the principal got to my parents before I could, and they had to stand there, powerless, like background players in some game of hierarchy. I guess that’s what heritage does—it weighs more than a daughter’s bruises. But we didn’t stop; nothing could stop us.
And then? Her wedding. What a curveball. She tied the knot with some 36-year-old fossil—a relic pretending to be a life partner. But Kela? Oh, she didn’t flinch. Her willpower was unreal. Sure, the light in her eyes flickered, but that fire? Still blazing. Her ambition? Like an asymptote —forever chasing, never catching. Yesterday, the Class X results came out. Kela, my girl, aced it—486 out of 500. She topped Ambasamudram. That should’ve been our victory, right? She silenced the guardians of the system. All of them. They hated it, of course— her family, the whole cursed lot of them. A girl excelling? A girl outshining their twisted traditions?
Disgraceful! But we had won, hadn’t we? I should’ve been celebrating with her, but she’d been quiet. Too quiet. I hadn’t heard from her in over a week.
I called her brother. Again. And again. Until… well, I finally got to congratulate Kela. At her casket.
She beat me to heaven. One step ahead. Just like that. Never even saw her results. Turns out, she’d lost her baby—the one her 36-yearold husband had planted inside her like some twisted seed. And when that baby left her, Kela left too.
No calculus can explain that, no geometry that can map the exact moment when someone snaps. The recursion of these tragedies—over and over—like some looping, unsolvable equation. And then, the crowning blow: Kela’s parents were "ashamed" of her. Of her. And as if to wipe the slate clean, they rushed through her cousin’s wedding, preponed it so the family name wouldn’t "fall out of alignment." Because in the end, that’s all that matters, right? The business, the name. The formula stays intact, no matter what variables get erased.
Kela executed her final will and freed herself from this cursed equation. Now, it’s just me left to solve for the unknown. Together, we were defiant; now, I am her legacy. I take control of our story.
Written By
Anantha Narayanan
Designed By
Saurabh Yadav and
Sri Vishal Narlanka
A DAY AT CENTURION
The African sun beat down on Centurion, casting long shadows on the pitch as two archrivals stood face-to-face, where cricket was war by every means.
The Indian side arrived early to practice, only to find the Pakistanis a step ahead. The grass scattered and heat steamed from beneath the sole of Shoaib Akhtar, the fastest bowler Pakistan had ever produced. The Rawalpindi Express was out for blood, unleashing unfathomable wrath on that unforgiving pitch. Batsmen around the world bore his onslaught, with no face-off being an exception!
A truly frightening sight, as faith in an Indian victory dwindled. As always, he shouldered the burden — the greatest to have ever walked the sacred turf.
A presence so commanding it redefined the essence of the game. As Mahmood Nasir rightly
said, “As a Pakistani fan, it is painful to see India beat us: but watching Sachin provides us with cricket from heaven. It's worth the defeat.”
The dawn of 1st March saw the nemeses meet for the first time in 4 years, at the heart of South African cricket. A match drenched in personal vengeance and political vendetta. The stadium was a battlefield shrouded in diplomacy, where fans buzzed with support in a true contest of decibels. Anxiety loomed over us like a patch of dark clouds. It seemed like we had forgotten to play ODI’s. In the run-up to this game: a home loss to the West Indies, a humiliating 2-5 series defeat to New Zealand, we even lost to a South African club team, and couldn’t bat out the 50 overs against the Netherlands. Wearing lucky charms, kissing the bat, stepping in with the
right foot—nothing worked. Nothing! The team was in total shambles!
Amidst this ‘enthusiasm’, two captains walked out. The display of a forced 'friendship' gesture, engineered by match referee Mike. Procter, was accepted by both team managements, unbeknownst to the captains. That iconic photo, of Ganguly and Waqar shaking hands, but keeping that safe, uncomfortable distance, left us fans jolted.
That day, ICC echoed the UN.
A few days prior, the captain had unwittingly blurted out in a press conference, “Someone might as well have a heart attack one of these days.”
The house of cards had started crumbling. It felt like standing at the edge of something inevitable.
The stands mirrored the mood on the field. To the left, anxious murmurs and clenched fists— eyes darting nervously at the scoreboard. To the right, a different story—voices were louder, as if trying to drown out their nerves. The fans on either side seemed worlds apart, reflecting the larger battle on the pitch, a chance at redemption, a test of nerves, and we, like the players, were bracing for the fight ahead.
The “other” set of fans were ecstatic. With Saeed Anwar, in phenomenal form, The Shaheens soon raced to a monstrous total of 273.
For context, India's highest chased total was 223 and the world record chase was 303. The person next to me declared,
“God, I will accept your existence if this team wins today.”
For context, India's highest chased total was 223 and the world record chase was 303. The person next to me declared,
“God, I will accept your existence if this team wins today.”
People on the far left chanted with prayer beads. While some held onto the white kerchief wrapped around their index fingers, others did
not move an inch!
“India will win!” the silent thought rummaged through everyone.
The two frontmen decked out in blue, walked out to a thunderous crowd, we were still counting on our men, especially the one destined to carry a billion hopes!
The second over was duly handed to the 'Rawalpindi Express,' who, just two days earlier, had become the fastest bowler in history. With a sly grin, he taunted Sehwag, 'Play the hook!' Sehwag, unfazed, responded with confidence, 'Bowl it to the other end—he’ll show you.'
Of course, referring to the bearer of the number '10'. What followed was the legendary duel of Sachin and Shoaib. Sachin, with exquisite timing and flawless strokes, took charge of the contest, hammering 27 runs in a single over, forcing Shoaib out of the attack. The bat had drawn first blood. At this stage, “Express” seemed something of a misnomer. The red handkerchief in my right pocket was my source of assurance.
“India will win this match!”
A Million others had found their voice, and the feeling back home was electric!
“I’m fortunate that I’ve to bowl to him only in the nets,” remarked India’s finest leg spinner, Anil Kumble.
Accurately, Tendulkar toyed with the fearsome pace trio, as India raced to 50 in just 5 overs. At this rate, the match could be wrapped up by 2 pm.
“The only batsman I would love to see by paying for the tickets and sitting in the stand just to watch is none other than Sachin Tendulkar.” — Sir Brian Charles Lara
The Little Master, immersed in his own perfection, struck the chords of symphony with his “violin” — echoing the sentiments of a billion.
Soon, the weeks of fatigue and insomnia were evident. That “mere thigh strain” spread beyond Sachin, engulfing an entire nation as physicians in white gowns treated him.
Just two shy from a century, being treated, The commentators were vocal,
“If only Razzaq had caught the little man at 32. Seems like weeks ago now!”
The white presence encircled the field every two overs, mirroring the fans’ contrasting emotions. The injustice of it all? Tendulkar's supreme innings ended, just as a runner joined him at the crease. A quicker one nipped the top of his blade, and a valiant effort from Waqar at gully dismissed the little master. The sight of him walking off the pitch, head hung down, carved into the hearts of every fan. Dejected, yet we knew he had done everything he could.
He silently sat in one corner of the dressing room, upset at not finishing the match, as the team had repeatedly proved to be a one-man army. The room was in a trance.
The coach walked over and patted his back. The players rushed to remove his pads as if this broke them from a slumber. The captain, watching quietly, clapped silently, as if to assure that it was the team's turn to repay him.
The gallant effort ignited a fire. The youngsters Yuvraj Singh and Mohammad Kaif stepped up with unyielding determination, battling through the overs. The stadium's atmosphere shifted from tense to ecstatic. Balls dispatched to the boundary were met with roars of approval. The once anxious stands were now alive, with jubilant cheers as the youngsters inched India closer to victory.
“I have seen God, he bats at no. 4 for India.” — Matthew Hayden
Yet that day, God graced the holy crease at no. 1, embodying sheer determination and unwavering tenacity—the will of a nation he was destined to carry for over 20 years. A match engraved so vividly in memory, I still remember
the chants and my ticket number!
“I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for allowing us to breathe the same air as you do.” — Shahrukh Khan. From one fanboy to another.
Written By
Dhanyashree Hegde and Mythrayi
Designed By Karthik Suryanarayanan
PASTA
Thursday
The alarm blared. 134 notifications. More things I’m behind on, I sighed. Maybe I should make coffee first. I could almost see Dada standing in the kitchen, his silky white hair gleaming in the early morning sun, creating a waterfall out of milk, because I liked my milk, frothy and warm. He would then distribute tea to the rest of the family and sit down to read the day's news. I haven't read the news in ages. I could never fill the shoes he left...
The coffee machine sputtered softly as I watched it drip, each drop slower than the last. My phone kept ringing, a persistent buzzing like it was begging to jump off the table and end it all. Join the club, I thought, flipping it over to mute the noise. Coffee doesn’t sting with energy like it used to. It’s just bland and cold. I carried the mug to the balcony anyway, dragging my
feet. Dry leaves had piled up on the chair— again. I brushed them off, letting them scatter to the floor, looking up at the crows perched on the ledge, their eyes following me in judgment.
The elevator doors slid shut with an icy, metallic clang. The air inside wrapped around me, heavy and stale. The elevator chimed as it passed each floor. What are you so cheerful about? Same floors, same walls, same day. I shifted uncomfortably as more people crammed in, overwhelmed by the scent of wet umbrellas and musty perfume.
By the third floor, I was the only one left. Just me and the dull reflection of my face in the elevator walls. Tired… Lifeless… I’m used to this now… The doors slid open with another overly enthusiastic chime. My leg twitches, itching to kick the elevator’s cold metal wall
just once. But the thought of drawing attention, of judgment, froze me in place.
The clock I'd been staring at since what seemed like forever finally struck twelve. It was chilly and bleak even at noon with the AC switched on at all times in the office. I almost felt like a drink left to be cooled in ice. I walked out to eat lunch but my appetite seemed to have died down. Although the food looked scrumptious and the co-workers I always ate with beckoned me, I made my way to the fridge to get a bottle of water instead. Of late I rarely felt the desire to interact with anyone. And when I do, it's just another task to cross off my to-do list. Sighing, I went back to work when the clock chimed again. I wished it was warmer. I happened to be the last one to leave the office. As I switched all the lights off;, the encompassing darkness seemed to suit the place. Stepping out I saw the sky stained with hues of red and yellow.
…
Home smelt like murky carpet and forgotten pizza. I threw my bags on the floor and crashed into a couch – buried under a mountain of laundry that had been waiting to be put away. A box of half-eaten takeaway, that had been precariously balanced on the armrest, topped and its rotting contents fell to the floor. Perfect. The still ceiling fan looked down upon me. Maybe I should go eat something… I’ll make pasta tonight., pasta sounds good.
...
I filled a pot with water and set it on the stove, the sound of water boiling filled the quiet kitchen. And its steam gently warmed the house. I grabbed a handful of fusilli, the texture of it oddly comforting, and tossed it into the pot. Gotta add salt, I sprinkled it with exaggerated flair, mimicking that viral Salt Bae move from a few years ago. It made me smirk a little.
I turned to the fridge, half-expecting a barren wasteland, but there was enough. A couple of tomatoes, a few half-used veggies, some cheese, a jar of tomato sauce, butand no garlic. Not bad, I thoughtwe’ll make it work. Walking back to the counter, I splayed the ingredients out and took my sweet time adding them into the pan. I watched the veggies simmer until they turned a lovely light brown before pouring the sauce in it. Finishing it off with the cheese, I stared as it melted into the concoction.
The velvety orange sauce thickened as I stirred. I could almost see it shimmering, with a delicate sunrise colour and a tangy aroma filling the room. Its flavour intensified with every passing moment. The pasta is done, perfectly al dente, I switched off the stove, letting the steam rise lazily into the night. Maybe I do want another tomorrow to come, I thought, almost convincing myself. The thought of scouring through my shelves for a fancy dinner set crossed my mind but eating from the pan looked much more tempting. And comforting. Dragging my bean bag into the kitchen, I sank into it, sitting by the window sill along with my pasta. No notifications, no ringing phone, no thoughts. Gazing out of the window, at the trees rustling softly and the din of traffic in the distance I felt calm, if only for a passing moment. I let my eyes wander upwards, tracing the constellations I couldn’t name but found familiar. I took a bite of the pasta— warm, creamy, soft.
As dawn broke over Lyon, the soft glow of the sun spilled across the Rhone River, casting golden reflections on its rippling surface. The air was crisp, carrying the cryptic notes of blooming chestnut trees mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil. A group of devious men living respectfully under the guise of diplomacy met under an old chestnut tree. “Found the tunnel?” said one. “Yes! Everything has been planned. We follow the route on this map, our boss gets the bijoux while the four of us stand guard. We exit through the rear tunnel that leads straight to the riverbank. Smooth,” was the reply. “Oh! Here’s the fake one. It glints just right in the perfect shade of red,” the leader, John, slickly finished. John was an anomaly in this peaceful town of simpletons who ethically strived to feed their loved ones. But in the eyes of Lyon, John Montisqieu was the uncrowned ruler of Lyon. He had built three poorhouses and had established an orphanage, so his word was a commandment on stone. John was held on a pedestal by
THE WILL OF PEOPLE
Harini
Mandapaka and Dhruv Kulkarni
the people as he always echoed the collective consciousness of Lyon, never straying from the harmony of the majority’s voice. In the midst of the intricate tunnels of Lyon, there lived a naive man named Louis. He was one amongst the simpletons to whom fate always seemed to deal the wrong cards. On the opposite bank of the river, Louis was toiling away at the weapons factory, fervently hoping that he would receive his salary today. Louis’s chest puffed up as he thought of Monsieur John's admiration of his small yet perfectly kept yard when he visited his house for lunch as the guest of honor yesterday. He was happy that Monsieur John found a few moments of peace as he lingered in the yard for a while longer than the other guests. At about dusk, he began walking back home with sore muscles.
Wading through the street, as he often waded through his days, Louis reached the altar of his routine: his home. He stood tired, near the entrance of his dilapidated house. One could not sleep in his house during the summertime without cursing one’s bloodline for having taken birth. But Louis was an optimistic man, the attitude of his anchor being his son, Samuel, whom he doted upon immensely. The bond between the father and the son was what they described as the one between the Sun and the Earth, one dependent on the other, but the dependent one providing the other beauty. Louis sat down in his chair and read stories of the fascination the queen had for ornate objects. He read about how the queen once gifted an entire county to a jeweler for a single pearl, and how she was fond of her ruby-studded emerald necklace. Louis, not knowing anything about gemstones, dozed off in the lawn. The next morning, panic was in the air of Queen Antoniette’s chambers. To the rest of France, it was another mundane day of striving for reform. The queen’s precious jewel had been stolen!The queen was outraged when she found the box that was supposed to hold her Le plus
joli collier (prettiest necklace), empty. Orders were issued to begin a search operation immediately. Public announcements were made, promising entire territories East of Paris as rewards, in exchange for information on the necklace. But alas, the necklace seemed usurped by the Earth!
Innocence is the absence of chaos. Far away from the trouble of this scandal, Samuel read dedicatedly in his father’s library, who had gone to work early because all workers were summoned regarding the matter his father had informed him hastily about. Samuel, least bothered about itan archaic ornament, proceeded to read. Reading a gigantic volume on morality by Voltaire was child’s play to Samuel, who had argued on the difference between Kant and Aristotle as a teenager. But it was Heiddeger who Samuel was the most fond of, so much so that he carried a portrait of him in his wallet. Samuel was intent on finishing the volume the same day, so he could continue the volume by Heidegger later. While turning the corner of the volume with his frail white hands, Samuel was disturbed by two shady-looking figures outside his window. They appeared to be engaged in a heated discussion, one shouting, “No! He could never!” the second arguing, “Truth is bitter you fool! It is him!” Samuel proceeded to intervene, so he could get back to his volume.
“What is the matter?”, Samuel asked.
“Young man,” the elder, hunched one of the two masked men said, “We are colleagues of your father.”
“We have to inform you that fate has chosen to test you, in regards to what you choose between what happen to be both heartwrenching choices, between your bond of love, or your love of morality.”
“Please be specific,” Samuel said. “Have you heard of the theft of the queen’s jewel?”
“I suppose...”, Samuel tried to recall what his father had informed him about before rushing out.
“Well, it is with the most sorrowful countenance we inform you that it is your father who stole it.”
If humanity had had ample power to quell the rage of volcanoes, it would have been evaluated on the torment of Samuel’s rage. Samuel was about to rip the old fool into two when he was stopped and subdued by the burly arms of John Montisqieu.
“It is true son!”
Samuel could not stand. It felt as if the celestial gods were pulling strings beyond his control, yet detrimental to his life. Samuel felt as if he was punched in the gut. He found the power to squeeze out a few words, “I do not believe it.”
“You insolent rat! Do you know who you are arguing against? Monsieur John is one of the greatest —---”
“Let him be.” John cut the fool off. “My son, it is only wise to ask for proof of such a heinous act. If you do not believe us, proceed towards the entrance of your house. Buried beneath the entrance stone, is a greenishdangling necklace, with a brilliant red stone in the middle of an intricate line of precious beads. That is the queen’s necklace.” Saying this, John and his accomplice left.
Samuel rushed toward the entrance. He tore off the entrance stone with every inch of force he had, to reveal an object that matched the description given by John perfectly. The body of Samuel convulsed in pain. The pain inflicted by the actions of your loved ones is far greater than the pain word and fire have to offer. Samuel could not understand what to do. He thought to himself, “My father! My own father! The man who never swore, for it would violate the Bible, resorting to such means? How do I make use of this situation? But what if the necklace is a fake? What if it is a story planted to
damage the reputation of an honest man? But who will plant it? Who will be such a sworn enemy of my father? After all, it was Monsieur John who suggested it! That too with proof! What incentive does Monsieur have to lie about my father? After all, why would Monsieur lie? He has provided everything the people asked for. He has fought for everything the people ever asked for. He can do no wrong. He can say no wrong. But, an honest man like my father? How do I evaluate it? The necklace right here, and the will of the people on the other...” The torrent of thoughts inside Samuel’s head seemed strong enough to reduce Paris to smithereens. It is then that Samuel made a decision.
Samuel promptly rushed to the police station and informed the superintendent of the matter. Louis was condemned to the guillotine. His last words were, “Take care, Samuel!”
On the border of France, stood John and his accomplice. The old fool asked, “Quite a great catch! We are running away with the necklace of the queen, it may be the costliest item in the world, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it’s time to savor the rewards of our bounty now,” John replied.
The plans of what to do with the cash they would get by selling the royal bijoux filled their minds whileas a kid’s innocence slowly died due to their heinous act.
Bhumika Patil
Designed By
Tannu Taniya Written By
VERONICA
The first sip of steaming hot coffee led Veronica to let out a refreshing sigh. She placed the cup on the table and glanced outside the cafe’s panoramic window. The world outside looked merry.
People on bicycles rode happily across the street. Kids playfully chased each other. The flowers in the shop opposite the cafe resembled a rainbow. The setting sun’s soft orange glow made the city look submerged in a golden mist. “The world is so beautiful,” she thought to herself. At that moment, she caught sight of a cat with white lustrous fur. While she was admiring it, her eyes went wide with grave shock. She straightened up as cold chills ran down her spine.
The little cat’s white fur melted away in a burst of bright orange fiery sparks, revealing a scaly nightmare with elongated, slender legs, razorsharp claws, and a serpentine body. Its grotesque
face held two narrow glowering slit eyes that radiated a sickly yellow glow. It breathed heavily, exposing deadly canines that promised no mercy.
Her mouth remained agape in disbelief as she couldn’t comprehend what she was witnessing. Her body was stunned with fear, but her mind raced through infinite thoughts.
Is this even real?
It will get me in no time.
What do I do?
Suddenly, a huge pop-up box sprang up in front of her which said-
Unknown: Do you wish to continue?
It had two options, YES or NO. Without a second thought, Veronica started pressing the ‘no’ button frantically. But to her dismay, it displayed the message ‘ Error 403- Forbidden’
and tracked back to the original question. She tried several times but everything seemed to be in vain.
The monster had started attacking civilians outside. People shrieked with terror. Blood splattered out from the bodies it violently caught in its mouth and whipped around frantically. Veronica’s eyes dilated rapidly as she observed the scene unfold.
Realizing the little time she had left, Veronica hesitantly selected the ‘yes’ button with a frightened heart as to what this one step might lead her to. As the pop-up box vanished into thin air, she prepared for the unknown ahead. Suddenly, she heard a loud crashing sound. The cafe’s main door had flung open. She noticed she could escape just in time, as the monster had gone ahead ravaging at a greater distance from the cafe. With a heart pounding with dread, she rushed outside with all her might. Just as she arrived on the main street, the hellish creature saw her. It sprinted towards her with brutal speed causing its massive frame to shudder violently. She dashed in the direction away from it. Her eyes squeezed shut. She knew she would die soon as she was no match for the creature’s terrific speed. Tears gushed out from her eyes, spilling uncontrollably. Should I stop? Should I just surrender? Should I…
A loud honking sound pierced her ears. Startled, Veronica opened her eyes. To her disbelief, she saw a white van speeding alongside her. The van drifted sharply, tyres screeching, and stopped right in her path. “Come in”, he said gently. Veronica, with shaky hands, opened the door rapidly and sat inside. The van surged forward, accelerating with explosive speed. Veronica gave a heavy sigh of relief. She clenched her fists on her lap and started crying uncontrollably. “Must be hard when the server refuses to authorize
requests”, the stranger said with a composed, even tone. Veronica wiped her tears and asked, “Who are you, and what is all this?” “Oh me? I am…
“What is happening?”, Veronica screamed in horror as the street in front of them started dissolving into a black void. Everything in their sight was being absorbed and all they could see was black nothingness. Veronica couldn’t see anything until a huge animated radioactive green block started descending from above in a step-like fashion. Another bright pink block with a different structure appeared from above. “Is this…Tetris?” Seeing these blocks which are normally tiny on the screen, appear so gigantic, terrified Veronica. The sheer enormity of blocks made her nauseous. Multiple blocks started appearing and each made a loud thud as it reached the ground, falling into its proper place. The pace of the game started to grow as blocks appeared faster and faster. Veronica realized that a wall was being built in front of her. If they didn’t act fast, there would be no way out. “Fast! Try to speed through that vacant space at the side.”
No response.
“What are you doing? Go through that vac…”, she glanced to the driver's side. Panic surged through her body. The man beside her was slowly transforming yet again into a beastly creature. The van burst open as he grew in size. Veronica was thrown to the side. With brown scales and the stench of rotting flesh, the bald creature let out a deafening roar. Veronica sat up, paralyzed with dread. There is no escape. Everything is over. He will kill me any minute now.
To her surprise, the pop-up box emerged again with the same question. Unknown: Do you wish to continue? Veronica stared blankly at the box, her mind
resembling the black void where she was stuck. The devious cat-creature sprang into her mind. I survived back then. I didn’t die.
Her eyes blazed with fiery strength as determination to survive raced through her mind.
She quickly selected the ‘yes’ button. The beast locked his gaze, filled with predatory hunger on her. He extended his hand to snatch her, but Veronica jerked back. She bolted in the opposite direction. Unaware if running would save her, the faint glimmer of hope pushed her forward. Without looking back, she ran with all her strength.
In the abyss of darkness, she saw a bright light emerging from a distance. She dashed towards it with all her speed. As she approached the source, the radiance blinded her. She shut her eyes but kept moving towards it. When her eyes felt safe to open, she found herself in her bedroom. The river of fear and darkness poured out of her heart, replaced with overwhelming joy and shimmering relief.
Just then, a blue morpho butterfly entered her room. Its majestic wings gleamed under the sunlight emphasising its intricate patterns. A gentle smile spread across Veronica’s face. She lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. Her eyes widened in shock when, out of nowhere, the pop-up box loomed large in front of her once again. Why is this box here again? I am in no danger.
Why do I need to continue?
She quickly sat up and saw the lovely blue butterfly turning into an enormous hideous worm. As the scene played out, madness overcame her. Without a second thought, she grabbed the pair of scissors lying on the table and plunged it inside the worm's thick moist skin with great force. She stared down at the
blades inside the worm and the gooey green substance splattering out, her hands still on the scissors’ handle. The countless voices in her head overpowered each other, pushing her to the edge of craziness. With a swift blow, she took out the scissors. She held them in the air for a few seconds while her widened eyes, burning with chaos, stared at the worm. She let out a blood-curdling shriek and with frantic motion thrust the blades into the creature repeatedly. It wriggled and twisted disgustingly. Veronica screamed over and over, losing her sanity. Finally, when she stopped, realization stormed her. She threw the blades and looked at her palms smeared with the green blood. “What have I done?” she whispered with a trembling voice. Overwhelmed, she broke down and cried, filling the room with a haunting sound of despair. Just then, she heard a disturbingly slimy sound. Her heart sank when she saw the worm was regenerating. Veronica pushed herself back, away from the moist creature. Unknown: Do you wish to continue? The pop-up box reappeared. NO!
Enough! I can’t do this anymore!
She manically started punching the ‘no’ button, losing all sense of control. The pop-up box began to enlarge grandly with distorting edges consuming her whole. Colours bled through it replacing her dimly lit bedroom with bright hues. Time seemed to sprint as the colours surrounded her swirling with great speed. Veronica’s eyes darted frantically as the narrowing tornado pressed closer leaving her less and less space. With nowhere to run, her body stiffened and she shut her eyes tightly bracing herself against the unknown.The first sip of steaming hot coffee led her to let out a refreshing sigh. She placed the cup on the table and glanced outside the cafe’s panoramic window. The world outside looked merry.
“Could you please pass me the salt?”
“Would you mind helping me with my luggage?”
“I’d be forever grateful if you could take on this project.”
At first glance, requests are catalysts that make social interactions run smoothly. They break the ice and sometimes even help people in initiating conversations. They are everyday exchanges of kindness and cooperation, whether they occur around the dinner table or in the classroom . From simple mundane favours of passing an item to life-altering decisions of helping a friend move across the country, requests are a key part that keeps everyday interactions flowing. The act of asking often exposes vulnerability, as it’s commonly seen as humbling oneself while placing the other person in a position of greater power.
Often, requests are wrapped in politeness, like a
PLEASE!?
delicate ribbon of social grace tying people together in the fabric of community. One might be tempted to think that requesting something is innocent—an act built on trust, understanding, and mutual benefit. Perhaps beneath those polite words, there might lie a more complicated dimension to how requests are taken as well as made. Not all requests are equal, and not all of them are innocent either. What seems like a harmless request may, in fact, be a demand. And that’s where the ethical questions begin to rise.
Envision a manager, who, with a warm smile, asks an employee, “Could you stay a few extra hours tonight to finish this report? I would really appreciate it.” In a workplace, this request seems innocent. But beneath the surface, there might be a hidden intent. After all, saying no to a superior could be risky. What began as a polite request now hangs dangerously close to a demand, masked by the power imbalance
between boss and employee. The request is still framed as optional, but is it really? Can someone truly feel free to decline when there’s an underlying expectation —whether obvious or subtle—that their refusal could harm their position or their reputation?
Requests also cross ethical lines when they play on emotions. A classic example might occur between friends: “Come on, just come out with me tonight! It’ll be fun. Don’t leave me hanging!” The request may initially seem innocent, but for someone who genuinely needs rest or has commitments, this simple favour can feel burdensome. It’s no longer just about spending time together; it’s about escaping the guilt of not doing so. The requester, in this case, may not even realise the manipulation at play.
Another dimension at play is the Martyr Complex. It emerges when someone makes requests framed around their past sacrifices. “I’ve done so much for you; the least you could do is help me out this once.” This type of request weaponizes guilt. The will behind the request is rooted in a deep sense of entitlement.
In some cultures, the weight of requests is amplified by social expectations. In high-context societies, such as those in many parts of Asia, saying no to a senior family member’s request is downright disrespectful. A grandmother might ask for help with something, and though the request may sound like a question, it’s anything but optional. Refusing is not a choice, it’s an act of defiance.
What motivates someone to make a request in the first place? How willful is the requester? Sometimes, not just about the need for help;
it’s about control, power, or even validation. The requester could be driven by an unconscious desire to dominate or influence labelling it as politeness.
For instance, someone might ask for a favour not because they need it, but because it reaffirms their position in the relationship. In the workplace, a superior might ask an employee to stay late not just to get the job done, but to see how far their authority extends. Friends or partners may do the same, testing boundaries under the tag of camaraderie. The need for control or validation turns an innocent request into a tool to influence. It's a power play, subtle yet potent.
The hard truth is, we’ve all been there. We’ve all pushed too hard, leaned on someone too heavily, and maybe, just maybe, crossed that ethical line. We’ve framed our requests in ways that made them difficult to refuse, weaponizing guilt, obligations, or simply wearing someone down with persistence. Give it a thought. Have you ever asked for a favour and sensed that the person wasn’t willing to say yes, but you kept asking anyway? Or perhaps you reminded someone of what you’ve done for them in the past to secure their help. Have you ever masked a demand as a request, knowing the other person couldn’t say no? Maybe you didn’t mean any harm. Maybe it was unintentional. But that doesn’t make it any less real. So now the question arises: Is your request a bridge to connection or a path to manipulation?
Dhruv Kulkarni
By
S K Deeraj Written By
Designed
MURDER OF TRENTON
The dim light acted as a spectator to the whispers being passed around the room and surprise added to the eerie nature of the act that had happened. Sir John Trenton, a special appointee by the monarch of England to the properties East of Worcestershire, had died. His face did not show any mark of struggle, serenity engulfed his countenance, but his death was not the primary point of concern at his funeral. After all, the death of some people gives birth to enormous tragedy. His sons and heirs were discussing his outrageous will. Sir John Trenton had left his entire property east of Worcestershire, to William, his lowly servant! Such was the outrage to his decision, that his son, Sir John Trenton the Second, swore at his funeral, “Damn the old man! Today, on the 18th of January, 1645, I swear that I shall have my rightful inheritance! Leaving such a huge strip of
land to a lowly help is not decent!” His aides practiced ample decency, as they ushered him aside for losing his temper over the property. Nevertheless, murmurs of a secret affair began to spread. Was this domestic help the lovechild of Sir Trenton? Was the kid the proof of another depraved act of the knight? Suspicion and conspiracy added to the confusion. Even the fortunate William was amazed, who remarked, “Sir Trenton has blessed me! Oh, merciful God! But, I do not understand why? The honourable lord never looked me in the eye! If he considered me that lowly, I do wonder what made him consider me as his heir?” he remarked to his comrade. His comrade, Esther, said, “Oh let this worry go to dogs! You are now rich beyond your wildest dreams, and it is time to enjoy your wealth now!” William agreed and proceeded to buy him and his comrades gifts. But this question
of why he was chosen, remained.
Brainworms have dominated the actions of men for far too long. William too, couldn’t escape the calling of his brain worm. He decided to consult the one person beside the elder knight who couldn’t look him in the eye. The lady of the house, the wife of Sir John Trenton, Margaret Trenton. Generally livid and impatient with the other servants, Margaret had surprisingly overlooked William breaking the century old crockery. Keeping this benevolence in mind, William walked onto her and asked, “Governess, what prompted the elder knight to bestow this grand gift upon me? What was the reason?”. The Governess froze. She could not answer. It was as if someone had punched her in the face, and she could not punch him back. The only solution to her situation was flight. She started retreating from him and rushing towards her chambers, and with her hand to her face, she gulped. But the torment of William was far too powerful a force to be overcome by a woman’s discomfort. He jumped in front of the lady, preventing her from rushing out, and locked eyes with her. “What was the reason!?”, William thundered. In the days of the elder knight, if any ordinary servant had attempted such an audacious act, he would be drawn and quartered. But these weren’t the days of Sir John Trenton, and William was no ordinary servant.
“You want to know the truth William?”, the pale face of the governess rushed out a few words.
“Yes,” William begged.
“You do not have the ability to handle it.”
“Please governess, I beg of you. The worry behind this has been eating me. If the elder knight had to choose an heir, I do not understand why he chose me. He has plenty of sons, and if he wanted to commit an act of charity, he could have donated this land to the holy Church of England. Why did he bestow this burden upon me, an orphan, a lowly domestic help?”
“That is where you are wrong William. You are not an orphan.”
The ground shook under William. He felt as if someone had dismembered his bowels. He felt strangely burdened and unable to understand what this meant. Was he truly the lovechild of Sir John Trenton? Was his entire childhood a lie?
“Let me explain.” The sympathetic governess remarked, sensing his agony. “You aren’t the lovechild of Sir John Trenton. But you are a Trenton though.”
“How? How is such a heathen situation possible?”
“Your father was a once in a millennium man. He campaigned fiercely for religious and civil liberties of those godless Catholics, despite himself being of the Church of England. He could mesmerise entire villages and counties, with his impassioned speeches. ‘Aut mihim libertatem da, aut mortem’ he would thunder to an amazed audience. Entire cardinal congregations of the Church of England sat seething, for they could not counter his arguments. And as is the case, since his detractors could not resolve to reason, they resorted to violence. His Majesty issued notices for him to be drawn and quartered, before which your father went into hiding. Your father, Adam Trenton, went into hiding with his brother and closest ally, John Trenton.”
William slumped to the ground. He could not contemplate reality at that moment. Adam Trenton, one of the most wanted men in all of Worcestershire, his father! But this situation wouldn’t let him be. What had started as an ordinary brain worm now had turned into a quest for identity. His identity. Two words escaped his mouth, “Please continue.”
The lady shook in agony, not able to see the poor boy’s condition. She remarked in intense pain, “ Oh William! Your father rode
horses in a dashing manner. He could fight entire army units by himself. John too, was a man of immense skill. He assisted his elder brother in every possible exercise and endeavour. While in hiding, both brothers took refuge in Surrey, a couple of years back. There they met two sisters. both breathtakingly beautiful. They fell in love with them, Adam, with the elder sister, and John with the younger one.
The elder sister, Abigail, was learned and articulate. Both the brothers sought her help in drafting and practising their oratory endeavors. You are the product of Adam and Abigail’s love. But conditions in hiding weren’t happy-golucky. Food and money were scarce, along with the possibility of being drawn and quartered if caught. But the spirit of Abigail and Adam couldn’t be crushed. Both were joyous and painless in dealing with their daily endeavours. However as is the case, struggles began to take a toll on John and his lover. ‘Is it worth it?’ They asked their elder counterparts, ‘It is’ and they received the answer. Then one day, when the only loaf of bread the younger sister had received in three days was snatched by a dog, she had had enough. She took John aside, and remarked, “I can’t live like this anymore. Conditions need to change.”
“They will. Just wait for some time until the notice on Adam dies down and -”
“Goddamit John! Can’t you stop being your elder brother’s shadow?” “What do you mean?” John asked in a perplexed manner.
“In every field, it is Adam and John. It is never John and Adam. Be it oration, rhetoric, debate or horse riding, you are always the second in command to him.”
“Watch your mouth woman!” John thundered, and slapped her across the face, as blood gushed out. John rushed across the place and seethed in anger. He wondered what had gone wrong. But the woman had a point. All throughout his life,
he was secondary to his brother, and what had that gotten him? The silver against the gold. But how could he reach the gold? How could he cross being the second? No! That horrendous thought hounded him. But there was no other way! But the love for his brother! John wrestled painfully with his thoughts.
As is the case with the strongest of men, anguish and the insistence of your loved one can drive you to infinite heights or depths. John had decided to step out of his brother’s shadow. He took his beloved, surrendered to the church, and disclosed the location of his elder brother. Both Adam and Abigail were drawn and quartered, with John accepting responsibility for you. He later became the strongest persecutor of the Catholics to ‘atone’ for his sin of advocating equal rights for them, but couldn’t lock eyes with you, because you were proof of what he was, and what he chose to be.”
William couldn’t believe it. The rage inside was crossing all mortal boundaries. With his eyes red, he shrieked, “How do you know this? What is your relation to me?”
“Oh William! I am the younger sister, Margaret!” as she slumped to the ground. William touched her. Her hands were frigid. The pulse had stopped. William went through a storm of emotions. Emotions of betrayal, tension, sorrow, and horror. When it all settled, William had understood that not only he had been the observer of the murders of Abigail and Adam, but also of John and Margaret, by the worst within them.
Why do you think people read self-help? I could offer you a list, give you three reasons why. And to this list you may easily add reason number four or five. But there would be one desire that underscores most reasons on any list you and I make – the desire to gain a kernel of self-knowledge, to pluck from the depths of your soul some psychological insight, and to consequently use that insight to gain leverage in making yourself more action-driven, locked-in, productive. The truth, it is believed, will set us free. Free from the disappointments of life as it is now and onto new possibilities. Perhaps we really should be thankful to self-help authors because the frequently abysmal shallowness of their works can almost never give their readers what they seek. If it did, well, will to act would be the last thing it yields. Much has been made of the pursuit of productivity, but really, it is pathetically simple. The first and essential step is boredom. Drowning in entertainment leaves no nutrition for other desires to feed on. To be bored is to feel pain; to act then is a relief from discomfort. I have seen this ring true time and again. No writer wrung dry by easements brings any ink to
Himanshu Thakur
THE TRUTH WON’T
YOU FREE
Karthik Suryanarayanan
writing desk. The second step is momentum. After having acted, when you’re filled with a feeling of good conscience, when you relish in your own growing strength, when you feel a tiny surge of superiority you need to go-go-go and never look back.
And so, the sincere search for self-knowledge and productivity, in this manner, proceed together. But soon, there is a decision to make. The fork in the road, the great divide that cleaves these two pursuits apart is the ability to maintain narrowness of thought. A few beliefs held consistently and strongly, that is most conducive to productivity. It is essential that your intellect furnishes you with no more than one or two possibilities for any and all decisions, from which you must choose, and choose swiftly. It does you no good to become aware of the fifty possibilities you could actually choose from.
So one covers both eyes with the narrow slits of a kaleidoscope; life seems beautiful. Gradually, one’s energetic and consistent actions bring them power and praise. Thus swimming in positive emotions, one somehow believes they’ve finally arrived at the truth of who they are. This, of course, is delusional. Nothing is so anathema to truth as conviction, nothing as poisonous as surety – someone who has not realized this, has not felt the sting of this, hasn’t even taken three steps towards self-knowledge. If the truth is such a tiresome thing, why do some people still bother with it? Why can’t they partake in the orgy of good conscience that actions bring with them? Precisely because they are disgusted by it. A life of action keeps moving on at its own merry pace and whether it collects some branch of wisdom along its way or collects nothing at all – it does not care. One committed to the truth does not need a good conscience. They have become conscious of the conscience! Now lies bare the heart of the matter. A sweeping dislike of being unsure of yourself, a
desire for soaring confidence, and the wish to possess a strong and consistent character –these are many self-help readers’ true desires. To say that one is in search of oneself when what one actually seeks is a clean conscience and a strong will to act is self-flattery of the most deceptive kind. The truth for these people now becomes a mere utility. Indeed, to practice dissonance-free hypocrisy, to believe a combination of truth and untruth, to ‘just do it’; these attain the status of virtues. To those aiming to get placed in Google or become IAS officers, it does not bode well to reflect too much on why they want to do so. Those seeking swiftness of action, a practiced hand, and productivity had better learn to avoid the truth, or at least to not take it too seriously. To seek it only in passing, perhaps only when other subjects are lacking in a conversation. Such people are better off believing that the truth sets them free, because then they would look no deeper and realize that it does not.
We, you and me, truly are part of a unique community. One that bears the marks of countless people spending a minuscule amount of time bound to it. Each leaving a unique touch that, often unwittingly, is carried forward by us. It can be as subtle as that sign on your hostel room door, for some unwitting student to witness years later on. Or it might just become an age old tradition, upheld by strangers without knowledge of its origin. This mark of our presence that we leave, begs for responsibility. To understand that if you leave something behind, that the ‘something’ doesn’t hold back those that unknowingly inherit it.
Written By
Anirudh Peri
Designed By
Varsha Shabolu
COLLIDE OR COLLUDE
But this small stint we each have as undergrads here also entails that much of it is lost to the annals of history. A certain velleity exists that defines our period here, and it is us that define it. What are we to be known as? Do we strive to make a difference? Or are we the discontinuity? Fact is that whatever choice we make, our very presence will be cause for change in entropy.
But we only ever work on the cards that we’ve been dealt, and the question is, what cards did you inherit? And when you form your new deck from all that you learn, what do you do with it? Do you understand the part you play with the new deck you form? Our conservative upbringing often leaves us rather flustered in the face of newfound freedom, but it is high time we become aware of our bounds.
Bounds should always be tested and any action we take as a collective comes down to faith. Did we bother to learn? Did we bother to act on it? Our trust in our peers, combined with our network of information, that’s what will make the difference. Forgotten are those days when scuttlebutt was enough for students to go all in, consequences be damned. Once scuttlebutt was where we got water, but ever since the sepoys threw that out, we’ve been left with tea, bitter and unquenching. I personally don’t hate tea but there’s only so much one can stomach, what with the kicking and the complaining.
And there’s no consistency to it, nobody actually knows who's making the tea and why it is so different every time. How hard can it be to find the source, when we should be working with the same leaves?
Maybe, that’s the loss. We don’t ever leave together, set aside differences and divisions, to just sit down together on the footpath like the days of old. Where is our third place, between work and home? Where might I be whimsical with you, without another’s gaze? Much of the progression, over my years here, has left this place feeling isolating , more mechanical than ever. We need a new gathering ground, to idle about once in a while and greet each other.
The way we interact with each other will define our velleity and knowing that we cement both a perceived image for ourselves as well as the mark we leave should be understood when we interact with our peers. Sometimes you may give up for convenience’s sake, but what convenience is worth your rights, I ask you. Sometimes you just gotta go out over the gate, as simple as that. The rest will sort itself out. At least here it will.
qaid-e-hayāt o band-e-ġham asl meñ donoñ ek haiñ maut se pahle aadmī ġham se najāt paa.e kyuuñ
Death came easier to me than life. I would like for you to imagine me at peace, taking a stroll wrapped in my favourite Pashmina, hand in hand with my Ranjha, imagine me drifting into an abyss probably leading nowhere as Fareed Ayaz plays in the background. Or maybe leading to my beloved teak rocking chair, I probably fall asleep, rock my way into sleep, or stare, stare deep into their eyes slowly as the sight of their face consumes me. You see, the malediction of indecisiveness follows me to death, it reminds me of how even with you all, Mumtaz used to never let me choose the restaurant we were at or the food there, simply because I took a lot of time. I don't exactly blame myself for this, after all life proved to be a deluge of uncertainty, (perhaps this letter too will go unnoticed). I hope Sukhi kept the letter beneath the two wooden miniature toy boats, the way I had asked him to. The sight of your kids Rehaan and Arham playing with these boats last summer is what compelled me to pen my contemplations.
To Saif
The seemingly mundane incident of Rehaan incessantly fighting for Arham’s toy wouldn’t leave me. The envy in Rehaan’s eyes, mistaken for longingness, was all but evident to me, the perpetual yearning for what was not his, peering at the other toy while playing with yours. I remembered them all too well, an heirloom from his father, the persistent impulses to have it all in his grasp oft-times not as an act of acquiring but as an act of depriving. He received a thrill from bereaving. I seem to have persevered in my role-a silent spectator- to those toys you stole. To those To those notebooks you snavelled. To those to-be published book drafts of Aman you hid To those notebooks you snavelled. To those to-be
THE
Samridhi
published to those notebooks you snavelled. To those to-be published book drafts of Aman you hid eventually. Your ailing Ammi blamed herself when she found them in your cupboard, 20 days before she passed away. The guilt of not putting an end to your actions washed over her, as she spent her days crying. Death came to her easier than life as well, I guess. Khair, as for myself, books lost their charm. Words didn’t read the way they used to, made me feel nauseous, like a punch in the gut. Faiz’s verses lost their warmth, each word felt constricting and served me a cold reminder of incompetence as a parent, as a protector. I’d always hold that against you, snatching from me my sole means of escapism. The trapiche emerald with its vitriolic vibrance and jet black spokes seems fitting, a testament to your pique. The black swirls on the venomous green to remind you of your betrayals. marmarīñ marmarīñ phūloñ se ubaltā heerā chāñd kī aañch meñ dahke hue sīmīñ mīnār
To Aman
Each instance of Rehaan’s rancour proceeded with Arham looking at his mother with expectant twinkling eyes, waiting for his mom to fix it. You did the same, had a momentary exchange of glance before committing any act of retaliation. Ammi hated seeing you both fight, so the exchange was always an agreement of barter, a barter of comfortable silence in return for bigger, better possessions. You see, both Ammi and I were working, addressing the issue financially came easier to us than actually solving the problem. Materialistic compensation took precedence over emotional presence for us, and slowly for you as well. Not only did we become a shareholder in Rehaan’s malevolence, we also orchestrated your detachment from us. I wish I could have spent more time with you beta. Perhaps, bonded over our mutual love for words and our penchant for cigars. Yes, I know you, me, and the poets had more in common than our shared love for
writing. A 17-year-old Aman tip-toeing his way to the cabinet to rummage through my cigarettes and pipes didn’t go unnoticed. I might have felt like a failed father again, but the aficionado in me rejoiced when it saw the wandering hands finally stop on a Cuban Cohiba. As your mother lambasted you for cigarettes in your backpack, I knew I had successfully passed on my knack for a cultured stogie. It wasn't a surprise when you weren't there to provide a shoulder for Ammi’s Janazah, we were upset but knew what to expect. A Cuban siglo and a cat’s eye emerald as a promise of my presence in another eternity and a hope for your liberation from the shackles of materialistic tendencies.
lagne na de bas ho to us ke gauhar-e-gosh ko baale tak
us ko falak chashm-e-mah-o-ḳhur kī putlī kā taarā jaane hai
To Urwa Ammi never really tried solving conflicts in a real sense, but you did. A four-year-old Urwa trying to match up to her brothers’ height, breaking two pieces of her own chocolate and thrusting into her brothers’ mouths with those tiny hands, was a better peace negotiator than us. You hated those petty skirmishes, but avoidance did not come to you naturally. You hated seeing all of us upset, which makes me terribly ashamed that none of us could sense your anguish. We left you, our little one to fight her own internal battles and retreat into herself in the process. We left you with seething silence, a silence so loud that it haunted Ammi and I, a punishment we deserved for not valuing your emotions enough. The remorse of your dissociation is a deserved burden I'll forever carry. I am sorry, Urwa. I don’t have much to say, apart from reminding you that you are strong. I send dua that you find someone in whose company you don’t have to fight your battles in solitude. A Columbian Emerald with the brightest hues,
s, the mightiest of them all, with a penchant for healing and as a testament of my love for you. tamannā dard-e-dil kī ho to kar ḳhidmat faqīroñ kī nahīñ miltā ye gauhar bādshāhoñ ke ḳhazīnoñ meñ
The words from the letter, especially the couplets - wouldn't leave her mind. A constant echo of the couplets became louder by the second as her thoughts wandered, wrapping around her father's sentences, scouring for any detail that could point them to the gems. Urwa's mind strayed into reminiscence. Abba quoted nazms every now and then. Often as
an act of la-di-da. The last couplet particularly, was from his favourite verse, Taj Mahal, partly because of Kaifi Azmi, partly because Ammi's name was Mumtaz, infact, Ammi was buried in the same Andheri Graveyard as him. Mir Taqi Mir's lines flooded her with unexplainable glee, as she remembered Abba using those very lines in Ammi's adulation every time she wore her prized pearl drop earrings, the ones she took with herself to the grave. All the couplets suddenly made sense. They all pointed towards Ammi and perhaps towards her grave.
“In the loving memory of Mumtaz Anwar Ali 1958-2015.” The dimly lit cemetery welcomed the duo with an air of bereavement. Walking in with a shovel, a bottle of water, and a torch, they stopped at the sight of their mother's name in stone-etched letters. Saif felt a pang of guilt. More so a revelation that his attempted amendments could never truly fill the vacant spaces of his memories. Urwa watched expectantly as he walked to lean against the adjacent grave. His eyes met hers with an apologetic look. Maintaining his facade of assistance, he made a feeble attempt at digging. A couple of such lousy blows and he resigned. The shovel fell on to the ground with a loud thud as the sibling locked their eyes once again.
How could abba leave him a trapiche emerald? Abba had always been a subtle and cryptic man. To see his words stark and clear for once; and for them to be bleak as they were towards him while the other verses were spoken with an air of poignancy broke something inside him. Throughout his childhood not once had Abba or Ammi said anything against him, it was always Urwa. The effort of parenting was a set of jewelry worn willingly by them but a ring of responsibility seemed to have escaped them while he was growing up. The idea of Abba thinking of him as a perpetrator of a vicious cycle for his siblings, of him being penitent, made Saif feel a strong urge to make things right. As he walked in this anguish, he saw Urwa rocking in his father's chair. He always thought she was a tough nut to crack, a misfit in this chaotic household, an unassuming, lurking figure.
THE AFTERMATH
Samridhi
Thinking of her, he expected to be hit by a barrage of emotions but he couldn't recall a single core memory. He tried to focus, he thought of birthdays, of festivals, of all the major events. Where was she?
Pondering hard enough over birthdays, he was reminded of a six-year-old Urwa sitting on the same rocking chair, lost in some thought. He couldn't help but blame his entitled self for Urwa's dissonance. Once again guilt washed over him and he felt an immense urge to make amends. He walked towards her, "Mujhe maaf karpaogi," he began...
An emerald left for her, without any indication of location. How fitting of her father. A halfbaked apology and acknowledgement did nothing to tone down her simmering bitterness from all the resentment she'd harboured over the years. Compensation for their emotional unavailability and lack of attachment with a cryptic promise of a jewel seemed like a low blow, even from her father. All of a sudden, the rocking chair was rendered incapable of providing her the solace it did, it reminded her of her dead Abba who failed as a parent. Their parental incompetence had made her a jumble of social awkwardness and avoidance. Suddenly, digging her Ammi's grave for the emerald didn't seem that objectionable. Financial compensation wasn't that bad of an idea, she needed money after all. And why would Abba mention it if he didn't want her to possess it.
However, her moral scruples didn't allow her to rush to the cemetery, she needed her brothers, she needed them to validate her sinister idea. A vulnerable, sorry Saif proved to be a great bait for her. As he apologized, she looked at him with a soft smile,
"Let's go," she said in a low voice
As Aman was fiddling with the Cohiban Siglo, he saw Sukhi take a little basket of parijat to his room, an attic-like construction right beside the master bedroom. Suddenly, it struck him that Sukhi might know something about the jewels. As he walked behind Sukhi, he remembered how Sukhi had practically raised all the kids. One fine summer, Sukhi had been brought in from Abba's hometown, Fatehpur Sikri, a young chap of 25 sent by Dadijaan when Urwa was born, to help Ammi. Initially Ammi and Sukhi had their skirmishes, for Ammi thought he was trying to take over her household. Like every brown woman, Ammi too had been taught to treat the household as her shareholding, every move of Sukhi was viewed as that of a predator encroaching upon her territory. His advent definitely eased some weight off her shoulders, but the shift in power dynamic was unsettling. Sukhi too seemed to hanker for Abba's affection. Sukhi often made Sheer Khurma, just the way Abba had eaten since childhood, the praises showered at him would always make Ammi squirm internally. He seemed to like that, and would be present with a bowl every time Abba was happy, sad or perplexed, often before Ammi. Their tussle for Abba's validation was an amusing one.
Once again Urwa was left at her own behest. Her resolve to get her emerald grew stronger than ever. It stung, that even after all these years, when her brother extended an olive branch, it still wasn’t enough. In a fit of rage she took up a shovel, angled it carefully and and started shoving it into the ground,throwing huge chunks of dirt in all directions. After the initial difficulty of removing the outer layer, the task of digging became relatively easier. Her efficiency made her realise how time and again she had been rendered without any backing, left to fend for herself.
Her apprehension became the need for vengeance as she shoved deeper into the ground . She kept digging frantically until she couldn't feel her arms anymore. Saif looked aghast as Urwa let out a deranged laughter and held a chilling smile. She didn't seem to care about the emerald anymore.
Sukhi led Aman to his room and welcomed him. His room was neat and tidy for the most part except for the scattered stacks of books on the table. He could still see the keenness of impressing Abba even after his death, with Sukhi carefully arranging the parijat flowers on his shelf of books. He looked at Abba's wooden hand-held mirror, his calendar, his silver ashtray. The longer he stared at the content of the room, the more it seemed like a life-size memoir of his father. Aman looked at the halfsmoked cigarettes on the ashtray, and looked at Sukhi, Sukhi never smoked, he was too devout for that. Abba did. His demeanour perplexed Aman, Sukhi looked at peace yet restless, something that stopped him from asking Sukhi regarding the emerald.
Sukhi seemed to treasure all of Abba's belongings, to him it meant something. Aman, anxious at his inability to ask, involuntarily reached out for the Taj Mahal miniature kept on the table to fiddle with.
Sukhi seemed to mumble something under his breath. Abba's beloved couplet-
“ik shahanshāh ne daulat kā sahārā le kar ham ġharīboñ kī mohabbat kā uḌāyā hai mazāq”
He was taken aback at his sharp crisp intonation. He hadn't noticed until then, how Sukhi felt like the only remnant of Abba’s final breath. He turned away, gripping his prized prayer beads gleaming under the sunlight with a rich green hue.
The pang of betrayal. The promise of presence. The comforting ardour.
If that struck a chord in the Aman, if there was an epiphany, he didn't say it. But a glance was exchanged.
Writers
Himanshu Thakur Chief Editor
Dhruv Kulkarni Senior Editor
Samridhi Singh Junior Editor
Mythrayi Junior Editor
Sebastian John Chacko Chief Editor
Harini Mandapaka Senior Editor
Anantha Narayanan Junior Editor
Bhumika Patil Junior Editor
Anirudh Peri Senior Editor
Misbah Shaikh Senior Editor
Dhanyashree Hegde Junior Editor
Prerana Veerla Junior Editor
Designers
Varsha Shabolu Chief Designer
Karthik
Suryanarayanan Senior Designer (C)
Saurabh Yadav Senior Designer
Sri Vishal Narlanka Junior Designer
Shambhavi Shinde Senior Designer
Tannu Taniya Senior Designer
Shrutika Ingole Senior Designer
S K Deeraj Senior Designer (CS)
Mansha Maulee Senior Designer
Sriram
Lakshminarasimhan Junior Designer
