FOUNDERS’ 2010

THE ASSAM VALLEY SCHOOL

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred,
and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
- Charles Baudelaire
Table of Contents
 ~Prefatory Note~
Literature appeals to that faculty of the brain that can generate and synthesize the most disparate forms of
the imagination into a reality that is organic and whole. Here we have an anthology by the already-
established laureates of AVS, as well as the aspiring Dantes, Petrarchs and Wildes on a voyage to the unex-
plored horizons of their capabilities. Bear with us as we humbly revive the culture of literature for literature’s
sake in a world overcome by a Postmodern tendency towards the material.

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

Ladies and Gentlemen, art delivered to you in an almost spontaneous frenzy that would cascade upon the
sensitively-souled, the brave-hearted and the deeply impressionist, and make you privy to those spirited be-
ings of our community whose ‘creative geniuses’ are bursting out of the casements of their imagination. We
have faith that this rhapsody is encouragement enough for those reticent artists awaiting a suitable canvas.
As for those among us who spend most of their indefinite time in AVS in a reverie, let us hope that the bril-
liant, uncanny colours of their minds’ palette turn into a vividness that we can behold.

Mrinanda Baruah

1
 ~EDIT|ORIAL~
As the editor of this journal, I wield my pen and begin to scribble down the myriad thoughts entering my
mind. As I do so, I have before me the previous few issues of this journal, and I observe the intellectual di-
mension given by my predecessors with trepidation. Though the idea of the journal had nudged me from
time to time, it was only after I stepped into an unknown territory that I could give full rein to these fledgling
thoughts.

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

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

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

Finally, looking back on the moments of exhilaration and nagging anxiety, I can unreservedly say that Voy-
ages would, somewhere in the middle, have lost its way had it not been for the sustained emotional and in-
tellectual support we received from the staff editors. Without their stoic patience in the face of our many fal-
tering and countless technological blunders, we could not have made this journey. We are deeply grateful to
the whole of the English Department for their advice and to Mr. Hemi Rawat for his passionate commitment
to ideating the cover illustration. Rohan Tandon
STAFF EDITORS: ARTISTS:
Mr. Supratim Basu Shreya Lahkar, X
Mrs. Ruby Pradhan Rakshanda Deka, X
Ms. Mrinanda Baruah Hlingdeikim Changsan, IX
STUDENT EDITORS: COVER ILLUSTRATION:
Rohan Tandon, X Shreya Lahkar;
Vedant Jain, XI Rakshanda Deka
Chetan Damani, X CONTRIBUTORS:
PHOTOGRAPHER: Yaniam Chukku, X; Jita Moji Jini, X; Rahul Rajkhowa, XI;
Himangshu Arya, X Nishesh Bharech, X ; Sneha Khaund, XI

2
 Poetry Corner
+You are only young
once and if you wish it right, once is enough.”
– Vasundhara Rajbongshi,„08 +
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Stars & Fireflies

AKANKSHA JAIN, VIII

Had it not been You

When dusk passes and comes the night,
When there's darkness, there is no light.
Then something in the sky catches my sight,
Not one but many stars, dim and bright. DIKSHA SINGHI, X
Had it not been you, I would not have known what love is,
And through the dark as I'm passing by,
Had it not been you, I would not have known who a friend is,
I see something bright moving in the sky.
Had it not been you, I would not have known what a family is.
To figure what it is, I try and try,
You are the only one whom I call for.
Till I follow it to a field— and discover a firefly.
Had it not been you, I would not have learned my first words,
I stand in the field and stare wide across,
Had it not been you, I would not have taken my first steps,
There's light twinkling from the skies to the grass.
Had it not been you, I would not have understood my first
Fireflies linger on bushes as far as I can see, lesson.
The clear sky is full of stars, better it can't be. You are the only one whom I call for.

Free from all worldly bounds,

In the tranquillity of the night, there was no sound. Had it not been you, I would not have appreciated life,
I felt simplicity with a beautiful essence, Had it not been you, I would not have empathized with God,
I was freed, humbled. I felt true innocence. Had it not been you, I would not have recognized myself.
You are the only one whom I call for.

+A hero in the battle of life is the one You shine and sparkle even in the darkest of nights,
You love and care even in the most heartrending days,
You value and appreciate me even when I fail.
who can smile in the face of affliction. Mom, you are the only one whom I call for…

-Dignator W. Singh, 09
ILLUSTRATION BY RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

4
ILLUSTRATION BY JITA MOJI JINI, X

A Message Give me a chance

SWATI BHATTACHARJEE, X
SIMRAN AGARWAL, IX
For years and years,
You’ve always been harsh to me
They held me back,
Bound by chains, And treated me like your slave.
Hopeless and black, You’ve suppressed me in your most difficult times
But I am finally free now, At least now, let me out of that cave.
And I thank the humans for welcoming me back.
You’ve been bullied throughout your life
They call me ‘terror,’
But did you ever utter the word ‘no’
They fear the fact that I am back,
To peer pressure or before friends and enemies?
Oh! How I miss the horror on their faces,
In the Hiroshima-Nagasaki attack. For goodness sake, don’t bend so low.
I hope they can recognise me,
For shameless as I am, You can be an all-rounder,
I stay in all places uninvited, I doubt if you have any more hope;
I have an invincible stand. You can come out in flying colours,
I’ll help you, it’s not too late to cope.
At the end of the day,
Unlike them I don’t sleep,
I wait and wait till I get lucky, For my sake and your happiness:
And hear the policeman’s jeep. “Let me out!” I shriek.
How will you spend your life like this?
Every death, every day, Please stop being so meek.
Yes, it is caused by me,
Sometimes I feel guilty,
You always seem to be in a trance,
But in the end, it is you who chose me.
Being compliant can never help you.
How foolish can they get? You always listen to everyone,
Wars and wars all along, Now please listen to me, too.
I am happy while you keep me busy,
But you are losing what you love, all along. I’ll help you change your life,
Listen to me, I’m not your foe;
I don’t mind helping them out,
It won’t do me any harm, ‘Give me just one chance’:
But if it’s advice you seek for, Me, your inner voice, begs you to do so.
I’ll be honest and not say something wrong-
My dear humans,
Violence does not stop till you blow the horn.

ILLUSTRATION BY SHREYA LAHKAR, X

5
 Many ,Many Years Ago
LEIMA CHANU SHAKTI YAMBEM, X
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

Treacherous leaves scatter, amidst pale dust

The aqueous shadow of the fallen moon trembles
Upon the Nile that slithers and dances to time
A strand of precious blood slides along the horizon.

A creak is heard, in the echo of silence,

As the cradle of the royal Charlatan rocks.
An infant sleeps, covered in a skin of honeyed milk,
And the faint moonlight veils the next Pharaoh.

The chariot of vengeance rides along,

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

A silent dagger haunts the haunted night.

The zephyr carries the last cry of the child.
Alas! Red wine spilled over the white feathers of innocence,
A drop of blood in a bowl of milk.

Dear Earth, the land of my dreams,

Sharing Dreams
UDOYODITYA KONWAR, VII +
Emily Dickinson wrote over
1,800 poems. Only seven were
Thank you for planting shade under the trees,
And for the water in the coconuts near the seas,
And for the colourful flowers, for the humble
published in her lifetime, all without
bumblebees,
But again, I’m sorry for blindly cutting down your her consent.
trees.
Now I realize that this has broken your dreams,
I wish I could undo my deeds,
And instead plant lots of trees.
I wish I could repair your need ILLUSTRATION BY YANIAM CHUKKU, X
And give you all the water you please.
I wish I could clean up your streets
And make you big and green.
But these wishes and dreams won’t be fulfilled
Until we all learn to work as a team.
6
 The Street -Lamp ILLUSTRATION BY RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

Rooted here, from the era of ancestors you know not,

I'm living, much against your assumptions and thoughts.
And doing so many shades better than you,
For I'm plagued by no hollow angst and held by no taboo.

Last dark, I saw that bloody crash,

The bike flew almost to my chest.
And Jim—stock-still — crossed the Great Divide,
Finally escaped, no more to hide.

At cock-crow today, this man engaged,

Halted the lorry, pointed the baton—enraged,
The victim fed the baton-hole a dollar,
He smirked, cleared the jam and caught the next collar.

Had I a tongue, I would save a few lives,

For the unknown, the unwanted float in my eyes
Clear memories of each death, each mishap blurs my vision
With tears that emerge on every such reflection.

Even so, I'm deemed heartless, dead and metal;

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

She Doth Not Know

VEDANT JAIN, XI

+ The famous author of Robinson

Crusoe changed his name in
She doth not know,
She doth not know what she wants.
Sometimes she wants the moon,
Sometimes, the stars.
Sometimes she wants attention,
1703 from Foe to Defoe. He Sometimes she just wants to be alone,
Sometimes she wants to laugh,
believed that Defoe was “more so- Sometimes she wants to be laughed at.
Sometimes she wants to walk away,
cially and upward sounding” than Sometimes she wants to forever stay.
But in all these times,
Foe is. She never wants me.

7
 Pardon
DANI NAGYANG, XI
Black, White and You
SHREYA LAHKAR, X
Deep down in the pit of her heart,
There flows a current of desire, The paths are stretched,
Not of fame or of possession, Quite unsure of when it might end.
It is but the extreme end of human emotion, To value what’s ahead
It is her day-and-night obsession, Is something inconceivable.
Vengeance—many may call it so… You fill the void
With dream catchers and Yin-Yangs,
And I feel so, not since my world is black and white.
The night you left the scars on her,
But because you’re always there
You also stole away her humanity.
In my multidirectional thoughts.
It is the greatest loss ever,
So sometimes, I close my eyes
For you as well as for her.
And hope what lies ahead,
Since then there is no turning back, May all fit in like the pieces
Only evil plans to be devised. Of a fateful enigma,
The slap right across her love needs to be
Just like it did, in the distant past.
avenged,
It is only through revenge— many may call it
so…

Alone and vulnerable,

An easy prey of the predator.
Concealment and disguise present themselves
as the only options.
+Part of Lewis Carroll‟s classic,
Should she or should she not?
The treacherous venom flows in her veins, “Through the Looking-Glass,” was only
Constantly activating her neglected pains.
Her desperate thirst urgently needs to be made public after107 years. +
quenched,
Through retaliation—many may call it so.

The universal cycle cannot be altered,

Many may have tried, but it does not falter.
Spite makes you spiteful,
Hate makes you hateful.
A thorough searching of her soul
Leaves an answer in the whispering wind.
+The arrogance of age must learn to
Finally, the current of her desire will be over-
whelmed with satisfaction.
submit to be taught by youth sometimes.
Pardon is the deed for thee. – Clifford War. 09
ILLUSTRATION BY SHREYA LAHKAR, X

8
Guilty Conscience
ROHAN TANDON. X

Jared looks at the path of life

That's almost ended with a serene smile;
He stands near his wide open grave,
Being a step away as it calls to him;
“Here I come,” is all he says.

The second before his death,

His life flashes before his eerie eyes;
“Oh! Why did I ever pull the trigger?” he cries.
His conscience eats into the crevices of his being;
He’s reminded of the night—the night he made Judas proud of him,
When he shot a man.

His grave draws away and he realizes with grief that his life-support worked.
“You’ll be just fine.” The guy in white scrubs says.
Is that an angel? No, that is simply the doctor.
His conscience deals another excruciating stab at him,
But outside, he’s cured and sent back home.

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

The Plane
SUYAASH SHARMA, X
It happens every time, every day and night. Like a phoenix, I’ll rise from the ashes.
My plane crashes down, just before the flight. My plane will take off, even if it crashes.
Engulfed by inhibitions, bowed down by restraint,
Although I always wanted to, but can’t trust my instincts. It’s high time now, I have to break the chains.
No more listening to anyone, no more refrains.
That’s only what I feel, it’s just a mental block. The plane is about to take-off—I aim for heaven.
It’s time I find the key - it’s time I open the lock. I hope the journey’s smooth, and there’s no 9/11!
Enough of the crabs pulling me down.
I only want to smile now, no more frowns.

9
 DAD
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

AKANKSHA JAIN, VIII

He calls me the sunshine of his life,

He says I'm the apple of his eye,
He gets his camera to shoot pictures of me,
He comforts me whenever I feel shy.

He makes me escape from boring daily life,

For holidays, dinners and ice-creams.
There's shopping, picnics, and other adventures, too,
And I love it when we're near the glade by the stream.

He gives me hope and makes me strong,

He pampers me and tucks me in bed.
He considers my happiness his own,
And makes sure I execute whatever is said.

He orders me at times, but doesn't push too hard,

He is a little strict, but not at all bad.
He hugs and apologizes for being late with excuses,
And I simply stand there and say "DAD!"

Laughter
SNEHA AGARWAL, IX

Laughter every day keeps sadness away, No relationship can last without laughter,
Laughter every day makes a happy day. And therefore, laughter every day
Glorious and pleasant becomes our day, Makes a beautiful day.
When laughter is there throughout the play.
Laughter gives a sensation of freedom,
Laughter in our jokes makes a sad man happy, Laughter gives a feeling of peace,
Laughter in our jokes makes an angry man smile. Laughter cures mental pressure
All the worldly fears have one solution— Which entangles us throughout our lives.
Laughter, Laughter and Laughter.
So laugh and laugh even in hard times,
The only secret of a mother's happiness
As there is a solution to every problem.
Is her baby's laughter,
When there is no one with you to make you happy,
The only secret of a couple's happiness
There is your laughter with you to make you happy;
Is each other's laughter.
After all laughter is never futile.. Hahaha!!!

ILLUSTRATION BY YANIAM CHUKKU, X

10
 Waiting for you
ILLUSTRATION BY RAKSHANDA DEKA, X

ARANTXA TALUKDAR, X

The baby was born in May and the parents say

“Oh! It’s a girl!”—in a sarcastic way,
They seemed to be longing for a boy.

“What can she do?” was the question on their mind,

For they thought she could be of no use,
As time passed, the girl grew up into a twelve-year-old child,
And this was the time when she was bid goodbye;
She was abandoned—their dream for a boy could never come true.
And now the girl would cry and say, “Mother! Where am I?”
But the lonesome reverberations never seemed to fade.
She screamed, she shouted. But there was no reply.

Years passed, she sleeps on the murky streets,

Eats from leftovers, drinks from pipes,
Not knowing what is wrong or right—she only waits over there.
People pass her by, looking at her helpless eyes,
But they don’t care; yet, she still waits.
Should we help her? It is up to us to decide.

The Mosquito
KARKEN BADO, XII
+ Avant-garde means "advance guard" or
"vanguard".The adjectival form is used in English
It is there. Silence bellows. to refer to people or works that are experimental
Somewhere. Pain follows. or innovative, particularly with respect to art, cul-
You cannot see it. You realize at hind-sight, ture, and politics. Avant-garde is considered by
Though you very well You’ve slapped yourself tight! some to be a hallmark of modernism,
hear it. The darkness blinding.
Always buzzing. The Vampire prowling. Carpe diem is a phrase popularly trans-
As if taunting. lated as "seize the day". Carpe literally means "to
Then it lay,
Never settling. pick, pluck, pluck off, cull, crop, gather", but Ovid
'Patience' you say.
Very provoking! It draws – full measure, used the word in the sense of, "To enjoy, seize,
Now awake and alert, At its leisure, use, make use of".
Then you blurt, Your blood for its pleasure.
'Take that, you scamp!' You swing – not a miss. Hamartia is a term developed by Aristotle
You miss. And then... in his work Poetics. The term can simply be seen
Itch! What bliss. as a character’s flaw or error. In Greek drama-
turgy, hamartia is the tragic flaw of the protago-
nist in a given tragedy.+

11
 Jasmines
ALOY BURAGOHAIN, XII

The crickets whistle and the doves coo

In the calm of this late cerulean afternoon that offers its dying arms
To the evening that glides into our world of joy.
And my mind walks back to those streets of pomp,
Crowded with people, people and more people…

This dawn I had been to our neighbour’s bower,

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

Still a wreath of white flowers prettifies the half-naked boughs of the jasmine trees
That few dare to touch, in the cool, unruffled, frosty morning breeze
That cools even the sun that has just proposed the glow of dawn to the Mother.
And I, lost in the plenteous joys of choosing those jasmines strewn on the soil,
Behold the warmth, the splendour on Mother’s picturesque being
That rouses us, the corporeal, into a truth that bathes us,
In a fragrance forever.

+In downtown Lima, Peru, there is a large brass statue dedicated

to Winnie the Pooh. +
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

12
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX
Life’s Race
VEDANT JAIN, XI
Life is but a race,
Never intended to be lived in grace,
But in enjoyment and in sorrow,
Neither for yesterday, nor tomorrow.
Each time that we fall,
Yet pull ourselves up again, stronger and tall.
We continue our course
Made better by the loss.
Sometimes we gasp with pain,
Sometimes we fight for gain.
Sometimes we yearn for the grave,
To end this life of a slave.
But it is those that fight back,
Who never let their hearts crack,
Who conquer this evil and this strife,
Are the winners of this race called Life .
True Advancement
DIGVIJAY BHARDAJ, VIII
Advancement,
We claim to reach it.
Morality,
We perhaps deface it.
Civilization,
We pretend to be in it.
Humanity,
We speak highly of it.
But to tell the truth,
It is true advancement,
It is true civilization
Where things are considered
With humanity and morality.
13
There is so much time…..
HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX
Your eyes are deep as the sea;
When you’re around, there’s nothing else I can see,
So, my dear, won’t you please
Just stay with me?
Forever I’ll hold on to these sweet memories.
Your beauty brings me ecstasy.
Now that you’re mine
I want you to know
I think about us all the time and I’ll never let this go.
So won’t you stay, stay a little while?
As we gaze together, eye to eye
Don’t worry. There’s so much time…
Finding you has been so hard
I’m bruised, but healing from these battle scars,
We were so close, but still so far,
You were always there, like a guiding star.
Blind was I, for I couldn’t see,
But now, I’ve found you, finally.
So won’t you stay, stay a little while,
As we gaze together eye to eye
Don’t worry, there’s so much time.
I promise we’ll be together,
We’ll make this last forever,
We’ll face all endeavours,
These memories I’ll forever savour.
As night turns to day
And darkness fades away,
Here in your arms I silently lay.
When you’re around, I have nothing to say,
So won’t you stay, stay a little while,
As we gaze together, eye to eye
Don’t worry, there’s so much time…..
+ In medias res or medias in res (into
the middle of things) is a Latin phrase denoting
the literary and artistic narrative technique
wherein the relation of a story begins either at
the mid-point or at the conclusion, rather than at
the beginning, establishing setting, character,
and conflict via flashback and expository conver-
sations relating the pertinent past.
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

FREE FROM BOUNDS

AKANKSHA JAIN, VIII
Her innocent face droops sadly,
And tears fill her eyes.
Shivers go down her spine,
She sits in a corner and sighs.

She is tied by the cords of love,

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

Betrayal and pain is all she has,

Her ‘dream-come-true’ has faded away.
But deep in her core, she still has hope,
To win him back some day.

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

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

Free from all bounds,

To heal all her wounds.
14
 Paradise Realised
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX

ALOY BURAGOHAIN, XII

Resting alone in the mighty arms of the Brahmaputra
And listening to the soft whisper of the gentle wind that breezes by,
Like a son wrapped in his mother's arms after an arduous day, I lie,
Basking in the cool warmth of the blood-flushed evening sun.
In the ecstasy of being free, in the upsurge of youth, I cry.
Eulogizing the sacrifice of my countrymen,
Immortalizing the beauty of my mother, I am prepared to fly
To the welkin of change from where, when I gaze at my country,
I see not the dirt, throes, and ravenous craving in every brother's heart,
But I see every man feeling, healing another's pain.
When I look down, let me never see irreverence, profanity and indifference amid the youth;
But honour, valour, and a vision—
To build a nation, to define a Republic.
When I enter the temple of justice, let my eyes not witness
Prejudice, blind verdict and injustice;
But spotless truth, realised law, and integrity.
When I peep into every office, on every chair of responsibility,
May I witness naught but lowly pride, tireless service and duty.
And my longing heart says, one day my dreams will come true.
And that day, the hallowed soil of my motherland will no longer be torn apart
Into a million pieces by shallow cracks of creed, tongue and difference.
But all would be one-
An Indian.
‘Tis getting dark now; and in the shimmering twilight,
In the unfathomable waters of the Brahmaputra, I feel the sanctity of the holy Ganges.
In the thick canopy of the Sunderbans, I see the lofty blue Nilgiris.
In the dense jungle of Kaziranga, I hear the roar of the lions of Gir.
In the vast green fields of Punjab, I can smell the exotic spices of Kerala.
And in the arctic womb of the glaciers of Ladakh, I see the unborn Indian Ocean.
In the dazzling eyes of every Indian woman, ever holding the hand of her family,
I see the brilliant reflection of the beauty of Mother Earth doubled.
On the face of every Indian child, who is the face of tomorrow's world,
I see my yesterday.
In the bold arms of every Indian man achieving the impossible,
I see my tomorrow.
'Cause I am the youth of today—
The INDIA of today.

+The Separatists may keep demanding for an independent Assam or an independent

Bodoland, but I want to remind them that the mighty Brahmaputra will continue flowing with
the same force, the same strength.– Aloy Buragohain +
15
ILLUSTRATION BY HLINGDEIKIM CHANGSAN, IX
Without You
VENUS HAOBAM, IX
I sit alone in my lonely world,
Remembering your lovely words,
I’m confused and I don’t know what to do,
Because everything seems scary without you.
I try to convince myself that you’re not here,
But my heart is always ready to fight the claim.
I know that you have already gone there,
But how can you leave me, dear?
I pray for you day and night,
Even though you’re somewhere beyond my sight.
I wish you were here by my side,
Because you were the only one behind whom I could hide…
I was happy when you were here by my side
But I’m really sad you’re gone…
Why did we ever meet?
If we were destined to split…
Your shoulder— the only thing I could lean on
When my happiness was gone…
You were always there to wipe my tear,
But now, I’m left with this constant fear…
You’re the person I’ll always miss…
May you rest in peace.
+I do not have the right to be un-
fair to anyone. Not even God. Other-
may call me arrogant, but I am only be-
ing honest. -Gaurav Agarwal, Head
Boy „08 + Still smiled at me occasionally, with
16
Rest in Pieces, Friend
NISHI LAL, IX
The following lines are dedicated
To my faithful friend
Who had always been beside my bed –
Right until the very end.
At the crack of dawn or early morning,
When all the world’s still slumbering;
In your shrill piercing voice you’d articulate
That I’d better get up and outta bed
Before I get late.
Begrudgingly I’d arise from
My haven – comfy, cosy and warm;
And cuff you hard on the head, till
You lay soundless, motionless
On the bed.
They say you never know
How much you own
Till it’s dead and gone…
I must admit how I lament,
And mourn and grieve
That you’re no more – a fact
That I can’t yet believe!
So dearly regret the day, when I
Took out my anger on you:
I struck you so hard on the face;
Oh! You flew straight across the room!
And there you lay, in a million pieces,
A mere pile of gears, springs and dials,
And a huge crack stretching across your face
Distorted your beaming smile.
And though your hands were broken and limp,
Yet, your splintered, faded face
A wretched, yet glorious grace.
Now, I guess this’d be the last time
That you’d ever tell me the time;
Last time I’d hear your tick-tock, tick-tock
Goodbye, my dear alarm clock.
 My Walk
BEGUM AKIFA YESMIN, XI
I like walking unaccompanied.
At least, I don’t have to compromise my pace.
Moreover, I’m left alone with my surroundings,
Soaking in the sounds I want to hear,
And, of course, my mind’s continuous blabbering.
As I walk, I like to feel the grass blades
Caress my bare feet.
But if I am to encounter a snake or,
God forbid, anything as horrendous,
Indignant at being disturbed,
My apologies to myself:
I’d probably be dead by the time
I figure out what got me.
As of now, I am still alive and
Revelling in the teasing squelch of the wet grass.
Funny how you cannot be alone,
Even when you sneak from teeming humanity
At least not virtually:
The clouds are walking with me,
The air is walking with me,
My soul is walking with me,
And in my heart I know
God is walking with me.
ILLUSTRATION BY YANIAM CHUKKU, X
17
I’ve stepped between a big dark cloud
And a green field.
I am anticipating rain;
I want to see how it feels to walk
While the sky is pouring.
I’m soaked to my bones,
I feel like I have been purged, clean and pure.
Had I been with someone,
I’d have never been really here.
The rain has stopped.
Abruptly.
Clean, fresh, pure air
Smelling of primroses and freshly-cut grass.
I am still loving my walk alone and
I give my watch a peek.
It’s a twelve-hour watch but, lo,
It’s showing thirteen!
It’s the twenty-fifth hour of today!
I think I’ve lost track of time;
Maybe, my time has passed.
Maybe, I’ve walked into a different world,
A new realm,
Aimless as ever before.
I have lost all purpose though.
Silly, I remember
I never wanted a purpose in the first place.
To be boxed in with intents and goals.
That’s why I still love my walk alone.
Absolutely.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY SHREYA LAHKAR, X
Smoke
SHREYA LAHKAR, X
This city of smoke
Makes her vision choke.
As the mirrors begin to crack,
Her once-strong convictions mingle with fiction.
She carves little lines and sings pretty rhymes.
All boundaries fade in a day,
And all principles snap;
She starts to relapse
Into the vices and sins of decay.
Nail marks on the wall as she tries not to fall
She struggles to grasp
There’s nothing in the darkness, but fear.
Even though she knew
She could have returned
From cages no one could escape,
She kept on lying, ignoring, and dying,
Until it was finally too late.
18
The Beast
KIMBERLEY LAMAR, VII
At the dead of night as I was walking alone,
A creature followed me. On high, the moon shone.
I was not able to make out what it was,
I tried to run, but it was a lost cause.
As I reached home, I latched the door,
Thinking that he could not frighten me anymore.
But the creature came up to my door and waited,
And I began to think I was pretty ill-fated.
With bravery and courage I stepped outside,
To face him and face my fears, beside.
He was covered with hair from the top to bottom,
He was an ugly old thing and not at all handsome.
This creature turned out be a friendly beast,
An old shaggy dog, toothless and half-blind,
But friendly and incredibly kind.
And to harm me, he cared not the least.
 ANURAAG BAISHYA, IX
At night when I go to sleep,
Into my soul I peep.
In my eyes I see my dream,
At times I laugh, sometimes I scream.
Sometimes I dream of travelling to the stars,
Then I dream of driving fast cars.
I dream of going to far-away lands,
Amidst beautiful shores and golden sands.
Sometimes I dream during the day,
Especially during the hot month of May.
When my body cannot take the heat,
An image of an ice-cream my mind does meet.
But then these dreams are not reality,
They are glimpses of my minds’ creativity.
These are the dreams that I see,
When my mind is absolutely free.
But at all times I have a dream,
This neither makes me laugh, nor scream.
I dream of becoming a person of capability,
And this, my friend, can be a reality.
I work hard to achieve this dream, my destiny,
In my heart this dream echoes, and I foresee.
That I have become a man of capability,
My dream, at last has turned to reality.
To achieve this dream I fight,
Twenty-four seven, during the day, at night.
To achieve his dream is not easy,
Trying and trying at times I go crazy.
But at last I achieve my dream,
With happiness and joy I scream.
What I foresaw has come true,
From me, inspiration was what people drew.
I sill have dreams, during day, at night,
And somehow it feels right.
I see everything I wish to see,
For it's my dream and what I can be!
+
A lampoon in contemporary usage is a work
created to mock, comment on, or makes fun of an
original work, its subject, author, style, or some other
target, by means of humorous, satiric or ironic imita-
tion.
Mimesis is a critical and philosophical term that
carries a wide range of meanings, which include imita-
tion, representation, mimicry, nonsensuous similarity,
the act of resembling, the act of expression, and the
presentation of the self. Mimesis has been theorised
by Plato, Aristotle, Philip Sidney, Samuel Taylor Col-
eridge, Sigmund Freud.
Magic realism or magical realism is an aes-
thetic style or genre of fiction in which magical ele-
ments are blended into a realistic atmosphere in order
to access a deeper understanding of reality. These
magical elements are explained like normal occur-
rences that are presented in a straightforward manner
which allows the "real" and the "fantastic" to be ac-
+
cepted in the same stream of thought.
19
 A Canopy of Short Stories & Essays
+ No subject is so old, that nothing new can be told about it.
– Gaurav Agarwal, Head Boy „08 +
 Canopy of Rain
ROHAN TANDON, X

I was aware of the

impending doom.
The dark clouds had
gathered and I was
driving down a lonely
country lane at five in
the evening. I
stepped on the accel-
erator, hoping des-
perately to reach the
nearest town about
half an hour away. I
silently sent up a
prayer, wishing that I
could make it before
the storm broke, or
worse, before I ran
out of fuel. If any-
thing were to happen
here, I was in no
doubt that It would be days before I'd get any help and I'd probably have to walk all the way to the nearest
town.

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

Letting go of the steering-wheel, I waited for the inevitable, for the death blow. Well, at least I would pass
out near a gas station, so I could hope for a decent funeral pyre. I bit my lower lip, so hard that it bled. The
strong, bewildering taste of iron intermingled with the pouring rain made me nauseous. Life seemed to
move in slow motion when awaiting death. Now I knew what senior citizens in retirement homes felt like.
My eyes were shut tight, so I couldn't see anything. I prayed fervently, and it sounds, but I could not feel the
swirling motion of my car anymore, nor hear the screeching noise of tires or smell the burning of my tires
against the metallic road. The only thing which now engulfed me was the noise of rain pattering on the hood
of my car and the burning sensation on my numb lips.
Having watched so many movies, I realized that in such a moment, life was supposed to be really slow, but

21
this was simply ridiculous. Slowly and steadily, I opened my eyes, terrified of discovering what they had to
behold. I blinked a few times to regain my vision.

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

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

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

+Arthur Jean Nicolas Rimbaud (1854-1891), the great French Sym-

bolist poet, wrote almost all his notable Poetry between the ages of fifteen and twenty.
+
In 1879, after having spent his adolescence and young adulthood in wandering,
scandal, and debauchery, Rimbaud suddenly repudiated his art, travelled to the
Middle East, set up a business in Ethiopia, and spent the rest of his life as a mer-
chant. He never wrote another poem.
+
22
 A †alç Re†old
MEGHNA SIDDHANTA, X
It was a cold blue night. The moon had just
crept out of its cotton-candy blanket of clouds.
She was walking all alone by the edges of the
dark forest. She did not know where she was go-
ing or even what she was going there for. There
was just an undying fire in her which made her
walk on and on. She could feel a presence, a di-
vine force leading her way.
She clutched her robes as she stumbled
across the rocks. As she walked along, all her
thoughts and bitter memories rushed through
her mind like a crashing wave. All the insults,
jeers and tears came back to her and she began
to weep copiously. Not once had she ever con-
fided in anyone, rejection and neglect blocking
her path. Her one mistake had turned her life
upside-down. From the shy, introverted woman
she used to be, she had turned into a public en-
tity.
But that wasn’t her anymore. As the moon
shone bright above her, her destination became
clearer to her. She was heading towards the
house of the man who had entranced her ever
since her eyes had found his. She had stopped
seeing people since then and her house had
started smelling of incense instead of corporeal-
ity. The villagers had started talking even more
about her, yet for once she did not mind. Her heart and mind seemed pure. She prayed for him, to him, day
and night. She dreamt of him every night, of the calm and austere, bearded face. She cried for her heart’s
peace, until she would doze off to sleep.
That night, too, she had slept thinking of him, until a cool and sharp breeze woke her up and she found
herself walking. Despite the cool breeze, she was sweating now and she wiped away the sweat from her fore-
head with the back of her hand. Her red hair flowed down her back, making it a garment of itself. She had not
seen him ever since she had shut her doors to all despite his many pleas.
Her chain of thought broke when she suddenly stepped somewhere outside a humble sheepcote. The
cottage shone, brightening up her extraordinarily beautiful face and her scarlet hair. Tears ran down her
cheek as she bent down for the final prayer. She closed her eyes and thought of that serene face. Slowly, all
pain, fear and thoughts left her and calm descended upon her. There was a bright light all around her as her
soul rose up to the final abode, where she would be serving her lord forevermore.
He watched the body slump down on the ground, her face adorned by the sweetest smile. He looked
away with tearful eyes; not watching the ravens feed on her body.

23
 The Last Exam
CHETAN DAMANI, X

"Sir, I'm here for my exam"

The doctor looked up. He noticed
the young boy with very short hair and
a brown complexion. He looked just
like all the other patients who came to
see this doctor. But this boy definitely
looked younger. A tear ran down the
doctor’s face.
"What's wrong, doc?"
The doctor was silent. He seemed to
be thinking.
"Are you alright, sir?"
The doctor snapped out of his illu-
sion. “Y-yeah, y-yeah, I'm fine. It’s just
something in my eye." He then stood
up. "Okay, follow me."
The doctor led the boy into a small
room. It was square and for some rea-
son, high-ceilinged There was some-
thing strange about this room. There
were no windows or air vents, for that
matter. Just four walls of the room.
The air was peculiarly thin.
The doctor turned, “So, you're finally
getting out of here?"
"Yes, Sir, and I can't wait to see my
family again. I've been here for nearly
a year now."
The doctor looked down when the boy said that. He thought to himself for a few seconds. Then he contin-
ued setting up the wires. He told the boy to lie down. "I'm just going to run a few tests to ensure that you are
healthy enough to go back home."
The doctor continued, "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"
"I'm 17 now. It was my birthday last month. I was 16 when I was placed in this dump."
"You seem to be too young for this place, isn't it?” the doctor asked as he started to push the wires
through the boy’s skin. There were hundreds of wires.
"I guess. The rest of the guys in here said the same."
The doctor carried on with his test.
"So, what's it like out there now?"
"What do you mean?"
The boy answered. "I mean, is it nice? Or has a lunatic taken over the world going around punishing all the
bad guys out there?" The boy laughed at himself.

24
 The doctor, surprisingly, put down his tools and thought about this question for quite some time.
"Well, is it nice out there or not?" The young boy asked again.
"O-oh yeah, it's pretty much civilized," The doctor said as he thought to himself. "Yes. The world is more
humane now. This isn't wrong. Actually, this is the right thing to do."
The boy was smiling. He seemed to be so excited. Most importantly, he was happy. This was the right time.
The doctor walked back a few steps and said, “Okay, this is the last check. Sit still."
He walked up to a small switch and slowly counted to three. "One," he paused... "Two," he stood there and
quickly thought about things for a few extra seconds. Then when he was ready, "Three!" The doctor turned
the switch. There was a horrendous flicker of lights and a strange buzzing sound. Then there was a tense si-
lence. He looked over at the boy who was now still for eternity.
"He deserved it." The doctor whispered to himself. "He was a murderer." He continued. "If I didn't, he
could have done it again."
The doctor kept trying to think whether he had done the right thing. He had done it to many people be-
fore. “At least the boy was happy,” he thought.

Under the Boughs

KUNAL SINHA, X
My childhood, unlike that of most others, had not
been a happy one. I rarely had friends – and the
few that I had, could not have been called friends in
the truest sense, as they were people whom I could
not have counted upon in times of stress or sorrow.
My mother, who came from a typical Bengali fam-
ily, never made an effort to sit down with me and
spend some time. For her, it was more vital that a
sumptuous five-course meal was served every af-
ternoon, and that the lamps in the little temple out-
side the house were lit before dusk set in. My fa-
ther was mostly away on business trips, so I did not
get any time to spend with him either. Ours was the
biggest house in the area and my family had
money, so it was appalling that I should spend my
time making mud-cakes with the servant’s children.
I went to the missionary school about five miles
away and as soon as school was over, and while
other boy’s played football, I was whisked away in
my father’s tonga and brought home.
Hence, I lived like a recluse. There was a wizened
old tree in our backyard. The tree never bore any
fruits or flowers, but it gave me something which none else could – peace, warmth and a feeling of security. I
spent my lonely hours under the boughs of that tree. I would dream of distant lands and seas which I would
visit one day. I could almost hear the splashing of the sea waves and taste the ocean brine. My imagination
flew far and wide like a free dove, only to be brought rudely back to earth by my mother’s shrill voice calling

25
me for lunch.
The few days which my father would spend with us were also flooded with quarrels and querulous argu-
ments between him and my mother. During such times, I would retire to the worn but warm embrace of my
wooden friend with a book, to drift in a sea of my imagination like a rudderless vessel. Those stolen hours
which I spent under the spreading branches of the tree helped me build a strong foundation for my language.
Good books were hard to come by, so I had to grab whatever I could. The school library, with its few cheap
and well-thumbed books, and my father’s library, with its handsome leather-bound volumes, became my is-
land of comfort. I would take anything that caught my fancy and run to ‘my tree’.
In the soothing autumn evenings, I would run my hands over the nooks and corners of the tree and feel its
rough lacerated surface. I would put my face close to the bark and inhale the subtle woody aroma. I would
put my ears upon the thick indented trunk and hear the feeble tree’s heart-beat, and then be filled with such
a fiery passion for life that I almost forgot my misery. And soon the tree became for me a living breathing be-
ing. Times without end I found myself speaking to the tree and, more than once, I felt the wind bringing in
the whispering responses.
Soon I went abroad for higher studies. The new life had me going for a while and one day, in the amidst of
a flash of ochre silk and a reverberation of carefree laughter, I saw Ria. At that point of time, I had no reason
to believe that I would end up marrying her. But I eventually did. I had not informed my parents of my mar-
riage to Ria. I had not felt the need to do so. I did not hate my parents; rather, I felt next to nothing for them.
They were nothing more than strangers to me now.
I got a job as a lecturer in English in a renowned university. But there was a hollowness in me that I knew
only one thing would fill. I longed for home, and I realized that real happiness for me may lie probably in the
vistas provided by the muddy Hoogli and my benevolent tree. I decided to inform my mother – first about my
marriage and then, my arrival. Over the crackling line of the overseas call, I could clearly make out my
mother’s shock and sense of betrayal. She told me many things: what an irresponsible son I was, how the an-
cestral property was falling to ruins and about the wrath
of my forefathers that I had incurred by marrying below
me. She also mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that
my Father had taken ill and had been confined to bed for
a while now.
I arrived at my house to be greeted by people whom I
vaguely remembered. Sadness adorned their faces. I
knew what had happened. My father had passed away. I
felt a vague sense of sorrow but, more than anything
else, I felt like a perfect stranger. I longed to find that
one single point of reference, that one thing that had
comprised the whole of my childhood memories, and
that one thing which had brought me back. I decided to
look for my old and only friend... my tree.
There it was, but it did not hold any resemblance to
the tree from my childhood memories. My tree had been
cut down and the stump was the only testimony of that
proud being. Later, I was informed by my mother that
they had needed the wood for the funeral.
That night I chipped off a thin sliver of bark from the
stump and put it into my suitcase. I was ready to leave
again, and this time for good, but this memorabilia would
serve me as a reminder of all the times I had spent un-
der the boughs of my friend.
26
 “Seeing is Believing” or “Believing is Seeing”
Nangluhomseng C. Daosong, XII

One can never be on one side and say “Seeing is believing” or cross over to the other side and then declare
that only believing will make us see.
These two concepts are strange bedfellows, but somehow two separate beliefs. Take a poll and you will
find the majority agreeing with “Seeing is believing,” but very few with “Believing is seeing.”
It is true “Seeing is believing,” but it applies only to physical entities. This word, which is full of faith, relig-
ion, emotions, feelings and beliefs, on the other hand, shows its inclination towards the “believing is seeing”
factor. Religion, which comprises such a major part of every one of us, is purely based on believing, thus
making us ‘see’ so many things like happiness, faith, hope and love.
We cannot find one person who can truthfully say that he has actually seen God physically. But ask him
and he would say that he believes in God because he sees His creations around them.
Ask a scientist, and he will say everything was created by scientific reactions. He will say that the universe
was created due to collisions of matter, the solar system by the Big Bang, all the living organisms by organic
reactions and pressures on earth. Yet even a person studying science, still believes in God.
Albert Einstein, one of the most famous scientists, himself believed in God, “God is subtle, but he is not
malicious.” His words are enough to show his belief in God.
Who, on this face of earth, has ever seen God? Idols are just the imaginations of man, his idea of God.
Thus, what we see is what the common man believed but ideas, philosophies,—they were never seen. They
were imagined and believed.
Religion cannot be seen. However, people live in the name of religion, they act in the name of religion.
Through this belief, they see the way of life.

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

Albert Einstein was thrown out of school on account of being too stupid to be educated. His mother, how-
ever, believed in her son, kept him at home and educated him. Today, he is supposed to be one of the “know
-alls” of human kind. What his teacher could not, his mother could see because of her belief in him—his gen-
ius.
Thus, even though I do not actually see what it really looks like, I believe that “Believing is seeing.”
“God is the only being who, to rule, doesn’t even have to exist”
Charles Pierre Baudelaire

+Where has the peace gone? Were Hiroshima and Nagasaki

not enough? Has rationality been lost in this battle for a few acres of land?
- Vivek Raj Singh, 08 +
27
 Should Religion be Banned?
SNEHA KHOUND, XI

In one of the most defining moments of the century, tragedy exposed its hideous face in the city of cities,
New York, when jihadi terrorists on the 11th of September, 2001 crashed their aircrafts into the World Trade
Centre, killing hundreds and triggering further destruction for years to come. From the Big Apple, cut to the
golden serenity of the Golden Temple amidst the lush green field of Amritsar. Every day since the temple’s
birth, hundreds gather here for meals provided free of cost to all by the temple.
The examples, mentioned above, share two interesting feature that, perhaps, intrinsically link them: the
first being the presence of a large number of people but destroyed in the first case and benefited in the sec-
ond. The second link is Religion. This leads to the burning question: Should Religion Be Banned?
To delve into the topic and formulate my argument, I would like to begin by interpreting Religion as ‘an or-
ganized belief including customs and rituals’ according to the definition of Swami Dayanand Saraswati.
My first argument springs from my individualistic nature. Although not of the stature of Guevara, I am a
rebel at heart and my mind automatically rejects anything that is imposed by others. Therefore, it is natural
for me to protest against the most extreme and irrational form of criticism—banning. Banning reveals an
overwhelming insecurity, an inability to face issues and deal with them in a mature way and a tendency to
find superficial solutions and brush prickly matters under the carpet. We like to think of ourselves as civilized
people, but have we thought about what distinguishes us from the savages of the ancient past? The funda-
mental points of difference between ‘them’ and ‘us’ is an ability to think deeper and more tolerantly. Ban-
ning is not the solution; it is a shortcut that reeks of intellectual dwarfism. As the saying goes, live and let live.
Banning is myopic. Let us be more mature and liberal in our views.
Religion, some would say, creates divisions among humankind, but I would say religion integrates people.
By giving them a common belief, religion brings people together. The ugly communal riots and incidents like
the demolition of the Babri Masjid might illustrate differences among various religious groups but, the uproar
over these conflicts and caught in the throes of emotion, we tend to overlook the fact that no religion
preaches violence. All religions were initially conceived to help people find themselves and foster brother-
hood in the community. All the conflicts and acts of violence committed in the name of religion inevitably
point to the selfish designs of an individual or a group of persons. The idea and aim should be to make the
people of all the different religious groups realize that since all their faiths are founded on the belief that a
Divine Power guides humankind, all religions are fundamentally the same. The spirit of tolerance should be
fostered. Thus, there is no need to be hasty in calling for a ban on religion. Instead, what is required is pa-
tience. Patience to look beyond propaganda and violence, patience to develop tolerance and patience to un-
derstand religion.
Human beings are continually in search of inspiration and that which is greater than the limitations of hu-
man nature. Religion provides something to believe in, a cause and something to fall back on. In most cases,
religion determines the way we act, or think, or behave in a certain way, whether consciously or subcon-
sciously. Religion explains concepts that science has no answers to and gives direction to the lives of people;
it gives purpose and significance. I do not see what is wrong in that.

+A neologism is a newly-coined word or phrase that may be in the process of entering common use,
but has not yet been accepted into mainstream language. +
28
 Moreover, as defined in the beginning of the essay, religious is basically a structured belief. Religion in
its organized and structured form can be banned, its manifestations can be erased. Even if banned, its spirit
will always exist, because it is, most importantly, and after and before everything else, a Belief. A belief can
never be banned because a ban can only be exercised on material and physical plane, but a belief is some-
thing that the eye cannot see. It can only be felt and experienced, it exists only in the mind. Religion provides
the foundation of the lifestyle of people. In the simple habits of man, the influence if religion is exhibited.
From the way we live and think to how we eat and travel; all the minute details of everyday life are, in fact,
the manifestations of religion. Religion provides the framework for society and, without it, human life would
be in chaos. Banning religion would thus, be an act of futility and extreme impracticality.
It is worth putting so much at risk? My advice would be to let sleeping dogs lie and not go looking for
trouble.
Religion, on a personal note, does not play a guiding role in my life. It does not define who I am and
does not consciously affect the way I behave. The banning of religion would, therefore, have no direct effect
on my life. Despite this, I would vociferously protest against a ban on religion because, as a human being and
a person, I cannot accept something as extreme, myopic, superficial, and dictatorial as a ban, whether it be
on issues such as films, books or music—or even Religion.

+ Though it is not widely known, the Italian painter

Michelangelo (1475-1564) was considered by his contemporaries

to be one of the greatest Poets of all time. About 250 of his Poems
and sonnets have come down to us today and are still read by scholars,
historians, and poets. +
29
 Bend it like Blanka
“To be or not to be”.
On a seemingly sunny day,
Blanka decides to…

Nevertheless,
he tries again.

After many
more tries...

“Tada!”

RAHUL RAJKHOWA, XI
30
 ~Brainteasers~
VEDANT JAIN, XI

Across Down
4. A musketeer 1. ‘____ of the D’Urbervilles’
8. Considered one of the greatest short-story 2. A horse's dancing step
writers
11. He had only fifty people as his audience 3. He said, ‘To be or not to be’
and earned no more than 40 pounds from 5.
his writing while alive A great dramatist and play-wright who was born in Stratford-upon-Avon
12. Unscramble ‘shingle’ 6. The only word in the English language that ends in ‘mt’
14. Munchkin land is part of it 7. These stones gather no moss
15. He was Poet Laureate for the longest 9.
period of time: 42 years ‘Tithonus’ by Lord Alfred Tennyson was originally written as____
16. Pen name of H. H. Munro 10. ‘The Count of Monte____ ‘
19. His death inspired Shelley to write the 11.
poem ‘Adonais’ Monkeys chatter, lions roar, birds tweet and mice____
21. The best-selling writer of books of all 13. Written by American author Herman Melville (two words)
time
17. Poem by Rudyard Kipling
22. He wrote ‘The Hunchback of Notre-
Dame’ 18. She wrote ‘Little Women’
20. Author of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’

31
 An Autobiography of an Empty Glass
JOYEETA DUTTA, IX

I am purposeless, aimless, useless and valueless. At least

that’s what they say, the elite class – the filled glass. I am just an
insignificant piece of glass that has no value in this world full of
filled glasses. I stand near the sink, idle. I have never had the
privilege of being filled like an impressive and majestic goblet
with the most exotic liquors of the world, for I have no place of
importance in this world. I have never carried some sparkling
wine within me, nor have I shown off my charisma with some
world-class champagne. To be honest, I have a position of such
insignificance and negligence that I have not been lucky enough
to moist my dry skin with some water. I pity my dry state,
rather, my empty state.
So, in my ‘unfilled’ hours while I was out of work and on the
dole, my mind started pondering about various things (I am an
empty glass, but I am certainly not in possession of an empty
mind). It was during these tides of thoughts, swelling in my mind,
that realization dawned upon me. I finally woke up to the truth.
I ultimately understood the depth and essence of being an
empty glass. I realized that we glasses are not very different
from people.
A glass that is full may be rich and complete. But it is also crammed, while complete. Simply put, it is over-
flowing with too much of everything, just like a self-centered and self-obsessed narcissist; a person who is
overpowered by smugness and snobbery and enveloped in vainglory and vanity. A filled glass is nothing but
egotism filled to its brim. He just cannot accept any criticism for he is too full. He can only spill and splatter.
Well, I may be ‘purposeless, aimless, useless and valueless.’ That is what they say and they are never
wrong, but I can be right, too, at least sometimes, if not always, and I also have my own opinions. I am like a
humble and modest person who is receptive and amenable. I may not embody great quantities, but my be-
ing does embrace great qualities.
I am empty, yet so happy. When all the filled glasses around me are competing for more and spilling much
more in the process, I stand there, welcoming as ever, to criticism and judgement. I stand near the sink
empty, but with a strong desire to allow the void in me to be filled. I know I am hated by everyone around
me for being so idle and leading such an ignoble life, but my life is beautiful like a bed of wild flowers which
may not be cultivated yet their beauty is unparalleled. Similarly, I am not filled, not used, but there lies the
capacity in me to be filled, to be utilized.
I am empty. I am transparent. I am straightforward. There are no dark secrets which govern me and I am
not motivated by agents of evil deeds. I am clear as a crystal and my intentions are pure. I have no ulterior
motives in my life, but all my desires and ambitions are limpid and clear. I am prismatic. When a ray of white
light passes through me I refract pale rays and convert them into rays of majestic colours. I bring light, I
spread light. I am… light.
A light piece of glass, I have no burdens. I am free-spirited and light-hearted. I am modest and mundane. I
am an ordinary glass yet, an extraordinary one!

32
 Autobiography of a ‘Stiletto’
SRADDHA DUTTA, VI
Hello everybody! I am ‘stiletto,’ and at present I am in a show-
room, ‘Metro,’ with my cousins and relatives like ‘wedges’ and
not to forget ‘Gladiators.’ It is summer-time and the air-cooler is
on.

But I must tell the story about how I was manufactured. At

first, I was black in colour. I was put into machines, nails went in-
side me which did hurt me, but I came out shining like my fellow
stilettos. And then we were put into shiny racks. I remember be-
ing jealous of my neighbour, ‘Miss Pink ‘Wedge,’ but that must
have been because she was sold before me and at a higher price.
But pretty soon, a beautiful young lady, Miss Swift, bought me. I
was put into a box and after that I was left, literally, in the dark.
Indeed, the next time I could see light, I found myself in a new
home, or rather, a palace. We were in a most exquisite room and
before long, Miss Swift was trying me on. However, she could not
wear me for long, as it was soon lunch-time, and I was left alone
on the carpeted floor. With some curiosity, I looked around the
beautiful room. To my astonishment, I saw over fifty stilettos, wedges, etc. I was still reeling in awed surprise
when a maid came into the room and, on spotting me, picked me up and placed me on a black, shiny rack,
not unlike the racks in the showroom. By communicating with my neighbour shoes, I found that she wore
different shoes for different occasions and purposes, such as shoes for walking, jogging in the garden, party-
ing, etc. I was found to be best suited for the purpose of shopping. But she has worn me only seven times
and I am already all worn out. This is my life. Would you like to be me?

Answers to the Brain-teasers on page 31

Across Down
4. Athos 1. Tess
8. Chekhov 2. Prance
11. Shelley 3. Hamlet
12. English 5. Shakespeare
14. Oz 6. Dreamt
15. Tennyson 7. Rolling
16. Saki 9. Tithon
19. Keats 10. Cristo
21. Christie 11. Squeak
22. Hugo 13. Moby Dick
17. If
18. Alcott
20. Swift
33
 ~Vocabulary Corner~
COMPILED BY ROHAN TANDON, X
HUMOROUS WORDS:

TYPEWRITER: The word typewriter is one of the longest words that can be typed using only the top row
of a standard QWERTY keyboard.
"JOURNAL" does not have any letters in common with the Latin word from which it is derived: dies,
"day." Intermediate steps in the word's development include the Latin diurnus, the Italian giorno, and the
French jour
"DREAMT" is the only English word ending in "mt".

WONDERING WORDS:

A LAZY SUSAN: A Lazy Susan is a rotating tray, usually

circular, placed on top of a table to aid in moving food on
a large table. (It is a big question why such an instrument
is called the ‘lazy susan’. Perhaps because it suggests that
the original Susan operating it was too lazy to move the
food herself. I don’t know, what is your opinion?).
The word "KINDERGARTEN" comes from the German
for "children's garden". Friedrich Froebel, who coined the
term, originally was planning to use the term
"Kleinkinderbeschäftigungsanstalt" instead!

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

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

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

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

34
THE ASSAM VALLEY SCHOOL