This world’s a crazy place.
The world a crazy place where hearts are stolen and made to race.
They are made to speed, skip, break and tear.
They are stolen when they are ripe and bare,
Sometimes realising feelings that arent mutually there.
And on catching those feelings,
The levels hit the ceilings.
It uses the warmth of the possibility to thrive,
Oh and it feels like it’s never been so alive!
And one fine day, this euphoric lift comes crashing down,
A once red heart starts to feel a little brown.
On the outside you’ll see nothing but an unfamiliar frown,
But hearts, all they wanna do is drown.
All they wanna do is drown themselves in misery,
Swearing by the heavens that won’t ever let anyone cross this torn heart’s periphery.
The Things I’ll Miss About School
The things I’ll miss about school
Are things I can and cannot describe
Is the fact that it helped me constantly try
It gave me a lot of firsts and even a few lasts
But there wasn’t a time where I could deny having a blast
From taking the same route for the past fourteen years
To creating a family from those I originally called my peers
School has given me several things to remember
Be it the annual concerts in December
Or even the several times, I lost my temper
Homework. Deadlines. Submit it by 12!
What do I after ISC? Only time will tell?
Miss can I please go to the sick room, I’m really not well!
Those were some of the things you’ve said/heard again and again
And by now, our excuses are a hard 10/10
But school wouldn’t be school without all the politics during inter-house competitions
Or the scary teachers that wanted all the work done with great precision
It would be easy to say that school has been a lot of fun
That at the end of the day, it made us all- one
But it’s the tiniest things
Like the kid in assembly that really couldn’t sing
Or the time you hilariously slipped and fell
Or the time you missed your best friend in class because she was at home, unwell
It would be wrong to say that school had only ups and no downs
There were definitely a lot of frowns
It is easy to be inspired in a place where brilliant personalities were born
Where the strongest thing is the Banyan Tree that for 170 years, held on
So much has changed since we entered this institution, crying, not knowing what lay in our fate
And 14 years later, we’ll be doing the same, except this time, as we leave the gate
The things I’ll miss about school are the last assemblies
Not knowing how or when, this just became a part of my memories.
– Zara Humranwala
A Speck of Joy in the Postman’s Day
Every morning, with half a heart he walks,
The postman to the ancient post box,
With an empty bag for letters and such
Coming in from the Russians and Dutch
But instead of these faraway notes he fills
His sack with coupons, brochures and bills
Then with half a heart he walks away
To deliver a bill for somebody to pay.
He follows that up with a Spanish brochure,
And that with an advertisement for a French manicure.
No one saw as he came and went No one cared for the postman’s descent.
His grandfather was a postman too, four decades ago
Now, he sits in his wooden chair sighing, “Where did the time go?
Of charming postcards and romantic verse
Delivered out of my delivery purse.
Receiving awaited letters with spirits high,
That kind of time has passed us by.
A postman now must deliver things of little significance to human beings.”
The postman thinks to himself: “Oh, that I could just once feel the joy
Of passing value to every girl and boy.
But alas, I know my dream is only just that,
For now we use phones and whatnot to chat.
The tangible joy of paper and ink,
It seems has left us in the blink of an eye.” He sighs.
Freshly dejected, with his dream he parts,
But then he sees in his bag an envelope endowed with red hearts.
He plucks it from the bottom of his sack,
Addressed to ‘Jack’ in curved letters on the back.
His own heart leaps out in a feathery flit,
This liquid joy, he can’t seem to describe it.
“So this is how grandfather felt
When engaging in his postman stealth –
Carrying papers blotted with the fancies of someone’s heart,
Beholding them as pieces of art –
Responsibly caring for them along the way
Gently dropping them off somewhere far away.”
So the postman goes on to deliver this letter
Realizing that his occupation is perhaps a lot better
Than he had originally thought it to be.
What his grandfather saw, now he also can see.
Then again he is on his way,
Happy for the rest of his day.
Broken bangles in the alley
She struggled to fight her way through
As they crawled onto her
the mercy shown to her was (few)
for her it was a blur
She screamed in hopes of a kind heart’s help
As the prying eyes watched from afar
She was hit again with a crowbar
Her voice muffled
And childhood striped apart
Under the dim lights of the alley
Lay decorated on the road
(Morbid) broken bangles
As she lay there pale and cold
she thought of her parents at home
They will welcome her home with glee
Not knowing her innocence has fled
For it is a sin to be a woman in this country
a country so full of patriarchy
Our society is filled with filth
And we all must accept to live with this guilt
– Joseph Henry, 11 A
First it is the ringing of an alarm,
Pulling me out from my deep, hardly four hour long slumber.
Second is the water,
Incessant on the marble floor and I finally wake up.
Third is the chatter,
Peers sitting across from each other,
Showing up and waiting, something we all know too well.
Fourth is the whirring of the bus, a ride we were trying too hard to make interesting.
Fifth is the croak of a toad,
Hidden under the bed we were all huddled over.
Sixth is the awfully loud pretence,
I can’t say I’ve experienced farming unless standing around in the mud is what it is.
Seventh is the sneeze,
Catalysed by dust, discharged by my all too privileged nose.
Eighth is the much needed music,
Emitted by prohibited devices.
Ninth is the gulp of water,
A commodity to be economic with lest Mother Nature calls.
Tenth is the shiver due to rising temperature, from a body that couldn’t keep up with the strain.
Last is the rude awakening, that these 48 hours are 24/7 for some.
The Girl on the Bus
I saw her every morning,
First at her stop and then on the bus.
She always took the same seat,
No one really made a fuss.
I asked my mother about her,
She said we played together as kids.
I don’t think I remembered her then,
I guess we both found better things.
She had a lot of friends,
They joined her at the last stop.
They got down with her at the end,
They tried to make her laugh a lot.
Her friends are really great,
And I couldn’t really understand.
The transformation I had seen,
Was something I could not understand.
I thought of approaching her,
But what could I possibly say?
“We played together when we were younger.”
What if she didn’t remember me?
One morning when she got on,
She looked in my direction.
And smiled sadly before she sat down,
Something deep inside me wept.
At home, I found a box filled with pictures,
Of her and me at play.
And scrawny handwritten letters,
That really made my day.
The next day on the bus,
Her seat remained empty.
I clutched a picture of us,
I would talk to her the next time.
At the last stop, a boy got on,
But the bus didn’t start .
He made his way in, gave me something,
And returned to the footpath.
I observed what was in my hand,
It was a picture of her and me.
Playing together in the sand,
It said, “I don’t know if you remember me.”
I held it close and cried,
When I got home, I heard the news.
And then I think I cried all night,
And cursed that she could win her fight.
The next day, like her, I didn’t get on the bus
Instead, I went to get to know her again,
To see her and leave her a picture of us,
To say goodbye, to an old friend.
Everyone there was dressed in black,
There to mourn her eternal sleep.
I wanted to run out of there and back,
But I stayed, hugged myself and started to weep.
I took the picture I had found,
And left it there with her other things.
It said, “I didn’t think you would remember me.”
I took one last, long look at her,
And before I could cry, I took my leave.
-Rebecca Koshy (12A)
What if ?
What if your world goes up in flames tomorrow?
What if the world comes crashing down?
What if you wake up tomorrow to a damaged world?
These two words have human beings running away from each other, running away from themselves and constantly running towards an unrealistic set of expectations.
These people seem to have it all mathematically calculated and measured, as though the consequences of their lives have been estimated with such great precision that nothing can go wrong.
Don’t be one of these people. Let it hurt, running isn’t going to solve a problem, you’re eventually going to get knocked down and it is in that moment where your life flashes in front of you and you tend to cultivate the power to fight the pressure. You may want to do a lot but being caught up in this constant race towards an undecided goal is never going to bring you happiness or contentment.
So get realistic.
The world is not filled with candy, rainbows and unicorns.
And guess what ?
Today I am transparent.
My skin is an open window to what is brewing inside.
You will see rainbows, flowers and perhaps golden drops of sunshine.
Maybe that’s just a curtain.
Shrouding what’s really happening inside.
Maybe inside, there’s a scared little girl, cowering in the corner;
Drenched in her own tears. . .and blood.
And all you do is sit and stare as she sobs, curled up in her tiny ball of vulnerability.
She’s naked in her sorrows, baring her scars to the world and you do nothing about it.
Ignore it like it’s a passing phase.
She’s the girl you saw everyday, walking through the hallway, with her head tipped back and laughter pouring out of her mouth like poison.
You see her. You see her every single day. But you don’t look.
You don’t look close enough.
And maybe, maybe if you did, you’d see the pain in her eyes and the strain in her voice.
Maybe you’d notice how her hands were clenched and shaking by her sides.
How her nails dug into the skin of her palms, enough to draw blood.
She’s the girl, who you see everyday, but forget about the next.
Yes. She’s THAT girl.
Invisible to the world, merely a tiny spec of dust.
When you see her, you see what you want.
Somehow, her image is what you decide it to be.
You notice her rear, you notice her chest.
But you fail to realise that there’s so much more to her than just that.
Perhaps if you looked, you’d notice how her eyes sparkle when she’s happy,
or how her hair flies around her face when she laughs, like a photo frame, encapsulating her mirth. Her beauty.
But you don’t.
And maybe that’s what lead to the moment we’re at right now.
And you don’t know why she did what she did.
You carry on with your life in the same monotone. You laugh with your friends and perhaps comment on another such girl in the hallway.
But you don’t know what YOU did.
She did what she did because you made her do it.
You might not know it, but in her mind it’s you that pulled the trigger.
You were her anchor, but she was already drowning.
You pulled her down to the depths and you took away her oxygen.
And you don’t even know it.
And yes, today I speak because I’m letting everyone know who I am.
I am that girl.
The same girl you passed in the hallway everyday.
The girl you saw, but didn’t notice.
The girl you saw every single day, but forgot about the next.
The girl you murdered.
Maybe suicide is what they call it, but what it really is, is cold blooded murder.
And I finally realise,
As I lay in this tub, with my blood running down my wrists, pooling around me,
I am transparent.
– Aarya Sohal, 11A
I am a Woman
How ironic is my land of domicile ?
It claims to set me free
And tries to tame my spirit that is wild.
Living In a land where female attributes
Given to a stone are worshipped by all,
But when a female passes,
She gets cat called.
When I look at the stars,
They tell me that I am aiming too far.
They dissuade me by saying that
I can’t drive a car.
They taught me to be spotless,
But, didnt teach me how to embrace my scars.
I love the irony this world displays.
Though everything is moving at a very fast pace,
I am still left behind in this race.
My destiny now I can’t gauge,
I try to fight for my rights
But, they call it an outrage.
My waist is measured,
And my soul trapped.
My body is caged,
In tight skinny jeans I must be wrapped.
They glorify the males,
And tell me I am replaceable.
What they dont realize is that, I am unbeatable.
I will break through the glass and shine.
My powers are not human,
They are divine.
They introduced the concept of liberation for humans,
But, they tell me I can’t do it all
Because I am a woman.
-Stuti Mehta 12A
I was visiting the graveyard
To see someone I hadn’t seen in a while.
I bent down to touch the smooth, freshly laid stone- my heart almost tore apart
And tears rolled down my cheeks to the tomb of the girl who deserved to smile.
There was only a row of jagged leaves on a vine
Entwined around her grave- the world had left my friend with nothing but this.
Beneath the moss growing in an orderly line
I saw a little flower-choked by the thorns growing above it amiss
And I picked up the gentle thing-
Though now November, it was bound to bloom by early spring.
The flower was tiny, dull yellow, almost too frail-
It was gently curved over the edge of the green leaf with great detail.
I took it home, placed it in an ordinary glass
And with water and a little sunshine, I let it grow.
December, January and February had all passed
And now, the flower had bloomed-it no longer hung down low.
I felt like the proud parent of a young child-
Watching my beautiful flower sway in the breeze, I smiled.
Suddenly I felt an ache somewhere inside
And my bottled up emotions poured out as I cried.
The little flower said so much though it spoke not a word-
If only that fearful night, my friend’s cry for help was heard.
I am the booming voice in your head
Talking of conquests which with conviction I’ve led
I am great, mighty and always victorious
I am the one who leaves your peers jealous and furious
I own the best and I simply am the best
I say, live life, don’t care about the rest
I am your friend, you should know that by now
I keep you invested in yourself somehow
Listen to me, I am your source of confidence
Trust me when I say you are better than all your friends
You are wise, strong and immensely powerful
A leader for sure, and truly wonderful
You are real and perfection personified
Your personality is amazing, it cannot be simplified
Who can ever really question you?
You’re just as great as I am too
As for me, I’m someone with whom you can always confide
Don’t worry my friend, it’s your old pal Pride.
– Rebecca Koshy
oh beautiful Goddess;
she’s the most seductive of them all.
Aphrodite merely put to shame,
by Nyx’s lascivious catwalk.
She could lure you into her clutches,
with just a snap of her fingers,
or a flick of her wrist.
Her embrace so warm,
yet cold are her salacious fingertips.
She pulls at your hair,
using the moon as her magnet.
but yet feared by us all.
For hidden behind her allure,
is an abyss of flaws.
loneliness is her curse.
Her face is marked,
by ugly mauled scars.
She’s weeping inside,
but still she hides in solitude;
behind her translucent blanket of stars.
They caress her body,
and offer us mighty temptation.
They make us dream,
as her only form of salvation.
She’s a masked mystery,
Her true colours unseen,
intentions yet not found;
a black masquerade,
it’s her lustful hunting ground.
An Open Letter To Those Who Told Me I Could Not Win
You can’t win at everything…huh?
I’m sorry, is that a privilege only you can afford?
Because the general notion is that a few numbers or grades on a piece of paper matter?
You see what matters is a person’s true passion,
What matters is whether or not you grabbed opportunities with both your hands and held onto them,
What matters is how you proved yourself and got rewarded for it because you worked hard enough,
How you were confident enough to believe in yourself even when others didn’t, others like you.
One mistake can cost you,
But then again ‘to err is human’,
So how is it that when I make a mistake,
Suddenly I’m irresponsible,
Suddenly I’m your definition of failure!
And if I have failed in any way,
And when my ship of a heart has sunk in the ocean of hurt and disappointment,
I come to you to fix me,
And all you have to say to me is
YOU CANNOT WIN AT EVERYTHING?
Well, guess what?
Here’s me trying- trying to win at everything.
Go ahead bask in my losses, the deep trenches of mistakes I’ve fallen into,
But know this-
Your words that were unintentionally made to look down on me,
Will be what I use to rise above you.
-Aarushi Zarthostimanesh (11A)
Zombies that lurk in every corner,
“I’m scared, Ma,” she shivers in the confines of my bedroom,
“Never will I go out again to face those monsters.”
Oh, sweet child, innocent and naive,
Unbeknownst to the ways of the world,
Little does she know that monsters
Aren’t ghosts in palaces or creepy creatures crawling in the dead of the night,
It’s sweaty bodies that jostle against you in crowded trains
Whose palms so cleverly invoke the dirtiest, creepiest feeling in you
While you and a hundred others stand silent, watching.
Monsters are those who force your hand to someone
Who beats you black and blue, till your screams are just echoes at the back of your mind,
Fading away into the darkness, just like the scars;
All for a pot of gold and a sheep.
It’s eyes that pop out and tongues that utter disgusting impertinences while you walk by,
Trying to keep your chin up for the sake of your little daughter clutching onto the edge of your white saree.
Monsters go on with their assault, irrespective of how loud or earth-shattering your screams may be
For monsters have no compassion, sympathy, humanity.
They’re everywhere; in dark alleyways, busy main roads, and even our homes,
In our bodies, minds, souls.
Real monsters can’t be slain with swords by heroes on white horses in mighty battles;
They can be destroyed with voices from our mouths and freedom in our souls.
All of this, I want to tell her, this cruel world I want to prepare her for,
But for now, I keep quiet, cradling my baby in my arms,
Letting her clutch the end of my white saree,
So nobody can stain hers.
Daddy’s Little Girl
Her entire family.
She was nothing like the matured and self-obsessed teens of the city,
But was a plain and immature girl.
As underdeveloped as the continent of Africa,
Yet waiting to discover most of the fantasies as well as horrors of teenage life.
The only thing she was completely exposed to was nature,
Plunging in the pristine lakes
Whistling with the refreshing breeze.
And racing with the ostriches in the vast fields
was her forte,
She had spent 13 years with nature’s orchestra.
Away from exam stress and late night parties,
Yet to discover unknown territories of acts of delinquency and alcohol,
Drugs and relationships,
Broken hearts and scarred minds.
The only man she knew was her dad,
He had managed to limit her to the evergreen jungles of Africa,
But now, as she entered into the teenage period
The canopy of the wild trees wasn’t enough to hide away the world outside from her
She blew up with questions,
He avoided many of them
But was aware that he couldn’t limit her to his arms anymore.
She cooperated for all these years,
Having the dolphins as her best friends
Yet now she needed to get out there,
She was raw and inexperienced.
She wasn’t street smart and didn’t know that New York City even existed
But he realised
That if she could survive so well in the rough and jagged African jungles
Luxurious NYC was a piece of cake for her
He wanted to hold her in his lap
Relive the golden times
When he swam with her in the waterfall
He wished he could turn her back into the little girl
Who had held his tiny finger and travelled through the grasslands of Africa with him
But that time was over
She would rebel if he limited her anymore.
He knew that she was puzzled and perplexed at first,
And would make a million mistakes
But he believed that trial and error was the best way to learn
So with a heavy heart and crossed fingers
He set her free
Free to venture and travel into any country
Giving her his blessings and best wishes
Hoping that his little girl can fly towards the gateway of success.
She didn’t have any friends, only a few;
But she did have a beautiful mind,
The rare one, she was hard to find.
On her way to school, when she’d get out of the car,
Every time in a new place, I’d see a new scar
Her brother was popular, with a dazzling smile,
We’d been best friends now, for a while
And whenever he’d call me home,
And I’d been left alone,
I’d peek into his sister’s room.
I vaguely remember the stickers on the ceiling of the stars and the moon.
She had a huge whiteboard on top of her bed;
‘ENGAGED IN A BATTLE’ in red marker it had always read.
And just a few days after I was getting to know her fears,
And her laugh was the rarest, favourite sound I’d hear,
He told me that she passed away,
Our friendship seemed to end that day.
But on her funeral, I did reach,
And when it was her brother’s turn to speak,
He mentioned what the whiteboard had read,
And when he’s asked her, it was what she seemed to dread.
When he’d asked her who she was fighting,
She’s quickly given it to him in writing.
‘MYSELF’ she wrote, big and bold,
And that paper, that day, he seemed to hold.
I didn’t realise what that meant,
Until now, 11 years I’ve spent,
Not realising that I was in love
With the girl, now resting in the heavens above.
-Nishtha Gugnani (11A)
When words fail you,
But emotions claw at the nape of your neck,
Asking to be poured out, without syllables giving a helping hand?
Do you strum your guitar till every chord is pulled out of you
Or do you brush all your emotions down onto a blank canvas
Or perhaps take up a workout routine?What do you do when life doesn’t hand you lemons, or anything at all?
Do you strive to find the path, the constellation where every star shines for you?
Or give up on life and think that you are lost?What do you do when you are lost?
What do you do when you have a poem to fill with words, elaborate metaphors and emotions but your heart and mind have become and empty void?What do you do when memories don’t knock before entering, and catch you in a vulnerable moment?
Do you let them corrode you with their happy giggles or infect you with the sad past?What do you do,
When words fail you,
But emotions claw at the nape of your neck,
Asking to be poured out, without syllables giving a helping hand?
Do you dance to the rhythm of your emotions?
Or suffocate them till they stop being pumped your heart?What do you do when you feel numb?
Do you fall in a bed of rose petals and let them carry you into your dreams?
Or do you prick yourself with the thorns of reality, just to feel alive?What do you do?
Because I’m lost.
-Aarushi Z. 11A
Dear Humanity, are you out there ?
Or is this just a mere illusion ?
Dear Bloodshed, is the world mistaken?
Or is this the only solution?
Do you even exist for the common?
And Dear Loved Ones,
Do not walk on the path where our heroes have once fallen.
Gun shots, fire, screams of people woven,
Woven into that one day when we try and remember the forgotten.
The bullet marks, the lost stars and the fear of death,
Creeping into the human mind as though just a threat.
Look at her laughing. And now look at her dead.
Is this what she planned before coming to her funeral bed ?
Stop letting others define you
Use your voice
Let them know you’re not all pink frills and quiet sobs and candle marches.
Don’t let them use you the way they want
You aren’t just a word or an object or a sister or a mother or even a friend
You get to be whatever you want to, scratch away your labels with your razor sharp manicure.
If someone assaults your dignity, rapes you off of your self-respect
Let them know loud and clear that consent is a basic human right,
You deserve a basic human right,
Because you are human.
Silence those who think that you like being catcalled,
You are not the animal,
They are, they are the loud, crass beasts and they think they can ‘get’ you?
You are not a trophy or a prize or a sandwich or a promise or a mistake. Let them know.
Teach wives who have given up on their dreams that it is okay to not always live in reality,
Let them know that if their husbands forcefully consummate their marriage,
It is not okay
It is a CRIME
And they don’t always need to be victimised.
Let young girls realise that you don’t need to win over a guy through his stomach,
You don’t belong in the kitchen,
You belong out there in the world changing it with your ideas.
Let men know that they don’t become feminists if they have a female relative or female family member,
They don’t become feminists if they use you as a word to ‘catch’ women like Pokemon,
They also aren’t feminists if they think a girl needs their stamp of approval that she looks pretty or that she’s smart or that she can work after marriage,
If a man thinks that way then he’s not even a real man.
In the end, let them know that you’re here to stay,
Let them know that you’re strong enough to carry yourself and you aren’t here to pull the men down, but to push yourself up to their level,
You can be mislead and betrayed by women too,
But that’s what you’re here for, to let them know, let them know dear feminism.
– Aarushi Z., 11A
I met one day
A man so kind
With the things he’d say
He’d blow my mind.
In the morning it all began
When on a street I was walking past
I saw seated a little man
His face aghast, eyes crying fast.
To see him so it broke my heart
And I asked why his face was long
He looked up, said, “Harp-playing’s an art,
But not if one of your hands his wrong.”
Then raise his right hand he did,
His harp untouched on its stand.
I then saw why – his fingers had slid
Right off his right hand!
“When my fingers used to be,
I could sit here and display
The precious form of art in me
All throughout the dreary day.
“Alas, my harp I cannot play,
Or earn me any money,
For, playing my harp throughout the day
Would get me all my bread and tea.”
I asked him where his fingers had gone
He said, “In the stomach of a shark.
When I saved a drowning girl on an early morn,
It took them, and swam off in the dark.”
So sad I felt for the little man
Who was crying on the road,
I thought, said, “Play your harp you can,
Take my fingers, and sing me an ode.”
He smiled at me, his tears all gone,
As I plucked five digits off my arm,
Saying, “Here, put my fingers on,
Keep them forever, it’ll do me no harm.”
-Farishta Anjirbag, 10 A
No. A minute.
That’s how fast your world can come crashing down.
You know those walls you had built around yourself? Hoping that no one could break through them? Yeah those. They can shatter to the ground. In a minute.
Those moments; those infinite moments full of truth, when you have to face reality. Not only face it, but surrender to it.
The light dances in front of your eyes, before a sharp ray of darkness hits it, smashing it to a million pieces. The darkness starts consuming everything. It’s about to attack you, and you raise your shield up, you hide behind your walls, but then reality hits you like a big, heavy truck, and those walls come spiralling down.
It’s all going to end.
June 13th, 2003. That’s the day my own personal reality slapped me across my face. My world was set on fire. A fire that could kill; burning everything in its reach.
And now I’m drowning in it. This hell. This un-navigable hell.
Five. . .
“Be good Monroe,” he had said to me, crouching down in front of my small figure, holding me tenderly in his arms. I didn’t know these moments would be the last, so I didn’t cherish them as much as I needed to.
He pulled back slightly, staring into the very depths of my eyes, as if looking for my truths and innermost feelings.
Four. . .
I saw him as he stood up, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth open, panting husky breaths.
I saw him as he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
I saw him as he pulled out the revolver, the metal heavy in his hand.
Three. . .
I saw him as he brought the gun up to his head, looking me dead in the eye, sweat rolling down the side of his face.
Two. . .
Those were the last words that escaped his lips before his finger pressed onto the trigger.
One. . .
I shrieked out loud as I witnessed this horrific sight. The shrill sound echoed in the room, as it replaced the unmistakeable ‘bang’ of a gunshot.
He collapsed onto the cold linoleum floor, eyes closed and the gun dropping from his hand, as his own blood pooled around his lifeless body.
~ Aarya Sohal, 10F
“I don’t think you’ll ever understand the pain when I rise up higher and higher only for you to suppress me, to slowly, steadily but beautifully kill me. My love for you was as deep as your thoughts. The depth I could never discover. I had desire, I had passion, I had filled myself with the most vibrant colors just to paint your vast, lonely world with my brushes. I offered you warmth and comfort and those were the times you came the closest. You came not to love but to hurt. To hurt in the most cruel way possible. Now I’m scared of getting close. Now, I wish I had never risen.“ said fire to water.
~Ishani Ray 11A
As Holi roamed about the streets,
Watching people play with glee,
Ladies cooking delicious meals,
Oh! what a sight it is to see!
Colours here, colours there,
Happiness can be found everywhere,
Laugh when you’re drenched in water,
Cry when no one plays any further.
The spirit of Holi stays with you,
No matter if you’re red or blue,
Aged or young, old or new,
Holi will always be the same for you!
Come on! come on! come on let’s play,
Don’t be shy it’s just today,
But he just smiled and walked away,
Saying, “we shall meet again on this day.”
– Arushi Mathur 12 B
Two chapters of a story,
Two characters of the very one,
The story had ended in glory,
But none of them had won.
Right before the bloodshed,
The two had something read.
The story of their living,
Only tail and no head.
The two had read the different sides,
They never completed the book.
They broke all their ties,
Without even a second look.
-Shaivi Srivastav 11A
Who are you? You that changes everything…
You made the grey skies blue.
You painted red the whole town.
You took my beating heart
And turned it upside down.
You made the grasshopper a bottle imp;
Made the cat like a leopard leap
You took Home my kisses,
Made them so passionate and so deep.
You made the paper lanterns glow so bright;
Made the sun golden and the moon silver.
You took both my eyes,
And made them glitter.
You gave the songs their lyrics,
Their soul, their harmony.
You took my pieces,
And stitched them with your melody.
You gave the sky its clouds and stars;
Gave strawberries to cream.
You took away my sleep one night,
And returned with every dream.
You gave me colour,
You gave me vision,
You showed me what I couldn’t see.
You lit my candle,
Gave me hope,
Made me all I wanted to be…
You hold me hostage within your heart.
You burn like a fire inside of me.
Your love… It gives me Identity.
–Raksha Saraf 11A
As you stand on the threshold of death,
And you take in your very last breath,
You wonder deep down in your heart,
If you really went the right path.
When you got that chance to make a choice,
You did nothing but rejoice,
Oh, you wasted those precious times,
In paying the hefty fines.
They set you up for a trap,
And when you fell right into it; they clapped,
You let them come between you and your life,
Well, now you have to pay the sacrifice.
You realise now, but it is too late,
That everything is not up-to fate,
Whether it’s love, or it’s hate,
It doesn’t matter when you close your life’s gate.
–Simrat Singh 8C
Life is a Box
I was always the odd one out, the one cracked from the start.
Trapped in this sort of box, yet stuck with the rest. I felt left out wherever I went. My box was shook many times but there was no one like me. I knew life had an abrupt end for us, we struggle at the end, not in the start. The truth was, I was alone and empty in this great big box. I’m however thankful life didn’t crack me open before putting an end to my apparent downfall. It was my imperfection that made me stronger towards the end. Maybe the cracks that you’re born with are the ones which will ultimately help you shine. My panipuriwala did not crack me open before filling me up with my true contents and sending me off into the auntie’s mouth.
–Vickram Peter 11A
I’d Rather be Alone
There was a time when you were constantly on my mind
But now you only seem to visit me on my lonely nights.
Everything leads me back to you at one am.
And for a moment I let a smile slip through my lips
Because for a moment
Just for a moment
My brain forgets that you no longer care.
I remember when it was promises of a forever
But you were destined to be my happy never after.
Maybe I’m better off without you.
Maybe it’s good that I don’t care.
But nights like these get to me
Because I really wish you were here.
It’s hard to say “I’m over you” when you’re all that I need
But maybe it’s just my loneliness that needs you near.
I wish I could call you up once more
Just to wish you all the best
And tell you all the things I should’ve when I still had the chance.
But it’s been four months and I should probably let go
It’s all for the best
I’d rather be alone.
–Neha Mistry 12 C
Father Never Came
A month before the battle,
I cared for father’s sheep.
But famine struck the village,
And he sold me for wheat.
He bore not an ounce of shame;
My father never came.
I was bought by soldiers,
Put foremost in the battalion.
Learnt to swing a sword,
But not atop a stallion.
They spoke of impending maim,
But Father never came.
Two thousand men and I,
Marched across the fields.
The spirit of patriotism,
Echoed through our heels.
Overnight, warriors we became,
But Father never came.
It didn’t take much thought,
To charge, and pierce hearts.
In no time, fellow warriors’
Limbs were torn apart.
We set many a ship aflame,
But Father never came.
When I awoke, in the citadel,
I saw many a wounded soul.
One shouted, ‘we’ve won,
The king’s name extol!’
Nurses told me I was lame,
But Father never came.
Now I lay here, a crippled,
Heart thudding – its last beats.
Silver on my head is scattered.
I hum the song he sang and weep.
In the attack, he bled the same,
That was why my father never came.
–Raksha Saraf 11A
An Angel’s Cry
Do you understand, how an angel cries?
A soft whisper is heard,
A beautiful dove might fly by…
A ruffle of the trees
Swaying with the breeze…
Maybe even a lullaby?
You don’t recognize this angel,
Though she’s been there all along,
Deep in the walls of your heart,
She’s been singing your favourite song
Her sweet voice consumes you,
While her words move you to tears…
As her lovely melody
Brings back memories of ancient years…
Making it harder and harder to erase,
Every memory and every phase..
This angel lives,
And to you only she gives…Her heart.
She’s a small guiding light,
Bringing happiness to your soul…
This angel knows your smile,
She knows every one of your moves..
Though, she lives oblivious to all your faults…
Her problems are few
All dependent on you.
And you know your luck is good,
To have her
As you should,
Know that if you’ve found her
Treasure her within your heart,
Don’t let her go cause then, you’ll be torn apart…
No tears to cry,
No love to feel,
And trust me,
You know this is real..
No matter how much you hurt her,
She’ll stay with you while she can…
Don’t push her away with your words,
She isn’t your punch bag
But, if she is pushed too much
One day she’ll fall off the bridge…
And that’s when you know,
You should have loved her, so,
You cry and cry,
Until her spirit wipes your tears dry…
Yes, she’s here even now,
And, dead or alive,
Her love shall thrive,
Because and only because,
You’re the reason behind why
This Angel Cries….
–Raksha Saraf 11A
When you think you know something well, but you really don’t…
When life throws stones in your path, and you kick them off carelessly…
When you think hatred of love, and terminate goodness…
Those are the times, these tiny circumstances awaken your soul,
And illustrate in a magnificent manner,
What miracles are..!
Being amazing as they are,
They make you die, and still be alive,
They make you care for your worst enemy,
They are those that make the shreds of your broken heart magnetically rebuild, with thicker, stronger walls, that protect your heart from the rest of the world.
They are the charm…
Charm that you find everyday, all around you.
Charm that you possess, deep in your guarded heart.
The charm that always remains,
Through your existence.
In your essence, you carry these miraculous memories.
The kind of memories that keep that little fire of hope, in the worst of conditions.
The kind of memories that stay forever…
…only to remind you, that miracles happen,
Every minute, every second of our lives.
All we need to do is believe; open our soul to a whole different world…
A world where your very existence is a miracle.
A world where life is the song, and you are the tune, but you take forever to realize, there are no lyrics…
–Raksha Saraf 11A