When this is all over

This poem is a byproduct of 'Janata Curfew', a collaborative effort of a father and daughter. (That's my father and I'm the daughter). Coronavirus is causing a lot of problems but it is also giving us a break from our hurried, caged lives where we don't have the time to look at things beyond our own little, closed zones. Moreover, the virus is also giving nature a break from us, a much needed one. 

When things get better, I hope we don't forget what we went through as a global community. 

This poem is a pause. It's about what we must wonder and ponder on. So well, pause every once in a while and look around, look back so that you can keep track of where you're going, so that you're never too late to realise where you've come. 

Here it is -

...

When this is all over,

Would you be 

A kinder soul than before 

When you waited alone, distant

Did you ponder

If you would be

More human than before

With less hate and rage

Gentle with empathy

Sensitive to the core.

When this is all over,

Would you wonder

If you could hear

Just once again

Sounds Of Earth 

Chirping of birds

Not bestrewn

With scream of horns

In skies so clean

That you could almost

Hear the squeak.

When this is all over,

Would you be this silent 

Ever again

Or make noise 

That drowns

Calls of the conscience

When this is all over,

Would you ponder

If you could have done more

Not waited 

But begun 

Earlier than Before.

- aashish & ekta bakhle

The Snowman

The sun dawned to greet the cold,

The first snow crowned the blue

And as I waited, watching the skies

There, waiting for me, I saw you.

Steeped in joy, I rushed out

Stepped in the snow, all cold and wet

With my gloves on and the furry cap

To build our snowman, all set

You smiled at me, my cheeks turned rose

Together we started rolling the snow

Stealing a glance every now and then that

In the cold brought warmth mellow

When the snowman was all ready

With a carrot nose, a coat and a smile

We shared a look, of joy and pride

And sat in the snow, making angels for a while

The black veiled the white at night

And the sun dawned again, But now

To greet the cold inside me

Because you were gone forever, 

With only memories left to burry.

Spring broke and colours came in

But to me, it seemed as grey

The snowman melted, helpless I watched

As my tears finally found their way.

I clung to your memory as it faded

I begged the snowman to stay

But there was nothing I could do

As it melted, melted away.

Summer brought gold around and

The pool that our snowman had become

Vanished forever, without a glance

To stop, To try, I had no chance

As autumn arrived, gold turned red

No trace of you or the snowman was left

Tears now dried up, refused to flow

Everything seemed hopeless, full of sorrow

The snow had gone and so had you

The snowman, was forever gone

I was alone, with a piercing pain

You'd never ever be there again

You'd never be there again,

To hold my hand, for the warm smile

All the white winters would turn dark

For me, you'd never be there again.

Steeped in Sage and Onion to the Eyebrows

I went for a run, early in the morning on my birthday. I had been going down every morning for more than a week and I was really happy about it. I met my best friend downstairs. He wished me in a tone plainer than the one he had used to greet 'Good morning'.  He did smile a little, but not more than usual. "Thank you", I replied, as gravely as I could, trying to keep a poker face. He laughed. "You know I’m not a birthday guy.", he said. I knew that. We had discussed that at length. I laughed. "I just don’t get birthdays. People actually get you presents for existing for another year. For existing!", he continued as I realised, that wasn’t entirely wrong! Birthdays are a celebration of existence. Neither a job well done, nor any accomplishment or an achievement. Existence. Just the fact that you made it through another year. I wondered who invented the concept of 'Birthday Celebrations'.

"-and the special treatment.", he finished and turned to me with a satisfied look on his face. He had, according to him, justified why birthdays shouldn’t be a big deal. I had lost him at "For existing!". I stared at him blankly for a couple of seconds during which I figured out what he must have said. "Yeah I know. But it is fun, celebrating with everyone, spending time together and you get to eat cake." I replied. He agreed that it was fun, though he pointed out, again, that it’s not a big deal. 

As we waited for the lift, he asked me about my plans for the day. "I have to go to college, got a couple of important lectures. And I’m pretty sure my friends have planned a surprise.", I told him as we walked into the lift. "And I’ll have dinner with my family. Grandparents are going to come over."

"Cool", he said. "Have fun." After he got off, I remembered calling a very close friend on his birthday. "It’s just another day of your life", he’d said to me, very dramatically. He said exactly the same thing when he came to college to meet me.

I bunked a lecture that day, something I rarely did. We were sitting in the canteen, a couple of classmates and the guy who had said "It’s just another day of your life". "It’s funny you said that right now.", I said to him. "Today morning, I was thinking about the time I had called you on your birthday, when you said the same thing, remember? And I didn’t even know I’d meet you today!". "Oh right! Interesting...", he replied.  We talked some more and ate some cake till it was time for the second important lecture. 

After the lecture, I went to a small cafe with some of my friends. Again, we talked and ate cake. My mum picked me up in the evening and we went home. My grandparents were already there. I dressed up and we all headed out for dinner. Birthday, being the special occasion that it was, we went to a fancy inn. Dad had ordered a cake, which I cut as everyone sang for me. I took calls from friends and relatives while I devoured the starters. The buffet had, for main course, everything from Biryani to Pasta and from Ice-cream to Blueberry Cheesecakes for dessert. I tried a little of almost everything and shared a couple of desserts with mum. I was extremely full. That invariably also meant that I was extremely sleepy. When everyone was almost done, the waiter asked us if we’d like some ice cream. My grandma had some, I didn’t. My mum turned to me, surprised. I could always be counted on for eating ice cream. I don’t remember having said no to ice cream, ever.

"I’m steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows.", I said. "What?", mum asked, not sure if she’d heard me correctly. I didn’t reply. I just smiled. I closed my eyes and I was drawn into a memory.

Fourth grade, English period. 'The Christmas Feast', an extract from 'A Christmas Carol'. "Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows!", our English teacher read. She paused and asked if anyone knew what this phrase meant. I had never heard it before but I decided to take a guess. My hand shot up in the air. "I think it means they were really full.", I said tentatively. I was right. After an amazing dinner, the Cratchits had no space left in their stomachs for anything. Our teacher elaborated on that. That was one of my favourite lessons and one of my favourite sentences, if there was anything such as a favourite sentence that is. I’d never used it though. 

My phone rang. Perhaps it felt that it was time to pull me back into the present. I had received a birthday wish from another close friend. She’d tried to call me but hadn’t been able to connect. I remembered another conversation, one I’d had over the phone with her. We had been assigned an English project in which we had to pick any two authors or poets and do a comparative study of their writing styles. She had called me, eager to tell me that I shared my birthday with the author she had chosen. I already knew the author I shared my birthday with. He was the same author who had written the book I’d quoted from. He was the same author who’d written A Christmas Carol. Charles Dickens - the author whom I shared my birthday with, the author whose phrase perfectly described me on my birthday. Steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows.

I realised how it all connected, seemingly random memories just became a part of a small coincidence. And I had a little epiphany. Everything I felt, every little thing I did, every word I spoke and every word I heard, every word I read mattered. Maybe in ways I’d never find out, but maybe in ways I would. It would count, somewhere, sometime. I decided that’s what I would celebrate on my next birthday. Not just existence. I would celebrate my little epiphany, everything that I’d do for the next year. All the mistakes I’d make and all the things I’d learn, all the little failures and the little victories. I’d make them count and celebrate. 

A year later, steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows once more, I’d look back and remember, fondly, my little epiphany. For someone, somewhere, I’d like to believe that everything I did made a difference.

The Last Promise

I don’t know how long we have 

To finish all the stories,

We once began.

I don’t know when I’ll have to leave,

That I’ll never come back

Like I promised I would.

But when I do, and I’m sorry I have to

I hope you remember me,

Once, every while

With a silent smile.

I don’t know if you’ll shed tears,

But if you do, I won't be able 

To come and wipe them,

Like I used to do.

Our stories will never end,

We’ll always have just

One more tale to tell.

There’ll always be that one thing

That I forgot to say.

But for once, I’m going to try

To say it all one day.

Hoping , praying, begging

That it won’t be our last.

I have never broken a promise,

And to return, one I’ll make

But that’ll be my last,

The only one I’ll break.

From 'Flogged'...

 A woman was allegedly raped by five men in Delhi and jumped off the balcony to escape. Shocking, isn’t it? But let me tell you, this isn’t going to be a shock for many, for it has happened too many times before. One more thing happened though, something much worse. The lady, naked and hurt was not helped by any of the bystanders after she had jumped. No one bothered to cover her or help her. Now that should be enough to give anyone a shock.
When I saw this on the news, thoughts and emotions began to race in my head. Anger came first and slowly turned into shame and sorrow, when I realised that I belong to the same species as the criminals as well as the victim. And so, I decided to share this post, something I had written about a week ago.

I was studying a history chapter for my exams when I read the word 'flogged'. Rebels were being flogged in a village. The word did something funny to me, perhaps because I didn’t find the action of 'flogging' a very human thing to do. I grabbed a bunch of papers and at around five in the morning, I began to write something not very much related to history. It was about murders and terror attacks and rapes, all the things which have made me despise my own race. I thought against posting it on my blog because it was a dark piece of writing. I decided to save it for an incident like this, which I hoped would never come. But it has.

Don’t terror attacks, murders, gang rapes, etc., seem such distant happenings? I hear about them in the news, see photographs and videos, but they all seem so unreal. I guess that’s because it is just very hard for me to accept that a human being , not very different from me in terms of genetics and appearance can do something like this. It’s like fiction, a book I’m reading or a movie I may be watching, a horror movie. It’s scarier than ghosts.

To start with, I'm going to vent my spleen on terror attacks. Hundreds die, thousands are injured and millions suffer. People bleed to death, their families are devastated, screams fly through the air, and absolutely nothing is achieved or gained. People feel momentary terror but then it fades away, not because they are insensitive but because it is very very hard to believe that this picture, painted in red, with a brush of hatred, on the canvas on revenge, is real. It's true and the fact that it is should shame us all as a race.

I’ve grown up in Pune, quite a safe environment. I’ve never witnessed anything worse than a street fight, labour camp scrimmages, and people attacking other people with stones on the streets. I’ve seen the police arrive in jeeps, twice, because of murders but never saw them happen. Honestly, I found these things bad enough.
My parents, quite open minded, allowed me to be independent and do what I wanted as long as it didn’t harm or affect others, or me, adversely. They did, and still often do scold me, but I haven’t faced anything I’ve heard children struggle against.

My friends have had similar upbringings, though most of them were given lesser independence than me. But the one thing common is that all of us have till now, been comfortable and safe. None of us have been harassed or kidnapped or been victims of terror attacks. Come to think of it, we haven’t even been mugged or robbed.
Growing up in such an environment lead me to believe that this is how people are supposed to be, good, warm. And even if they’re not, the worst they can be is arrogant, rude, jealous, mean, disrespectful or selfish. Now that I think of it, jealous or rude is more the best case scenario than it is the worst.

When I see what’s happening around, my first reaction isn’t fear or grief. It is pure, utter disbelief. Disbelief towards the people who commit such acts and not the act itself. I simply fail to understand how a person can knowingly, deliberately, conspire to kill people. How is it, that humans can even think of annihilating other humans, knowing that they have families who care about them, children to feed, maybe parents to take care of, clients or students or patients to attend to, knowing that once dead, they cannot be brought back to life. How can they destroy upbringings, years of sacrifice and effort, in a millisecond without giving it a second thought? How can they kill goals and dreams? Do they have none?

I don’t get how a bunch of boys, can force a girl, rape her, make her cry, scream in pain, fight against pure agony, just because-I don’t even know why. For fun? For enjoyment? For what exactly? And is the life of someone worth a few moments of fun? It’s simply beyond my capacity to understand why. In fact, I believe no reason, no strong purpose can justify something so inhuman. It is deed that cannot be done.

I use the word cannot because, as humans, an intelligent species, who feel emotions, we should not be capable, we should not have the mental ability to do something so pathetic, hurtful and sad. 

If I were told to do something like this, I don’t think I could have done it even if I wanted to. My conscience would not be able to withstand the guilt of the very thought, let alone the actions. I wouldn’t be able to tolerate the idea for very long before having a mental breakdown. The very fact that we have developed ways of not having this breakdown, of not letting our conscience crack, just to hurt another of our own kind is something no language I know has a word bad enough for.

Even worse, is what has happened now. These things have become common. We now think of them as defects or problems of our society. We think of them  as challenges that we need to overcome and this mindset is as bad as the 'problems'.

These inhuman acts are not defects. They are a part of the society gone very bad. Rapes, terror attacks, etc., are not problems that shouldn’t have arisen in a civilised society in the first place, simply because humans shouldn’t have been capable of doing so. The very need to find solutions to these problems is shameful and shows us where we’ve come as a race.

There are people who will not resolve to such extremities but most of them are selfish, apathetic and  have a total disregard for rules. Things like this make me wonder if it is time that the human race becomes extinct. Those who made it happen and those who let them.

But again, there is a 'but'. I know people who do believe in good and try to make a difference. I know people who will go out of the way to help even a stranger. My dad says, there are thousands of good people for every thief, murderer and rapist there exists. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve never faced anything like this which means that there are good people. Then, I have only one question to ask. Why are we silent? Why are we letting these horrific things happen? Why are we letting our race be defined by the acts of a few despicable members?

It is up to us, to let the darkness around overshadow our light or become the change. I ask all of you, who have faith in humanity, however little it may be, who have hope, to stand up for what you believe in. I ask you to break your silence.

Winter.

The days get shorter as the reign of Night becomes stronger. Waking up in the mornings, leaving the warmth of your thick blanket and stepping on the cold floor, leaving your beloved, cosy bed, becomes the hardest thing that you’re forced to do every day.
The sun too, rises lazily, doing very little to lessen the cold. Fog greets the mornings and decides to avail their hospitality till early noon. The sky turns a whitish arctic, as solid and serene as ever. A strange but familiar silence spreads like ripples. The frogs have gone into hibernation, the insects and snakes have retreated to their burrows and apart from the occasional chirp of the crickets, silence prevails.

Early in the morning, a yellow school bus comes, to pick the children up. The mothers hurriedly fix their kids’ mufflers and button up their sweaters. As the bus leaves, they wave a quick goodbye and then fold their hands tightly, close to their body, to keep warm. Those who leave for their offices in the morning, have now started to take their cars instead of their bikes. The few who have not, wrap themselves up, with scarves and gloves and drive off.

Every day, the newspapers print the highest and lowest temperatures of the previous day and the expected ones of that day. These lead to ample discussions, especially between the grandpas and the dads. The grandpas often go through the nostalgia streets, as they tell everyone about the winters decades ago. From a particular winter suit that some famous actor wore in a certain film which apparently became very popular, to the extreme temperature range because of rising global warming, all topics are covered, though the discussions always start and end with speculations about how cold it has become.
The grannies on the other hand, become busy knitting woollens and worrying about their grandchildren catching a cold.
Vogue’s winter collection makes its appearance, and becomes the ladies’ 'hot topic'. Ironic isn’t it! And well, for the kids, it’s all about counting the days to Christmas and vacations.

For the Northern Hemisphere residents, winter sets the dominoes falling towards new year. December, the last month of the year always seems to have arrived months before it should have. Once again, we wonder how time flew. And well, December displays its super speed too, as it flies away with winter shopping, Christmas decorations and New Year planning.

But, in this raspy cold, some memories keep us warm to the core. Building snowmans, eating ice cream, though shivering with cold, snowfights, late night movies-wrapped up in blankets, waking up late, cycling on Sunday mornings, the cool air wheezing and the sun shining gently- all burn a light that glows.
There are memories, that are even more special. They are, the reason, why many of us (including me) have fallen in love with winter. Wearing the jacket of a special someone, hands in the woolly pockets and hoodie on the head, that’s all the winter love you need. A canvas and shades of blue, that’s all the winter art you need. Mum’s hot chocolate, in a huge cup with a giant book to read, a fluffy, warm stuffed toy by the side and a snug, comfortable rug, that’s all you need for a perfect winter day.

Some haven’t, as yet, fallen in love with the cold. For some, it’s just an acquaintance. Winter for some, is a foe, an uninvited guest that unabashedly makes it periodic appearance every year. But for some, it’s one of their first love.


(Do you love winter? Tell us why, or why not?)

Have a super cool, super lovely, super cosy Winter!

As the lights fade...

You wave your hand and the heads and hands popping out of the taxi wave back. The taxi turns round a corner and you can’t see it anymore. Slowly you put your hand down and having said goodbye, turn around. You walk up the stairs, back to your apartment and open the door. A strange silence greets you. The house is a mess. The packets of Rangoli, now almost over, lie in one corner, and the diyas, all burnt out, line the window sills. The wax has burned away and empty aluminium holders are all that remain of the beautiful candles.

The pillows on the sofa look terrible and need to be fluffed. A couple of packs of cards repose on the carpet. You pick them up and put them in a drawer. The boxes of sweets, chocolates and dry fruits, some half eaten, some unopened, lie in a couple of stacks on the dining table. You see their beautiful wrappings, some a bit torn, some crumpled, but some as good as new next to them. You walk into the gallery and look outside. Hundreds of pieces of red and white paper, from the crackers, litter the road and an emptiness lingers in the air around. You walk back in and take a look around once again. 

One by one, you pick up the diyas, throw the burnt wicks and oil away and put the diyas in a box that will now remain closed till next year. You fill the dry fruits in jars and throw away the empty packets. With the chocolates in the fridge, wrappers neatly folded, the dining table already looks neater. You go to your bedroom and see your stunning dress lying on the bed with a couple of necklaces and a pair of earrings next to it. Carefully, you fold the dress and keep it in the wardrobe properly, wondering if you’re going to get a chance to wear it again. The necklaces and earrings go in a velvet lined violet box and are lulled to sleep. On the other side of the bed, lie a few colourful envelopes and some gifts. You stow the envelopes in a shelf. You’re in no mood to organise the gifts so you stash all of them in a bag, promising to take a look at them later.

The house looks much better after cleaning a bit more. But nowhere does it match how it looked the night before. Bright, radiant and glowing with laughter. You plump on the sofa and close your eyes. You’re tired. The festival has taken up your stash of energy but it was totally worth it. The fun you had with your family, talking to everyone, eating excellent food, lighting diyas, playing cards late into the night, the game of dumb charades, watching the sky light up, all bring a smile on your face. You wonder how fast time flies. The holidays have come to an end though it seems like it was yesterday, when you came home, excited, looking forward to a week of joy.

Diwali has gone away, as fast as it had come. In no more than a day, the strange silence will become normal. You will go about your work and get back into your routine.

The sun has set,  and it’s slowly turning dark. As you turn on the lights, you accidentally turn on the lantern in your gallery and you realise that you’ve forgotten to take it off. You go out, with all intentions to unhook it, but you don’t. Instead, you gaze at it. Behind it, you can see the city that has lit up. It looks beautiful and so does the lantern. Its warm glow brings a fresh wave of Diwali memories. Not just this one. You remember the first time you burst a cracker, the fear and excitement, the time you realised that crackers harm the environment and didn’t let anyone in your family burst crackers. You remember the time you’d painted diyas with your mum and the time your dad had taught you to put the Diwali lights on. A faint smile gilds your face and you decide to let the lantern be. 

The lantern continues to illuminate its surroundings, spreading a warm glow, no lesser than the joy the festival had brought. 

Rejected to Reinvigorated...

Sam walked through the alley, cursing all the way. For the umpteenth time had he been rejected for a role in a movie. The last six auditions, he’d walked in, ready to play absolutely any role, but not one had he got.

"This is just not my thing", he muttered, as he had finally begun to consider giving up. He flung his drooping backpack back onto his shoulder and resumed griping about the bad auditions, the doltish casting directors, the actors and well the film industry. The alley opened into the main road and Sam stopped at the crossing, now cursing the traffic. 

A taxi driver caught his attention. The yellow car was parked on the side and the driver stood against it, talking to someone on his phone. Well, not talking exactly, because he was shouting on the phone, continuously, leaving no window for the person on the other end to reply. 

Sam couldn’t help but overhear. It seemed that the driver had just taken somebody famous,  apparently David Hadflyd, a screenplay writer, to the studio.
"That’s good for him! What’s he shouting for ?", Sam wondered. He listened to the driver intently and got to know that the writer had forgotten his briefcase in the taxi and had left the studio before the driver had gone to return it. The briefcase had a very important script, a new one that the writer had just started. 

The driver, whose tone had now softened, looked worried and was asking the person on the phone to help him find Mr. Hadflyd. Suddenly, Sam got an idea, "Genius Sam!", he exclaimed to himself and walked over to the taxi driver who had just got off the phone. "I’m sorry, I’m not driving anyone right now.", the driver said as soon as he saw Sam. "Oh no. I don’t want to go anywhere.", Sam said. The driver looked confused. "I couldn’t help overhearing you, about umm David Hadflyd’s briefcase. Looks like you need some help. I’m Sam by the way." For a second, his eyes light up but then he looked at Sam suspiciously. "I’m Travis. Do you know Mr. Hadflyd?", he enquired.
"I don’t know him personally...but I’ve been auditioning for a lot of roles recently and I was wondering if I could get a role by...you know, getting Mr. Hadflyd his script." Sam replied.

Travis was eager to get the script’s responsibility off his shoulders. Besides, Sam looked like a decent fellow. "Ok. So will you find Mr. Hadflyd and return this briefcase to him?", he asked Sam. "You can count on it", Sam assured him and walked away with his backpack and the briefcase.

Sam was tired, but a new trickle of hope had perked him up. He wandered around for a while, thinking about how he was going to get to David Hadflyd. His first cogitation lead him to the studio where Travis had dropped Mr. Hadflyd. Sam decided to walk as it wasn’t much farther.
But, when he reached the studio, he found it closed and the guard asked him to come tomorrow.

Tired and annoyed, Sam walked into what looked like a shop that was being renovated and sat down on a small carton. Cans of paints and brushes, bottles of glue and wood planks littered the floor which was covered with newspaper. Sam looked around and decided to leave in a few minutes. He was deciding where to go next when a girl entered the shop. He assumed that she hadn’t seen him from outside because she almost jumped when she saw him. As she jumped, she slipped over some spilt paint and gripped a lever on the wall to gain her balance. Unluckily for Sam, as soon as she left it, a loud bang made both of them jump and to his horror, he saw the shutter of the shop fall and a soft click told him that they were locked.

The girl froze and stared at Sam. Sam froze and stared at the shutter. How was he going to get the briefcase to Mr. David Hadflyd? He looked at the girl and saw her staring at him."I’m not going to hurt you or something...you know?", he told her tentatively. Without a word she turned around and sat on the carton closest to the shutter. Sam walked over to the shutter and the girl looked away. He banged it hard and shouted for help but no one seemed to have heard him. His phone wouldn’t work because of no network. Defeated, he went over and sat down and looked around again. He saw nothing that would help him get out and realised that he was stuck there till someone opened the shutter which didn’t seem very probable till the next morning. He looked at the girl. "What’s your name?", he asked, but did not get a reply.

Sam opened the briefcase and took the script. The girl looked at him again, now with eyes wide with surprise. She didn’t say anything to justify that look so Sam drew his attention back to the script. He opened the first page and began to read.
It was about a young boy who wanted to become an actor. He had faced many rejections but was determined to get a role. After many more rejections though, he was on the verge of giving up when-
-"When what?", Sam said, for the script was incomplete and ended with the word 'when'. The girl looked at him and he realised that he had said it out loud. "Sorry", he said quickly and the girl looked away.

Instinctively, Sam fished out a pen from his backpack and began completing the story. It was quite simple actually, because it was his story and words came to him as easily music to a young bird. He wrote about his childhood...his life was quite a story. All night, he wrote the script, not pausing for a single minute. He wrote about the protagonist, his first audition, his boundless efforts that had all gone in vain, everything. He wrote right up to his last audition, meeting Travis and being locked inside a renovating shop.

The golden red rays of dawn entered the room through a small opening in a wall. Sam looked at the script he had written with disbelief. He hadn’t given it an ending because he couldn’t think of one. The girl was still sitting near the shutter, leaning against the wall.
Sam was about to put the script back into the briefcase when he heard hurried footsteps growing louder and louder. Then, he heard the same clicking sound he had heard the night before. Someone lifted the shutter and a tall man in a brown suit rushed in. He hugged the girl and asked her if she was alright. "I’m fine Dad" she said and then whispered something in his ear. The man turned towards Sam and it was Sam’s turn to stare now.

His eyes wide with surprise, Sam found himself looking directly at David Hadflyd. "Holy Cricket!" Sam thought. He tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth. As Mr. Hadflyd took a step towards him, eyeing his briefcase and the script in Sam’s hand, Sam found his voice and said, "Sir, actually I got the briefcase and I was going to give it to you. But I got stuck here and I’m really really sorry, but I wrote the rest of the script. I didn’t mean to...I mean-"
Mr Hadflyd asked for the script before Sam could finish and Sam obliged. He looked at Sam and then opened the script and began to read. The girl, Mr. Hadflyd’s daughter looked at Sam and then her Dad   ,Sam again and her Dad again and kept doing this once every few minutes. Sam stood there, looking at a famous screenwriter reading his script for what seemed to him and eternity. When he reached the last page Sam muttered, "I couldn’t think of an end" and looked away quickly.
Mr Hadflyd asked him for a pen and Sam quickly gave him one. He scribbled something on the next page and gave it to Sam. It read

  The script was just the beginning. 

He became one of the best writers I’ve ever known. 

From the diaries...

In sixth grade, we had a chapter that included extracts from the diary of the author. While introducing  the chapter, the teacher asked us "Who writes a diary?" and my hand shot straight up. She made me stand up and tell the class about my diary- Since when do I write one? What do I write? Do I write regularly? Do I share what I’ve written with anyone...and stuff like that.

Well, my answers were to the point. I have been writing a diary since first grade and then, I used to write about what happened everyday. I used to make a fuss of keeping it a secret and I remember wanting nothing more than a diary with a lock for some time...I did get the dairy and I’ve still kept it.

I remember going to Venus (that’s the name of a really really cool stationery franchise) every year on the 31st of December to buy a diary and some coloured papers and 3-D outliners to decorate it. And I still go buy a diary every new year. But, last year, I bought a couple of 360 pages notebooks...really nice notebooks instead and decided to write in them. 

Now turning 15 and being in 10th grade does funny things to you. For starters, diary isn’t the word you’d want to use anymore. Journal is. But I didn’t care much so much about what my notebook was to be called as long as I could write whatever I want in it. Also, I didn’t want my writing to be secret. In fact, I wanted people to read it (and I still do). I took it to school one day, not with an intention to show it to people but to complete a few entries. 

My friend was sitting next to me and she started reading it. I was very happy to find out that she wanted to read more of my journal and that she found it interesting. I let her and a few others read. Of course, not everyone found it interesting but most did and that motivated me to work harder on writing. A few days ago, when my first term exams got over,  I cleaned my room, putting away the term 1 books and worksheets, arranging books and I saw my old diaries...about 5 or 6 of them and began to read. 

"I was so naive", I thought to myself after reading some of the entries though I’m sure I’m going to say the same thing when I read my recent writings a few years later. But some entries, I really liked and I couldn’t believe that little me had written it. Nevertheless, I had fun and although I had written my 'deepest darkest' secrets in the diaries then, they seem funny now and I don’t mind sharing them.

I decided to go through my diaries of 2015 and 2016 and see if I could find anything worth putting on my blog and I did. Yay! So I picked up from my diaries, little epiphanies, extempore poems and sometimes stories, loads of terribly tiny tales and well just little write ups. Here are eleven of those...

The sun shining bright

On a cold summer day

Bouncing off the snow

All along the way

With death waiting 

Forth the open door,

For you to step inside.

With life waiting behind

The closed door

For you to step inside.

Wearing a necklace of tears

On a string of smiles.


------------------------------------------------------------------


She closed her eyes
He smiled.
She opened her eyes
And the smile was
Just a memory.


--------------------------------------------------------------------


Not the grave but the sky,
Not to die my friend, But to fly


--------------------------------------------------------------------


I look at you
And you look back
You’re so far...
But I’ll burn if I come close



Dear Star


-----------------------------------------------------------------------


You wield your sword,
I’ll wield my pen
Red my ink will become,
I hope you’ll understand then.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------


People will never forgive you for something you did.
They won’t forgive you for not forgiving them for the same mistake they didn’t forgive you for.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


I look back upon life.
I wish I hadn’t made the mistakes I did.
But I know I need the lessons I learnt.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------


To choose between him and her daughter was to choose one of her wings.
But sadly, she needed both to fly.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


Strangers they were.
Started building a card castle together.
Were almost at the last layer.
Blew a wind, the castle fell
But with the fall, stood something that’d never break.
Friendship it was
That’d never break.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With dawn she rose
And dusk she faded
With love she was born
With hatred she met death.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


 The most subtle things in this world are, in my opinion
Subtleties.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Growing Up...

When you start to understand words that once didn’t make sense,

When you start to complicate the things that once were simple,

You know, You’re growing up.

When the calls to your dad become shorter, and

The calls to your friends become longer,

You know, You’re growing up.

When you start to comb your own hair, scream

"Mum don’t mess my hair!",

You know, You’re growing up.

When you shut the door of your room, In which

You were once locked, cause you didn’t know how to unlock,

You know, You’re growing up.

When the spot on the wall, you once drew pictures on

You cover with posters of your favourite band,

You know, You’re growing up.

When the notebooks you once kept in order,

Are randomly spread on your bed, and in your bag

You know, You’re growing up.

When you turn from Gooooodddd Morrrrnnning Teeaaacheer,

To Good morning teacher to Morning Ma’am,

You know, You’re growing up.

When your bed is littered with clothes, books and headphones,

And mum doesn’t even bother to tell you to clean up,

You know, You’re growing up.

When you don’t buy a book, and save the money instead,

When you start carrying money when you go out,

You know, You’re growing up.

When mum’s "Don’t open the door if anyone knocks", 

To "Don’t forget the keys if you go out", changes

You know. You’re growing up.

When you can’t wait to be independent,

When you don’t take permissions anymore,

You know, You’re growing up.

But when you look back into the past,

And all you want,

Is to be a child again,

You know, You’ve grown up.

Freedom and Flight...

Her mother rushed down the stairs, without bothering to wait for the elevator. She was just hoping that she’d not be too late. After all, she had seen her little girl standing on top of the jungle gym, with her arms spread, ready to jump. She ran through the lobby, straight past the park gate but, she was too late. Her little girl was sitting on the ground, with blood all over her face, two front teeth missing and tears flowing down her chubby cheeks.

She picked up and hugged her daughter."Don’t cry Lilly. You’re all right. Now tell me where does it hurt?", Mother asked tenderly. Lilly did not reply, but looked at her mother’s face for a moment and then said, "I couldn’t fly like a birdie. I want to be free like a birdie!Where are my wings?" Her mother, taken aback looked at daughter who had, to her great surprise associated flying with freedom. Where, was she supposed tell Lilly, that her wings were? She smiled at her and said, "You’re still a baby birdie, Lilly. You’ll grow wings when you grow up." The little girl looked at her mother, deciding whether her mother was telling the truth. "OK", she replied, taking her mother’s word.

A decade passed, without any more flying attempts and Lilly grew to be a beautiful, intelligent and thoughtful girl. The jungle gym incident was a memory she remembered very clearly and one she often thought about. She still did want to fly and for her, flying was being free. But she knew her wings weren’t strong enough yet. Her mother, her confidante understood her. She admired Lilly’s understanding of freedom and independence but, at the same time, she knew how easy it was to become reckless from free and arrogant from independent. But, for now, she knew that her 14-year old girl was far from both.

A couple of years later, Lilly won a national writing competition. She had written an essay on 'Freedom’, something that had always intrigued her. She had written honestly, what she believed freedom was.
"Freedom to me, isn’t the liberty to speak our minds, or the liberty to use public property. It isn’t just something that the constitution guarantees us. It is the liberty of choice. It is the freedom to choose what we become. It is what enables us to embrace our purpose and it is what makes us independent. Our freedom is our identity.", her essay read.

Her mother, proud of her daughter’s perception saw how Lilly’s wings had become stronger. She knew that Lilly wasn’t truly independent yet. She hadn’t had to choose or sacrifice. Though she had comprehended freedom and independence, she had not, so far seen the responsibility, the duty and the sacrifice that were a part of it. But, her mother knew that she would, really soon. And so did she.

A day dawned when Lilly’s wings were ready for flight. But this time, she needed her freedom. To become independent, she had to make a choice and take responsibility for it. The consequences that would follow her decision would be her own to deal with. This time, the resolution was hers.
She went to her mother, nervous because of what she valued most. Freedom. It was powerful and something to fear if not valued. With the power of choice, came the responsibility of consequences, the duty of its moeurs and sacrifice. Was she ready for this, Lilly asked herself. But her mother knew that she was. Now had she truly understood freedom.

As Lilly made her choice, embraced her freedom along with its encumbrance, she flew. Her mother with joy looked at her daughter who had, from a four year old who had jumped from the jungle gym to fly like a birdie, become a free bird.

This one’s for you.

There are, in my opinion two things that language fails to do justice to. Love and Friendship. And today, the world celebrates one of these. What I am going to do today, is to try and put into words, what friendship is to me and tell my friends how much they mean to me.

I was first introduced to the word 'friend' when I was around two and a half years old. I went to 'Tiny Tots', which was a small school near my house. Our teacher said to me one day, when I guess I was angry on a boy from our class, for solving my jig-saw puzzle, "Come one now, he is your friend right? Shake hands and solve the puzzle together".
A year later, my mum’s friends or my relatives generally asked me who my 'best friend' was after they had finished interrogating me about my name, school, etc. Around the same time, we were allowed to sit with our 'best friends' in school and there were little quarrels among us about exactly who was whose 'best friend'. I had a friend, whom I used to sit with, spend all my time with, eat lunch with and go home with. I realised, he was my, what they called, 'best friend'. But, he left school and went to another country. I’m happy to say, that hasn’t made much difference to our friendship.

As I went to first grade, I got to know my other classmates, whom I hadn’t known much about earlier.   Little did I know that four of these were going to become the most important people in my life. Growing up, I read many books about friendship, lessons about friendship from our English textbook, wrote essays on 'My Best Friend' and 'A Friend in need is a friend indeed' and saw movies which highlighted friendship. By the time I was in fifth grade, I had understood that friendship was a really really important part of our lives. Friends were the family we could choose. But, in sixth standard, I experienced the importance of friendship. I developed a close amity with a friend with whom I hadn’t talked much for the past three years. We used to fight a lot, quarrel every single day but somewhere between that bickering, we became friends and not just the so called 'friends' whom you say hi to everyday. Not the kind of friends that just hung out together. We trusted each other, understood each other and well, had loads of fun together. At the same time, my bond with two crazy girls whom I known since first grade deepened. They probably realised that I was as crazy as them, if not more. But I still had a friend who was more special than the rest.
Sixth grade was the best school year of my life. Weekends were torture because I couldn’t meet my three amigos then. Spending time with them made me happy and spending time without them sucked.  They would be there when I needed them, to make everything seem all right and they would be there when I didn’t need them, to annoy me...well I don’t think there was a second when we didn’t need one another. We started understanding each other so well that we could lip read each other and communicate from two corners of the class without letting anyone else know. We completed each other’s sentences and most of the times, looks were enough to convey everything. That’s when I realised how beautiful friendship was. I started appreciating and being grateful for my friends and it was then that I truly understood what friendship meant.

Friendship is beguiling. It is as close to magic as it can get. Friends are, at times, more than family. They don’t judge you, they don’t pick your flaws, they understand you, they trust you, they’re faithful and well, they are friends.

For you, who’s reading this, I wish you a very Happy Friendship Day! Tell your friends how much they mean to you and thank them for being there. Friendship is priceless and well, it’s something to be grateful for. Remember, a real friend is someone who makes you realise how beautiful friendship is...

Priceless.

"I’m coming to India in December.", she said. "Really!", I asked, hoping that this wasn’t some stupid joke. She laughed and nodded and I realised that it was true. I had not seen my best friend for over a year and a half, as she had shifted to Japan and I couldn’t wait to see her again.

"Why did you have to tell me now?", I asked her crossly. "Couldn’t you wait till November? Five months! That’s forever.", I rebuked as I had begun to realise how long these five months were now going to be. They’d never pass. I looked at her, peeved.
"I know right!", she said angrily, and all my anger melted away. I knew that December seemed ages away to her too. "Give me your address.", she said suddenly. "Huh?"I asked. My brain had begun to make a list of the things to do when she came here in December. 'Give me your address' had disturbed the brilliant wave of ideas that my brain had been working on. "Your address!, she repeated, slowly, as if I was someone who had a difficulty understanding English.
I gave her a 'seriously-dude?' look and asked her why she wanted my address right now. After all, she was going to come eons later. "Come on", she said. "The last time we talked was about 4 months ago. Who knows when we’ll get to talk next. Just give it to me. " Laughing, I told her my address as she wrote it down somewhere in her book.

For another hour or so, we talked about what we’d do when she’d come here in December. We decided how we would surprise all our other friends, how we’d spend the first weekend and then the second, and all the stuff we’d do together. Just talking about it made us happy and by the time we had finished discussing the plans, we had started cursing August, October and November that stood in the way of December and July. September was an exception because her birthday is in September and so is my other best friend’s. We talked a bit more and then, realising how much time had passed, said goodbye.

After I closed Hangouts, I went to the living room and danced around, singing 'Vasumati is coming'
to a random tune. Now that I think of it, my brother and grandparents’ something-is-seriously-wrong with-her-looks were totally justified.

Last Thursday, Vasumati messaged me again. "What time are you free tomorrow", it said. I had a whole load of homework to do and notebooks to complete. Friday was a holiday and so, the teachers had given as much homework as they possibly could. "It’s a long weekend. You must study and complete everything.", all of them had said. I told this to Vasumati and also asked her if she had wanted to video call. When she said yes, I told her that we could do it around 4, India time. I wasn’t going to study the whole day anyway and talking to her would be excellent.

The next day, as usual, I did absolutely nothing according to plan. By afternoon, I had watched Masterchef Australia, Schindler’s List, read a book, made a sketch and had not even opened a school book. It was almost four and owing to the fact that I had done nothing, I decided to tell Vasumati to skip the call and do it later, maybe on Sunday.
I closed the book I was reading, and got up. I looked around my room; it was pretty much what you can call a mess. Guests were to come for dinner, but I was the least interested in cleaning up. The bell rang while I was opening my email to send a message to Vasumati. I thought that the guests had most probably decided to come early, but, I’ve never been more wrong. Mum rushed to my room and asked me if I was ready. "Why would I be-"I began to say, but stopped mid-sentence.

A girl, who looked exactly like Vasumati entered my room and sat on my bed, like it belonged to her, at 4 o’ clock. I stared at her for a couple of seconds, blinked...I seriously did. Then, I got up and hugged her tightly, pulled back, looked at her, blinked a couple more times and then hugged her again.

She laughed, probably because of the look of absolute disbelief on my face. I realised quite later that I had been muttering "No Way...No Way...Whoa", over and over again. I laughed, with almost tears in my eyes and she did too.
It was crazy and amazing. I can’t put into words how happy I was, seeing her and how extremely truly bloody surprised I was.

For the next ten minutes, I tried to convince myself that this was real. This girl had really come to India from Japan and she had, given me a wonderful shock, more than a surprise. She told me how she had hidden from a couple of boys in our school who lived near her house to make sure that I didn’t find out she was here. She told me how the whole plan would have failed if I had picked up the phone to let her in the building instead of my mum. We talked, we laughed, took loads of pictures and had fun. She stayed at my place for the weekend and honestly, it was one of the best of my life.

The fact that someone would do this for me left me ecstatic. The joy that I felt when she, instead of her call came at 4 is priceless and something that I will, without a doubt, never forget.

Yet to Discover...

People say that you can find a bit of the writer’s story in whatever he writes. A poem reflects what the poet feels. Many writers, have, in fact admitted to this. For instance, J.K Rowling, the author of the famous Harry Potter series said, in an interview that the story was greatly influenced by her hardships. Characters died when she was angry or in great grief, the dementors -one of the foulest creatures on Earth, who glory in decay and despair, drain hope and happiness from the air around them- were, to quote her, "based on her experience of depression".

I feel that it is quite easy to write about things we have felt, as compared to things we’re yet to discover.  I therefore think that a writer’s true test lies, not in making the reader feel what they have felt, but to take readers to places where the author has never been. Many of the readers might have been there already, many might have not. To engulf those who have, in his/her version, to make the undiscovered feel familiar, here lies the author’s trial. If your work keeps your secret, doesn’t let anyone know that what you’ve written is purely imagination, you know you’ve succeeded. 

That is what I’m going to try to do today. I’m 15 and most of the fifteen year olds I know write brilliantly, about stuff you’d expect, without a doubt, from teenagers. Love and broken hearts, backstabbing and fights, friends and crushes, well, isn’t that what we think teenage is all about? I have a wee bit different views on this, though I’ll have plenty of time to write about them later. So today, I’m going to try to write something, something I have never tried to write before, something that I’m yet to discover and something that I’m going to have to trust, my reading and my imagination will do justice to.

So here it is:

...

Don’t let me go, he screams

But words fail him

He is broken inside

But tears fail him

He takes a step back

Tries to turn around 

And walk away,

But I hold his hand in mine

I don’t let him go

"I heard you scream",

"I saw your tears", I say

"But I wasn’t the one walking away.

I scream, but this time,

Words fail me.

I’m broken inside,

But tears now, fail me.

"I know" he says,

And I know he heard my scream

I know he saw the tears, he says

"You’re all I need to stay"

Then, he holds my hand in his

Doesn’t, this time, walk away

And now, I know

He’ll never let me go.

Stoked.

Sipping a cup of hot coffee, I sat on a table, right next to the door in McDonald’s. It was raining heavily and the air conditioning on my wet clothes, hair and socks was making my nose runny. I wrapped my palms around the cup, sucking all its warmth. I sipped on, clocking the commotion outside. Amidst the muddle, a little boy, less than a year old caught my eye.

He crawled away as a girl, around 14 years old carried him back again and again to a tree under which stood a small crowd. The way she looked at him protectively and firmly told him to stay put , I guessed he was her little brother.

She wore a worn, old, red top with a dirty green skirt. Her curly hair was tied clumsily into a knot, falling all over her face. Broken slippers barely protected her feet. She looked at her brother with exasperation as he crawled into the muddy puddle again. I laughed as she scooped him up and brought him under the tree again, though it wasn’t of any use. He was already wet, from crawling in the puddle and she was too, from bringing him back for the hundredth time.
The few people standing there, who weren’t busy with their phones, watched these two kids quaintly; some, with interest, some with distaste. I wondered why the little boy wouldn’t listen to his sister. He crawled out again and this time, the sister did not bring him back. She just looked at him warily and let him crawl in the mud.

The little boy was having fun. He laughed as he splashed around, much to the annoyance of the drove. I smiled as I saw the sister keeping a watchful eye on her little brother. She looked responsible and matured. Her impecuniosity had perhaps shaped her older than her age.
The little boy, though wasn’t aware of any such thing. He was an innocent kid, without a clue of the hardships of his family. His little blue pants were all wet and he looked really happy as he sat in the mud and sloshed his teeny fingers in the mire.

He stopped abruptly for a second and then did something that, judging from her expression, his sister hadn’t expected. I watched with wonder as the little boy tried to stand up. He slowly got onto one knee, and then the next and tried to stand up. He couldn’t though. He fell down, head first into the plash. I was concerned for a moment until he sat back, his face now all muddy. He looked at his sister and then, laughed. She smiled with relief and I don’t know why, but so did I.

He tried again, fell again, tried again and fell again but this little boy, I knew, wasn’t going to stop till he’d stand up, all on his own. Finally, after loads of endeavours, he stood up on his little feet. He shifted his feet as he tried to balance himself but tumbled over again. This time, he didn’t laugh. With renewed confidence, now that he had stood up once, he got up again but couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds. After a couple of more attempts, he finally stood up, steady. He looked proud of himself and so did his sister. I felt glad but that wasn’t all that day had for me.

As his sister smiled at him, he tried to take a step ahead. Anticipation replaced her smile in a fleet of time but her little brother did not disappoint her. He took his first step, towards her and then his second. Slowly he walked over to her. She beamed with joy and the melancholy in her eyes, too old for her age vanished. She jumped around, clapping, encouraging her brother.

I was overjoyed. I knew I had nothing to do with the two kids but I had seen someone’s first steps. I was euphoric. Someone’s first steps! That was intimidating. The joy and pride in the sister’s eyes, the sense of accomplishment in the little boy’s who had just taken his first steps left me in awe. 

And there, sitting in a McDonald’s, sipping a cup of hot coffee, cold, with rain pouring outside I had seen something I’ll never forget. I was stoked.

Meant to Fly

I am a free bird,

Don’t cage me.

I’m meant to fly,

Don’t chain me.

In the shackles of expectation,

Don’t make me leave behind

What I truly am.

For I will beat my wings

Against this cage,

I’ll tear them apart

Striving to break free.

I won’t stop trying

For the sky sets no limits,

Expectations will fail to bind me,

As freedom will find me.

I’m a bird

And I’m meant to fly

               In this effort to be free,

Don’t let me die.

Rain.

The air cools down rapidly and the earthly petrichor brings waves of nostalgia. The roads, that have turned into a darker shade of grey, reflect the street lights and headlights and shine all the way. Every time tires cut through the puddles, small splashes make the pedestrians’ shoes soggy.  Curses and screams rally over the roads, muffled under the sound of car horns and the steady pour. The footpath floods with umbrellas and two wheeler drivers line beneath the large trees to stay dry.
After a long wait, months of drought, Pune greets rain.

It isn't raining cats and dogs. It's rather raining butterflies, which makes it even more beautiful. I look at the road, all the vehicles lined up round the crossroads. Their wipers sway continuously and for a long time, I gawk at them, lost. I forget everything else as I gaze at the windscreens. The rain drops fall, gracefully and then race down to the bottom. All of a sudden, I am a little girl again, cheering the drops to victory, guessing which one will reach the bonnet first.
Sitting in my very own paper boat, sailing with my best friend through an angry sea, I laugh. With play swords in our hands, we challenge the other paper boats and race to the shore, very much like the raindrops. As I come out of my ship, all wet, tired and covered in mud, it magically turns back into a paper boat, the shore, into a pavement. The sea that merged into the sky is now just a titchy puddle.

Drenched in the rain, we walk back home and promise each other to come back in a jiffy. I dash home and change into a fresh, dry pair of clothes, collect some food-sandwiches, chocolates and steaming hot onion bhajis and sprint downstairs. She arrives a second later with two cups of hot chocolate and napkins. A silent agreement passes and we walk to our favourite spot, together without a word. We wriggle through a hole in the wall. On the other side, we see our tree. It’s been there ever since we were born. We keep our stuff on a branch that is quiet high, but offers a really comfortable and veiled place to sit. The groove is just right for everything we need. We climb the tree and rest comfortably on the damp branch, enjoying our hot chocolate and sandwiches.
I love the tree. It is our secret place and I remember how proud we were the day we found it. It was ages ago. Now, we’ve grown up.

As my thoughts wander through the nostalgia streets, I don’t realise that I’ve been staring, rather curiously at the windscreens. My friend snaps her fingers, right in front of my face and I’m pulled back, rather unwillingly, to the present. The rain is still pouring and now all I want to do is go down and without a worry in the world, play in the rain. So, that’s what I do.

As the drops splatter over my face, joy rushes through my body. I am cold, very but that just makes me even more zippy. It isn’t rainy season unless it has rained and well, here it is, rain.
The beginning of months of joy, mom’s "Don’t get wet, you’ll catch a cold" and "no pani puri from the hawker round the corner from now.", headlines all about rain and storms, traffic jams and chaos, hoping it rains plenty for the school to give us a holiday, playing football, barefoot in the rain, the joy of the fields and nectar of all, the festival of paper boats, here comes Rain.

Rush or Relief ?

After a week of onerous studying, sleeping for not more than a couple of hours every night...I have to admit I did feel relieved for one full minute after I submitted my last FA 1 paper. But like I said, or rather wrote, only for one minute. Before I start writing about this temporary relief that I felt, let me tell you a bit more about tenth grade exams of a CBSE school.

To begin with, we start our term in April. Granted that it gives us an extra month for completing the syllabus and revision, for us-students, it means a ton of homework and project work for the summer holidays. Then again, it means that we will have our first FA within the first fortnight of June, just when school reopens.
FA stands for Formative Assessment ( I had to check if both the 'ss' of assessment are doubles :P ). We have 4 of these every year. Each FA includes a thirty mark pen-paper test for each subject, an individual project of each subject and a group project for each subject.
Then, we have two SAs. SA stands for Summative Assessment ( I didn’t have to check the 'ss' this time ). SA consists of a ninety mark paper for each subject, apart from English (we have a seventy marks paper and a twenty marks assessment of speaking and listening skills), a practical examination and an ICT exam. Also, we have to make a project on disaster management, art, skill development and work education. We have loads of other stuff during the year as well but I guess that covers the exams.

Coming to my last FA 1 paper, you see there is absolutely no reason to relax after completing all the papers. Instead of making me feel disburdened, the exams freaked me out. As soon as I submitted my last paper, relief flooded my brain but vanished faster than it had come as numbers bursted in my head. I started calculating the number of exams that were to follow, the marks I was most to likely to score and the percentage they would get me.

While I was calculating, I realised that this was my last FA 1 ever. Next year, this time, I’ll be busy with college admissions. I won’t give a test called FA 1 ever again. I wanted to shout "COOOLLL". But I didn’t. The concept of not returning to school next year felt very very odd, highly unlikely, rather impossible and weirdly, funny. I don’t think I’m on terms with it yet. " Last FA 1 ever, I hope you haven’t messed the papers up", I thought to myself and flopped on my bench. Subconsciously, my brain resumed its calculations.

By the time my cerebrum worked out the calculations, the next teacher came in and the little bit of relief that had lingered went away completely. As I opened my textbook, I was all set for the next lesson. As the teacher began reading, I felt my shoulders relaxing. The relief came back and spread through my body. The tension of exams started to fade away. After years of this yearly routine, we have become used to it. I’m sure we’ll not know what to do if we come back home everyday and have no homework to complete, no tests to prepare for and no studies to do. It is something I do enjoy, I admit, very reluctantly though.

Next month and the one after that and the one after that one as well, we’re going to have to give exams. This isn’t going to stop now. The paranoid rush and hours of writing feverishly, pouring everything I’ve ever known on paper, scanning the textbook at the speed of light just before the exam,    doing all sorts of things under the name of  'group studies', the late night calls with absolutely no hesitation because we know no one’s  asleep anyway, wishing one another 'Happy Independence Day' after the last papers is something that I am never going to forget.

Undaunted

It’s eyes were closed. After days of hard work, she had finally broken her egg and hatched. She couldn’t see anything but she felt warm and safe under her mother’s wings. Mother had made this nest for her and her two brothers. She hadn’t seen them yet. In fact, she hadn’t seen the world that she had now become a part of. She couldn’t wait to open her eyes and catch the first glimpse of Earth, her home. She couldn’t wait to see the sky where she would spread out her wings and fly. Eager to see her mother, whose voice she had been listening to inside her egg, excited to fly, she tried to open her eyes. It wasn’t very easy, but she did it.

The first thing she saw was her mother’s wing. Mother had spread her wings over them like a blanket. The quilt of love kept them snug and sound. Her brothers’ eyes were still closed, but as Mother saw her baby’s eyes open, she shifted her wings and looked at her baby tenderly. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled. She named her baby daughter 'Wing'.

As days passed, Wing started moving around in their nest. Slowly, white feathers replaced her pink skin. Wing grew up to be a gorgeous young bird. Every day, she watched her mother take off from their nest in the morning to bring them food and some water. With her white wings glimmering in the sunlight, Mother’s flight radiated freedom. The sky belonged to them. Wing couldn’t wait to fly. She wanted to explore the world. She wanted to see the mountains and the oceans. She wanted to drink water from a flowing river. But "Not yet , Wing", was the only answer she got from Mother when she mentioned flying.

One autumn morning, Mother woke her three little ones early. The sun hadn’t risen yet. Wing and her brothers woke up and looked at Mother quizzically, wondering why she had woken them up so early. Mother smiled, and looked at her little birds who were going to fly today. "It’s time to fly", she told them. Wing felt a rush of excitement. Finally the day had come.

The three little birds stood in a neat line along the edge of the nest. Mother told them about flying. She told them about the sky and the clouds. She told them how the wind helped them sometimes but worked against them on other days. She told them about speed, changing directions and catching prey. After Mother told them about flying, she told them about the dangers of the sky. In the end she, took off, made a circle around their tree and came back. "Ready?", she asked her three little babies who had grown up in no time. They nodded. "Follow me", prompted Mother. She spread her wings and took off for the second time. Two small birds followed her, but one remained in the nest.

As Wing’s brothers and Mother soared in the sky, she looked at them longingly. They called her to join them. "It’s really fun!", her younger brother beamed. But Wing couldn’t get herself to fly. Mother came back to their nest. "Why didn’t you follow us Wing?", she asked her thoughtfully. She didn’t seem angry at her. "I...I was afraid.", Wing replied truthfully. "Why Wing? We’re meant to fly. And for you, more than anyone else, flight has always been fascinating, hasn’t it?" Mother asked.

"Yes, Mother, I’ve always wanted to fly. I couldn’t wait for this day. But now, I’m afraid I’ll fall. And what if I can’t pick myself up again? What if I’m never able to fly?",Wing answered. She was embarrassed. How could she, a bird be afraid to fall? She had wings! But Mother understood her fear.  "Perhaps you’ll want to try again tomorrow?", she asked Wing. "Ok, Mother.", Wing sighed. She didn’t know how her fear would go away in a day. Mother smiled at her and then flew to her brothers who were enjoying their first flight.

As Wing stood alone in the nest, she looked at the sky. The sun was rising. A stretch of gold and red embellished the horizon. Wing wanted to fly. And she understood the reason she was afraid to fall. She was scared that she would never be able to fly if she fell down. She was terrified of never being able to fly. "But this fear, it is not letting me fly anyway.", she thought. Never flying, for her was a risk far greater than falling down was. She wasn’t going to let her fear rule over her. She was a free bird and the sky was hers. She spread her wings and felt the wind brush them. "What if I fall?", she asked herself. "But what if you fly?", a voice inside her head whispered. She was ready.  Ready to fly.

She mustered up her courage and leaped off the nest. She soared high into the sky. Flying was as easy as taking breaths. It came to her naturally. She flew towards the horizon, her white feathers shimmering in the rays of dawn. Mother looked at her with pride and her brothers cheered. Wing was happy. She felt free. That she could ever fall, seemed funny now. Now, she would fly. She sped past mountains and the clouds. She saw the world like she’d never before.

 Ecstatic and enchanted, Wing flew. "What if you fly", whispered the voice again."Then I won’t be afraid. I’ll be undaunted.", she said, and glided along the horizon.