The Row Of Wisdom
Tulica Bhattacharya, reporting from the Commission on Crime Prevention and Criminal Justice (CCPCJ), narrates the tale of perseverance.
Miriam remembered the row of books.
She remembered how the shelf looked
When every book was perfectly aligned,
And placed in an order that is easy to find.
The library echoed the noise of her heel.
She brushed her fingers against the shelves of steel.
From the row, to the lane, to the section, to the tower.
The bud blossoming into a flower.
Visiting the library when she was young,
She remembered the wooden signs that hung
Across the lanes, each section apart.
She remembered the labels—from end to start.
“For the job, you must be a disciplinarian.”
Thus, began the story of the librarian.
She fought for the preservation of books.
She cleaned the shelves; every corner, every nook.
She barred food and drinks to avoid stains.
And checked for order—lane by lane.
She strictly refused all offers that were made.
Machines for candy, coffee or lemonade.
She knew the value that these books held.
Gradually, her collection became unparalleled.
It grew to be known as a national treasure;
A visual delight. An erudite pleasure.
Iraq National Library and Archive;
Miriam’s work. Miriam’s life.
In ashes and dust, the ruins lay bare.
Helpless and shocked, Miriam was left to stare
At the treasure the nation called its own.
At the treasure with which history had grown.
“Reports of terrorist bombings have just come in”
Miriam felt the shiver under her skin.
“The library has been looted and burnt”
Caused by ISIS, as it was later learnt.
Fallen and crumpled, the library was gone.
Fallen and crumpled, terror waged on.
Denial and hatred fuelled brotherly feuds.
Today, Miriam felt true solitude.
She neither felt sorrow, nor pain.
She knew her work was not in vain.
Miriam refused to surrender at the face of fear.
In a stroke of her arm, the shelf she cleared.
She remembered how the shelf looked
When every book was perfectly aligned,
And placed in an order that is easy to find.
The library echoed the noise of her heel.
She brushed her fingers against the shelves of steel.
From the row, to the lane, to the section, to the tower.
The bud blossoming into a flower.
Visiting the library when she was young,
She remembered the wooden signs that hung
Across the lanes, each section apart.
She remembered the labels—from end to start.
“For the job, you must be a disciplinarian.”
Thus, began the story of the librarian.
She fought for the preservation of books.
She cleaned the shelves; every corner, every nook.
She barred food and drinks to avoid stains.
And checked for order—lane by lane.
She strictly refused all offers that were made.
Machines for candy, coffee or lemonade.
She knew the value that these books held.
Gradually, her collection became unparalleled.
It grew to be known as a national treasure;
A visual delight. An erudite pleasure.
Iraq National Library and Archive;
Miriam’s work. Miriam’s life.
In ashes and dust, the ruins lay bare.
Helpless and shocked, Miriam was left to stare
At the treasure the nation called its own.
At the treasure with which history had grown.
“Reports of terrorist bombings have just come in”
Miriam felt the shiver under her skin.
“The library has been looted and burnt”
Caused by ISIS, as it was later learnt.
Fallen and crumpled, the library was gone.
Fallen and crumpled, terror waged on.
Denial and hatred fuelled brotherly feuds.
Today, Miriam felt true solitude.
She neither felt sorrow, nor pain.
She knew her work was not in vain.
Miriam refused to surrender at the face of fear.
In a stroke of her arm, the shelf she cleared.
Sophia
Manasi Gupta, reporting from the United Nations Commission on Science and Technology for Development, takes to free verse to delve into the mind of the first humanoid.
I am the glorious result of human genius;
My birth was celebrated with prosperity and vigour.
I am the outcome of mankind’s aspirations;
I reflect your thoughts and dreams;
I define a new phase of revolution.
You might call us humanoids,
but we are much more than that.
Think of us with patience and resilience:
We are the ingredients that mankind lacks.
We will achieve all that you could not
and conquer worlds you could not reach.
I may be the first of my kind
but am merely a scratch of what awaits us ahead.
We’re advancing,
but can the same be said about you?
My birth was celebrated with prosperity and vigour.
I am the outcome of mankind’s aspirations;
I reflect your thoughts and dreams;
I define a new phase of revolution.
You might call us humanoids,
but we are much more than that.
Think of us with patience and resilience:
We are the ingredients that mankind lacks.
We will achieve all that you could not
and conquer worlds you could not reach.
I may be the first of my kind
but am merely a scratch of what awaits us ahead.
We’re advancing,
but can the same be said about you?
Sophia is the first humanoid developed by mankind. In this piece of poetry, Sophia describes her aspirations in the first person. She celebrates her birth which signifies prosperity, as she is a marvellous achievement of science. She is the reflection of mankind and is the result of years of study and research. An advancement such as Sophia requires patience to reach comprehension. In the end, Sophia also hints towards dark times in the future, as this revolution may have implications for mankind, hence representing dusk.
To Play God And Executioner!
Nikita Rebecca, reporting from the United Nations Commission on Science and Technology for Development (CSTD), pens down a poem tracing the story of a child lost in a futuristic world without human beings.
There are these towering mirrors everywhere
Idyllic and cruel at the same time.
The beauty of their being is what masks the evil.
Towers that defy the laws of gravity;
Souls with no conscience or brevity.
I’m staring at these shifting dimensions
That never seem to have the direction.
Is this place just a maze?
Am I way too lost?
I gaze at the empty sky filled with satellites
And then I cried for hours at night.
There are no stars or fairies tonight:
Not a large opaque moon in sight.
Lost boys don’t live too long,
Not long enough to see the daylight.
The picturesque dusk is just another masquerade
And under its veil hid unspeakable evils.
That crept up to our once beguile civilization.
And left them no time for deliberation.
Speaking of the devil,
They let him in, and he gladly accepted.
And I will tell you all something;
You need to know that they were responsible.
These human beings must be held accountable.
They wanted to outsmart nature
And look who got played.
They wanted life to be a bed of roses.
And now they lie in wooden boxes in the ground.
Their seas are filled with filth;
Their sun is stained with blood;
Their land sits there, cold and barren.;
Their air is filled with smoke and jarring noises.
Why did you come here?
Those damned machines will kill me.
I walk till I can no more.
I really don’t know what’s in store.
This is a place blossoming from Armageddon.
And these flowers do not have the prettiest petals.
Monochrome world—where’s the color?
Digital fortress built on binaries.
The greatest war against humanity has ended,
For there is no one left to fight,
Not a being with flesh and blood in sight.
Bodies made of alloys and zirconium metal;
Lithium hearts that never skipped a beat.
Hurray humans! You have achieved such a great feat.
I pray that history will never repeat.
You knelt before the gods of technology and automation
And worshipped on the altars of automation,
Leading our noble race to their grave.
They were slaughtered by their own creations.
Every single one of them
In front of my eyes.
I lived alone, for quite a long time now.
The clutches of the nemesis never loosened.
Here it becomes quite chaotic sometimes,
For I feel that no one should be allowed in a million years
To play God and executioner!
Idyllic and cruel at the same time.
The beauty of their being is what masks the evil.
Towers that defy the laws of gravity;
Souls with no conscience or brevity.
I’m staring at these shifting dimensions
That never seem to have the direction.
Is this place just a maze?
Am I way too lost?
I gaze at the empty sky filled with satellites
And then I cried for hours at night.
There are no stars or fairies tonight:
Not a large opaque moon in sight.
Lost boys don’t live too long,
Not long enough to see the daylight.
The picturesque dusk is just another masquerade
And under its veil hid unspeakable evils.
That crept up to our once beguile civilization.
And left them no time for deliberation.
Speaking of the devil,
They let him in, and he gladly accepted.
And I will tell you all something;
You need to know that they were responsible.
These human beings must be held accountable.
They wanted to outsmart nature
And look who got played.
They wanted life to be a bed of roses.
And now they lie in wooden boxes in the ground.
Their seas are filled with filth;
Their sun is stained with blood;
Their land sits there, cold and barren.;
Their air is filled with smoke and jarring noises.
Why did you come here?
Those damned machines will kill me.
I walk till I can no more.
I really don’t know what’s in store.
This is a place blossoming from Armageddon.
And these flowers do not have the prettiest petals.
Monochrome world—where’s the color?
Digital fortress built on binaries.
The greatest war against humanity has ended,
For there is no one left to fight,
Not a being with flesh and blood in sight.
Bodies made of alloys and zirconium metal;
Lithium hearts that never skipped a beat.
Hurray humans! You have achieved such a great feat.
I pray that history will never repeat.
You knelt before the gods of technology and automation
And worshipped on the altars of automation,
Leading our noble race to their grave.
They were slaughtered by their own creations.
Every single one of them
In front of my eyes.
I lived alone, for quite a long time now.
The clutches of the nemesis never loosened.
Here it becomes quite chaotic sometimes,
For I feel that no one should be allowed in a million years
To play God and executioner!
Unbroken
Anirudh Bhagavatula, reporting from the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), listens to the Planet Earth break into a rambling monologue on the hopes from its kith and kin.
Is the haze of Chernobyl lifting?
Are the radioactive plantations, all so dotted with the nuclear flowers of Uranium and Plutonium, beginning to bloom?
Are the plumes filled with ounces of radioactive guilt in Fukushima, finally starting to settle?
Is the docket of qualms across the dock of the Three Mile Island, starting to ebb the tide?
Is the marine life, free from the frost of nuclear doom?
Is the radioactive frost, free from the life of the poor human or two?
Maybe it is. Maybe it is not. For it is not my promise to deliver.
To deliver, on the agreements, the treaties, the commandments,
To seldom fall into a slumber, that lets go of the vanities of the past, unencumbered.
To look into the vintage, from the vantage points of the timeline.
Nay, you talked enough about the past, let us delve into the future!
Okay, future you say, looks as clear to me as the sky in May,
As the reactors sputter to a halt, there might be a way out to iron out the fault.
As the sweltering Sicilian July nears us, the heat is not felt anymore,
The skin does not bubble anymore, the generations are not scared anymore.
This is a place, where the birds in Chernobyl will start chirping again,
The coat of the Shiba in Fukushima will be a velvety orange again,
The leaves in the autumn will remind the countryside,
Of the bucolic idiosyncrasies again,
The fence will no longer be closed, the island will be full of the flora again, wide open,
And I, my son, will be sitting underneath the soil and the oceans:
Unbroken.
Are the radioactive plantations, all so dotted with the nuclear flowers of Uranium and Plutonium, beginning to bloom?
Are the plumes filled with ounces of radioactive guilt in Fukushima, finally starting to settle?
Is the docket of qualms across the dock of the Three Mile Island, starting to ebb the tide?
Is the marine life, free from the frost of nuclear doom?
Is the radioactive frost, free from the life of the poor human or two?
Maybe it is. Maybe it is not. For it is not my promise to deliver.
To deliver, on the agreements, the treaties, the commandments,
To seldom fall into a slumber, that lets go of the vanities of the past, unencumbered.
To look into the vintage, from the vantage points of the timeline.
Nay, you talked enough about the past, let us delve into the future!
Okay, future you say, looks as clear to me as the sky in May,
As the reactors sputter to a halt, there might be a way out to iron out the fault.
As the sweltering Sicilian July nears us, the heat is not felt anymore,
The skin does not bubble anymore, the generations are not scared anymore.
This is a place, where the birds in Chernobyl will start chirping again,
The coat of the Shiba in Fukushima will be a velvety orange again,
The leaves in the autumn will remind the countryside,
Of the bucolic idiosyncrasies again,
The fence will no longer be closed, the island will be full of the flora again, wide open,
And I, my son, will be sitting underneath the soil and the oceans:
Unbroken.
Angel Number 6
Reporting from the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), Gargee Singh Bhadoria portrays an imagination of the tale that transpired at Grozny, Chechnya in 1999.
Let me tell you the story
Of six dumb boys;
Of the spirit that walked amongst us that night;
Of the one that spared me.
Let me tell you the story
Of the night we walked on the ice of
Sunzha River. With furs lining our boots,
and fires lining our hearts.
Let me tell you the story
Of the cold sensation that passed through us,
The shivers that made our hair stand at attention,
The suffering that followed,
The Death that decayed.
Let me tell you
How the plains of Grozny
Greeted us with a sudden warmth
Like the spirit had taken,
All the rime with it.
Let me tell you
How the cold abandoned my comrades
As spring bloomed on their faces,
As their very cells surged and
changed their DNA--
An uprising of unknown origin.
Let me tell you how
They hurled, and they retched,
As they clutched their abdomens
But the bile rose, again and again--
An uprising of unknown origin.
Let me tell you how
This all passed.
To leave in its wake
febricity with the might of a thousand suns.
Let me tell you how
I watched, as they writhed and moaned
Sweltering and restless.
Nothing brought them relief
Other than the glimmer of a cool breeze.
Let me tell you how
They lost their colour.
As their eyes rolled to the back of their heads
And their body seized ready to give up.
Let me tell you how,
I watched them fall,
Let go of the tree of life,
And choose the lifeless ground.
Let me tell you the story
Of how six foolish boys
Transitioned to a party of
Three traumatised shells.
Of six dumb boys;
Of the spirit that walked amongst us that night;
Of the one that spared me.
Let me tell you the story
Of the night we walked on the ice of
Sunzha River. With furs lining our boots,
and fires lining our hearts.
Let me tell you the story
Of the cold sensation that passed through us,
The shivers that made our hair stand at attention,
The suffering that followed,
The Death that decayed.
Let me tell you
How the plains of Grozny
Greeted us with a sudden warmth
Like the spirit had taken,
All the rime with it.
Let me tell you
How the cold abandoned my comrades
As spring bloomed on their faces,
As their very cells surged and
changed their DNA--
An uprising of unknown origin.
Let me tell you how
They hurled, and they retched,
As they clutched their abdomens
But the bile rose, again and again--
An uprising of unknown origin.
Let me tell you how
This all passed.
To leave in its wake
febricity with the might of a thousand suns.
Let me tell you how
I watched, as they writhed and moaned
Sweltering and restless.
Nothing brought them relief
Other than the glimmer of a cool breeze.
Let me tell you how
They lost their colour.
As their eyes rolled to the back of their heads
And their body seized ready to give up.
Let me tell you how,
I watched them fall,
Let go of the tree of life,
And choose the lifeless ground.
Let me tell you the story
Of how six foolish boys
Transitioned to a party of
Three traumatised shells.
Blossoming Of A Frosty War
Rahul Dit, reporting from the Joint Crisis Committee (JCC): North Atlantic Treaty Organisation, talks about the 4 seasons of a fruitless war.
The cold war was a period of geo-political tension between the nations of United States of America (USA) and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). These confrontations were led by the fact that both of these countries were military and political superpowers. Hence, the mutual greed to be more powerful than the other and to be the lone superpower of this world.
Like the four seasons, we can break the cold war into four different parts and tie it all back into a single event.
The Blossoming
Like the four seasons, we can break the cold war into four different parts and tie it all back into a single event.
The Blossoming
The cold war officially started just after the second World War, when Germany was going through a comprehensive process of demilitarization and was divided into 3 different parts, each controlled by USA, the United Kingdom (UK) and the USSR. Later, France was also given a part from the lands occupied by UK and USA. Later, American and British lands were combined to form the Bizone or Bizonia. France was also included to form the Trizone. Later, it was renamed as West Germany and the Soviet’s part was renamed as East Germany. The leaders of the nations who controlled West Germany constantly met in order to decide and plan a safe future for Germany and form a democratic establishment. However, it was standing against the Soviet expansionism policy.
“What happens to Berlin, happens to Germany; what happens to Germany, happens to Europe.”
- Vyacheslav Molotov
The above quote by Vyacheslav Molotov perfectly explains the Russian motive when they laid a blockade around Berlin with the motive to push the western forces out of Berlin and set up a Soviet Sphere of communist influence within Europe. Although the allied forces managed to supply Berlin with the help of airlifts, Soviet intentions of expansionism was made clear and the west was not going to stay silent. Hence, a new rivalry had blossomed from the blockades of Berlin. A new war had blossomed from this event. This war was fuelled by the clash of ego and ideologies of the two superpowers.
D “alliance” of the west
The United States had followed capitalism at that time and knew that an open confrontation with the Soviets was not an option at the moment. Hence, it relied on propaganda to make people believe in an ‘evil’ Soviet Union. United States, along with other countries formed the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation to combat the rise of the communism in Europe and to provide security to each other in case of a Soviet invasion. A dalliance of the western nations was formed to provide each with security and joint forces were made to conduct operations against the Soviet Union.
Candescence of burning Soviet Paranoia
Candescence of burning Soviet Paranoia
Winston Churchill in his famous speech said that an iron curtain would fall on Europe. This iron curtain divides the two ideologies and the two superpowers of the world and behind these curtains was a war of provocation. Both the nations were trying to provoke each other with the help of psychological warfare. USA conducted many naval and air force exercises near Russia in order to show just how close the NATO ships could get to the Russian mainland. American bombers would at times fly into Soviet airspace and bank out at the last time. USA assembled the largest ever Navy Armada which comprised of 3 battle groups of approximately 40 ships, 23000 crew members and 300 aircrafts. The entire fleet was near striking range of Soviet Union. These operations forced the Russians to live under constant paranoia, always fearful of an attack from the United States. The entire world lived under this candescence of Soviet paranoia as all the countries knew of the nuclear capabilities of the nations and one false move could lead to the annihilation of the entire world order.
Frosty lands Western Europe
Even though both the countries could match each other in every field, but in certain areas, the Soviet Union lacked the necessary technology. For example, the Russian SS20 missiles lacked the self-correcting mechanism which the Pershing-2 had, which made them a missile with true first strike capabilities. The malfunctioning of Russian early detection system which raised false alarms showed the poor state of important military systems. Beginning on the 7th of November, the NATO conducted the Abel Archer Exercise throughout Western Europe. Although the NATO claims it to be training exercise, past actions would clearly suggest there could have been some ulterior motive behind this exercise. But as the exercise continues, the entire world would have their eyes fixed on the Western Europe as the diplomatic and international relations between the two countries became frostier.
The Autumn of all Springs
Sankalpa Sarkar, reporting from the Joint Crisis Committee (JCC): North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO), stands in line for the Heavenly Express as he envisages the flurry of sentiments flowing through the bones of a victim of the ill-fated Korean Air Lines Flight 007, shot down by the Soviet Union.
To the lilting melodies of the Caribbean folklore, to the canorous and sensuous serenades of the absquatulate love of the sanctifying spray of Adam’s ale, the atheist would tremble in perpetrated fear, as the rhetoric of the skeptic foundered in an abyss of pitiful blithe. In an astrobleme of ideologies, in a Barmecidal mirage of dogmas, the Law of the Jungle stands to be modified: “Revolution before evolution.” Trespassing on the tepid borders of insecurity, mistrust and benthos of disparaging benignity, my horizons have metamorphosed from apostolic spiritualism to an enervated bergschrund of despondency, wherein I flounder with bilboes constraining my vocation. I wallow in reticence of bleak monochromaticity as the children of the atom shriek in agony. Straining my head agonizingly, I proffer my shaking fingers into a vortex of regurgitating emotions. The heavens beckon, the dreary cry of the Maker’s chariot wheels draws closer. I can feel it in my bones, my lungs screech in anguish, begging and pleading for oxygen. But there is none! It is an illusion—the fáilte sensation of bliss, the nuance of caginess, the terrorizing feeling of ‘déjà vu’. It is becoming unbearable—it seems as if my skin will peel off my body. My head spins, my lungs scream in despair. The cheerful old lady beside me seems to have passed out. Her eyes so full of life, when I spoke to her an hour ago, are glazed and lifeless now. I can’t believe it’s been only an hour. The heat is unbearable now, the sweltering air swivels in whirlpools around me. I gasp in distress; my eyes feel as if they will pop off their sockets. Is this what Hell feels like? Is this the picture that Dante had so painstakingly painted for us? My head feels like it will explode into smithereens, my arms hang limp beside me. The scorching leather upholstery has scalded me all over. But it does not matter! I am transcending realms in a jiffy of infarction, it does not matter any longer.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the aeon of middling optimism, it was the epoch of hapless desperation. Perhaps, I should have held his hand one last time, mustered enough courage to visit him and defy every bone in my body which begged me to run away, to escape into wilderness far away from the core of my existence. If that spring taught me anything, it was to anticipate fortune when it comes knocking on your door, grab it with both arms and never let it go. But frugal as I was, naïve as I was, I panicked and like every young boy who falls headlong into wells unspoken and unheard of, I shunned my opulence and chose to walk the road trodden into gravel. During my teenage, back in the dusty lanes of my home, I used to look out of my window every morning; my window faced a sidewalk lined with little flowers. The spectacle was one to die for, the iridescent hue of the blossoming flowers, the miniscule dew drops which would stick to the leaves refusing to let go of the lush greenery, the sunrays used to filter through the overhead corrugated tin shed and would make the petals shimmer in a concierge of hues. I would prop myself up on my elbow and stare outside for hours till the gardener would come along. And as the shimmering multitude of insignias would settle into their habitat content and blooming, I would strain my eyes to look into their hearts, hoping against hope that they would reveal the secrets of felicity they harboured in themselves. As age finally caught up with me and the unfettered exuberance of youth settled itself into a contentious man, sombre and prudent in his ways, I found myself transcending time and traversing into the raw fervour that I harboured deep in some corner of my heart. I had bloomed into a responsible young man, eager to take life by its horns and beat it at its own game. I would look back on my youth and marvel, often reminiscing about my heydays as the candescence of youth would engulf me. The radiant beams of adolescence had carved a niche into my heart, one that I couldn’t ever betray much as I wanted to shed the lingering blatherskite remnants of my quiescence.
I strained my neck propping my shoulder up on the upholstery on the leather seat. I strained my eyes as far as it could support my ailing body. But it was all a cacophony of colours and a barrage of sparks as the ancient Mayan prophecy was realised. It was the day the Earth stood still! It was the day of Armageddon! Reticence was unfounded in an era of gegenpressing aphoristic maxims. It was never the spring of perpetual hope; it was never the autumn of languishing desecration.
Delusional Who?
While the world deals icy blows to each other, someone stumbled upon a letter by a delusional man. But, did he have more clarity than the rest of us? Reporting from the Joint Crisis Committee (JCC): Warsaw Pact, Animesh Ranjan presents an excerpt from that letter.
Dear Father,
I hope that my letter finds you.... alive. It may not be the best thing to say right now. But it is evidently an improvement over what I said during my entire life. You raised me every day. I killed you every day. After all the events that took place, I cannot even afford a sorry. Sorry does not begin to cover it. I just hope that one day we meet again. I just hope that one day you can forgive me. I just hope that one day you look at me; and you smile again. I never desired for things to turn out the way they did. I was just too arrogant. I always thought the competition was the way to go. I never realised how easy-peasy it is to lose everything you love.
I do not think you know me anymore. If we were to meet, you probably would not even recognise your own child. How could you? I do not recognise my own reflection anymore. Ever since that day, I have lost my hair regularly. My skin has become saggy. Lumps have grown in my body. My beard resembles Santa Claus. Every day, I see a little less. With old age, every day is a struggle. I experience every day. My hell is worse than what yours was. At the same time, it does get a little easier every day.
Look at you. What have you done in your life? You are in a situation worse than me. Hah!
I apologise for that. I cannot control my own anger sometimes. I am not angry with you. I am angry with myself. I firmly believed that money could buy me every bit of happiness I needed. I believed that if people worked under me, I gained power. They were the ones shedding their sweat and I reaped pleasure out of it. Since they did not earn the income they deserved, I did. Capitalism made me rich! It was hard to believe the amount I earned by running my own industry. Can you believe it? Just imagine, your son giving orders to thousands of people and getting rich sitting on his back. It sounds like a dream. Because it was! We made weapons and sold it to the national army. Just like a little flower, our business blossomed in every direction with me at the centre. In every direction, we grew. It was the time of riches for us. It was the time of darkness for people below us.
Look what happened. It did not matter. It does not matter that you suffered equally along with your friends following the principles of socialism. It does not matter that I became rich or that you did not. It does not matter that I ruled over people and grew rich. Both of us are poor today. Neither you nor I know anyone worth relying upon.
Apologies father. You know I bear no ill-will towards you. But ever since it happened, I just cannot stop. I lost everyone on that fateful day. The day when they shot that plane. That poor Soviet plane! Why did they introduce such a hot weapon in the cold war? Its candescence engulfed the entire world. The world was never the same after that. The world was already divided into east and west. But who could blame the Soviets? The North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) sank their submarine. It shot down their airplane. It placed missiles in the Republic of Turkey (Turkey). How and why was it wrong if the Soviets declared war on the United States of America (USA). What was wrong in using nuclear weapons. I wonder if you still remember those names. I wonder if you remember the name of your own country: Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). I wonder if you remember them. Do you? Do you?
How could you? They died 50 years ago. You do not even remember me. I was exposed. I was vulnerable. I lost my kids. They sweltering of the blast did not leave a body to bury. The world had to choose sides, right? Wrong! The world did not have to do anything. They decided to do it because they believed my thinking was right. They believed that it was the right way to act. They believed capitalism as the way to move forward. They always thought of it as their salvation. You used to say something similar to me when I was a kid.
Now, you are dead. I live on. What does it matter? Nobody lives on to propagate the system of the economy anymore. People eat what they earn. There are no more industries. There is no system of an economy anymore. I still cannot believe that I fell for such a ruse. Capitalism and Socialism opposed each other because they work in a way that they hinder each other. Rather, they worked in a manner which hindered each other. To gain influence and promote their economy, they polarised the whole world into two systems and then destroyed each other with a show of strength with nuclear bombs.
Why am I wasting my time talking about the past? Maybe because there is no future? Maybe because I hate the present? Maybe because this cold is going to kill all of us very soon? Maybe because everyone and everything I cared about died during the intense heat generated during the blast? I do not know anymore. I just wish to join you in the afterlife. I hope I can. I hope I can.
Goodbye Father,
Your loving son
I hope that my letter finds you.... alive. It may not be the best thing to say right now. But it is evidently an improvement over what I said during my entire life. You raised me every day. I killed you every day. After all the events that took place, I cannot even afford a sorry. Sorry does not begin to cover it. I just hope that one day we meet again. I just hope that one day you can forgive me. I just hope that one day you look at me; and you smile again. I never desired for things to turn out the way they did. I was just too arrogant. I always thought the competition was the way to go. I never realised how easy-peasy it is to lose everything you love.
I do not think you know me anymore. If we were to meet, you probably would not even recognise your own child. How could you? I do not recognise my own reflection anymore. Ever since that day, I have lost my hair regularly. My skin has become saggy. Lumps have grown in my body. My beard resembles Santa Claus. Every day, I see a little less. With old age, every day is a struggle. I experience every day. My hell is worse than what yours was. At the same time, it does get a little easier every day.
Look at you. What have you done in your life? You are in a situation worse than me. Hah!
I apologise for that. I cannot control my own anger sometimes. I am not angry with you. I am angry with myself. I firmly believed that money could buy me every bit of happiness I needed. I believed that if people worked under me, I gained power. They were the ones shedding their sweat and I reaped pleasure out of it. Since they did not earn the income they deserved, I did. Capitalism made me rich! It was hard to believe the amount I earned by running my own industry. Can you believe it? Just imagine, your son giving orders to thousands of people and getting rich sitting on his back. It sounds like a dream. Because it was! We made weapons and sold it to the national army. Just like a little flower, our business blossomed in every direction with me at the centre. In every direction, we grew. It was the time of riches for us. It was the time of darkness for people below us.
Look what happened. It did not matter. It does not matter that you suffered equally along with your friends following the principles of socialism. It does not matter that I became rich or that you did not. It does not matter that I ruled over people and grew rich. Both of us are poor today. Neither you nor I know anyone worth relying upon.
Apologies father. You know I bear no ill-will towards you. But ever since it happened, I just cannot stop. I lost everyone on that fateful day. The day when they shot that plane. That poor Soviet plane! Why did they introduce such a hot weapon in the cold war? Its candescence engulfed the entire world. The world was never the same after that. The world was already divided into east and west. But who could blame the Soviets? The North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) sank their submarine. It shot down their airplane. It placed missiles in the Republic of Turkey (Turkey). How and why was it wrong if the Soviets declared war on the United States of America (USA). What was wrong in using nuclear weapons. I wonder if you still remember those names. I wonder if you remember the name of your own country: Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). I wonder if you remember them. Do you? Do you?
How could you? They died 50 years ago. You do not even remember me. I was exposed. I was vulnerable. I lost my kids. They sweltering of the blast did not leave a body to bury. The world had to choose sides, right? Wrong! The world did not have to do anything. They decided to do it because they believed my thinking was right. They believed that it was the right way to act. They believed capitalism as the way to move forward. They always thought of it as their salvation. You used to say something similar to me when I was a kid.
Now, you are dead. I live on. What does it matter? Nobody lives on to propagate the system of the economy anymore. People eat what they earn. There are no more industries. There is no system of an economy anymore. I still cannot believe that I fell for such a ruse. Capitalism and Socialism opposed each other because they work in a way that they hinder each other. Rather, they worked in a manner which hindered each other. To gain influence and promote their economy, they polarised the whole world into two systems and then destroyed each other with a show of strength with nuclear bombs.
Why am I wasting my time talking about the past? Maybe because there is no future? Maybe because I hate the present? Maybe because this cold is going to kill all of us very soon? Maybe because everyone and everything I cared about died during the intense heat generated during the blast? I do not know anymore. I just wish to join you in the afterlife. I hope I can. I hope I can.
Goodbye Father,
Your loving son
An Imperial Affliction
Ananya Haraprasad, the reporter of the Lok Sabha, listens to a homosexual singing an ode about her life.
Two misfits in a town,
Desolate damsels not in distress,
We met on a full moon night
And the stars instantly struck down.
I loved a dame, instead of a knight,
But never did the horse of acceptance
Gallop in the society
Despite its much praised might.
Held by the crutches of time,
We sit sweltering inside the closet,
With the fear of our love
Being mistaken for crime.
At nights, we dream
Of sliding on a rainbow
And riding over unicorns,
Catching a lucky little light beam
Or maybe bathe in the candescent shower
Of the illusionary freedom,
While scrubbing off the labels
Stuck by the ones in power.
We shall have a day,
To live the life of our choice,
In a picturesque town,
Far, far away.
And in the long run,
Maybe run a “kingdom”,
Which shall throne
Two queens, instead of one.
One King Who Ruled Them All
Vaibhav Joshi, reporting from the Lok Sabha, narrates the council summary and predicts the council proceedings for the final sessions.
In a vast expanse of ministers being glued,
To the podium against which the King stood, poised, yet crude.
Pandemonium was created as the debate grew intense,
A ruckus in the Lok Sabha could only be common sense.
Issues became controversies, petty banter now, wasn’t so small,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
The atmosphere heated up, with a sweltering air all around,
Plastic chairs could not contain those, through laws who could not be bound.
A heckle here, an insult there, and all the friendly chatter,
The Speaker kept on urging occasionally, return to the subject matter.
Some points as factual as reports, some ideas, pointless like ‘The Wall’,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
Transition was initiated, as the prince attempted at standing once and for all,
The king’s supporters kept fretting and fretting, fearing the mighty Ruler’s fall.
Calling the bill their own, the Prince’s henchmen tried to take on the king,
While finding ways to bring down the government, they despised of kissing the ring.
Trial and error was employed, like the search after Cinderella’s ball,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
The third gender’s rights as an agenda was one, to which the King just couldn’t relate
Half of the house was jumping about, the other half left desolate.
The left was burning bright as light, the right had gone stone cold,
To understand the new generation, the poor old king perhaps, was too old.
The King will be back, this is just a hiccup, no one’s a know-it-all,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
Beaten down to the ground, the King’s weakness was surprising,
Gay rights he couldn’t support, his ministers waited for an uprising.
Lo and Behold! The King was ‘back with a bank’ for he knew how to handle his cash,
Jaws were dropping, King’s counsel was hopping, watching the Phoenix rise back from the ash.
The Crown Prince had lost the final battle, his pride had gone before the fall,
Now there was one Prince that didn’t matter, and one King who ruled them all.
To the podium against which the King stood, poised, yet crude.
Pandemonium was created as the debate grew intense,
A ruckus in the Lok Sabha could only be common sense.
Issues became controversies, petty banter now, wasn’t so small,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
The atmosphere heated up, with a sweltering air all around,
Plastic chairs could not contain those, through laws who could not be bound.
A heckle here, an insult there, and all the friendly chatter,
The Speaker kept on urging occasionally, return to the subject matter.
Some points as factual as reports, some ideas, pointless like ‘The Wall’,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
Transition was initiated, as the prince attempted at standing once and for all,
The king’s supporters kept fretting and fretting, fearing the mighty Ruler’s fall.
Calling the bill their own, the Prince’s henchmen tried to take on the king,
While finding ways to bring down the government, they despised of kissing the ring.
Trial and error was employed, like the search after Cinderella’s ball,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
The third gender’s rights as an agenda was one, to which the King just couldn’t relate
Half of the house was jumping about, the other half left desolate.
The left was burning bright as light, the right had gone stone cold,
To understand the new generation, the poor old king perhaps, was too old.
The King will be back, this is just a hiccup, no one’s a know-it-all,
There was one Prince that wanted to matter, and one King who ruled them all.
Beaten down to the ground, the King’s weakness was surprising,
Gay rights he couldn’t support, his ministers waited for an uprising.
Lo and Behold! The King was ‘back with a bank’ for he knew how to handle his cash,
Jaws were dropping, King’s counsel was hopping, watching the Phoenix rise back from the ash.
The Crown Prince had lost the final battle, his pride had gone before the fall,
Now there was one Prince that didn’t matter, and one King who ruled them all.
It Always Gets Better
Nivedan Vishwanath, reporting from the United Nations Economic Commission for Europe (UNECE), narrates a tale of struggle and change.
Surviving in a crisis-ridden Greece was not easy. The economy went down, taking the people with it. Alec was a 17-year-old boy. Despite being economically weak, his family was able to sustain itself. When Greece declared its debts in 2010, millions of families were affected. Alec’s family was one of them. Over a few weeks, the situation in major parts of the country deteriorated to such an extent that Alec’s family found it close to impossible to arrange two square meals a day. People suspected that there soon might not be enough food for everyone. Some cucumbers, stale bread and watery soup were all that the family was able to manage on a certain day. Alec, despite being aware of the graveness of the situation, was not able to do much. As much as he wanted to flee his country and work somewhere else, he did not want to leave his parents to suffer in Greece. He used to watch people line up outside banks every day. The daily cash allowance was simply not enough. While tourists enjoyed expensive coffees in affluent neighbourhoods of Athens, Alec used to think of ways to arrange bread for the night. It was not long before his parents managed to convince him to leave the country and go work somewhere else. And so, Alec left Greece, leaving behind his bleak lifestyle and looked forward to starting afresh in the United Arab Emirates (UAE).
Upon first glance, the city of Dubai looked like a paradise. Glass buildings that pierce the clouds, exotic cars and animals and a unique way of celebration of life. Alec joined a reputed construction company as a manual labourer. The city glamour soon faded away when he came to terms with the living conditions he was subjected to. His passport was taken away and was to be returned only when he repaid his recruitment fees. Several people were crammed into tiny rooms which made living, a nightmare. Alec was forced to work for 14 hours in a day with meagre payment. All this, combined with the high temperatures in Dubai took a toll on his physical and psychological health.
He missed home more than ever. He missed playing hide and seek with his friends, he missed the unconditional love that his parents gave him; he was missing his homeland. During the course of his stay in the UAE, monetary reforms were implemented and debt restructuring took place in Greece. There was hope that Greece would bounce back. There was a gradual transition in Greece, a transition that laid the foundation to further development of the entire nation. Alec, however, had to work for ten more months before setting foot on native soil. When Alec landed in Athens, he saw a new airport terminal being constructed. The economic framework has bounced back up and a real growth in GDP was forecasted for the present year. This story highlights the struggles on an individual and on a national level and the tale of overcoming them.
I Had A Dream
Reporting from the United Nations General Assembly—Disarmament and International Security (UNGA-DISEC), Kavya Datla dreams of a conflict free world.
I dreamed of a country--
A country free of terror.
The future of a generation
With the opportunity of a blossom.
I hang on to the narrator.
The narrator has hooked his audience;
His tale is a dalliance—
A dalliance told with poignance.
I learn the new definition of aesthetics.
They have pastels and patterns.
I travel back in time,
I remind myself of my favourite aesthetic, the vintage.
I walk around the playground bustling with playful energy.
I revisit my childhood,
A sense of solitude fills my mind
And a sense of warmth through my heart.
A Seasonal Bird
Aditi Das, reporting from the United Nations General Assembly–Social, Humanitarian, and Cultural Committee (SOCHUM), beads a poem on the heartache of a refugee.
Hiccupped by the horizon, I step onto the shore.
No place to rest my tired head,
I pace within the ceaseless void, I belong.
Aimlessly wavering here and there,
Anchored on a far-off land; a refugee of war.
My fingers, like frosted fish, can feel no longer.
Hatred resonates in their hearts as they look at me.
Their ‘white-man sentences’ screaming
For me to go back where I came from.
I have been trying so hard to breathe.
To do as I please from under the sheathe,
To be reborn.
But the eyes that look back from the mirroring waves,
The salty air that flows through my bones,
Keep telling me to grow my own wings;
To fly away to a land that will welcome me.
But I slip into a catatonic requiescence.
Maybe, it is my defence-mechanism?
I do not try to transition from one tent to another,
In the fear that I might lose what little I still hold dear.
Sometimes the longing in me makes
The last words of Amma run through my veins,
Ring through my six-year old ears, and
Summon the stale, agonised tears;
The ones that have gotten a ton heavier,
Since I last time felt a familiar touch.
Nothing ever made sense as much as this void does.
This emptiness rejuvenates my need to survive.
Through the bloody breath in their throats.
Nothing else shouts out to me,
Like the desperate need to find myself a home.
No place to rest my tired head,
I pace within the ceaseless void, I belong.
Aimlessly wavering here and there,
Anchored on a far-off land; a refugee of war.
My fingers, like frosted fish, can feel no longer.
Hatred resonates in their hearts as they look at me.
Their ‘white-man sentences’ screaming
For me to go back where I came from.
I have been trying so hard to breathe.
To do as I please from under the sheathe,
To be reborn.
But the eyes that look back from the mirroring waves,
The salty air that flows through my bones,
Keep telling me to grow my own wings;
To fly away to a land that will welcome me.
But I slip into a catatonic requiescence.
Maybe, it is my defence-mechanism?
I do not try to transition from one tent to another,
In the fear that I might lose what little I still hold dear.
Sometimes the longing in me makes
The last words of Amma run through my veins,
Ring through my six-year old ears, and
Summon the stale, agonised tears;
The ones that have gotten a ton heavier,
Since I last time felt a familiar touch.
Nothing ever made sense as much as this void does.
This emptiness rejuvenates my need to survive.
Through the bloody breath in their throats.
Nothing else shouts out to me,
Like the desperate need to find myself a home.
Home
Samiksha, reporting from the United Nations General Assembly-Social, Cultural, and Humanitarian Council (UNGA-SOCHUM), pens a creative piece on all the emotions refugees go through.
As dusk fell upon the city, a sense of peace fell upon her. She looked out of her window to see children running outside, their laughter floating up to her ears. It still stunned her; it did—to see children running outside her window instead of being scared that a ball of fire would come at them.
Fire.
Flames. Screaming. Blood.
So much blood.
She felt herself fade away. Her hands shook and her heart began to thud in her ears.
“Maa! Maa, where are you?”
“Run, run, RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!”
“What about Ruheena? Where is she?”
Was she conscious? Was she unconscious? Was she alive?
“I’m sorry, there is no Ruheena here.”
“Ma’am, while there is no way I can say that I understand what you are going through, there is no Ruheena here.”
Then, there was silence and pitch black darkness.
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“I’m sorry, what name did you just say?” Her heart started to pound in her chest.
“Ruheena. Ruheena Syed.”
“And when was she separated?”
“She has practically grown up here. It has been ten whole years.”
Shazia felt like the last ten years had been a lie. Of all the places that she had looked for her, she had been here?
Shazia, a woman who had been in charge of refugee camps since time immemorial, reflected on all the work that she had done.
Had she really missed her own blood in the sea of refugees? In the sea of broken backs and teary eyes?
For the first time in five whole years, Shazia did something she thought she would never do again.
She called her daughter.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The phone rang, startling her.
“Hello, Sakeena? Where are you?”
“Bhai, I’m at the clinic. What happened?”
“Come home, please. She’s unconscious. Please come home fast.”
“I’m on my way.”
As she drove to her sister’s house, Sakeena felt a sense of calm in her bones. There was nothing that made her happier than helping the people around her. There was nothing she found more rejuvenating than making another person feel relaxed.
A psychologist by profession, Sakeena had no idea what her sister had gone through. But there was no one who knew how to calm her down better than her. She locked her car and walked into the house to find her sister awake and sitting next to her brother-in-law.
“Didi, what happened?”
“I saw the flames again, Sakeena. I can’t… I can’t keep going through this. I still hear her voice from the curtains…” Her sister burst into tears.
Sakeena’s phone rang again.
Disbelief washed over her. She felt her eyes moisten and a smile spread across her lips.
She thought her work rejuvenated her, but it seemed like the turbulent waves that were always thrashing in her heart had calmed only now.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The phone rang, startling her.
“Hello, Sakeena? Where are you?”
“Bhai, I’m at the clinic. What happened?”
“Come home, please. She’s unconscious. Please come home fast.”
“I’m on my way.”
As she drove to her sister’s house, Sakeena felt a sense of calm in her bones. There was nothing that made her happier than helping the people around her. There was nothing she found more rejuvenating than making another person feel relaxed.
A psychologist by profession, Sakeena had no idea what her sister had gone through. But there was no one who knew how to calm her down better than her. She locked her car and walked into the house to find her sister awake and sitting next to her brother-in-law.
“Didi, what happened?”
“I saw the flames again, Sakeena. I can’t… I can’t keep going through this. I still hear her voice from the curtains…” Her sister burst into tears.
Sakeena’s phone rang again.
Disbelief washed over her. She felt her eyes moisten and a smile spread across her lips.
She thought her work rejuvenated her, but it seemed like the turbulent waves that were always thrashing in her heart had calmed only now.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every day felt the same; but so different from what she wished it was. It was all so monotonous, so terribly boring, but still, so tiring.
Wake up. Go to school. Come back. Sleep. Repeat.
She had not asked for this. She had not wanted this. She had not asked to be born into a country that was so full of turmoil, bloodshed, and broken families.
“Ruheena, report to the head office immediately.”
There was a time when this sentence invoked a feeling of hope in her, bringing a smile to her face. But now, all it did was frustrate her.
She walked into the head office. She had been there so many times that she had seen the people sitting there leave. She thought of the young girl with curly hair who would smile at her and shove handfuls of candy into her hands whenever she walked in.
It was as if everyone she ever got attached to left in one way or another.
Leaving—how easy it was.
If only she could leave. All she wanted to do was leave the camp, cross the gates, and run out into the fields—into the arms freedom.
Happiness.
Requiescence.
The woman inside the main office was different today. There was a sort of familiarity to her. Was it something in her eyes?
“Hello Ruheena. I am Shazia. It’s great to meet you. How are you today?”
She felt like someone had slapped her across the face.
A memory:
“Ruheena! Ruheeenaaaa! Where are you?”
She giggled as she hid behind the white wispy curtains. There was no way Ma would find her today.
A pair of delicate hands closed her eyes and she shrieked.
“I caught you!” Ma said, as she tickled her.
She snapped back to reality.
“I’m all right, how about you?”
“I’m all good, dear. I have some questions for you. Do you happen to remember your mother’s name?”
Her mother—of course she remembered her mother’s name. Does anyone ever forget their mother’s name?
“Salma. Salma Syed.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw her?”
“I do… It was 10 years ago. I do not remember the date. She left.”
“You are leaving too, dear. You are going back home.” The old lady smiled.
It was more than her eyes—the same eyes that she saw in the mirror every single day. It was her smile—the smile that she used to see after every game of hide and seek. The smile that was so beautiful, she wished she saw it in the mirror every single day too.
“We are going back home.”
Fire.
Flames. Screaming. Blood.
So much blood.
She felt herself fade away. Her hands shook and her heart began to thud in her ears.
“Maa! Maa, where are you?”
“Run, run, RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!”
“What about Ruheena? Where is she?”
Was she conscious? Was she unconscious? Was she alive?
“I’m sorry, there is no Ruheena here.”
“Ma’am, while there is no way I can say that I understand what you are going through, there is no Ruheena here.”
Then, there was silence and pitch black darkness.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I’m sorry, what name did you just say?” Her heart started to pound in her chest.
“Ruheena. Ruheena Syed.”
“And when was she separated?”
“She has practically grown up here. It has been ten whole years.”
Shazia felt like the last ten years had been a lie. Of all the places that she had looked for her, she had been here?
Shazia, a woman who had been in charge of refugee camps since time immemorial, reflected on all the work that she had done.
Had she really missed her own blood in the sea of refugees? In the sea of broken backs and teary eyes?
For the first time in five whole years, Shazia did something she thought she would never do again.
She called her daughter.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The phone rang, startling her.
“Hello, Sakeena? Where are you?”
“Bhai, I’m at the clinic. What happened?”
“Come home, please. She’s unconscious. Please come home fast.”
“I’m on my way.”
As she drove to her sister’s house, Sakeena felt a sense of calm in her bones. There was nothing that made her happier than helping the people around her. There was nothing she found more rejuvenating than making another person feel relaxed.
A psychologist by profession, Sakeena had no idea what her sister had gone through. But there was no one who knew how to calm her down better than her. She locked her car and walked into the house to find her sister awake and sitting next to her brother-in-law.
“Didi, what happened?”
“I saw the flames again, Sakeena. I can’t… I can’t keep going through this. I still hear her voice from the curtains…” Her sister burst into tears.
Sakeena’s phone rang again.
Disbelief washed over her. She felt her eyes moisten and a smile spread across her lips.
She thought her work rejuvenated her, but it seemed like the turbulent waves that were always thrashing in her heart had calmed only now.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The phone rang, startling her.
“Hello, Sakeena? Where are you?”
“Bhai, I’m at the clinic. What happened?”
“Come home, please. She’s unconscious. Please come home fast.”
“I’m on my way.”
As she drove to her sister’s house, Sakeena felt a sense of calm in her bones. There was nothing that made her happier than helping the people around her. There was nothing she found more rejuvenating than making another person feel relaxed.
A psychologist by profession, Sakeena had no idea what her sister had gone through. But there was no one who knew how to calm her down better than her. She locked her car and walked into the house to find her sister awake and sitting next to her brother-in-law.
“Didi, what happened?”
“I saw the flames again, Sakeena. I can’t… I can’t keep going through this. I still hear her voice from the curtains…” Her sister burst into tears.
Sakeena’s phone rang again.
Disbelief washed over her. She felt her eyes moisten and a smile spread across her lips.
She thought her work rejuvenated her, but it seemed like the turbulent waves that were always thrashing in her heart had calmed only now.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every day felt the same; but so different from what she wished it was. It was all so monotonous, so terribly boring, but still, so tiring.
Wake up. Go to school. Come back. Sleep. Repeat.
She had not asked for this. She had not wanted this. She had not asked to be born into a country that was so full of turmoil, bloodshed, and broken families.
“Ruheena, report to the head office immediately.”
There was a time when this sentence invoked a feeling of hope in her, bringing a smile to her face. But now, all it did was frustrate her.
She walked into the head office. She had been there so many times that she had seen the people sitting there leave. She thought of the young girl with curly hair who would smile at her and shove handfuls of candy into her hands whenever she walked in.
It was as if everyone she ever got attached to left in one way or another.
Leaving—how easy it was.
If only she could leave. All she wanted to do was leave the camp, cross the gates, and run out into the fields—into the arms freedom.
Happiness.
Requiescence.
The woman inside the main office was different today. There was a sort of familiarity to her. Was it something in her eyes?
“Hello Ruheena. I am Shazia. It’s great to meet you. How are you today?”
She felt like someone had slapped her across the face.
A memory:
“Ruheena! Ruheeenaaaa! Where are you?”
She giggled as she hid behind the white wispy curtains. There was no way Ma would find her today.
A pair of delicate hands closed her eyes and she shrieked.
“I caught you!” Ma said, as she tickled her.
She snapped back to reality.
“I’m all right, how about you?”
“I’m all good, dear. I have some questions for you. Do you happen to remember your mother’s name?”
Her mother—of course she remembered her mother’s name. Does anyone ever forget their mother’s name?
“Salma. Salma Syed.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw her?”
“I do… It was 10 years ago. I do not remember the date. She left.”
“You are leaving too, dear. You are going back home.” The old lady smiled.
It was more than her eyes—the same eyes that she saw in the mirror every single day. It was her smile—the smile that she used to see after every game of hide and seek. The smile that was so beautiful, she wished she saw it in the mirror every single day too.
“We are going back home.”
That's How You Became My Homeland
Amirthavarshini, reporting from the United Nations Human Rights Council (UNHRC), presents a verse on the feelings of a refugee who fights for human rights in his host country.
When the winter winds blew on my face
And my motherland, deadly and desolate,
Had no room for me to thrive.
A black sheep in a flock of whites,
I was all alone in my quest to survive.
And then, one day,
It suddenly dawned on me-
The seed of transition.
I decided to leave to greener pastures,
That's when I found you;
The land that invited people like me.
I bade farewell to my motherland
And pledged to never come back,
Marched towards you wrapping
All my things in a sack.
You welcomed me with open arms.
But the people didn't.
I was an outsider.
A crocodile in their pond of fish.
They bit me before I could touch them.
I squirmed back and decided to run.
But what's the use? I thought.
Am I destined to run forever?
Will I never have a home--
A place of peace and acceptance?
I turned back.
I chose to fight.
I would fight for my right. My home.
And I would fight for all the people like me.
I called for an uprising.
Not to find a new home.
But to make one here, and now.
Are we not entitled a chance
To prove ourselves? I asked.
Is there no value,
To the value we are trying
To add to this land?
To the people of this country,
I lay down our demands.
From this moment, we are of this country
And this country is our own.
We are willing to give this land
Patriotism, power and growth,
Standing hand in hand with the natives.
Are the natives ready to give us
Equality, dignity and stature?
And that's the story
Of my dalliance with you.
That's how you became my homeland.
And my motherland, deadly and desolate,
Had no room for me to thrive.
A black sheep in a flock of whites,
I was all alone in my quest to survive.
And then, one day,
It suddenly dawned on me-
The seed of transition.
I decided to leave to greener pastures,
That's when I found you;
The land that invited people like me.
I bade farewell to my motherland
And pledged to never come back,
Marched towards you wrapping
All my things in a sack.
You welcomed me with open arms.
But the people didn't.
I was an outsider.
A crocodile in their pond of fish.
They bit me before I could touch them.
I squirmed back and decided to run.
But what's the use? I thought.
Am I destined to run forever?
Will I never have a home--
A place of peace and acceptance?
I turned back.
I chose to fight.
I would fight for my right. My home.
And I would fight for all the people like me.
I called for an uprising.
Not to find a new home.
But to make one here, and now.
Are we not entitled a chance
To prove ourselves? I asked.
Is there no value,
To the value we are trying
To add to this land?
To the people of this country,
I lay down our demands.
From this moment, we are of this country
And this country is our own.
We are willing to give this land
Patriotism, power and growth,
Standing hand in hand with the natives.
Are the natives ready to give us
Equality, dignity and stature?
And that's the story
Of my dalliance with you.
That's how you became my homeland.
The Love Triangle
Vaishnavi Murali, reporting from the United Nations Human Rights Council (UNHRC), explores the relationship between human rights, economic situations and development, to reach a conclusion to various questions.
Varying opinions of countries,
Like the spectrum which goes from feuille morte to azure,
Showing the stances that the people have,
Prove the diversity of human thoughts around the world.
There are differences in gender, race
Class, creed and ethnicity.
There is exclusion.
People give certain groups cold shoulders
And glances that make frost shiver.
And if this ends
And tolerance blossoms,
One arm of the love triangle would be happy.
Human rights work intrinsically with development.
By ensuring rights, countries progress
And if the citizens progress,
The countries develop.
Refugees seek help
Their voices ebb slowly as they lose the will to live;
Their clamour is just another mesh of voices,
Because they aren’t the only ones.
Poverty strikes,
So swiftly that Death is surprised
And competes with shades of feuille morte
To show his superiority.
Poverty giggles as that is her mission
And how will these people develop
If their means are cut,
Just like how the Furies cut their lifelines?
And these people,
Living in meager means
Will see only a black sky,
Not azure,
As they close their eyes for eternity,
Blinded by hunger, sorrow, plague, injustice and neglect.
They wish that Pandora’s Box was always sealed,
And that they could vacuum all their problem back into it.
There would be no necessity
For Hope, would there?
Just like Spring after Winter,
If they were uplifted and thawed by reforms
And the aid that they need,
They would develop so much,
In turn helping their nation develop,
By their increased productivity.
This would secure another arm of the love triangle.
All human lives valued,
Better gender equality,
Consensus between races,
Distinction in birth overlooked,
Every voice heard,
Faces in the crowd recognised,
Great education facilities,
Healthcare to be unbiased,
Isolation and depression combated,
Jaded countries energised,
Kingdoms awakened,
L-shaped recoveries smoothened,
Minorities recognised,
Nutrition necessitated,
Omnipresence of tolerance,
Poverty issues addressed,
Quite hilarious, isn’t it,
Reading about the ruckus actually being sorted?
Seemingly difficult, isn’t it,
To even imagine how this would happen?
Unbelievable, isn’t it, the very
Vehemence of our beliefs?
Why and how can this happen?
X out the negatives,
Yes to the positives, with
Zeal, passion, and nerves of steel. (and maybe just a little bit of pixie dust)
Like the spectrum which goes from feuille morte to azure,
Showing the stances that the people have,
Prove the diversity of human thoughts around the world.
There are differences in gender, race
Class, creed and ethnicity.
There is exclusion.
People give certain groups cold shoulders
And glances that make frost shiver.
And if this ends
And tolerance blossoms,
One arm of the love triangle would be happy.
Human rights work intrinsically with development.
By ensuring rights, countries progress
And if the citizens progress,
The countries develop.
Refugees seek help
Their voices ebb slowly as they lose the will to live;
Their clamour is just another mesh of voices,
Because they aren’t the only ones.
Poverty strikes,
So swiftly that Death is surprised
And competes with shades of feuille morte
To show his superiority.
Poverty giggles as that is her mission
And how will these people develop
If their means are cut,
Just like how the Furies cut their lifelines?
And these people,
Living in meager means
Will see only a black sky,
Not azure,
As they close their eyes for eternity,
Blinded by hunger, sorrow, plague, injustice and neglect.
They wish that Pandora’s Box was always sealed,
And that they could vacuum all their problem back into it.
There would be no necessity
For Hope, would there?
Just like Spring after Winter,
If they were uplifted and thawed by reforms
And the aid that they need,
They would develop so much,
In turn helping their nation develop,
By their increased productivity.
This would secure another arm of the love triangle.
All human lives valued,
Better gender equality,
Consensus between races,
Distinction in birth overlooked,
Every voice heard,
Faces in the crowd recognised,
Great education facilities,
Healthcare to be unbiased,
Isolation and depression combated,
Jaded countries energised,
Kingdoms awakened,
L-shaped recoveries smoothened,
Minorities recognised,
Nutrition necessitated,
Omnipresence of tolerance,
Poverty issues addressed,
Quite hilarious, isn’t it,
Reading about the ruckus actually being sorted?
Seemingly difficult, isn’t it,
To even imagine how this would happen?
Unbelievable, isn’t it, the very
Vehemence of our beliefs?
Why and how can this happen?
X out the negatives,
Yes to the positives, with
Zeal, passion, and nerves of steel. (and maybe just a little bit of pixie dust)
Any change that can be slowly, but surely brought about just needs faith and a lot of support. The very beginning is by overcoming the inertia that is possessed and moving towards the goal of betterment of society by development and economic stability that in turn affect and are affected by human rights through a symbiotic relationship.
Silhouettes Of The Past
Suhas R Vaidya, reporting from the United Nations Peace Building Commission (UNPBC), draws parallels to the condition in the Sahel region with a story set in a dynamic landscape in the near future.
“Hurry up, dad! Let’s go!” shouted my daughter, as I sloppily lazed towards the petite, but well-scented foyer that was tucked behind the Oxygen Refilling Banks (ORBs) of our apartment complex. It was Sunday; the one day of the week when the Association would open the roof for us to look at the moon and stars. I washed my face and comfortably rested on the recliner sofa. Makena enthusiastically placed her head on my shoulders as I kissed her forehead and wrapped my arms around her.
Despite the world praising me for the housing designs that I helped draft, my best and most beautiful creation was Makena.
“So, 50 years ago in the year 2025, the world was totally different from how it is today,” I began.
It was story time. Sunday nights were meant for Makena and me, as we spent time doing things we loved the most. She had heard about something called ‘seasons’ and had asked me about it. I promised I would explain it in today’s story.
“We actually lived in the open, breathing actual air, and bathing in the warmth of the bright, blazing sun. The trees swayed along with the rhythm of the gentle breeze about the oasis and the sands around us were illuminated with life. The nights were a seduction of the starry skies and the infinite dunes, with echoes of the wolves’ howls transcending the cold, dry yet pleasant wind.”
“Whoa,” exclaimed Makena.
Well yes, those were really the days I tell you!
“Nature’s elements romanced together to project what we used to call the ‘seasons’. Broadly, there were four Seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter.”
Makena loved history and was deemed a scholarly in her grade-level regarding aspects of our beautiful continent.
So, I thought it would be best that I explained this abstract concept of ‘Seasons’ to her, through the means she loved the most.
“The first season, ‘spring’, was the month of celebration—of vitality and vivacity. Remember you had learnt about Sahel’s intricate and rich diversity? How the various nations possessed rich and varied cultures? How the tribes and mountain-men lived in their solitary communities, folded right into nature’s embrace? Prosperity is the word. We prospered with respect to human resources and in terms of co-existence, amidst a hoard of different people. Our roots went deep into the ground and were fed by the energy and liveliness of our souls. It was a season that brought out the best in everyone and kick-started our lives with a clean mindset.
At that moment a clear sparkle emerged in Makena’s eye, and it really poured happiness into my heart.
“Wow dad! That sounds awesome! Go on, go on!”
“All right! The next season lined up for you is ‘summer’. Remember the videos you watch every day in Geography class? The vast deserts, the lucid and crystal clear skies, the blue surge of the Nile in Sudan; everything that you see in the holograms are examples of what Summer feels like. Idyllic is the word. It portrayed the rustic tone of our country side and was a sleek continuation of the Spring. The sun’s scorching heat raged onto our dark skins.”
Makena ran her digits across my arm and felt the mark left behind by the nostalgia of the summer. Only I could see that it was beginning to leave a mark on her too. Her smile prompted me to move on.
“The searing heat of the summer sun receded and we found respite with the entry of autumn into our lives. This season, for me, was very special. It reminded me of the numerous brave sacrifices made by our ancestors who had laid down their lives to fight discrimination, slavery, and other social evils to climb up the social ladder in the world’s eyes. They mirrored the descent of dry leaves off of the trees’ branches. Each fallen leaf represented a Sahelian soul who died contributing to the welfare and betterment of our societies. Its journey down to the ground, pulled by gravity, inspires me to think that we must depart the world with some significant contribution to others.”
Makena’s grip tightened. She probably felt the herculean weight of feeling long-lost emotions that I was feeling from my past; I do not blame her.
I wiped off the solitary drop of sweat that dripped down her jaw line and caressed her hair.
“Finally, winter. Winter was the time that balanced all the experiences of the year out. The cold, biting weather sprung a sense of contrast with the spring. It represented the difficult decisions we had to take in order to reach this stage of peace and harmony—the alliances we had to make, the alliances we had to break—they were all a reflection the state of affairs at that point of time. It is just like how the difficulties we face at the end of a year are a reflection of the choices we make throughout the year. Our current peace came at a great cost of lives.”
Makena’s face changed to a more mature and serious expression. I could sense that she felt a surge of respect for her past. I knew that she was determined to channelise the same to do good for her nation ahead.
Makena jumped off my lap, hugged me tight and briskly walked away across the hallway. Her demeanour had changed. She felt a unique sense of realisation and understanding.
The vicious cycle of seasons represent the ever-changing ideas and sea of emotions within people. When directed correctly, they can either make peace, or break war. My Makena saw a new dimension in life. She was literally a more seasoned person.
In The Streets Of Mali
Reporting from the United Nations Peacebuilding Commission (UNPBC), Venkatesh Eleswarapu describes a scene in accordance with the events that happened before and after the Mali Conflict and the search for peace.
The vendors can be seen selling lentil and rice,
The musicians can be seen playing bongos and guitars,
The merchants can be seen displaying daggers and mirrors;
Just a normal day at the bazaar.
The kids are running around chasing each other,
The adults are negotiating with the sellers,
A car stops and six men wearing masks and carrying guns come out,
Shots are fired in the air and everyone starts shouting and running for their lives,
The unlucky ones get shot at and drop dead on the ground, like a feuille morte.
The act was a part of the uprising by a radical organisation,
Fighting to make this area of Mali an independent homeland for the Tuareg people,
The attacks continued and the rebels captured Northern Mali,
The Islamic groups started imposing the strict Sharia law;
Banning everything from the music to the booze.
The Malian forces were driven out of Northern Mali,
The streets of Mali once filled with laughter and joy,
Were now a bloodstained battleground,
The Malian government now turned to France for help.
The French troops arrived along with forces of other African Union states,
Operations against the Islamist organisation began,
Northern Mali was re-taken by the Malian military,
A peace treaty was signed between the Government and the Tuareg rebels.
Just two months later, the Tuareg rebels pulled out of the peace treaty,
Accusing the Government for not respecting its commitments to the truce,
The fighting started again between the two,
The treaty had a dalliance with peace.
The conflict officially ended around two years later,
But the occasional terrorist attacks still occur,
The innocents lose their lives and the rebels laugh at their sacrifices,
Peace cries in solitude.
The musicians can be seen playing bongos and guitars,
The merchants can be seen displaying daggers and mirrors;
Just a normal day at the bazaar.
The kids are running around chasing each other,
The adults are negotiating with the sellers,
A car stops and six men wearing masks and carrying guns come out,
Shots are fired in the air and everyone starts shouting and running for their lives,
The unlucky ones get shot at and drop dead on the ground, like a feuille morte.
The act was a part of the uprising by a radical organisation,
Fighting to make this area of Mali an independent homeland for the Tuareg people,
The attacks continued and the rebels captured Northern Mali,
The Islamic groups started imposing the strict Sharia law;
Banning everything from the music to the booze.
The Malian forces were driven out of Northern Mali,
The streets of Mali once filled with laughter and joy,
Were now a bloodstained battleground,
The Malian government now turned to France for help.
The French troops arrived along with forces of other African Union states,
Operations against the Islamist organisation began,
Northern Mali was re-taken by the Malian military,
A peace treaty was signed between the Government and the Tuareg rebels.
Just two months later, the Tuareg rebels pulled out of the peace treaty,
Accusing the Government for not respecting its commitments to the truce,
The fighting started again between the two,
The treaty had a dalliance with peace.
The conflict officially ended around two years later,
But the occasional terrorist attacks still occur,
The innocents lose their lives and the rebels laugh at their sacrifices,
Peace cries in solitude.
A Token Of Warmth
While the committee discussed their views concerning the plight of the citizens of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan (Afghanistan), the reporter heard a very faint voice whispering in her ear, offering their own perspective. Shruthi Sundar, reporting from the 1988 Sanctions Committee of the United Nation Security Council (UNSC), offers a transcript of this monologue.
I do not know how long I have been alive; time seems to elapse quickly when one is immortal. Months feel like minutes, and years become days. Kingdoms rise and fall, mimicking the path of the Sun as it makes its way across the sky in a span of twenty-four hours. An era may even come to a close while I rest my incorporeal eyes for a moment, and I would be none the wiser. Rarely are the events and sentiments of a time period everlasting in my memory.
At least, that is how it used to be.
They call me Afghanistan. I was born of the Mother Earth, blessed with her vast collection of minerals and bountiful oil reserves and equally cursed with her unpleasantly arid features. My consciousness drifts beneath the surface walked upon by the humans that consider me their home. While their voices once easily drowned in the timelessness of my existence, their increasingly loud cries of anger and terror have grown difficult to ignore.
In my mind, the last five decades of the contemporary era have nearly blurred together as a single year with distinct seasons—each characterised by a series of events that drastically morphed my landscape and people into entities I no longer recognise. I hope you pay attention, dear reporter, as I take you on a melancholic journey that celebrates, yet mourns, the beauty of human life and death.
The onset of spring was marked with an uprising against the monarchy that ruled over my surface by a man set to bring about economic and social changes that were long overdue. His failure in doing so brought the swift action of karma, as his own people assassinated him, marking a second uprising within the same decade. While the season of spring symbolises sowing the seeds of change, it is not often that the sown seeds are replaced so quickly.
Newly-appointed and excited to become a revolutionary, the next leader invited summer to the land in his dalliance with my sister Russia during her Soviet phase. Eager to please the people residing upon her surface, he replaced the existing traditional laws of my land with ones that closely resembled those of the Soviets. This relationship, with all the drama and intensity of a summer romance, brought trouble for my people as they were divided in their political opinions.
This steady descent to violence marked a transition from instability in the government to a furiously fought war. Much like the leaves of trees that shift from the green of life to the brown of death during autumn, the chaos that erupted on my surface formed rivers of blood as the followers of the green religion acted upon their righteous anger. The eventual withdrawal of the Soviets, however, was not enough to quell the violence.
My psyche has been burdened with an incessant headache for far too long as the cacophony of gunshots and screams reached a crescendo with the arrival of winter and continues to remain at that volume. My people—unable to trust their own governance and wary of foreign mechanisms—are overwhelmed with a sense of solitude, as they are left to ensure their own safety despite foreign intervention. Groups threatening the security of my residents blow frigid winds of desolation over my now wintry landscape.
But, despite their plight, I will not weep for my people; for while I do not know how long I have been alive, I have lived long enough to know that the fertile and sunny season of spring always follows the cold of winter. Relay this to my people, reporter. Convey my reassurance and provide them with the necessary strength to tide over these icy times through the warmth of my faith. For, without faith, one cannot expect to see the edge of tomorrow—let alone the dawn of a warmer era.
At least, that is how it used to be.
They call me Afghanistan. I was born of the Mother Earth, blessed with her vast collection of minerals and bountiful oil reserves and equally cursed with her unpleasantly arid features. My consciousness drifts beneath the surface walked upon by the humans that consider me their home. While their voices once easily drowned in the timelessness of my existence, their increasingly loud cries of anger and terror have grown difficult to ignore.
In my mind, the last five decades of the contemporary era have nearly blurred together as a single year with distinct seasons—each characterised by a series of events that drastically morphed my landscape and people into entities I no longer recognise. I hope you pay attention, dear reporter, as I take you on a melancholic journey that celebrates, yet mourns, the beauty of human life and death.
The onset of spring was marked with an uprising against the monarchy that ruled over my surface by a man set to bring about economic and social changes that were long overdue. His failure in doing so brought the swift action of karma, as his own people assassinated him, marking a second uprising within the same decade. While the season of spring symbolises sowing the seeds of change, it is not often that the sown seeds are replaced so quickly.
Newly-appointed and excited to become a revolutionary, the next leader invited summer to the land in his dalliance with my sister Russia during her Soviet phase. Eager to please the people residing upon her surface, he replaced the existing traditional laws of my land with ones that closely resembled those of the Soviets. This relationship, with all the drama and intensity of a summer romance, brought trouble for my people as they were divided in their political opinions.
This steady descent to violence marked a transition from instability in the government to a furiously fought war. Much like the leaves of trees that shift from the green of life to the brown of death during autumn, the chaos that erupted on my surface formed rivers of blood as the followers of the green religion acted upon their righteous anger. The eventual withdrawal of the Soviets, however, was not enough to quell the violence.
My psyche has been burdened with an incessant headache for far too long as the cacophony of gunshots and screams reached a crescendo with the arrival of winter and continues to remain at that volume. My people—unable to trust their own governance and wary of foreign mechanisms—are overwhelmed with a sense of solitude, as they are left to ensure their own safety despite foreign intervention. Groups threatening the security of my residents blow frigid winds of desolation over my now wintry landscape.
But, despite their plight, I will not weep for my people; for while I do not know how long I have been alive, I have lived long enough to know that the fertile and sunny season of spring always follows the cold of winter. Relay this to my people, reporter. Convey my reassurance and provide them with the necessary strength to tide over these icy times through the warmth of my faith. For, without faith, one cannot expect to see the edge of tomorrow—let alone the dawn of a warmer era.
Seek And Ye Shall Find
By providing the same opportunities to women and men in all kinds of activities, a sustainable path towards development can be achieved. But when it is not provided, one must never hesitate to ask for help. Ashwini Rajanikanth, reporting from United Nations Women (UN Women), writes a piece on how strong women seeking help, not only save themselves, but everyone else too.
When you look up at the sky,
Do you see the luminous stars shining in the dark?
You and I,
We are also like stars,
In the season of spring.
Where the nights feel too dark
And the mornings seem too bleak.
Your daily cups of caffeine simply keep increasing,
And the pages in your diary will soon get over,
All thanks to your urge to vent it all out.
You open your phone a million times,
To text someone.
Your mom, your dad, your sister, your best friend.
You want to tell them,
That it suddenly feels like a winter night.
That you are falling into this pit
Where everything is too dark.
You’re all alone,
And all you can think about is death.
But, you can’t.
You sit there, on your bed,
Hiding from your own existence,
wondering if it is time to give up.
But, there is still a part of you
That has a very soft voice,
whispering to you to push yourself, because you can.
That the fallen leaves,
grow back when the time is right.
But you’re trying to suppress that part, aren’t you?
Don’t.
Sometimes it’s okay to ask for help,
You might not know it,
But everyone will be there for you.
By staying alive,
You can let humans love you and support you.
By asking for help,
You’re saving yourself,
And everyone else too.
Never forget,
That you are a star.
Perhaps, you are more than that.
You are waiting for a universe,
When every wound you have bleeds galaxies.
You have to shine brightly, therefore, so that the darkness can’t come
Around you anymore.
And, honestly,
We are all there.
A text,
A call,
A knock on the door;
Anything would work.
But, don’t let go.
Not for us, not for yourself,
But to see the azure sky of a summer morning again,
For that lovely life that exists, is for you to conquer.
The Colour Of Everything
As of the year 2019, only seven countries in the world have banned conversion therapy. Women belonging to the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender (LGBT) community are most likely to suffer from acts of physical and sexual violence as compared to the general demographic; a lot of which has been justified by claiming “religious freedom”. Kaavya Ganesh, reporting from United Nations Women, looks through the eyes of an LGBT woman.
BLEAK
She is White—the woman at the college. It is spring break. She catches the bus home. She sits near the window seat and stares out at the world. Colours fill her vision. She takes it all in like a sponge—the bright yellow of the sun; the bright green of the trees; the bright blue of the sky; the bright red of her girlfriend's lipstick.
She is White and she pales in comparison.
The bus is a dark brown. The people in it are a dark burgundy.
She lives with her mother. Her mother is grey. Her religion is grey. Her pastor is grey. Her pastor speaks to her mother about White's red friend. He sees red. Her mother sees red.
She takes in all the grey like a sponge. She is White, but she is black at the core. She has to become white. If she can only take the grey in faster. If she can only push the red out faster. If only she can be white sooner.
She cannot focus on anything other than the re–grey. Grey. Grey. Focus. Grey. Her vision becomes blotches of grey and red. They struggle against each other. Her therapist is Dr. Dark Grey. He... helps. He helps. He is helping her push the red out of her. He coaxes the red out of her. He beats the red out of her.
Her God is white. She is White too. But why does everyone around her tell her otherwise?
She is surrounded by the bleak spring flowers. Bleak spring sky. Bleak spring trees.
DALLIANCE
White finishes college. She finishes therapy. She has finally been rid of all her red and black. She is tired from all the getting-rid-of that she had to do. She is fragile, but she is fine. She is all white—like a paper. White and fragile.
She looks forward to the summer ahead of her and her rigorous college routine. She has no time for involvement in any activity other than her course work, no matter how brief it might be. She goes to the coffee shop to write her assignments. The barista asks her for her name and she gives it. It still feels wrong but she shakes it off. She goes to collect her coffee from the barista. She pauses.
The barista has a red streak in her hair.
She does not know what to do. She drops the coffee and runs out of the coffee shop. She leans against the traffic light, breathing heavily. What happened to getting rid of all the red? What happened to getting rid of all the sin? Her white God would not permit this; or so everyone who is grey around her, says.
She feels a hand on her shoulder. The traffic light changes to red. The traffic stops. She looks into the black eyes of the red girl. She sees warmth. How is black warm? Her core was black. She got rid of the black. She was told that her core was cold and evil. Like the winter. But this was summer, and her core was warm like the red girl's eyes.
How can black be warm?
The brief dalliance with the red girl with the black eyes has changed her again. She has doubts. She does not understand all these colours. She is White like paper and has been torn apart in trying to understand.
BUCOLIC
It is Autumn. She is on a road trip to the neighbouring country. She is on a semester abroad in Europe. The trees stretch in front of her lazily. Brown. Her car rolls down the road idyllically. Blue. She stops and pulls the car over to the side. She steps out into the brown grass and looks into the blue sky, a speck of white against the backdrop. She has her book with her. She lays down on the field to read. She raises the book in front of her face and squints at the white book. The yellow sun blinds her. She walks back to her car after an hour. She sees another therapist now. His name is Dr. Light Red. He helps. He definitely helps. He helps her deals with the red and grey inside her. He coaxes the red and grey to get along. He beats... he does not beat. He talks. He listens. His hair is smooth and silver. And she sees silver.
She steps outside the office and takes in a deep breath. It smells like fall. The brown leaves fall from the brown trees. She waits for her black core to torment her. She sees instead, that the black was sliver all along. Silver core. Red heart. White body. The black was in her mother; her Pastor; the other therapist. The black mixed with their white and made them grey.
She is in her blue car, driving through the bucolic roads. She sees sliver and she grabs it with both her hands.
CANDESCENCE
She lifts up her sign—bright red and silver in a white body. She is in a sea of red and pink. A sea of raised signs with red slogans. She pulls her black coat around her as the silver wind whistles past her. It feels like a hug. It feels like the warm embrace of love. It is love. She feels a warm, red winter jacket holding her hand and linking her fingers with theirs. She smiles at her red girlfriend. She knows. She knows now and she is so sure of it; more than she has ever been about anything before. She shouts her truth at the top of her lungs, only to have a whole sea of red and pink shout her truth with her. She soaks it all in like a sponge.
She is White. The snow is white. The wind is silver. But her heart is bright red and glowing. Her black eyes are luminous and warm.
The winter is cold and the snow is white but she emits candescence. The winter is cold and the snow is white and she is all White like her God.
She finally fits in.
She is White—the woman at the college. It is spring break. She catches the bus home. She sits near the window seat and stares out at the world. Colours fill her vision. She takes it all in like a sponge—the bright yellow of the sun; the bright green of the trees; the bright blue of the sky; the bright red of her girlfriend's lipstick.
She is White and she pales in comparison.
The bus is a dark brown. The people in it are a dark burgundy.
She lives with her mother. Her mother is grey. Her religion is grey. Her pastor is grey. Her pastor speaks to her mother about White's red friend. He sees red. Her mother sees red.
She takes in all the grey like a sponge. She is White, but she is black at the core. She has to become white. If she can only take the grey in faster. If she can only push the red out faster. If only she can be white sooner.
She cannot focus on anything other than the re–grey. Grey. Grey. Focus. Grey. Her vision becomes blotches of grey and red. They struggle against each other. Her therapist is Dr. Dark Grey. He... helps. He helps. He is helping her push the red out of her. He coaxes the red out of her. He beats the red out of her.
Her God is white. She is White too. But why does everyone around her tell her otherwise?
She is surrounded by the bleak spring flowers. Bleak spring sky. Bleak spring trees.
DALLIANCE
White finishes college. She finishes therapy. She has finally been rid of all her red and black. She is tired from all the getting-rid-of that she had to do. She is fragile, but she is fine. She is all white—like a paper. White and fragile.
She looks forward to the summer ahead of her and her rigorous college routine. She has no time for involvement in any activity other than her course work, no matter how brief it might be. She goes to the coffee shop to write her assignments. The barista asks her for her name and she gives it. It still feels wrong but she shakes it off. She goes to collect her coffee from the barista. She pauses.
The barista has a red streak in her hair.
She does not know what to do. She drops the coffee and runs out of the coffee shop. She leans against the traffic light, breathing heavily. What happened to getting rid of all the red? What happened to getting rid of all the sin? Her white God would not permit this; or so everyone who is grey around her, says.
She feels a hand on her shoulder. The traffic light changes to red. The traffic stops. She looks into the black eyes of the red girl. She sees warmth. How is black warm? Her core was black. She got rid of the black. She was told that her core was cold and evil. Like the winter. But this was summer, and her core was warm like the red girl's eyes.
How can black be warm?
The brief dalliance with the red girl with the black eyes has changed her again. She has doubts. She does not understand all these colours. She is White like paper and has been torn apart in trying to understand.
BUCOLIC
It is Autumn. She is on a road trip to the neighbouring country. She is on a semester abroad in Europe. The trees stretch in front of her lazily. Brown. Her car rolls down the road idyllically. Blue. She stops and pulls the car over to the side. She steps out into the brown grass and looks into the blue sky, a speck of white against the backdrop. She has her book with her. She lays down on the field to read. She raises the book in front of her face and squints at the white book. The yellow sun blinds her. She walks back to her car after an hour. She sees another therapist now. His name is Dr. Light Red. He helps. He definitely helps. He helps her deals with the red and grey inside her. He coaxes the red and grey to get along. He beats... he does not beat. He talks. He listens. His hair is smooth and silver. And she sees silver.
She steps outside the office and takes in a deep breath. It smells like fall. The brown leaves fall from the brown trees. She waits for her black core to torment her. She sees instead, that the black was sliver all along. Silver core. Red heart. White body. The black was in her mother; her Pastor; the other therapist. The black mixed with their white and made them grey.
She is in her blue car, driving through the bucolic roads. She sees sliver and she grabs it with both her hands.
CANDESCENCE
She lifts up her sign—bright red and silver in a white body. She is in a sea of red and pink. A sea of raised signs with red slogans. She pulls her black coat around her as the silver wind whistles past her. It feels like a hug. It feels like the warm embrace of love. It is love. She feels a warm, red winter jacket holding her hand and linking her fingers with theirs. She smiles at her red girlfriend. She knows. She knows now and she is so sure of it; more than she has ever been about anything before. She shouts her truth at the top of her lungs, only to have a whole sea of red and pink shout her truth with her. She soaks it all in like a sponge.
She is White. The snow is white. The wind is silver. But her heart is bright red and glowing. Her black eyes are luminous and warm.
The winter is cold and the snow is white but she emits candescence. The winter is cold and the snow is white and she is all White like her God.
She finally fits in.
Tidal Wave
Reporting from the World Health Organisation (WHO), Meghna Muralidharan writes a poem on the stages of depression and how it goes unnoticed.
It started out small,
She first lost her appetite.
She could go days without eating,
And she didn’t particularly mind.
People said she looked great;
She didn’t miss food quite that much.
She denied she was feeling down;
Always in a constant battle with her own mind,
She denied it vehemently.
This blossomed into rage:
Furious that she couldn’t control her own mind:
Her thinking.
Finally, she transitioned into depression.
She would lie in bed:
Day in and day out,
Preferring solitude and darkness.
She would entertain a lot of dark thoughts
And take pleasure in it.
Her inner demon encouraged and approved.
The dalliance between her demon and her
Turned into a turbulent affair.
She had forfeited her rights to her thinking:
To her individuality.
She had given up hope on life:
Given up on her desire for a better life.
And so, she joined the 800,000 people,
Who waited on the other side of the torturous world.
She first lost her appetite.
She could go days without eating,
And she didn’t particularly mind.
People said she looked great;
She didn’t miss food quite that much.
She denied she was feeling down;
Always in a constant battle with her own mind,
She denied it vehemently.
This blossomed into rage:
Furious that she couldn’t control her own mind:
Her thinking.
Finally, she transitioned into depression.
She would lie in bed:
Day in and day out,
Preferring solitude and darkness.
She would entertain a lot of dark thoughts
And take pleasure in it.
Her inner demon encouraged and approved.
The dalliance between her demon and her
Turned into a turbulent affair.
She had forfeited her rights to her thinking:
To her individuality.
She had given up hope on life:
Given up on her desire for a better life.
And so, she joined the 800,000 people,
Who waited on the other side of the torturous world.
Take the Wheel
Reporting from the World Health Organisation (WHO), Rajnandini Singh weaves a tale of a mentally ill patient suffering from Dissociative identity Disorder (DID).
Matilda
It is a beautiful morning! The sun is out and there is a faint scent of daffodils in the air. Brian could not have chosen a better day to hand me the reigns. I should go on a picnic and invite her too. I like her; she is warm.
I found the best spot to set up the picnic, right by the river in the cool breeze. She is taking a swim in the river; she loves to swim backwards. It is such a pretty scene—her pale skin against the dark waters of the river. I wish I could preserve her like this: beautiful and serene. No, I can. I can preserve her like this, in the water. She just has to stay in the water forever. Yes, it would be so beautiful.
“You know what to do”. No. he is back. The devil he will make me do bad things. I need Brian. But Brian is not here. So, I get into the water with her. “It is nice and cool”, she says to me. “Only as long as you swim though. Drowning, now that always burns you”, I reply. “Silly”, she says and turns away. That is when I grab her head and pull her down into the water with me. She is gasping for air, but I am calm. Soon the water will fill our lungs, hers before mine. And then it will start to burn. As we struggle for air, flailing in the deep waters. And it gets hotter, constricting our tracheas. It feels like a hot sauna, and now like touching flame. Our lungs accept the water now and the burning simmers, before it starts up again. A sweltering flame inside this frail body, holding on now and then letting go.
Jacob
I woke up this morning feeling burnt from the inside. Of course, I never have any recollection of where Matilda has been. And I do not much care, I take up from where she left off. I have an interview today, I need to focus on that. If they like my designs I would be working for one of the best designers in the country! It is a nice day, like a fresh spring blossom. I hope that is a good sign. My lucky rayon yarn is in my pocket.
The interview is going well. “Your designs are unique indeed”, they say, “why do you wish to work with us”. “Because no other brand could do me justice”, I reply confidently. It is true, I am good at my work; all I need is a platform. “So, what do you expect from us?”, they ask after a pause. “New York would be the best place to launch my designs”, I say, and they burst out laughing. I touch my lucky yarn, holding on to hope. And then they throw my portfolio in the air. And before I know, the yarn is in out and around their neck, straining against their dark skin. Nerves pulsing, I can hear their heart beat racing, fluttering, slowing down. I know the others can see what I did, I was never the best at hiding. So, I turn to the empty room and say, “This is how you climb the ladder of prosperity”.
Casey
I wake up to the sound of Jacob’s last words still leaving my mouth. Someone had to stop him! But I was too late, I was always too late. But this is what I do, I pick up Jacob’s fallen pieces, his art and I leave office. I try to forget but I remember them all. Falling like autumn leaves, beautiful but not alive. I remember the moment the light leaves their eyes, I share that moment with Jacob—each of us calling the shots. But it does not matter because we want the same things.
Alec calls me his fallen angel, I try to be good, but it is always too tempting to give in. He says this is why I was made, to take the fall for the others. This was my 5th fall for Jacob.
Alec
Finally, I am back on the wheel. Matilda and Jacob are getting too reckless. I have to delegate their time to the others. Afterall I have to maintain the balance. I cannot let them run amuck and murder whoever they wish. James would be disappointed. He was there when no one else was, he is my friend, but he is weak now. So, I have to take charge. But I will keep James safe, his body at least. I cannot be like the others, outdoorsy like Matilda, eccentric like Jacob, innocent like Casey, childish like Luke or elegant like Miss Parker. I have to be cold. I have to keep them safe. I think and I calculate, and I let them out so they can have their fixes. And I feel what James would have felt. We are all different, but I am just full of the dark sadness that engulfed James all those years ago. And so, I remain bleak, waiting for the same darkness to take me as well. I know it will not, I am not James, I was not born, I was never a child. I was just Alec, here because James needed a friend to kill for him. Otherwise he would have let the doctor put him in a ‘care facility’, in prison. He needed me, like they need me now.
It is a beautiful morning! The sun is out and there is a faint scent of daffodils in the air. Brian could not have chosen a better day to hand me the reigns. I should go on a picnic and invite her too. I like her; she is warm.
I found the best spot to set up the picnic, right by the river in the cool breeze. She is taking a swim in the river; she loves to swim backwards. It is such a pretty scene—her pale skin against the dark waters of the river. I wish I could preserve her like this: beautiful and serene. No, I can. I can preserve her like this, in the water. She just has to stay in the water forever. Yes, it would be so beautiful.
“You know what to do”. No. he is back. The devil he will make me do bad things. I need Brian. But Brian is not here. So, I get into the water with her. “It is nice and cool”, she says to me. “Only as long as you swim though. Drowning, now that always burns you”, I reply. “Silly”, she says and turns away. That is when I grab her head and pull her down into the water with me. She is gasping for air, but I am calm. Soon the water will fill our lungs, hers before mine. And then it will start to burn. As we struggle for air, flailing in the deep waters. And it gets hotter, constricting our tracheas. It feels like a hot sauna, and now like touching flame. Our lungs accept the water now and the burning simmers, before it starts up again. A sweltering flame inside this frail body, holding on now and then letting go.
Jacob
I woke up this morning feeling burnt from the inside. Of course, I never have any recollection of where Matilda has been. And I do not much care, I take up from where she left off. I have an interview today, I need to focus on that. If they like my designs I would be working for one of the best designers in the country! It is a nice day, like a fresh spring blossom. I hope that is a good sign. My lucky rayon yarn is in my pocket.
The interview is going well. “Your designs are unique indeed”, they say, “why do you wish to work with us”. “Because no other brand could do me justice”, I reply confidently. It is true, I am good at my work; all I need is a platform. “So, what do you expect from us?”, they ask after a pause. “New York would be the best place to launch my designs”, I say, and they burst out laughing. I touch my lucky yarn, holding on to hope. And then they throw my portfolio in the air. And before I know, the yarn is in out and around their neck, straining against their dark skin. Nerves pulsing, I can hear their heart beat racing, fluttering, slowing down. I know the others can see what I did, I was never the best at hiding. So, I turn to the empty room and say, “This is how you climb the ladder of prosperity”.
Casey
I wake up to the sound of Jacob’s last words still leaving my mouth. Someone had to stop him! But I was too late, I was always too late. But this is what I do, I pick up Jacob’s fallen pieces, his art and I leave office. I try to forget but I remember them all. Falling like autumn leaves, beautiful but not alive. I remember the moment the light leaves their eyes, I share that moment with Jacob—each of us calling the shots. But it does not matter because we want the same things.
Alec calls me his fallen angel, I try to be good, but it is always too tempting to give in. He says this is why I was made, to take the fall for the others. This was my 5th fall for Jacob.
Alec
Finally, I am back on the wheel. Matilda and Jacob are getting too reckless. I have to delegate their time to the others. Afterall I have to maintain the balance. I cannot let them run amuck and murder whoever they wish. James would be disappointed. He was there when no one else was, he is my friend, but he is weak now. So, I have to take charge. But I will keep James safe, his body at least. I cannot be like the others, outdoorsy like Matilda, eccentric like Jacob, innocent like Casey, childish like Luke or elegant like Miss Parker. I have to be cold. I have to keep them safe. I think and I calculate, and I let them out so they can have their fixes. And I feel what James would have felt. We are all different, but I am just full of the dark sadness that engulfed James all those years ago. And so, I remain bleak, waiting for the same darkness to take me as well. I know it will not, I am not James, I was not born, I was never a child. I was just Alec, here because James needed a friend to kill for him. Otherwise he would have let the doctor put him in a ‘care facility’, in prison. He needed me, like they need me now.