The 27th Founders' Issue of AVE

27th Founders ’ Issue

(n.) a short introduction to a book

foreword.

Words are drops of blood. They cluster together, flowing a red river. Painful, uncomfortable, but cathartic. Poets and muses and readers often bleed a thousand times over, only to be stitched back together yet again, by other kinds of words. Art is what bleeds, and art is what heals.

To choose when to bleed is perhaps the most beautiful thing left to do in life. To choose what makes you break, retch, cry, laugh, live incredulously. A movie famously birthed the quote, “But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”

Sapiens live by bleeding rivers that run to the borders of our soul and the ends of the universe. This is our river. Perhaps it will be yours too.

The flowers are never stalks of hope, The reflections are never mirrors of truth; For they are the mere whispers of the universe ‘Tis your magical mind that declares their worth.

Cups of Contents

pg 4. in time pg 6. what would i know?

pg 24. batch spread pg 26. abey awards pg 29. the four seasons pg 39. house speaks pg 46. 私を信じて- a manga

pg 7. travelogue pg 14. classique pg 15. storyblog pg 20. photo romance pg 22. to you, who chase the moon

In The Time

Iwrite this at a sad time for my country. After a reign of 70 years, the Queen’s life has come peacefully to its end. The clocks do not stop. A new monarch instantly takes the throne. Life goes relentlessly on. But an era reaches its end. A vast majority of British citizens have never known anything other than ‘ God save the Queen’; all the physical details that they are used to - coins, stamps, titles, notices, insignia - have to be changed. So it is a moment of poise and reflection, and at the same time there is anticipation of different ways and times ahead: we shall now sing, say or shout ‘God save the King.’

Such is the way of institutions, of which a monarchy is but one. We can only operate as individuals in the world which we know, so Founders’ 2022 will become part of our history, yet it is also a balancing moment in AVS’s annual life. Time to recognise achievement, time to demonstrate what can be done; and a time to look ahead to the promise of the future. Also, these shifts in history, as well as being landmarks in the life of an institution like our School, are times for learning.

With the Queen, one can recall with astonishment 70 years of unrelenting devotion to duty and service. The happy girl and the young woman who had played an active role in the last years of World War 2, just recently married, suddenly found herself at the age of 25 confronted with an existence that was changed forever; she had lost her beloved father and for 70 years she never wavered in her daily commitment to the responsibilities which she alone could bear. That concept, example, of dedication and service was an inspiration, globally as well as nationally.

So, in our own ways - whether putting the final touches to another issue of AVE, or contributing creatively to the wellbeing of the School, or demonstrating loyalty, compassion, empathy with those around us - we can each of us do our little bit to enhance and benefit the life of our community, be it school or family or institution or even nation.

Ave to AVE.

What would I know?

-Kekhriesino Meyase, Editor-In-Chief, 2022 Illustration by Ssara Jha, XI

Truth. What truth do I have left to give out to the Room that has moulded me into the girl I am today? What other truth do I have left to give out to the teacher who has taught me more about the secrets of the universe than history ever can? What other truth do I have to squeeze out of myself to give it to the girl who shares half my soul? What other truth can I spill out of myself until I bleed to death and give it to the people who have shown me what love and true friendship feel like even when I have sobbed endless nights feeling like I am undeserving of such a thing? What other truth do I have left for it to be enough?

I often wonder how it would feel to have people listen to my musings like I was Caesar or Newton or Churchill or anyone. Anyone but me. Would I feel like the greatest orator ever? Would I feel primal? Would the stars shine brighter? Would the world come to a halt? The list can go on and on, a neverending loop of possibilities and hope. But reality sinks in. Because I am not a Caesar or Newton or Churchill. I need to scream out to the oblivion, begging for someone to hear my truth. The answers. The remnants. The chaos. I am simply a girl.

Will there ever be an answer to the musings of an eighteen-year-old girl who has hardly seen the world? How do I scream it to the unknown that this is all there is left? How do I tell the shadows that linger around longer than they should that this is the truth? The endless nights of slog is the truth.

The drools on the mattress, the stains of paint on the wooden cupboard, the coffee-stained mugs, all of these are the truth. The leftovers of granola and banana chips on the table after a long day, the PostIt notes stuck in the most uncanny corners of the Room, the asymmetrical alignment of the red chairs we nest on, the sound of the keyboard as we type, the ruckus and mess of laptop chargers holed up in one side of the Room. How do I put it across that these imperfections are the truth? How do I, a speck in the wide universe, tell them that this is the truth? My truth. The truth of being an Editor in a place she believed she never really belonged to.

-Mr David Summerscale Chairman, Governing Body, The Assam Valley School

Illustration by Hana Ahmed, XI

Love Letters

-Hiyaneijemmy Das, Deputy Editor, 2022

Illustration by Imnalemla Imchen, XI

It is terrifying writing what I have come to believe is one of the most important things I will ever write. There are far too many things to say, and far too few words. There is not enough time. I am afraid, but I am so grateful. This is my love letter to the Room. You are the first place that I stepped into in this unfamiliar land. You are the first place that felt like home. You have sheltered me at my weakest, and have always been the moments of my proudest, happiest. Words fail to explain how much a space could mean to me.

What an honour it has been to call this place one where I belong. For I will never cease to be fascinated by the sheer rapidity of the talent, imagination, and magic that bounces off our walls. Isn’t it so incredible that I can believe that certain ideas would be interesting to explore, and less than a week later they have been explored, written, illustrated, designed, and published? This transformation from a fleeting idea to a tangible work of passion and art, week in and week out, boggles my mind each time.

I have mulled over this piece of my heart now put to words for days, writing in different locations. Each time, something different has flitted across my mind, and everytime I try to grasp it, it flies ever so slightly out of reach. Always so much to say and so few words. But I sit here now, on the cold floor, and the lights of the Room softly spill out onto me through

the patched-up door. The point has never been the speed, the standard, the quality which we expect from ourselves, nor is it the aura of mystery- sometimes leading to intrigue, sometimes to indifference- that others see us through. It is the family I have made. The pain that fills me to see their tears. The joy that threatens to spill over watching them laugh at something completely stupid. The contentment I feel in reading my book and sipping my poorlymixed coffee while my family plays Dungeons and Dragons or watches anime in a corner. The challenge, and the reward, of writing and writing and writing. The conversations that I will never stop thanking my stars for.

It is impossible, it is simply impossible to explain what this place means to me. It is unfair that I have such little time, little chance, little hope of ever doing justice to the people and the Room that makes my heart feel too small for all it holds. I sincerely hope that every soul that walks upon this earth finds someone and something to love just as I have found my people and my place. There is so much beauty and pain to gain from life, and the four cream walls have gently nudged me towards it all. This must be what love feels like.

Travelogue

Wheels and windmills churn, swirls of steam arise from coffee cups and mountaintops, from beaches to hill towns, hotels to haunts, travel is balm for the soul.

Photograph: Suhani Agarwala, XII

mysore palace

by Ssara Jha, XI

The palatial columns shine in the humid daytime. The ceilings are adorned with art that hypnotizes. The rooms house elephants, thrones, portraits. They reek of history. Stepping into the main rooms compels you to imagine, just for a second, what it would feel like to live here, to be royalty. To be a Wadiyar of the Mysore Palace. Visions circle of running from the Diwan-i-Aam to the Diwan-i-Khas, spinning deliriously along the vast hallways, talking to all the goddesses on the ceilings, challenging all the portraits to who can stare the longest. Yet, you step out into the gardens and it hits you like a sucker punch: the history of it. An empire has revolved around this palace, a magnificent city has grown because of it. You are lost in such thoughts when the sun disappears and the lights are switched on. Your breath is lost yet again as the entire palace is illuminated in the most impossible way. The palace stands so regal.

bangalore

by Lairingdi Thaosen, XI

city perfumed by the dreams of the young and the tales of the old. You step along the streets- polished yet worn away- and think: how many stories are you hiding? It is dizzyingall of it- yet perhaps it is the dreams that paint the sky, everything feels like a homecoming. The road from Mysore to Bangalore is never-ending and there is so much life you are passing by. The metro runs above your head, at regular intervals. With an unfeeling rumble, it says, “I know everything about you.” The buildings are imposing but when the 6pm July sun falls on them, they melt into structures that have housed ideas and ambitions the entire day and are lulling you to go out, to go home. The street shops- small and wise- beckon with their single tube lights and light bulbs. The chai stalls waft along smells that root you to the spot. The horns rolling by and the people walking along make you muse, “Oh Bangalore, you devilish angel.”

Ametropolitan

Illustration

Illustration

hampi

Illustration by Ssara Jha, XI

Step off the bus, and into a world of centuries ago. Every stone is polished by the millions of hands that have felt their tales permeate through the ages. They were all just like you. The men of the temples that you now circle and pray in. The women who must have washed their clothes by the lake you now sit along. The children who bathed in the vast enclosures. The royals who sat on the very steps that you sit on, most definitely on top of the world. None of it feels real. These are temples, houses, animal cells, and guesthouses. These are buildings that you frequent today as well, but they belong to an age where all the frequenters, guests, people, have long turned to ash. It is impossible to stop ruminating about the sheer number of lives, wars, storms that this place has seen. But after a long walk spanning hours around this unbelievable place- what must have been a bustling city in its time- you wind up sitting atop the building where the royals held their audience. The wind blows ferociously, and you can see for miles. You are a God, and what a Kingdom to behold.

coorg

Illustration by Imnalemla Imchen, XI

along a winding path, poorly-chosen white shoes sink into the mud. A universe surrounds you, and the trail widens to a cluster of coffee plants. For your ordeal, a fresh cup of Kodagu filtered coffee coupled with just-plucked passionfruit. The journey takes you to a steaming pot of Coorgi pork and blistering Akki rotiswaiting in a packed room adorned with images of respected soldiers. You eat with your hands in the company of families that carry an air of duty and reserved joy. The roads are winding, weaving in and out of hills, rolling down and shooting back up- leading you to your favourite find. A coffee shop, nestled amidst the gardens. There are far too many coffees to try and dishes to gorge on. It is the homegrown Kodagu filtered coffee, however, that keeps stealing your heart. The scent is electrifying, and clings to you as you leave, bags and pockets full of coffee powder. The night settles in, the fog fills the air- crisp and stinging. You sit in the balcony looking out at this forlorn place, a million stories to tell.

Walking

12:05

in the absence of light

Written by Deubale Meru, XI Illustration by Limeka Ayemi, XII

She was Greece's nightmare. Her head was their trophy for becoming a Legend because she was a monster. Each time she died, cruel Athena resurrected her. Every time she had to fight a warrior who despised her. It must have been odd for the gods and animals. She was supposed to be a monster, devoid of love and longing, and robbed, incapable of being human. Blind to forgiveness. She was supposed to keep living her cursed life. Medusa, the stone snake, was her name. It must have been amusing to see her waiting for her lover by the lake while the sun scorched her scales. She was too stubborn to admit she was tired of waiting and wanted to slither across the land, searching for and holding her lover close. She'd rather her lover never left her sight. A promise, however, was a promise. 'Wait by the lake,' she'd said. 'I won't be away for long.' She'd met her about a year before, when she heard light, stumbling footsteps instead of the heavy footsteps of an armoured warrior, a rough intake of breath, and a war cry. She was a porcelain lady with short amber hair that burned in the sun. The biggest shock came when Medusa discovered she was blind.

Medusa, who had never met a human who did not turn to stone when she looked at them, was captivated by the woman. The woman was naive but brave. She told Medusa stories about the outside world, about the warriors who had sought her death and gone to their own instead. 'Too many people have died here, so they sent me to be the last sacrifice,' she'd explained. Day after day, month after month, Medusa kept her alive. They would hunt, eat, and sleep together in the same cave. Even when it wasn't necessary, they found themselves constantly in each other's company. Medusa and the woman eventually formed a bond in which voices and smells replaced their eyes. They discovered love in the absence of light.

'Medusa, will you not come to my aid, my dear?' The sweet, melodious voice of her lover called. She'd arrived at long last. She held a fruit basket in her arms. Her gown glistened in the light, and her smile was enticing. Medusa couldn't stop a smile from forming on her face. She slithered to her side, took the basket, and intertwined their hands affectionately.

It’s eleven thirty-seven at night. The wind is whistling through the trees of the forest I can see through the windows of my bedroom. The howling of the wind had always seemed rather ghostly to me. The house where I grew up, had across the road, a thick pine forest filled with weeds and wildflowers. On mornings the forest seemed inviting but, in the evenings, when the dying lights of the sun filtered in, it gave the ancient forest an enchanted feel. At night-fall, I would cower under my blanket at the haunting howling of the winds until the day it dawned upon me, that this to trees, was but a song. Ever since then, the breeze sailing through the forest has lulled me to sleep and given me an escape to a space free from small talk, social etiquette and awkward situations. My world. Just as I am drifting off to sleep today, I hear my bedroom door begin to open. I turn around to see what it was but see nothing there. Strange. The wind was comparatively roguish tonight. Or, so I thought. I give the idea a miss, turn on my side and shut my eyes. Something, however, did not feel quite right. There is a mist in the air. The aura of an unwelcoming presence. I had heard plenty of horror stories about that one house on Fifth Elm Street with the red roof. However, I thought it was all codswallop. Maybe, picking the supposedly haunted house on Fifth Elm Street to be my new home was not the smartest idea. It had met my budget and so here I was. ‘You are overthinking this,’ I tell myself. I force myself to try and sleep when I see something slither out my closet door and under my bed. I break into a cold sweat. This cannot be true. There are no

such things as ghosts! That’s what they tell you, don’t they? I nervously look underneath my bed, and find nothing. Relieved, I sit up only to find myself face to face with a woman with long, stained nails and matted hair. The last thing I saw was my alarm flashing 12:06 before she covered my mouth with her long, rotting nails- muffling my screams.

I sat up bolt upright, relieved that it was only a nightmare. My eyes fell to my bed-side clock which read 12:05. That was when I heard my closet door creak open.

Written by Aanya Paul Sarkar, IX Illustration by Limeka Ayemi, XII

Words cannot describe how much the picture displayed means to me. In essence, this picture was my whole childhood. Everything-from the classic FIFA 14 game that dominated my leisure time, the old John Newman song that never failed to please my ears; Messi (considered by many to be the Greatest Footballer of all time) himself, with the old Barcelona jersey that so many kids back then tried to buy, the old shaggy hairstyle that so many kids tried to emulate, the old font of the jersey which kids drew in the rough column of their Math notebooks, and the old LFP logo.

People have different things that defined their childhoods. Maybe it’s a movie series, maybe it’s a genre of music, maybe it’s a close friend or group of friends, or maybe it was the hometown and the cityscape.

I was a lonely kid back then with no social life and fewer friends, and since my hometown was either burning hot or chock full of smog, activity outside was out of question. Thus, my childhood became a routine of pining for the time when I would be back from school and play my favorite games. This picture is like a composite image of that pining feeling that defined my childhood.

Classique

Written by Ojas Ayapilla, XII Illustration by Migam Angu, XII

When old people say ‘life was much simpler back then’ I would scoff at them. I would think that they’re much better off with money of their own and freedom. However, now that time has come to leave AVS in a few months, and I cannot help but think that they were right.

Life was simple. The only thing to worry about was power cuts and your marksheet. Now, there are entrance exams, college admissions, school politics, hormones, stress and a whole host of other things. Adulthood was once a dream, and now as I approach it, it’s starting to seem not so rosy.

This is my last Founder’s piece, and as I leave AVS and AVE, it leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth. Bitter, because of the regret of COVID-19 and regret of not joining this place earlier. Sweet, because AVS has made me into the person I am now, everything through the classrooms, monsoon rains, early morning interhouse practice or adda-maro with friends in a time where adda-maro was not allowed.

It’s been short and so long at the same time, and when I think about how far I’ve grown, my mind still takes me back to those 2014-2018 days when all I could think of was football, FIFA and my games.

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The Room Above the Library

AVE

Captured by Mahita Jindal

Corresponded by Hana Ahmed, Emidaka Rapsang & Deubale Meru Designed by Kekhriesino Meyase

photo romance

Written by Emidaka Rapsang Captured by Mahita Jindal

“And

“Your

“Frozen in its prison as well.”

“Convicted

“Marked by our fatal flaw.”

“But for eons, I will remain the same. I will watch and I will pass. I will latch on the skin of life and grate it with the gentility of a cursed monk.”

“I am just as stranded as you now.”

I am just as lonesome as you.”

hands are tainted crimson just like mine.”

for the same crime of cruelty.”

“And when I drift, you will move along with me.”

“For your pendulum stops for no one and my trail follows you to eternity.”

To You, Who Chase The Moon

Written by Temjenrenla Jamir, XII Illustration by Limeka Ayemi, XII

The boy ran as fast as his legs could carry him, on a night when the crescent moon was as perfect as the Cheshire’s smile.

Despite the arduous toil of coming to this ‘rendezvous’ as the boy liked to call it, he had such a wide grin on his face that promised a thousand miles would still be worth it.

Bandages and woeful misery, cut from twigs and a swell from a furious bee, he continued on his way carried on wings of happiness. A wave and a smile were all it took for the boy to forget all the pain that had stung him. He stared in awe at the sight which loomed before him hung from the velvety dark sky; the man on the moon.

Every night promised a new tale and a treat to the boy, which the day never could because every night took him to the man on the moon who sat there weaving on a spindly spinning wheel. It was all the boy could do to trudge through the night waiting for the dusk to bring him the first glimpse of the half moon.

The man would mouth a gleeful ‘hello’ and the young boy would happily clamber up the rope ladder he sent down. He would watch the man carefully manoeuvre the stars so that they lay in the constellations they

were meant to be. All the time he would tell the little boy tales from eras lost in time. The boy liked to sit back and watch the world slowly glide underneath him.

On this day too, the man on the moon threw down the rope ladder for the boy to take. This time round the boy hesitated. He was set to begin at the new missionary school the next day. His mother had laid down his new uniform along with his new books and a new satchel. He had to be home early.

He looked up at the man on the moon again. ‘Come on, boy, we do not have all night. The moon floats on a world of dreams and dreams are stories waiting to happen’. With a heavy heart the boy shook his head and watched as the man on the moon floated away growing distant with each second.

The man who sat signing copies of his new novella called ‘A midnight ride on the moon and stories spun of dreams’, was a neo-realism sensation that had put the literary world on fire. When asked about his muse, the quiet young man with a tattoo of a half moon drawn conspicuously over his right wrist had said, it all came to him on his nightly runs chasing the moon.

Photograph: Suhani Agarwala, XII

“For you, a thousand times over.”

-Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

Abey AwArds

Most Eligible Bachelor

Kohrodi N. Sangtam

Most Eligible Bachelorette

Gengam Dulom

hogger of the year

Pratyush Chandra Basistha

Most Fashionable Jikke Kikum

The Latecomer

Gaurav Kumar Beria

Drama Queen

Angie Nongthombam

Snazziest Sleeper Dozee Wangchuk Bhutia

Partners-in-Crime

Om Kumar Gupta and Aditya Pradhan

Seriously Stressed-Out Jaskeerat Singh

Fitness Freak Arman A. Imdad

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Written by Donovan Figg, XII Illustration by Migam Angu, XII

Humans find value in things that come across as quite useless and superfluous to other creatures, for to us, value is relative. A poor man will not appreciate the difference between a Sprite and a Chianti, a Nike or a Balenciaga, and so on. That is why many people believe that how one perceives value is inherently dependent upon one’s social standing and class. That aside, whenever humans see gold (or any precious metals for that matter), they instinctively react with an audible “oooh”.

I don’t know — maybe it is hardwired into our DNA, like a knee-jerk reaction, to covet shiny things. From ancient times to the present day. There have been countless tales and legends that tell us of such amazing hauls of priceless treasure, the likes of which would have been the envy of a Roman King. The treasures I’m going to talk about today are clear to have existed at some point in history, and are currently unfound. That means, theoretically, you could go out and look for them. The thing is, the discovery of any of these treasures would undoubtedly change history, so maybe it is a wise idea to let them lie now that the dust has settled.

The tomb of Genghis Khan, which is said to lie somewhere in erstwhile Manchuria, that contains thousands of scrolls from his library. Every soldier who buried him was also killed, to protect the location of the grave. The Library of the Moscow

Tsars is another, holding a legendary collection of ancient books, which disappeared after the reign of Ivan the Terrible. The Amber Room, the pride of the Romanov Family, had some of the most priceless art of the time and disappeared during the Konigsberg bombings in 1944. I must also mention the Dead Sea Copper Scroll treasures, mentioned in the Qumran scroll. It is only a fragment, but is part of a list that details no less than sixty-four locations where huge amounts of gold are hidden, and till date, only three caches have been found. This was just to whet your appetite... There are lots more treasures that are just waiting to be discovered, or rediscovered. The Templar Treasure, The Ark Of The Covenant, The Romanov Easter Eggs, The Crown Jewels Of Ireland, Dead Bishop’s Treasure, Nazi Gold, The Lost Raphael, The Amritkali Gold, King John’s Jewels, and with these come a surprising amount of conspiracy theories, some of which are quite interesting, and actually plausible.

Finally, everyone says that being a wishful treasure hunter is et mulgere hircum (to milk a male goat), but nitimur in vetitum quod nemo saltat sobrius. (We strive for the forbidden, because nobody dances sober). Besides, treasure hunters are at the very least, less day-dreamy than our current world leaders.

So I say, try your luck folks. What could possibly go wrong?

the four seasons

A Collection of Stories by Hiyaneijemmy Das

Spring

There is a gravestone, and the flowers are dying. The hydrangeas and roses bunched together at the foot of the stone are no match for the burgeoning daffodils and primroses, a heralding of spring. Every Friday, he presses his forehead against the gravestone. Some days he feels his life seeping away, the gravestone frigid and unforgiving. Other days it is burning, and he could not be more certain that these were the days of utter joy. There is a gravestone, and he is the only one who ever places the flowers there. She loved flowers. She would have loved this spring day.

He remembers them, spring days and memories that felt infinite like the grains of sand in the Sahara, yet so scarce, for time has a sneaky habit of moving faster when you don’t want it to. He remembers when her hair shone like gold in the kitchen on Sunday mornings. He remembers her head nestled against the hollow of his collarbone, his arms enveloping her. He remembers the meals they had together. The fights. The joys.

If life and death are two sides of a coin, the Gods must have tossed Death for her. There could be no other explanation. Soon, there were no shared meals. Hers were always issued in square plastic boxes with pre-portioned, colourless foods. Soon, they stopped sleeping in the same bed. Hers now had rails and buttons and wires. Soon, the chair next to that hospital bed sunk ever so slightly- from him always sitting in it. As though it had moulded to his soul and beckoned, always there, just as he was always there for her. The cold sunshine that still made her hair shine like gold disappeared into the monsoon. The unending rain battered against their window the day she told him she wanted him to leave. Forever. The rain had given way to the lightest snow and three years had passed since that fateful rainy day of being asked to leave, he told her that he had to sell their home. The one where they had shared all their meals and fights and joys from their first day of marriage at that heady, glorious age of twenty.

The last remnants of snow dripped off the tree branches and ran down rivulets and city drains. Leaves tickled you as you walked and the wind whistled a special soundtrack for you. ‘Twas spring, and what a bully Spring was. A cicada boldly clung to that hospital window when she let out her last breath. He kissed her forehead goodbye, glad that the demise was finally here, glad that he could finally let his tears roll in front of her.

The day of the funeral was cheerful and muggy. As they proceeded to the ground, they passed giggling schoolchildren, lazy old men, and ladies who prepared lunch with a vengeance. There was life all around them, and it was so very vibrant. The sky was so blue it hurt to look, and the clouds ambled by, begging you to stop whatever you were doing and laugh until you ran out of breath. Spring was such a bully.

It has been twelve years. He drops flowers every week, clearing away the dead ones from the week

before. He drops them off on the next stone as well. That one belonged to a child named April. She was the blue sky, the giggles, the sunshine, the wind, the cicadas, and life itself. Of course she was, he mused, of course she would be the spitting image of her mother.

So, he visited the graves of April and May every week. Mother and daughter stolen by a Death that missed them too much. He hated Spring. It was too much of them, and the children of Spring-those darned flowers- always made the ones he brought look so dull. Spring was such a bully. To,

Illustration by Migam Angu, XII

There is a beach, and there is a bonfire. It is a blistering July night, one of the few they have left. There is a childhood at stake, and an unforeseeable future round the corner. He had always been a cynic, preferring to dissect the silly ideas and tales of everyone around him instead of talking. “Empty vessels make the loudest sound,” he habitually muttered. He loved making his little observations at a particular cafe, armed with a cigarette and a black notebook. He sits poised to spew bitter resentment at unsuspecting, oblivious passers-by.

But there was a girl who was past his cynicism. “It’s just because we’ve known each other for so long,” he feels the need to justify to no one but himself. She is just the same. Cynical yes, but resentful, perhaps not. Her cigarettes were meant not for accusingly brandishing at others as his were, but for aiding her trembling fingers settle. “Why must I love making a fool of myself?” she sighs at her slightest mistakes. He called this her only vice. Her terrible judgement against herself.

They had grown up together. So rarely can you find someone who knows everything about you, but they never felt scarce, gifted with that rarity ever since they babbled their first words. He knew how to write her laughter, and he had books filled with poetry on her- tucked away, far away. She knew how to stop his crying, and every song she had ever written had a bit of him- but she never sang them. Their conversations graced cold rooftops and rogue fields, stretched to the oceans and the stars. Their eyes were infinite encyclopaedias about each other. “Do you think we could be soulmates?” she softly whispered. “Never,” he replied back. He turned away from her as he said that, gulping the biggest gulp that could ever be gulped, and she smiled at how terribly he lied.

So here came the summer. The cicadas of that July day deafened everyone, and the sizzling streets paved hell for a walk. It was far too hot for cigarettes. Ice-cream ran down her hands as she giggled away her afternoon with her best friends. The grass settled on her clothes as a gentle reminder of her summer day spent languishing in nostalgia. He was all alone, dancing in his room, soaking up the heat. He allowed himself to be afraid. Here came the summer, and here would come the goodbyes. Their friends invited them over for a bonfire by the beach. Just like the movies, just like they had always dreamed. The air was hot, salty, and just light enough to scatter memories like a soft blanket that always gives you good dreams. The waves were shy, lapping up just enough to call the place a proper beach. He was afraid and she was radiant.

He looked at her across the bonfire, face so warm. She sat next to him and they stayed that way- in the most comfortable of silences. “Do you think we could be soulmates?” he whispered while tracing her hair behind her ear. “Always,” she whispered sleepily. “Summer nights are never real,” he whistled

to himself, extremely sure that this strange, dangerous jump in his heart was a malfunction. He doesn’t realise she hears him until she laughs profusely. There comes that malfunction again.

“We are the heady, young love the movies portray. We are the two kids everyone loves,” she begins singing. He listens quietly as she finally sings for the first time one of her favourite songs about him. He knows immediately.

It is one of their last nights before a final, perpetual goodbye. “Give me the courage to ask for a forever,” he mutters with a trembling voice. “Only if you give me the courage to deny it,” she answers sweetly, and he loves her for that. They will bid their goodbyes and turn from loves to ghosts, but how sweet the July night is, and how powerful the bonfire.

To,

Illustration by Limeka Ayemi, XII

Autumn

There is a window-sill, comfortable enough to hold at least two people lying down. And often, there were two people lying down in that nook, staring up at the sky. They lay there- father and son- and lay there with tales of the universe, lessons of vast history, and plans for great ambitions. For quite some time though, there had been no one, and autumn leaves had instead filled the spaceinadvertently creating a most welcoming mattress.

His father was everything he wanted to be. He was strong, smart, and the very picture of a man. He rose with the sun and worked till its daily farewell. He ate heartily, worked heartily, and loved heartily. He built their house from the ground-up, every penny his own, and every brick touched by him. His father was a man of God, his father was a man. He wanted nothing more than to be a man. But could he ever be a man? He was a scrawny boy who loved his cats and his books. He could spend hours studying and sketching every cat he saw, and of them he saw plenty. He came back home and read everything under their roof. Soon, that was not enough and his father saw enough sense to show him what a library was.

His father loved him, he knew. He loves me, he whispered at the age of three, massaging him palm, red with a beating. He loves me. When he was six, he dropped the plough on his foot. What started off as a hopeful pleasant surprise turned into a prophetic horror. He received no meal that night and was locked in his room for the entire weekend. I deserved it, he pulled at his scalp bitterly, so angry at his incompetence.

At nine, he met his best friend, who loved cats just as much as he did, and was as utterly incompetent at farm work as he was. Together, they traipsed the fields, jumped on haystacks, and generally lived a life that would most likely have been dubbed ‘useless’ by the rest of the town. Then one day, at the age of eleven, when he showed the scars of the whip below his ribs to him, and his friend showed him his scars too, he made up his mind. He and his best friend were going to live together for the rest of their lives.

This resolution was tested when father and son had a window-sill talk that night. They had windowsill talks every time his father knew something terrible was coming their way. When there were bad rains, bad sales, bad times. Some people aren’t meant to love some people in the way father loves mother, he learnt that night. Yet, by the time he reached nineteen, he still loved his best friend the way father loves mother. Some people aren’t meant to love some people that way, he always reminded himself.

Then one day he turned forty, in that peculiar way everyone seems to suddenly sprint through time from twenty to forty. He leant against the window-sill, looking up at the sky. His first time home in fifteen years. He had a lot of anger in him. Father did not treat me right, he realised, rubbing an old scar from a hot iron across his forearm. Father was never really a good father. Did Father ever even love him? His father forgot things now. He was now a man that needed help to get up, to eat, to use the bathroom, to survive. Was he still the very picture of a man?

The boy shook himself to the present, and jumped onto the window-sill. He lay and dreamt of the past. Dreamt of what could have happened with his best friend. He had a beautiful family now, and always taught his sons proper- sometimes with a talk and sometimes with a beating- but he taught them proper. He was a good father. Right?

Heaving a sigh, he jumped back down and made his way to his father. He was going to take care of him, like the good son that he was. His father is old now and does not remember. He does not remember the pain, the injustice. So, the boy forgives him. Autumn leaves fall and frigid mists settle deep into his soul as he decides to forgive a father who never learnt how to love a wife and a son. Grey skies and howling winds usher as the boy forgives a father whose spitting image he has become. Autumn descends upon the window-sill. No one has been here for a long time.

Hot tears roll down my cheek, and I don’t know whether to blame it on the cold or on my heart. Leaning against the wooden fence, it’s hard to believe it has stuck around all this while. Everything has stayed the same, but so much in me has changed. I don’t belong here anymore. Leaving home at the age of twenty, I had the weight of my world on my shoulders. I carried around my ambition and nursed the wound in my heart. It was time I set out into the world to find my own.

And everything reminded me of you. Everything reminded me of home. I grew up making a name for myself but knowing myself less and less with each passing day. I wanted to be invincible, but I became inhuman. I was universal and omnipotent. But unfeeling and lonesome. I grew up still getting news of everything that happened to you. Your marriage. Your children. Your illnesses and investments. I was terrified the entire time thinking of how different our lives ran parallely now. You must have been so happy. And I thought I was, but it always felt like there was this pit in my belly. There was a stone dropping into the oceans and sinking away from sight, from life. There was a never-ending whirlwind. It was all me. There was too much in me, yet there was absolutely nothing. I was nothing but contradictions, and whatever the envious quality of humanity was, I did not possess it.

Yet, here I lean against the wooden fence and I remember. We were ephemeral and everlasting. But it is a bitter winter now, and the fence is cold and soaked. The snow crunches underfoot and it is difficult not to remember your laugh. The clouds drift by and it is impossible not to recollect every smell and sound of this sleepy town. If you saw me now, would you say I abandoned the two of you? I eventually take a walk, round the fence, through the forest, into the town. Aunty with her food stall is still there. So is Old John with his cigarette and snacks store. Jim still runs his grocery place next to the station. How old they must all be now. The roads are worn down but just the way they always have been. Even the shy sunshine still heats the grass the same way.

The headache stings sharper and it feels too much, coming back home. Accusations of abandonment eat me up. Then, I walk past your door. I know you still live here. How different our lives run parallely now. After what feels like an eternity of thinking, I decide to knock, and just as I approach the door, I see them. Two girls, your spitting image. One is playing the piano, the other is dancing about with a stuffed animal. I watch an impressive man pick her up and peck her, all three giggling as though trapped in a toothpaste commercial. How sweet, I think bitterly. Then, I see you. Apron over your slender body, casserole in your tender hands. He helps you set it on the table, all of you pray. You eat, and you laugh, and you are happy. I refuse to knock now.

Feelings of envy give way to those of hope. For everything has stayed the same, I conclude, everything must still be the same about you. Thus, I am sure your heart still beats for me. Your family is beautiful, but your heart’s not in it, surely. Your smile must be weary and your soul must be floating untethered, even if what I see now says otherwise. I have hope in me. I am still tied to you and tethered to this town, the smoke and mirrors now drift away. You have always loved me, you still do, darling. Perhaps, not all is lost.

Illustration by Gaurish Saikia, IX

HIYANEIJEMMY

Written by Tasmin Ahmed, XII Illustration by Gengam Dulom, XII

SunsetIdon’t think I want to go back home. It was the prettiest evening of my life. The depth of autumn began stinging every inch of my body, permeating the heavy blue through my veins, making me cold. It was the most enchanting evening for both of us.

My breath was cold and crisp but my hands held the warmth. I felt alive for the very first time in my entire life. It was the deep blue paint, and his pale white brush strokes, we were painting the sky. I stumbled and spilled a bottle of golden shimmer and pushed him to the daylight, he called me the ‘sunset’. The thousand daisies came alive again, yet they never existed in the first place.

“Are you real?” I asked. His deep hazel eyes were fixed on his painting the entire time.

“I am.” He said, eyes still fixed on the painting. That was the calmest voice in the entire existence of the universe, something painfully serene and pure.

“So I did not make you up, right?” I felt a rush the moment those words slipped out of my mouth, I never wanted to know the answer. He was quiet for a long time, slowly making white strokes in the sky.

“You are so quiet, it scares me.” I said. It sounded a lot more plain than I thought it would. Two seconds passed by, he kept his brush near the palette gently and then looked straight into my eyes.

“Even if I was an illusion, I would still be yours to call.” The hazel of his eyes was turning golden, it was sunset finally. The thousand lilies, the thousands daisies, the golden glitter. He spilled it all on the canvas.

“We made it, we painted this together. Remember that.” He smiled at me, and his eyes were fixed on the painting once again. It was the most enchanting evening, it always will be.

Photograph: Suhani Agarwala, XII

私 を 信 じ て

Leap

Of Faith

Art by Anushka Adhikari Story by Hiyaneijemmy Das Designed by Kekhriesino Meyase

and you?

my baby sister didn’t deserve to die. no three-yearold deserves to die. curse that driver everyday.

maruko. my sister maruko.

Do you trust me?

i have a secret too.

But he’s here too... he held my hand.

that’s all i need.

Who, kyoko? who?

This is the haunt of the wronged. All who are killed at the hands of one who still roams the earth free haunt this realm.

Kyoko? BUT WHO KILLED YOU, KYOKO?

(n.) a concluding section in a book

afterword.

It has almost been a year since I put pen to paper, or rather, commands on a keyboard in this case. Writing, like almost anything, requires constant upkeep. Thus, it needs practice; the same way a sword needs a whetstone, kindness, and patience. So, without inhibition and perhaps a little sadness, I admit that my sword has been rusted blunt. Words do not flow out of me as they used to, instead they trickle out, drop by drop, like wrangling a wet cloth. This is a thought that constantly occupies the back of my mind, but funnily enough, the way life comes at you, the significance of this thought is often minimised. Nonetheless, the thought remains. I suppose I have grown, for better or for worse, since the last time I wrote. I look back at the number of word documents that sit on my laptop, and more often than not, a sigh is born; cast into air, without affiliation, an unspoken affliction. My heart aches and pines and weeps and cries, yet I know not what I cry for. My soul longs and lives and thrives and dies as the sun continues to set, yet it has not found a resting place. Concepts that were mind-numbingly hard as a kid now come easy, while concepts that were so easy to understand suddenly seem so complex. Love, home, purpose, identity. I know what these words mean, but then again, there is so much more to life than definitions. The sadness is constant, the pain phantom, and the strings that pull at my heart invisible. Nonetheless, I feel the weight of all that I know and all that I do not. I only hope that I am strong enough to shoulder it. I wonder what Atlas thinks of with each passing day, as he holds the sky upright. ‘Why?’ ‘For how long?’ ‘To what end?’ And then I realise, perhaps he does not know. For as certain and eternal as his punishment is, I wonder if his heart, too, aches and pines and weeps and cries. I suppose that is a thought that shall be added to the box of poetic nothings I have stored away in the corner of my heart, hidden in a secret crevice, away from all the things that I do know.

Illustration by Migam Angu, XII

Shrey Modi Ojas Ayapilla Temjenrenla Jamir Suhani Agarwala

Tasmin Ahmed Lairingdi Thaosen Aanya Paul Sarkar Gaurish Saikia

Publisher| The assam valley school, p.o balipara, dist. sonitpur, asom- 784101, india Email| ave@assamvalleyschool.com