Cedar Publications is back this September with our Telegram- Issue II.
We have worked tirelessly on this edition to make it perfect for our readers, just as we are committed to. Suffice it to say, this issue reflects all our hard work and dedication towards making the telegram a haven for all the creative minds that have contributed to it.
We received amazing responses from our student body, most of which are featured here. We value freedom of expression- your work is priceless!
We are honoured to share this issue with the Cedar Community!
ABOUT THE THEME
“A
Walk Down
Memory Lane”
This theme was decided with the chance to make readers reflect on our pasts. This issue focuses on those many memories and stories from our childhood that have impacted who we are today.
This issue allows the readers a chance to experience a walk down their own memory lanes and ponder over a very important question: What are the stories and past events that have influenced my character to this day?
Even though we could not include all submissions, we would like to thank all those who contributed- Your submissions were beyond splendid.
MyFirefly
In the quiet of the night, where shadows lie,
You whispered your goodbye, my fleeting sigh.
I watched as the stars fell, like tears from my eye, Could I have held you longer, made time comply?
The fire that burned bright, but faded too soon,
A flicker, a spark, under the cold light of the moon.
What words could I weave to bring you back near?
To hold you close, without the weight of fear.
You spoke of life, of the Tillamook’s flame, But we’re all just ashes, returning from where we came.
Did you find enough love, in the brief time we had?
Or was it just a dream, a sweet echo of the sad?
The world spins on, indifferent to our plight,
Yet here I stand, longing for your light.
The hospital walls echoed with a final breath,
But in my heart, you linger, defying death.
Shall we gaze at the stars, my gentle dove? Or drift on the wind, where the spirits rove? For life is a whisper, gone with the tide,
But in the memories of May, we’ll forever reside.
~Ramsha Ghofran
Waves
As I walk down memory lane the tsunamic waves of nostalgia trigger both laughter and pain
As I attempt to wash away this evocative stain
I fathom the more I hurt the more I will gain
As broken pieces of the past cling onto me with misery the missing puzzle piece completes and solved the mystery The past deceits yet completes the tsunamic waves steady down into tranquil seas
At last I now attain the key the past is in the past however the present is wide and free So perhaps everything will turn out fine
The kid on your shoulder who grew up with no traces of closure
I now attain something much more desirable: composure
The walk down memory lane bitter yet sweet sooner or later I’ll learn not to weep because these memories are what made me, me
~Syeda Fatima Agha
There is a sweet fragrance in the air, of merry moods free of despair, of joyful smiles and frolicking feet, tasting like cotton candy at the fair, and those smooth strands of hair, that we braided for the doll, and those marbles that we slid through the floor, and those pebbles that skipped over the shore, unblemished and unrestrained as we were, unmarked by the weight of the world, with the wind in our hair, and driven only by the desire for fun, calling out our friends just for another run, and now we look at old pictures and laugh, wondering if we can go back, willing to scrape our knees against the pavement once again, just for another taste of the past, just for another glance of what has passed, just for another whiff of fragrance, in that air, at that fair, where there was only us with that carefree flair.
~Romman Adil
Whispers of Childhood Poetry and artwork by Rija Fatima
We’d gather ‘round the banyan tree, With eyes alight and hearts so free, Under the stars, we’d lay beneath, As Grandma spun her tales like wreaths. Of kings and queens, and battles won, Of moons that chased the setting sun, Her bedtime stories, soft and sweet, Made the world feel at our feet.
On summer nights, with skies so clear, We’d close our eyes, her voice so dear, Barefoot on grass, we’d dream and play, And let her words sweep us away. Now, as we walk those paths once more, The laughter echoes from before,
The banyan’s shade, the starlit sky, Reminds us where our hearts still lie. Though time has passed, and years have flown, The seeds of wonder were always sown, In childhood’s light, we find our way, And carry those memories, day by day.
Halcyon Days ~SyedaZahraNabi
Halcyon days, that are now but a nostalgic rhyme
Memories of joy etched in time
Echoes of moments, young and sublime
When dreams were anew and hope shimmered bright
Those idyllic nights, snuggled up tight
Listening to grandparents’ tales of regal delight
Of the kingdoms that rose and empires that fell
To the historical tales, of heroes bold and true
The secrets shared, during sleepovers, so dear
Giggling and whispering- no fear
Running in the wild, in fields of green and gold- Unbridled freedom, what’s more
Wildflower meadows, here dreams did entwine
Our hearts aglow and faces beamed
School bus days, friendship forged in time
Laughter echoed, we played all day
But like the sun, it slipped away.
Oh halcyon past, how you linger on
A bittersweet reminder of what’s now gone
Oh how I cherish those days now gone
In my heart, forever seared
But I must go on, as memories guide my way along.
TheDanceofMemories
Combingthrough the treasure ofold, Heavingasigh astheyquietlyunfold. The scent ofthe paststilllingers near, Whisperingbackwith a voice soclear. Wadingthrough the realm of fractured dreams, Nostalgia servesitsfirstbitter stream. Shards oflonging, regretintertwined, Ibracefor the momentwhen theycollide. Oh,thosedayswhen life was evergreen
When pain and effort went unseen. Ice cream conesinhand, carefree strides, Footprints on thebeach, asjoyignites. Likefire,like ashes,itsflamesflicker and rise,Burningbright againstduskypaleskies. Aflamethatforever glowswith might, Remindingofbetter days,andlesslonelier nights.
Whispers of Nani’s Tales
He could not bring himself to look away from her. Awestruck, he watched wisps of her silky hair escape her braid and brush against the smooth, porcelain skin of her forehead. Her slender arms wrapped around her delicate frame as she sat amidst the grass field like an angel waiting to be called to heaven. When her big, sparkling eyes found his, he felt his breath hitch and his heart slow down to a steady thumping as his gaze drowned in hers. Even if the mountains around them crumbled, Ranjha's gaze would have stayed fixed on Heer.
She parted her lips to say-
"Ayesha!"
My head turned sharply to my mother's voice. I blinked, the vivid scene of Ranjha and Heer fading like mist in the morning sun.
"Yes?" I called back, pulling myself back to the present.
"Daydreaming again?" she emerged from the kitchen with a resigned look. "I have been calling your name for five whole minutes. Come help me with the dishes. Hurry."
I couldn't help it. All the dreamy stories Nani had filled into my
head in her soft, melodious voice made my imagination go into a frenzy and my mind tried to draw pictures of how all those tales might have played out.
I could spend all day envisioning Ranjha falling for Heer. I could hear Sassi's hoarse voice piercing the dry, desert air as she dragged her tired body towards Punho; I could see the designs Sohni had painted on pottery as they shifted from simple flowers to vivid shades and expressions of love after meeting Mahiwal; and I could hear Momal's desperate pleas chasing Rano as she tried to convince him of her innocence.
Nani's words had made all those tales feel so real that it was impossible to wipe away the images that were created in my mind through her words. Fifteen years later, when I found myself lying in bed, waiting for sleep, the stories would all come back to me like a movie behind my eyelids. Ranjha would be looking at Heer adorned in her wedding dress, glowing like a red ruby. A soft smile would play on his lips as he'd watch Heer shy away from his gaze. His heart would be thumping in his chest, beating faster with every step she took towards him. His ears would be deaf to the cheers, howlers, and voices around him; the only sound echoing in them would be the jingle of her jewellery, the soft thuds of her footsteps, and deep breaths as she neared him.
He would imagine a future with her - a life of smiles and laughter, and love beyond comprehension. Unaware would he be to the heated stare of Kaido pinned at him and Heer. Too enthralled by her beauty, he would miss the wicked grin Kaido would pass before quietly slipping out of the room to lace Heer's food with poison. Maybe if Ranjha's love for Heer had been less consuming, he would have noticed the snake of contempt slithering between the two of them, ready to seep its venom into their pure love, ready to sabotage their life of dreams and joy.
I never liked the way most of Nani's stories ended. Why did they all have to end in tragedy?
"That is the truth of the world, my dear,” Nani's patient voice would say to me, "Tragedy lies at the root of love. That is both its beauty and its price."
Indeed, it was these stories that taught me to see the beauty in tragedy, to be able to see the colours around me even as tears blurred my vision; to love, to lose, and to hope. It was these stories that taught me to live.
~Anoosha Hassan
Cardamom Tea
Holding a spoonful of cardamom over the pot of boiling tea, a brief subtle smile brushes over my face as I am reminded of how my mother used to make tea for the family. I now make it the way she does. As the tea boils more, I am taken back to a time where the air was fragrant with this tea throughout our home with loud, overlapping chatter in the background.
I now stand in the kitchen of my new unfurnished home in quietude, taking in the scent of the tea that once filled my nostrils all the time. In the reverberating echoes of reality and memory, nostalgia remained the bittersweet occasional whisper from the past, the aromatic fragrance of cardamom tea.
It weaves in the threads of yesterday into the tapestry of how we are today. It takes us back to our roots reminding us that we have become the overlooked dispersed fragments of the past, how we are a museum of everything we love, how we make our tea the way we saw it being made.
However, in the midst of longing for a time forgone, we shouldn’t overlook the beauty of our present journey. Through our grandmother’s stories and fables of inspiring legends, we ought to learn to honor our legacy. To honor our lineage is to let it illuminate our present, not draw a veil over it.
To let nostalgia be a compass, a guiding light amidst our fears of the uncertain future. Time will be the river that follows the unyielding pace it desires, we must not let nostalgia be an anchor that weighs us down in our comfort. We can get too swept away in our comfort, in our cardamom tea.
Nostalgia is a reoccurring farewell and a soft promise, a whisper of optimism to grow and understand ourselves more, to discover you can like chamomile tea too or an icy margarita or maybe a cold brew. But at the end of a harsh day where reality feels too real, we can go back to the cup of cardamom tea sometimes.
~Rabab Burhanuddin
Nostalgia Goggles
There was a time when all I wanted to do was grow up, the thought of being free delighted me. How wonderful would it be to have no restrictions on whatever I chose to do? That boy, however, is now gone. This makes me wonder whether our past selves and us are the same person. If we put the two before each other would they even recognise each other?
I think of the things I've experienced, the memories I've made, and suddenly the nostalgia hits me like a bus. Do all these miniature clips inside my head serve any true purpose other than reminding me of remnants of time long gone?
The chaotic days I spent with my friends back in 6th grade, people I don't even talk to anymore- Do those memories even matter? I like to think that they do. After all, we are moulded by the things we have experienced and the decisions we've made. So perhaps if I hadn't spent that time doing all sorts of crazy stuff with my friends, I wouldn't be the same person that I am today, writing this rather long rant.
Taylor Swift wrote on her new album, ‘Nostalgia is a mind's trick’ and that made me wonder, does our past look beautiful and serene only because we're looking at it through nostalgia goggles? Would the scattered memories of mosaic floors and Beyblades and fidget spinners that we reminisce today be not so pleasant had we lived in them today?
It's true that the past is always a beautiful place to visit in hindsight but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It's good that we much more easily forget all the bad stuff about the past and not the good, this world has too much hatred as it is. I'm a huge Beatles fan so when I think about the ‘60s I think about the excellent music that they made rather than the murder and oppression at the time, and that does not in any way mean that all the struggles of people at that time are irrelevant but rather that we would all be better off while learning from those struggles, and letting go of old grudges and animosity.
In the end, we have one life so we should make the best of it by spreading as much joy as we can.
Mosaics of Love
People are mosaic. A kaleidoscope shaped from everyone around them. Put together and you see a complete, whole person; dismantle, and pieces of others will take form. In the most mundane nooks of our lives, often there lies another motive usually fuelled by someone. I avoid showering at night; even though I love it, because my superstitious friend is adamant that we shouldn't.
In school, my friend used to doodle aimlessly all over my pages and diaries. She'd make random things and draw those puppy eyes on them, and make circles repeatedly. My mother used to scold me for dirtying my books; I never corrected her but I did catch the habit of doodling mindlessly on my pages. Both of our doodles are very different from each other but now all my pages are filled with remnants of her. The most mundane tasks of life are many times fuelled by someone else. The simple act of tying my shoelace in a double knot is also from someone, who ironically used to make me tie her laces.
The mosaic of the human brain doesn’t only constrict to picking up habits- I have attached memories and people in them to objects, which come flooding at the randomest of things.
Things will remind me of people, their words, laughs, comments, compliments.
My friend made a bad joke about the periodic table in seventh grade and I have never looked at it the same again. Another told me that my dupatta reminds her of some Wall's ice-lolly which probably doesn’t sell now, but even though I don’t remember the ice lolly, I still think of her every time I wear that dupatta. In absentmindedness, I twirl my ring onto my thumb, and even though the act is unaware of, my mind always comes to the one friend who was the first person I actually ever saw wearing a ring on her thumb- I made fun of her then, look at me now.
Chai will remind me of 3 people; one who thinks not drinking it means you have no personality, one who doesn’t actually love chai but needs it to survive, and my cousin who seemingly lives on it. But black coffee will always be attached to one person only, because of whom I started drinking this. We both know we should stop, but we don’t. First day of 9th grade, the talk somehow reached anime, and when we first heard it being pronounced as 'a-nee-may', me and her were just shocked that it wasn't 'a-nyme'. Now, every time anime is mentioned, I just smile inwardly.
Plushies belong to the one friend who adores them so much that I can't help but think of her whenever I see plushies.
My playlists are shadows of my friends. Songs belong more to them than the singers themselves. Levitating is what we would jam to, she'd leave me hanging in the chorus and I would have to sing the "I want you baby" part. Jeena Jeena is my friend's, she used to sing it when we were 9, before our school assembly. She used to walk up the ramp in the morning, see me down the courtyard, wave excitedly as if seeing me for the first time, and then come down to gush over something that happened. That scene used to repeat everyday, I never got tired of it and I never saw her again after February of 4th grade I think, but still that song is hers.
Purple Kai noodles, strawberry cornetto, rainy days, Pride and Prejudice, dairymilk, metal reactivity series, twirling pens around my fingers, CnH2n+2; I have linked the most random objects and habits to people around me. The influence and impact they leave is immaculate; it might not be that obvious but it is there.
~Amnah Khan
A Walk Down Memory Lane
~Alisha Iftikhar
It was as if I was back in the past, where everything seemed so simple, uncomplicated. As cliché as it might seem, I remember it like it was yesterday, a past that I yearn for, when the world seemed to sparkle with glitter and the salt in the breeze was prominent but pleasing. As children we would swing and let our fingertips graze the highest of skies, a leap of faith to soar through; everything was an everlasting adventure. Laughed foolishly as we went home on how we made such a mess of ourselves, and hearing my mother sigh in worry as to when we will grow up. Every day we parted ways at sunset knowing we would see each other the next day, but that moment was never infinite. You grow up learning but everything became so confusing, nothing remained simple as our friendship anymore to which was a wonderful beginning; a pinky promise. How we’ve changed now, what I found bothersome then, now I find calming. The running has turned to walks, the swings have turned to benches, the noise has transformed into silence. Through the narrow stream of childhood to this waterfall, somewhere in between the bumping cars turned to giving your driving test. I have grown up wearing the bangles that decorated my mother’s arms. Now I ask myself as I walk through the past of our childhood bliss “Why did we break our forever promise with childhood?”
What Once Was...
As I walk through the empty rooms of my house I remember once when it would be filled with people. People are laughing, shouting (we are very loud people), having dinner all together at night, however the reality now seems so bleak. The house that once had 7 people living in it, all rooms filled, several more people coming in and out during the day and shining like Karachi as the city of lights; rest dormant with only 4 people left. The rooms remain empty and a dark husk is left in its wake. Some left to move on to bigger things, while others left to the hereafter; the remaining never recovered and fell further into the abyss of darkness as life continued to throw rocks at them. So even while knowing time must keep moving, I guess Rapunzel says it best when she says ‘Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine’.
Cedar MUN- A Nostalgic Timeline
MUN had always intrigued me, while also scaring the crap out of me. The first term of AS was a little stress induced while I navigated my way through this society. Yet, at the end of that first term I realised that joining the MUN society was one of the best decisions I ever made. I bonded with others over our shared trauma of being in committee sessions, but also our shared love and craze for this form of debating.
The LUMUN trip that happened in December was unforgettable for me. It not only brought me closer to my teammates, but also my seniors. While I have never been the type of person to look up to my seniors, for the first time in my life, I did. My seniors not only guided us through all our MUNs, but made our society into a family. The second term in AS only brought us all closer and I couldn't imagine my life without the people I met in this society. They have truly become a huge part of my life. However, like all things this comes to an end as well. Our seniors, after making us a family, graduated and left us to assume their positions and while I still have a year remaining with my team, it seems to be going very swiftly. Nevertheless, I guess if anyone ever asked me about how my Cedar College experience was, I would talk about the MUN society and the family I made along the way.
~Fatima Emaan Athar
Tanaza (Conflict)- A Narrative on Nostalgia
~Muhammad Bilal Siddiqui
The mother bird chirping on the tree branch feeding her nagging children, the wind whistling a humble song and the crisp evening saying it's goodbyes to bring about the advent of night“How boring must life be if this is all it has to offer?”, I as a 8 year old proclaim something my teenage self wholeheartedly disagrees with.
An internal conflict takes a whole new meaning when it's a dialogue between two versions of yourself: the past and the present. The past wants to declare that there is more to life than scrutinised observation of every little thing in one's environment, and to some extent the present agrees. The present self however associates a deep feeling of love and emotion with this as well for reasons unclear- something that we label as nostalgia.
Is nostalgia the hidden appreciation we have for the things that we took for granted in our lives? Or is it the sadness of a fleeting era- Something we are reminded by every new wrinkle in our skin, by every falling hair. To some this is a question with a clear and cut answer: it is the feeling of love for something that we always held much appreciation for, but for others, this may be a question that daunts their future self, surely because the line blurs between our past, present and future when we can't define which version we look up to the most.
Yehi hai tanaza, khushi aur gham ka Haqeeqat ka nahi pata hame ke kya chahte hain ham Bas intezar hai ke hal ho jaye ye tanaza taakey aakhir kar jee saken ham!
The Ghosts of my Past
Age 6-7: Waking up at nani's house on a Saturday morning, stumbling to nana's room. He's reading the newspaper on his rickety chair by the window in the morning sunlight. I try to get to his attention by poking my face into the paper or duck under it so he can see my face. He finally finished and then swiftly proceeded to make an origami boat that I can play with. Sunday night arrives with a quickly approaching school morning and baba comes to pick me up. Im whining whilst tying my shoelaces because I don’t want to leave this place just yet. Baba pulls out a tictac out of his pocket and my eyes gleam as if I've just seen a magic trick. We drive back home while I tell baba all the wonderful things I did this weekend.
Age 7: I'm alone during lunch time sobbing because my whole friend group has decided they would ignore me forever. Two little girls came up to me (one was not so little in fact she was a good feet taller than everyone our age). The taller one offers I sit with them for lunch while the other one hides shyly behind the other but is equally as welcoming. I had lunch with them for the rest of my school life.
Age 8-9: I was sat by a quiet girl for a few weeks in class. She never acknowledged me, no matter how much I talked her ear off until one day she grew so tired of me talking she told me to shut up and I started crying. We became best friends after that (we tried to rip each other's hair out every other day till physically separated).
I stuck to those three girls from then on. They became my clutch, my ratpack, my soulmates. I'd cry to them about my problems until they fixed it, or do particularly embarrassing things that I got a thrill out of whilst they tried to stop before I got caught by a teacher (Climbing out the window to get to the courtyard instead of walking out the door). We jumped in rain puddles together, sat on the top floor during snack time and enjoyed the rushy wind trying to finish our arts assignments (we never did).They were my own little world.
My brother and I were partners in crime when it came to animals. Once during Eid-ul-Adha we decided to see a particularly rowdy cow get unloaded but from a safe distance i.e: the stairs. We watched as the cow ran out the truck and kung fued my cousin into the air. Unfortunately we were the next target. We were chased up two flights of stairs until someone got a hold of it. Miraculously, we survived many more animals on crack after that.
I always liked to wake up early on Sunday mornings at 8 am. I'd go out my room and baba would be sitting out in the living room table typing away on his laptop. We cuddled until I woke fully and then sat to study my maths together. He loved reading my textbook and I loved him teaching me. Since then maths has become my comfort subject.
My family and I always loved it when it rained. Sometimes we would just enjoy it by eating pakoray and drinking chai. Other times we went over to nani's house to enjoy it and spent the day there running in puddles and devouring her handmade food. One day baba suggested we should go on a long drive and enjoy the rain. We all snuck out to the car in our raggedy clothes and slippers. Half an hour later, we were stuck in a flooded road, and baba was swimming in said flooded road looking for my slipper. Mama and I cackled at baba's floating body thrashing in the water pulling out a number of objects out of the water to check if they were my slippers. All these ghosts of my pasts and yet, I would be incomplete about them today. .
~Amna Azam
A Pilgrimage to my Essence
As I wander down the winding path of my memories, the scent of nostalgia envelops me, carrying me back to moments I thought were lost forever. The remnants of my childhood crush under my feet like Autumn's leaves, releasing whispers of my mother's lullabies and the laughter of summer afternoons spent chasing fireflies with friends. I remember the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and the sound of children's giggles echoing through the air.
I recall the warmth of my grandfather's hands, guiding mine as we tended to our garden, planting seeds of hope and watching them bloom into vibrant flowers. The smell of fresh earth and blooming roses transports me to afternoons spent playing hide-and-seek among the rows, feeling the gentle rustle of petals against my skin. My grandfather's stories of love, loss, and resilience taught me the value of perseverance and the beauty of the natural world.
Rainy afternoons spent snuggled up with my favorite books, the words weaving tales of far-off lands and magic, now seem like a rehearsal for the journey of my own life. The characters I met on those pages – their struggles, triumphs, and heartaches – prepared me for the twists and turns of my own story. I remember the way the words danced across the page, transporting me to worlds both familiar and unknown.
As I continue my stroll, memories long forgotten begin to resurface. A first glance under the stars, the taste of salty tears on my lips, the sound of my heart shattering into a million pieces. Yet, even in the heartache, I find a beauty that has shaped me into the person I am today. I remember the way the stars twinkled above, a celestial showcase of light and sound, and the feeling of being alive, of being connected to something greater than myself.
This walk down memory lane is a pilgrimage to the very essence of my being. With each step, I rediscover pieces of myself, like fragments of a mirror reflecting the beauty and complexity of my own story. Though the journey has been winding, and the path uncertain, I am reminded that memories are the threads that weave my life together – a tapestry of love, laughter, tears, and triumphs that forever shape me.
In this journey through my memories, I find solace in the moments that have made me who I am. The joy and the sorrow, the victories and the failures, all have contributed to the rich tapestry of my existence. And as I look back, I am filled with a sense of wonder, a sense of awe at the beauty and complexity of my own story.
WHENTHE MEMORIES HITSYOU Photography
A cherished journey through time, a walk down the memory lane that I ’ ll gladly take again and again
Abdullah Aftab
Harkirshan Pinjani
Harkirshan Pinjani
The last sunrise from the roof of my childhood home
Siddiqui Farewell, but you will always reside in my heart
Fatima Emaan Athar
Hamna
Aliza Imad
Sakyna Hemani
Syeda Rubab Aali
Book Review
~Ayoosh Perchani
"Memory is a prison from which as long as we live, we can never escape."
A poignant line from 'A Chess Story' by Stefan Zweig which highlights the bittersweet nature of memories- an inescapable past that cannot be altered yet moulds our present. The story follows the protagonist Dr.B and his battle with a chess obsession, exploring the psychological toll of the game of chess as it entangles with his past traumas, uncovering the inner destructiveness shaped by his past. Through Zweig's masterful storytelling we are reminded of the persistence of memory and its power to shape who we are, even as we long to escape its claws.
Korean Cucumber Salad
Ingredients:
-3 cucumbers
-1 Tbsp soy sauce
-2 Tbsp rice vinegar
-1 Tbsp sugar
-1/2 tsp red chili powder
-1/4 tsp sesame seeds
-2 green onions, chopped
Method:
Slice cucumbers into thin slices- around 1/8 inch
Mix soy sauce, vinegar and sugar in a bowl. Pour soy vinegar into the bowl with cucumbers. Then, add 1/2 tsp chili powder and sesame seeds. Mix and taste. Add more chili powder if you want. Doing it in this order allows you to taste and control the amount of chili powder based on how spicy you want it. Add chopped green onions and mix again. YOU ARE DONE!! Serve immediately for the most fresh and crunchy cucumber flavor. You can also let it sit for 10-15 minutes for the cucumbers to absorb the dressing before serving.
