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The views expressed in this magazine do not necessarily represent the views of Thapar University, its management or employees. Thapar University is not responsible for, and disclaims any and all liability for the content of comments written by contributors to the magazine.

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Let us get our true self, the pure, the untouched self back to rhyme with the nature and enjoy the present as it is. Amen!

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I invite the reader to picture the following scenario A gathering suddenly breaks into fury. The chairs are flung at each other, microphones are used as missile and fist fights erupt desultorily. The entire place is in disarray as people, smeared with blood, scurry under tables to seek protection; but to no avail!! As now the tables are thrown at each other while a feebly-toned man urges them to break the brawl and maintain the order. While others may mistake this to be a communal riot, the more observant ones, at least the Indians may have an idea what this is all about. Indeed, it is a scene from the Indian Parliament where a highly sensitive civil rights bill was tabled on the floor in June 2007. As the people who follow the news may know, that this is not an isolated incident where the sanctity of the hallowed portals of the Parliament was violated by so called elected representatives of the Indian democracy. Be it the Member who tore the Lokpal Bill on December 29, 2011 or the ones who were involved in the notes for vote scam or the ones who by their very use of abusive language redefined the word unparliamentary language, all have contributed their fair share in the degradation of the Indian Democracy and have led people to question the very word democracy which finds its roots in ancient Greece and Athens; a word that has been commemorated in the Smirities and Shastras of ancient India; a principle that the founding fathers of the independent India considered the

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cornerstone of Indian politics. Democracy is government of the people, by the people and for the people, said Abraham Lincoln, the most celebrated President of the oldest democracy in the worldU.S.A. At the time of Indian independence democracy had been a celebrated phenomenon throughout the world and so, our founding fathers deemed it fit to base our political system on the Westminster model or the British Parliament model. But the very model has now become the noose in the neck of Indian democracy. It was disputed at the time of its incorporation in the constitution where many leading British and other foreign intellectuals argued in the favour of the presidential form of government but without success. Clement Attlee, the future British prime minister to be(who visited India in 1946) in particular, favoured the presidential system and remarked on one occasion that when he argued the merits of the presidential system, the Indian interlocutors looked at him in horror. It was as if, recalled Attlee I had offered them margarine instead of butter. Had the luminaries of the past foreseen the repercussions of the Westminster model they may have shied away from it but as Lady Macbeth said, whats done is done. H.W. Longfellow says it even better let the dead past bury its dead. So this article is not about what could have been but is about what the true state of the matters is and how far we have come along what Nehru described as a tryst with the destiny. The matters as they stand today are of grave concern and this article heeds to Shakespeares advice and pledges to give sorrow words. However let not the reader take this as only a critique of the Indian democracy but also as a celebration of the fact that despite the variations in caste, creed, colour, couture, costume and cuisine, India can rally around a consensus that is vital for functioning of the largest democracy in the world. If we look at the West, most of the worlds functioning democracies are in Europe. These democracies have been champion of rights of individual to govern themselves and have prided themselves in being well-oiled machinery. Unfortunately for India it is not so. Firstly, because class and hegemony struggles still continue as the ruling parties bend over backwards to garner enough majority to complete the prescribed 5 years term. To a harsh, unobservant eye it may sound as a failure of the system but upon a closer once can see the reason for relatively more success of the democratic idea in Europeit may be decades of expulsions and genocides that preceded it. India however, enjoys the title of being a land embraced by many and hence the difficulty in the smooth dispensation of democratic principles. Secondly, from the intellectuals that dominated the Indian politics at the time of independence, India has come a long way. The representatives of people today are intellectually more like the common man of India. The average politician in the parliament today is a lawyer who has never used his law degree, runs a wry joke. To a certain extent this is to be celebrated as a success of Indian democracy but this poses new problems. With knowledge comes wisdom, goes an old adage; but both have been wanting in Indian leadership for a long time. Be it Indira Gandhi who sought to undermine the very pillars of democracy that her father had laboured to build or the present politicians who use tax payers money to erect statues of their party founders, all are a glaring spectacle of the lack of wisdom. The third reason for the limited success of Indias democratic venture may be corruption. Recent events have shown the Indian political class in a very poor light. 2g scam, the Common Wealth farce and the wads of notes being waved in the well of Indian Parliament have disillusioned the public in general, so have the political ineptitude and lack of empathy from the so called leaders. This dwindling faith in our leaders is highlighted in the elections which dont manage to rally even 50% of eligible voters to the polling booths despite the feckless and unconstitutional claims made by the parties to appease the backward classes. In this mad heat of getting a seat in the legislatures the parties are seen abandoning the least acceptable standards of politics; some trying to woo the suspended members of other parties; suspended because they were indulged in rampant corruption! And others try to achieve that magical but elusive number to form the government by make-shift coalitions ultimately contributing to instability and impotence of the government. But, if one looks closely enough one can find the reasons behind it as well! India is a very diverse nation, stretching past the natural, ethnic, cultural, linguistic and religious barriers. In a vast nation like this it becomes impossible for a single political party to represent the many. So, it is up to the regional parties to make a case for the development of the various reasons the claim to represent.
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But, a regional party by its very name implies a party that seeks to represent the interests of just a single region. It becomes, therefore, a necessity of the national parties to coalesce with the regional parties to promote regional interests without compromising the interests of a nation. Having criticised the flawed democratic structure and having supplied the reasons for the flaws it becomes but essential to add, without condescension, that though all the faults can be reasoned, Indian politics and democracy still has to come a long way from the parliamentary brawls, political mudslinging and irresponsibility. In this arid and parched battlefield of politics there seems to be a fountain of hope in form of the Indian political and social history where despite all the ailments listed above Indian has managed to survive and flourish due to sheer power of determination of its citizens, the impartiality of its judiciary, the warp and weft of its constitution and the watchful, often critical eye of its free press that regards justice, liberty, equality and democracy as perspectives rather than words. Parishrut Badoni

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- Udita Kapoor

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The soft ticking of the clock also blends into silence as it ceaselessly attempts to count that which cannot be counted, cog-wheels turning relentlessly to some undefined tune with appreciable precision till its hands begin to stagger and falter, losing energy yet trying until the very end to complete the circle one last time. But circles have no beginnings or ends and even clocks run out of time batteries, that is without figuring it out. The soft scratch of your pen against paper though it is far softer than the ticking clock sitting right behind my head is terribly disruptive to silence. The impassioned, erratic tick-tick-tick of your pens nib is grating on my nerves because I cannot stop honing into it. It is all I can hear. And its driving me crazy. My fingers curl tighter around the mug containing hot coffee that is a bit too large for my small hands. I turn my head to look at you and manage not to shake my head when I do. Your posture is rigid and your pen is delicately poised above the paper when it isnt making refined, calculated, measured strokes which morph into enviable cursive. Although it shakes violently in your grasp from time to time when it is suspended midair as if trying to wretch itself free, it still manages to look elegant. I can only liken you to a child who is colouring for the first time and whose teacher has terrified him to the point that he can only think of not having uneven strokes or the blunt tip of his

crayon running over the margins of the drawing he is supposed to fill with colour and bring to life. Your brows furrow as you read through what youve written and I decide to look away. Soon enough, I hear some long scratches, quickly followed by ticking thats even more intense than before. I want to clasp my hands over my ears to stop the sounds that make me imagine every single strikingly accurate word from your extensive lexicon as it forcefully etches itself not only on paper but onto my frayed and exceedingly fragile neurons. The ticking stops, you sigh; a moment later there is more scratching followed by a sound that would embarrass a woodpecker. I want to scream. Instead, I chose to look at the hot, chocolaty brown liquid contained in the mug held in my hands. It is still too hot to sip, but that makes it warm for my hands on this gray winter morning. I blow and observe the ripples formed increase in radius before they disintegrate against the walls of the container. I take a long, luxurious sip, careful not to disrupt the silence. But it wasnt to be. Your palm flattens against the table with a sound loud enough to wipe out all semblance of silence and although I had foreseen this, I lose my grip on the mug slightly and the liquid sloshes but doesnt spill over. My dog though, who had been snoozing beside me is startled by the noise and

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lifts his furry head to look at you as you crumple the paper into a disfigured ball. He pays no mind and proceeds to snuggle closer and settle into a curled up ball beside me. His breathing soon evens out like clockwork while you fight to control your uneven breaths. I set the mug beside the ticking clock and look at you. You are stiff as a board and your grip on the quickly shrinking mass of starch and ink is making your knuckles white. Anymore and I think your hands will turn blue; rather, theyll be stained blue. I utter not a word as I see your shoulder twitch, arm ready to hurl the betrayed to oblivion, leaving not a memory. I am only beginning to wonder who is the more betrayed; but then you stop. Your head drops and your gaze shifts to the floor where the paper falls, shoulders sagging much like the rope which snaps under a load it cannot carry, unable to bear the tension which peaks and finally becomes zero as the rope relents to external forces it cannot control. I am a physicist and scientific simile seemed opportune when I couldnt string together something sublime. Come with me, I say and hear a slight growl from my canine companion as I hop out of bed. Your feet shuffle and you follow me. Reluctantly. We are now in the garden, standing side by side and the morning dew has condensed everywhere. Belatedly, I realize that there is in fact a slight drizzle as the concrete begins to wet a bit quicker than would be expected simply by dew. I am already shivering a little, but step into the light rain. I look up at the sky and the first drop falls on my nose. Do you think rain, I wave my hands, smiling, falls everywhere evenly? Of course not, your answer is quick and sure, it depends on the geographic location, topology a No, silly. I mean, when its raining anywhere, I cut you off and you seem mildly annoyed. No, you say simply and shake your head, then step out into the rain beside me. But showers are even and you can access them any time. Rains or showers? You raise an eyebrow. We both know the question is a bit ludicrous, especially given how I know of your love of rains. Showers, you bite out. Theyre convenient. We are getting drenched slowly and I quite like the feeling. Youre more susceptible to cold and arent as comfortable. Nevertheless you are standing in the rain with me. I snicker slightly and before you can ask, I voice my thoughts. If someone with no prior knowledge had to choose the scientist and the writer... I trail off. Finally, you smile. It gives me the opening I need to press on. Real flowers or artificial flowers? Real, obviously, you snort, though I prefer them where they belong, you finish, walking over to a flowerbed of fine lavender Winter Irises which look fresher and more beautiful in the rain. Why? You roll your eyes slightly and seem to know where Im going with this. Theyre more beautiful, you say shortly. Thats a lie. Many are crafted to perfection. Plus, no headaches of maintenance and You shut me up with a look, then crouch down to touch a flower as you speak, All of that might be true, but they arent natural. Same goes for showers and air-conditioners and the million other unnatural things we have you catch yourself before you get too carried away. I am grinning and it is enough to bring home what you have probably already understood. We are now dripping wet and if we dont head inside soon, you will surely catch a cold. I do not think I can handle a writer who is both cranky and sick. I turn to walk back inside, but you grab my arm and still my movements. For once, our roles are not reversed and you are doing something irrational, so I choose to stay. We stand in the rain, the rhythmic pitter-patter of the raindrops blending into a sanguine silence. I stretch out my palm and observe the rain snake down in rivulets. Imperfect but natural, flowing in silence and beauty, you whisper. Theres a bark, the moment is broken but the silence stretches on and we shuffle back inside. Later that night, I find myself buried in the covers with a slightly stuffy nose. The night lamp is the only source of illumination and you are beside me, writing, and I can observe some idle doodles on the page from where I am, before my eyes begin to droop. The languid strokes of your pen dissolve into silence and your rhythmic, silent breathing lulls me to sleep in the darkness. Nidhi Kaul

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Pragya Mehta

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Astounded arrays all aloof; Barefoot brooding boys beckon; Choirs chanting cyclic calls; Drab dim daylight drawn. Emoting elegy, essays erode; Feminine flowers float free; Great gusts gale galore; Hidden hymns, haggard history. Instances irradiate illusive incite; Just jollies jaded judgements; Keep knowing kneeling kissing; Lonely, lovely land laments. Saptarshi Mukharjee

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Well, there occurs a play, A play of life amidst that celestial spin, From an elegant crescent to the bright disc The moon unravels the ethos veiled in

The canvas begins like the new moon ring, Shielded by the armor of earth Thus begins a novel canvas all over again, So that no unwanted colors spill in The canvas slowly contours into crescent, With a thrust of new amalgams and thoughts unchained. Where possessive walls of parental care are shed, Yet glass doors of fear stay intact, Shalini Chhabra Where old blends are trusted high Yet a pin hole of vigor gets an alibi Then emanates the gibbous phase Where strokes of poise Spread to unmapped realms Where a voluntary thrust has created a fusion, A fusion of colors of gut, vigor and ambitious dreams To reach a fork Where valley or summit is just one step away.. Only you dont know which Where the inner call and noise of world pull you enough Only you dont know which.. Then knocks the full moon phase Though the casings are different, But wisdom is assured, Because it either gives you wings of triumph Or crutches to endure

Hence, is the canvas of life really made? Well, to learn and to unlearn are echoes to each other Like series of full moon and new moon they occur again.. Crazy has been the world, so how can celestial art be sane!!

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very wise man once said, Days are longer than years. And never has it felt truer than it does today, when we walk out with the knowledge that like guests who cannot overstay their welcome, we are expected back where we came from, though the heart lingers behind wandering in the corridors and on the roads, to perch itself on a spot that wishes to overlook only the goodness in what has passed. Looking back at these four years is like looking in a mirror, but one that is at the end of a long tunnel; what you see at that end is what you were four years ago, when you walked in the campus fresh with a bag from home and myriad ideas about what life is supposed to be. Here, life slowly starts playing with you in a way unknown to you before much larger forces are at work. Unlike in school when your coordinates could simply be put down by your class and section, you are now one student out of an entire year; to relatives and friends outside, just another person from TU. It is hard to remember what happened on what day in the past four years but memories come rushing back to you in snippets carried by a song that you hummed the most, or a tuft of grass that you passed by a thousand times while talking on the phone, a face that you searched for anxiously in the crowd; now besides you or lost somewhere. It is not startling that we seldom credit the wisdom we have acquired over this time to the subjects we are taught. With the exception of miserably few subjects that have enabled us to present our views to an audience confidently, most classes are underscored by a tone of sadness and boredom. The all too familiar drooping of eyelids in a lecture no matter how straight you sit and how well you scrub and bathe yourself in the morning, the endless wait for a lab to end, the losing battle fought so well in tutorials; they are in no way indications of

an awakened mind. Yet we have grown, and deep within ourselves, we know how much. Not a moment passes after we close our eyes, and we can see how we have changed how we used to look, what we thought of people and how wrong or right we were about them, what we did as a bold expression of individuality and what we did only because everybody else was doing it, what we used to wish for the most and what we are content with now, who we never figured out and who we know as well as our own life, what we thought we could never stand and what we seek the most now. This quest of finding yourself is what makes the journey worth remembering, not the path itself. To quote Life of Pi here, All of life is an act of letting go, but what hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye. It is true that what we have learnt here will stay with us forever and we are only leaving behind what was never ours to claim, but as people in progress, the least we can do is acknowledge the good times spent with someone, cherish the experiences we had and know that for each one of us, anything is only real if we have lived through it. Well, what do you say after a goodbye? Thats not for me to know; only time will tell. As of now, the great adventure of life awaits us, and we can write our destiny in the way we wish. All I know is that miles cannot separate friends, and if we really want to be with someone we love, we are already there. Anuraag Verma

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In

a life where everyone is so busy running, competing and trying to acquire the most, there comes a moment when you slow down, take a deep breath and think What is it that I am running after?

As easy as it seems, it is a very difficult question to answer. We have been given a life to live, to learn and to enjoy. We start out with that motive but somewhere down the line, the living part is left behind and all that matters is running. Running to win; running to get away from the present; from our past. Why? Why do we need to run? Why cant we just embrace it all, slow down and maybe live and enjoy every moment of our lives? Maybe because it is difficult. It is difficult to be at peace with yourself and others. It is difficult to not give in to the fake beliefs and notions that we all have build around ourselves. It is easier to hate others than to love them. It is easier to run than to walk through our life because thats what we have been conditioned to do. Run! It is easier for us to blame others and ourselves for a failure than to accept the fact that its not a failure. Its a beautiful experience which teaches you things about yourself and gives you the courage to get up from the ruins and build your life; to live your life. I see life as a rhythm. A beautiful rhythm. And the best part is that we are the creators of this rhythm. Now it all rests on our shoulders to create a beautiful melody or to ruin it so badly that one day, in retrospect, we dont want to hear the rhythm that our life has been. I feel the happiest people are the ones who find happiness in small things; who can mix their rhythm with the rhythm of others and that of nature. Like the rhythm the cool breeze plays with your hair, the rhythm of the rain, the rhythm of someones laugh, the rhythm of the clouds moving in the sky, the rhythm of the person sitting next to you. Only if we all could do that and create the beautiful symphony that we were born to create, so that one day, when we look back, we can hear our rhythm peacefully. That rhythm which is full of experiences, moments happy and sad. Those moments that we cherish and not regret. Fret not where the road will take you. Instead, concentrate on the first step. Thats the hardest part and thats what you are responsible for. Once you take that step let everything do what it naturally does and the rest will follow. Do not go with the flow. Be the flow. - Shams of Tabriz, lover of Rumi Be the rhythm that your heart desires you to be. Ashwinderjit Kaur Bhatti

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Nidhi Kaul

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Amit Saini

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preposterous to call yourself a loser; it is too unconstructive to blame yourself and to believe that you cant prove yourself over anything. Well I have been scolded for this many a times by friends, family and sometimes even by foes. Its like a weakness thrust back on you, only made worse by being served on a silver platter. But I dont think that loosing at anything or for that matter everything could ever be that bad. Well as I have saidjust another face in the crowd, I am truly like any other person with an average score on his result sheet, someone who is an audience to a dance performance, someone who is back stage in the shows, someone who is just a friend but nothing more special, someone who people just know as a face. When I look at myself and think about the years gone by, I feel that I have changed many times for many reasons. But of all that I could remember, the most prominent reason has been for the people around me, who I call friends. The people in question have changed too and I cant recall all their names and faces now. But as they say, this is what life is all about. It isnt always about being the most enthusiastic member of the group or the one who could always be around to listen to your problems and lend you a shoulder.It doesnt require you to be the centre of attraction, to forever bask in the limelight, or to be the handsome boy who stands out. It doesnt necessitate you to have people coming to you to ask you doubts during examinations and

Its

its not about having at least someone to be wanted to be clicked in a photograph with. I would like to believe that it will not be the end of the world if you are just forgotten or if you are at the receiving end of a joke. Is it really all that important if your salary is slightly less than your friends or if there are more certificates in your friends name. I may not be too good at dancing or in music, or have a good handwriting or be quick-witted. But I know that the one thing about me that keeps my spirits high when I become disappointed thinking about all that I lack in or pondering over all that I lost out on that came my way is my consistent belief in a little saying. The saying is Every battle must not be fought. And so when I sit up at night and do a little introspection, I realize that of all the things I have tried my hand at and didnt succeed in, there was always something that made my day and lifted my spirits. It was that smile which I continued to wear and it was that smile which I shared with someone to make them realize that you might have messed up a lot, but to take a breaka smile is all it takes. Some smoke it away, some drink it away, some leave the game just to begin again, some show others down, some just convince themselves that it was how it was destined to be, some criticize, some keeping themselves busy in other way; I pen it down and share it with the world. To hide your pains is easy, though it takes time to forget them..but to share them with the world is a challenge - it calls for trust. Mandeep Deswal
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It started one day as an activity A monkey sat on a branch of a tree He picked up a stick and started hitting The lone branch of a tree with vigour-ity

He pulled it up, and he pushed it down The lone stick of wood broke as it came down He came down from the tree, scratched his head Shuffled through the logs for a heftier grip

He found the one and started his ascend He held it firm as he sat on his perch Before he could start with his unusual activity He heard a wham from the next most tree

Two things grew from this unusual activity The number of monkeys and the width of the stick The stick grew strong and heavy, lean and thick They found it effective and they liked the whoosh

He looked to his left, he looked to his right Upon the branches of trees sat a dozen monkeys They pulled it up and they pushed it down Onto the branches of a tree with vigour-ity

Then one day a smart one came He asked himself and he asked them all Why were they hitting this lone branch of a tree? Why were they all hitting it with vigour-ity?

As the leaves fell and changed their colour This nave being transformed into a handsome figure For once it was a stick, its now an axe But it remained a riddle, what started this unusual activity

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ike a monkey which goes about his monotonous daily routine, we have lost that faculty of wonder and have preoccupied ourselves with activities which do not render any meaning to our lives. We have acquired better skills to do our work but at the same time we have lost that primitive hunger and have become usual pigs in a pigsty, which do nothing except follow the clueless roaming pigs with their wiggly little tails and wait for the day to get slaughtered and to be free. And for the whoosh, Ill leave it up to you to decide. Probably this is the funny element of your life!

AN UNUSUAL ACTIVITY -Zubin Arora

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- Pragya Mehta

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- Saptarshi Mukherjee

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Javin Garg
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As

the fervent beating of the Dhol gives way to Daler Mahendis swaying voice in the title song of the cult movie Rang De Basanti, a deluge of memories transports me to the dry summer months of 06. The capital had witnessed a number of anti-reservation protests during that time and the then agitated students found a deep resonance with the sentiments portrayed in the film. RDB revolutionized the concept of silent protests and popularized the candle light marches that followed. However, I personally like to believe that it is songs like Roobaroo and Lukka Chuppi that truly endear us to the aspirations of the characters in the film. After delivering a memorable score for Lagaan, A.R. Rahman was once again successful in weaving rebellion, camaraderie, love and patriotism in perfect quantities into his fabric of creative genius to produce a fine musical treat that still continues to enthrall us. A.R Rahman has rightfully entered the elite ranks of the global music world and he continues to consolidate his position with every international project he undertakes. Though his theme songs, Jiyo Utho Badho for the Commonwealth in 10 and Nimma Nimma included in the theme medley for the London Olympics in 12, fell short of the expectations of many of his fans, his single Infinite Love, released on the eve of the predicted doomsday, received better reviews due to its catchy tune and the many heart-warming moments in its video. Perhaps the most distinguishing feature of his work is the distinct style and flavor that he infuses into each new venture he undertakes. His compositions in his native tongue Tamil truly transcend the barriers of language, region and style and appeal to a diverse audience. The list includes the delightfully innocent tracks of Roja, the peppy tracks of Jeans and the critically acclaimed soundtrack of Bombay. The

commercial success of these films prompted their respective producers to work on their dubbed versions in a number of regional languages including Hindi. That his tracks in Hindi often pale in comparison to the originals for want of greater vigor would not be an overstatement. His latest collaboration with Mani Ratnam is Kadal which also marks the return of Arvind Swamy of Bombay fame after a six years long hiatus. Apart from the infinitely groovy number Magudi, the song Elay Keechan sung by the music director himself beautifully conveys the moods of th fishermen in the film. This refreshingly rustic track displays Rahmans ability to implement the seamless mixing of styles and instruments to perfection. It also validates that a dose of wholesome, uplifting music often surpasses all language barriers. This latest endeavor is viewed by many critics as a successful attempt to bridge western and Indian music without compromising on the tastes of the regional fans. Perhaps it is this very fusion of genres that broadens the scope of the music produced and also makes the entire experience of listening, such a delectable one for even those who cannot infer the meaning of the lyrics. It also explains how I continue to playfully ignore the humongous quantum of ridicule that I garner or my professed love for Kollywood music. At the end of the day, none of it can possibly deter me from listening to and enjoying the magic spun into the tunes composed by this maestro of Madras. Radhika Singh

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Life, the Universe, and Everything

<stuff not entirely related to the theme> < >

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his is a story about important discoveries. Discoveries which, joint together with the invention of paper in China during the 2nd Century AD, had a big influence on mankind and took subsequent civilizations to immense highs. They are serendipitous and have very humble beginnings. At the beginning of humanity, when the fear of night and thunder dictated mens lives, there lived a cave dweller by the name Pfff. He was a loner and an overall misfit, whose pathological dislike for physical labor was matched only by his crippling laziness. Rest of the males were all about hunting and mating. The females were few and all about the mating, because most of the females who were all about the hunting had been hunted down and mated upon by their fellow tribe members. And so it was that Pfff, who liked nothing better than to just lie down in his cave and stare at the walls, a source of entertainment that was much ahead of its time, was always the laughing stock amongst his people. Pfff was, however, strangely fixated on throwing stones at random objects. It was the only thing that could get him out of the cave and into the world outside, which otherwise felt very cold to him. Hed spend days, cut off from the rest, completely hooked on the silliness it provided. But, this odd penchant for hitting everything with stones seemed juvenile to Ta, the leader of the group, who was really into drawing pictures of naked women mating with each other on the cave walls. With his feces. He was 24. Pfffs mother Mmba was one of the few women in the hunting party, and as such, the only reason Pfff hadnt already been thrown out of the settlement. She worried about his future and was concerned that someday the tribes patience would run out; that theyd eat Pfff and then expel him. Mmba tried to get him to indulge in the groups various morale and team building activities, but try as she might, Pfff refused to participate in competitions to determine who produced the most amount of poop in one sitting. He was also not very fond of the women in his tribe, all of whom
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were cheating on their mates with everyone else. So their lives progressed, always following the same patterns, never diverging, until one day Mmba decided to do something about it. Since the cave-people had yet to discover farming, they were always moving around. Every settlement was temporary and would eventually run out of crucial resources like fruits and animals. Before each migration, the tribe would send a group of scouts to find out the nearest habitable regions. Scouting was a potentially dangerous but important responsibility, which, Mmba thought, would be good for Pfff. It was not uncommon for scout teams to lose a few members while travelling through the jungles. She thought itd give him a sense of purpose and sincerely hoped he wouldnt get eaten by a lion. Pfff was reluctant at first (to put it mildly), and was completely content staying in for another few days. But Mmba used her motherly charms (she threatened to feed him to a lion) to persuade him. Pfff had been given a choice: Willingly tread into the jaws of death by confronting a terrifying predator or go scouting with the others. He chose not to anger his mother. Mmba pulled some shit, literally, and got Pfff appointed as the head of one of the scouting teams. There were three other teams, all of which went in completely opposite directions. Two men, named Tch and Ro, joined Pfff as the trio set out early in the morning to search for a new cave to call home. That entire day, Pfff walked in the general direction of his nose, while the others followed. They crossed a river to go to the other side, and a few hours later, crossed it back again, mistaking it for the other side to the river flowing on the other side of the river they had crossed before. Tch and Ro were furious when they found out, but remembering the orders given by Ta, kept their mouths shut. Later in the day, Pfff found a cave and threw a fit when Tch dragged him away, rightly pointing out that it was occupied by a bear. Sometime later, he tried to vent his frustra-

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tion on a monkey by chasing it with a stick. The monkeys, in order to restore their comrades lost honor, declared war. The humans, quickly deciding that flight was a much more promising choice than fight, ran for their lives. After outrunning certain death, they kept wandering directionless for the rest of the day. Pfff almost discovered a suitable place, but mistook it for the earlier bear-occupied cave and told the others to move on. There finally came a time when the three explorers decided to rest. They lay down beneath a tree and quickly went to sleep. All of them had barely begun sleeping, when Pfff was disturbed by the smallest bird he had ever seen. It seemed like a tiny, yellow-black blot on the greenery behind it, buzzing loudly and being generally annoying. Pfff tried to grab the little thing between his fingers, but it drifted away. Picking up a stone that lay nearby, he followed the strange buzzing creature and saw it enter its nest hanging on a nearby tree. Exercising remarkable marksmanship (and stupidity), Pfff brought down the nest with a single hit. This author holds the firm belief that before evolution taught human beings to not screw with honey bees, nature wanted to hear grown up, club-carrying cave-men screaming like little girls. Which is the sort of thing that can best describe the horror that followed. An angry swarm of hundreds of the buzzing creatures rocketed towards the three men. Pfff, scared into activity, ran and climbed the tree, which left the other two sleeping men completely unaware of imminent danger. They woke up to face the wrath of a small army and a world of hurt. For Tch and Ro, the possibility of a painful death was becoming stronger with each passing moment. Pfff climbed down the tree and tried to distract the bees by throwing a branch at them. The swarm diverted their attention and went after Pfff. Fortunately, Pfff remembered the way to the nearby river and dashed towards it. By the time he had jumped into the river to escape the swarm, he was badly stung. The bees left, after hovering above the river for a while. When he returned, Tch and Ro, who had nearly died

and just had had enough of his antics for one day, beat him unconscious. Pfff woke up the next morning to find himself alone. His body was drenched in rain and hurt all over. The other two had left him there and moved ahead. He felt afraid and cold. At some point in the distance, blackened air appeared to flow violently above the forest. Pfff had not seen such a sight before. Intrigued, he ran towards the black cloud. It led him outside the forest and into an open patch full of plants. They were strange, with long, jagged leaves. Towards the centre of the patch, he found Ro and Tch to be completely baked, lying dead amongst the plants. It was also the place where the smoke was coming from. But that particular spot seemed bald, as if the plants had made way for something else. He found the nearby plants changed, even though they looked like the ones he had encountered earlier. They were engulfed by a bright orange light. It had eaten the plants and turned them black. The light beckoned Pfff towards itself, and bit him when he touched it. But its mere presence comforted him and made the cold go away, like nothing had ever before. Clouds of blackness invaded his nostrils and entered his head. He coughed violently for a few seconds, completely overwhelmed by it. His heart started beating faster, as he started hearing things he wasnt hearing before. The smoke surrendered its secrets to his heightened sense of smell. And the colors! The colors were everywhere. Suddenly, colors of all kind were stampeding over the previously dark, grim forest. Pfff felt the pain leaving his body as his elevated consciousness started laughing hysterically. Laughing at jokes only he could have understood. It is all so beautiful, he thought. Why dont I feel like this all the time? He lay down amongst the burnt plants, surrounded by the comforting smoke, grinning from ear to ear. Man had discovered fire...and recreational drugs. Varun Singh

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- Shalini Chhabra

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From being a Corporate Banker to a bestselling Author of the Shiva trilogy, Amish Tripathis has been a journey worth admiration. By providing a novel and refreshing perspective to our past, his books have brought young readers closer to their roots. Here is an insight into the world of The Man behind Shiva.

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ndeed, The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes has more than its fair share of quotable quotes and nuggets of wisdom. In a mere one hundred fifty pages, Barnes has managed a gripping firstperson narrative with drama and mystery; a plot whose twists and turns get progressively sharper as it delicately weaves through paths of philosophical intrigue, all the while maintaining a firm grip on realism as well. The crescendo is, definitely, more than rewarding. The work is poetic in its simplicity; it is the sort of narrative in which the reader can not only feel but walk in the shoes of the narrator should they choose to do so. The scenarios and circumstances presented are plain and common, and a recurring theme in the story is how real-life events are a far cry from the artistic, intense and melodramatic representations thereof in Literature. However, the claim itself is disparaged to a degree by the narrative of an average mans life that manages to stand taller than the grandest works of Literature in its raw, honest, no-frills descriptive simplicity. There is no requirement of remarkable situations or monumental coincidences to delve deep into the human condition and psyche; in the daily mundane Barnes questions and even answers at places, in a subtle and very real way the very fundamentals that define our struggles of the everyday that makes our life: love, guilt, morality, remorse and so forth.

All these are beautifully brought out on a canvas of the human perception of things like time, history and memory, and how both the former and latter indistinguishably alter one other. The characters, though not fleshed out are all depicted in shades of grey; there is no hero and certainly no villain, yet everyones story manages to be compelling, brought to an artful end which shall leave the reader reeling. The Sense of an Ending is a small book that asks a lot of questions and manages to say a lot in its littleness, a fact duly acknowledged by the jury when they adjudged it the winner of the Man Booker Prize (2011) in a mere 31 minutes, saying the book, spoke to humankind in the 21st Century.. It is the kind of read that can be savored more than once and unravels just a little more each time it is read; such is the trick it can play on the mind of the avid dreamer that it ceaselessly produces things to marvel and ponder about. Melding philosophy, drama, mystery and generously sprinkled with thrill, and having a crisp, intriguing plot starring a lovable and relatable average Joe that may as well be you, The Sense of an Ending can surely not disappoint if youre looking for a work to stir your soul. Nidhi Kaul

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knots with the ropes until they seemed satisfied with the strength and stability of the raft. As they worked, the sun slowly rose higher from towards their left and began to burn the back of their necks and made them thirsty. David went to get some water from his bag and Scott did the same. As he took out his bottle, he noticed the lunch box that his mother had packed for him in the morning before leaving for work. He suddenly felt hungry and grabbed the lunch as well. You dont want to eat? he questioned Scott as he noticed that his friend only had the bottle in his hand and was sitting idly by their raft. No. I am not hungry. Your mother wasnt at home in the morning? She stayed out all night. She was tired by the time she came back. It was one of her regular nights. David sat down beside him, took a swig of water out of his bottle, and opened his lunch box. Here, he said and held it out to Scott. Take a sandwich. I cannot finish the whole thing anyway. Scott hesitated at first but then gave in. He took a small bite and willed himself to not gobble down the sandwich too quickly. He kept looking towards David and ate accordingly. These are really good, he remarked once in between. That is why I got a little late today, replied David. My mother was making these and fighting at the same time. Your father is still at home? Hasnt left in over a month now. A strong gust of wind suddenly blew across the pond and carried with it many fallen leaves that rustled and flew right over their heads. Their hands instinctively grabbed the raft and they checked whether any of the knots had loosened. Reassured, they went back to eating their sandwiches. Do you think it will float and hold us well? asked Scott gesturing towards the pond. We are working hard enough.
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I sometimes wish we had a boat. A proper boat. I do too, smiled David and looked at him. A proper boat with oars that we could sit in comfortably and row around this pond. The pond is not big enough for a boat though, said Scott and sat up straight. Its not even deep enough I think. The river then! exclaimed David. The river flowing past the edge of the town. We could have taken it out onto that river and sailed across the coast. It would have been grand. And why just the coast? We could have sailed further and perhaps even explored more towns. Yesyes..we could have. I wish we had that boat. Maybe we can one day. Once school is done, we could work with the fishermen. Lots of young boys do that. I am sure they would let us row a boat. That would be perfect! We would forever be on water and we would be away. By now it was rather hot and the sweat dripped off their foreheads like water. But they suddenly seemed not to feel the heat and sat there with their bottles in their hands, the food in their half-filled stomachs, and they talked about the boat they wished they had but didnt. It pleased them much and they forgot about everything else for those few wonderful minutes. Shall we get back to work then, said David enthusiastically and brushed the crumbs off his chest before getting up. Oh yes! Lets try and finish this today if we can. Lets work harder. Okay. We finish today and we row tomorrow. Even if it is just this pond. Its the pond today. We will make it to the river.

- Vidit Uppal

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As

I lie leaning against the trunk of that tree with a 44 magnum in my hand, the only thing I can remember is the river splashing against its banks, the roaring wind as it blew through the nearby trees, the Sun fading into the crimson sky and my fathers warm palm on my cold face. It was a firm touch but I could feel the tenderness at its corea reassurance that no matter what happened I would always have a shoulder to lean on. I could hear bells chiming at a distance and the temples commencing their exordium to Bhagavada Geeta. Soon the prayers would end and people would float earthen lamps kept in small vessels made of leaves in the river. When I was a kid I often used to go there with my father. The sight of lamps bobbing up and down the river surface, silently floating, unaware of the expectant eyes watching them drift away, always mesmerized me. I remember my father with nothing but his jhanghiya on, stepping into the river, raising his hands above his head, joining them in supplication and with a prayer on his lips, taking a dip into the cold water. One thing that always attracted me to religion was the conviction in my fathers eyes as he subjected his body to this freezing ritual on winter evenings. Though I dont remember my father ever telling me to be a devout, I think, I may have seen something more than conviction in his eyes. Maybe I had seen expectation! Then again, I may be mistaken but I am certain that this seeming expectation was why I embraced the religion in the first place. Growing up I followed in my fathers footsteps. Like him I started brushing my teeth twice a day with miswak sticks; like him I would touch the books with my forehead if they had fallen, asking for forgiveness from goddess Saraswati for the disrespect; like him I started waking up early; like him I would go to a nearby temple on Sundays and offer milk

to the statues of Lord Shiva and his son Ganesha and, like him, I would step back from the idols after the prayer and would move backwards till I had reached the exit. Never turn your back to an idol, my father had said. I never questioned my father. I loved him too much and I think he loved me too. I still remember it was Sunday; my father had already taken a dip and following him I did the same. It was then that I noticed a little blood had trickled down my thighs into the river. Horrified that I was going to die, I ran to my father. He wrapped me up in a towel and hugged me tightly but when I told him about what had happened I felt the embrace loosenthere was something unfamiliar about that embrace. I remember thinking that I would never get my father back. On the way home my father whispered, Dont tell this to anyone. I will talk to your mother. Soon the unfamiliar became mundane but my dad would sometimes still take me to the river if I was good, meaning that it was not my time of the month. Even though something was lost between my father and me, and even though I was forbidden from entering the prayer room or from going to the temple on certain days of the month, I still loved my father and the God too. I loved reading a lot. By the time I was fifteen I had gone through almost all the books at my school library. At home we had very few books and most of them religious. I had read them all! The stories fascinated me. I had read about atheism too but never really paid much thought to that premise. I was deeply in love with the idea of Godsomeone who would stand by me if I was righteous. At school, I excelled at academics. I loved philosophy and history in particular. I knew more than

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most of my classmates. After all, I had read almost every book on both that were available in the library! The idea of the world, human existence and the infinite universe always attracted me. When I was seventeen, my mother got pregnant again. I still remember my fathers embarrassed tone that betrayed the happiness in his voice. It was about the same time I fell in love. He was a class senior to me. We had met at an award ceremony and instantly developed a liking for one another. I would wait the entire morning for the recess bell so that I could stand outside his classroom watching him talk to his friends and, upon seeing me, his eyes would glow and a pensive smile would sweep across his face. I sometimes met him in the evenings and we would take a stroll down the river bank. It was on one of these evenings that we kissed for the first time. I remember feeling scared, awkward and guilty but, for some reason, I didnt want to stop. That night I lay in my bed pretending to sleep and, when everyone had slept, I revisited everything that had happened that day and at the end found that the corners of my eyes had become moist. I prayed to God to let me spend my entire lifetime with him. Fifteen days later his father got transferred to a far off town and that was the end of our relationship. I immersed myself in studies. Somehow books always had the power to rescue me from the darkest alleys of my life. I had decided to major in philosophy. One evening when I returned from college, I saw a few unfamiliar shoes and slippers outside our main entrance. I instantly knew there were people visiting us and I had an idea what they were there for. My mother was in the kitchen making snacks and my father was in the drawing room keeping the guests company. I was asked to serve the guests. It was then I saw him the first time. In a grey pinstripe two buttoned suit and a well-trimmed mustache, he looked handsome. II My palms were sweaty and my heart was thumping, trying to burst out. Outside I could hear the shehnnai and drums playing. I could feel his mustache on my neck and his vinegary breath on my lips. His weight was crushing me and then there was excruciating pain as I felt the world reel around me as I gasped for breath. Soon it was all over and I felt his dark figure slide to a sidespent. I could not sleep the pain was excruciating; with tears choking my throat, I lay there trying to suppress the sobs. The night was long and I found myself flipping through the pages of my memory, trying to figure out why God would punish me like this. III One very peculiar thing about humans is adaptability. Leaving the existential imperative aside, it can have social repercussions. We adapt very easily to the social conditions we are subjected to. Soon the anomaly becomes a routine. I hide my cowardice behind this argument when I am reminded of him. Reeking of alcohol he would stumble towards me and all I could think of was that my sobs shouldnt wake up my daughter sleeping next door. What kind of God subjects his child to all this? In the morning I would try hard to cover my cheeks and hide the pile of hair lying on the floor. I tried to compensate for the respect that I had lost at night, by trying not to lose any in front of my neighbors. IV In society whenever there is an attack on man, the entire male community unites in defending him; but when a woman is condemned, it is the women that pick on her like vultures. They say that I did not wail on my husbands funeral, that I didnt beat my chest frantically and pull my hair, that maybe I was unfaithful and I wanted him to die because I had stopped believing in God. They say that when I saw my father collapse in the gathering, I left my husbands body and ran towards my father. They are right; there was a relief in my husbands death. Yes I loved my father more than I had ever loved my husband and yes my faith in God was dwindling. But after all I had gone through, how could I believe in God and how can my integrity depend on whether or not I believe in Him? Integrity, maybe the most important aspect of a persons lifeof humanity too! When everything is brokenthe body shattered into a thousand shards, the candle tiered of fighting the storm, finally extinguished, integrity is the scent that wafts from the sleeping wicksomething that reminds the world that you existed. Yet we attribute the most important part of us to something that we have never seen, to a presence that most of us have never felt - to God. The two most important phenomena of lifethe birth and the death are attributed to Him. The birth, I cannot change, but the deaththe ultimate act of ownership, is in my hands. For a brief moment I see my father again, the bobbing lamps, the cold breeze and then the grip tightens on the trigger as I raise the revolver to my temple. - Parishrut Badoni

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always knew that going to Jujus to write an article for Avant Garde was a bad idea. But I really needed to get out of my hostel room, have some good coffee and come up with my interpretation about the theme Rhythm. I had already made a mental note of the different illustrations given out by the core team. But nothing was really striking my writers nerve.

There was one really interesting adaptation of the term rhythm. It was about how scattered the notes of music are but once we connect them in a pattern, they make so much sense. Yes, sir. B.tech final year. I replied. The high volume of the music and the loud chit Final year? Are you placed yet? chatting of people in the caf was making me really This was a very direct and sensitive question to ask grumpy now. a final year student! Can we sit here? Yes! I replied. I looked up to find Mr. Narayan Singh and a little Where? girl beside him holding his hand. An MNC in Gurgaon. Now how do you say no to a teacher in this situation Hmmm.. when the entire caf is jam-packed? After a long pause I added, But MNCs have a high I nodded reluctantly. firing rate, Ive heard. Narayan Singh was one of those teachers who were His eyes narrowed, but he didnt move his sight loathed by almost every student in college. He from the game. didnt allow students to enter late in class, took at- At that very moment I knew that I was in trouble. tendance daily, set extremely hard question papers, The phrase curiosity kills the cat came to life. gave regular assignments and did strict marking in There was a rumour that Narayan Singh was fired labs and tutorials; basically he was there to make from an MNC five years back, when he joined this our lives miserable. Although he never taught me college as a teacher. He said that he wanted to live any subject, I knew him; everybody knew him. I with and take care of his obstinate parents who redidnt like him because he was never friendly, he fuse to leave the city. But the rumours said that he never smiled and he thought everybody was infe- was badly insulted and fired by the firm. Nobody rior to him. He was sitting on my table with such an knew the reason why. expression on his face that he owned this place and I decided it was the best time to leave. I started colwas doing a favour by letting me sit there. I wanted lecting my stuff. to get up and go but decided to sit there for 5 min- Whats your name? utes and then leave so that it didnt look rude. Uh oh. Looking down at my notepad, my thoughts went Alaya Sinha, I managed to choke out. back to my second year It was my Operating What does your father do? System class. The teacher used to take atten- Hes dead, I replied, fighting the lump in my dance before starting with the lecture. Right throat. after he took the attendance, I jumped out Finally, he looked at me. I think I saw sorrow in from the back door. Mr. Narayan Singh his eyes, but he didnt show it. I hate it when peocaught me in the corridor and took me ple give me sympathetic looks. to the Dean. I recalled his face full of Who all are there in your family? dissatisfaction when the Dean left Me and my mom. me by only giving me a warning. Any brothers and sisters? Are you a B.tech student? Just me and my mom! he asked, while playing Chi- What does your mother do? nese checkers with the His nosiness was infuriating. little girl. Shes a painter, I said and added Now

if youll excuse me. I got up to leave. Why didnt you become a painter? he interjected, this time true concern in his face; his brows furrowed. I paused, confused whether or not to continue this conversation. God knows why I decided to stay. I do not have a single artistic gene in my body, I replied. I think he smiled, if you can term slightly lifting the corners of your lips a smile. The little girl went to the games shelf to get Ludo. Is she your daughter? I asked. No. Shes my sisters daughter. I shouldve guessed that he was too old to be a father of this 10 year old girl. She couldnt find Ludo in the shelf. A group of three college students were playing ludo on the next table. Mr. Narayan Singh went to them and asked them if they could accommodate the little girl in their game. They did and he returned to my table. Do you come here often? Narayan asked me. Yes. Everyone does. I shrugged. Ive come here for the first time. How long has it been? he asked. Since what? I asked, confused. Since your fathers death. Narayan Singh was supposed to be the last person on earth to talk emotions. Before I was born, I said. He gave me a look of disbelief and tragedy; that a five year old gives you when you tell him that Santa isnt real. He looked down and started stirring his coffee, but his stare seemed to go far away. After a few minutes he broke the silence. You were right about the MNCs. They have a high firing rate. I didnt respond. But that is only during recession. Not during the time when I got fired. Why is he telling me all this? I didnt know what to say. I was stuck between curiosity and perplexity. So, I remained silent. I was just promoted as a senior manager and had a whole new cabin to myself. It was a lavish place; you know how MNC offices are. They decorated my cabins walls with paintings here and there. One particular painting was that of a man standing in the middle of a beautiful garden. He was looking at the three children playing under the rainbow. The man initially had his back towards me. I was looking at the painting and taking in the amazing scene, the sunshine, the flowers and the

fountain. Suddenly, the man turned to me and said I am going to eat those children. He then started coming out of the painting. He had his one leg outside the frame. I ran out, shouting and narrated this incident to everyone. I had lost my voice. I had to remind myself to blink and to close my mouth. I swallowed and begged my brain to restart my thought process. That was the second time that it had happened, he said. Oh my God! There is more to the story! I met this girl when I was in college. I was a science student and she was an arts student. We ended up marrying each other. It was an easy life back then. She would take orders in her home office and paint, and I would go to my office. My wife was 3 months pregnant. She had just completed one of her best art works. The painting was that of a beach at the sun set time. The sky was orange-pink. Its reflection on water was breathtakingly beautiful. There was a family of four- a couple and two kids. The couple was holding hands and looking at the sky. The kids were building sand palaces. The man suddenly left his spouses hand and went towards the water. He kept walking and the tides took him away. The lady in the painting turned toward me. She cried, but instead of tears, blood ran out of her eyes. She asked me to help, to save her husband. I put my hand in the painting, I tried to get him back but I couldnt. I asked my wife to help, but she didnt understand me. My heart was beating so fast I feared it might jump out. He continued. I refused to take medical help. Whenever I entered my wifes office, I would get confused and irksome. I even hit her once in her office, I dont remember why. She was 5 month pregnant when she left me. After few minutes of silence that felt like eternity, he said, I am suffering from Stendhal Syndrome. He got up to take the little girl from the next table. Before walking out of the caf door, he came to my table. I knew that my wife and I were going to have a girl. I had named her Alaya. He left. Pragya Arora

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The Innocent Man (2006) John Grisham John Grisham, who took the field of popular fiction by a storm in the 90s, arguably delivers his greatest work through this book. It is about the true story of a disturbed but innocent mans fight against the legal system that wrongly convicts him by using extremely controversial interrogation techniques and then sentences him to death.

Kafka on the Shore (2002) Haruki Murakami Described by literary icon John Updike as a real page-turner, as well as an insistently metaphysical mind-bender, this fantasy novel traces two distinct but interrelated plots: one of a 15 year old boy named Kafka who escapes his fathers house to find his mother and sister, and the other of an old man named Nakata who has the uncanny ability to communicate with cats.

And then there were none (1939) Agatha Christie Declared as the worlds best-selling mystery ever, And Then There Were None is an intriguing tale about ten strangers, with less than perfect pasts, who are lured to an island and then consequently find themselves evading death at every step. Taking elements from the childrens rhyme Ten Little Strangers, it is a fast paced thriller with twists and turns at every step.

Walden or, Life in the Woods (1854) Henry David Thoreau This great writer and philosopher, whose writings influenced the likes of Mahatama Gandhi and Martin Luther King, once abandoned all forms of material exist nce and went to live in the woods for a period of two years. This book documents his experience and serves as a claim to his philosophy regarding self-sustenance and independence.

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Anoochan Pandey Vidit Uppal Parishrut Badoni Surbhi Aggarwal Amit Saini Divya Soni

Ashwinderjit Kaur Bhatti Pragya Arora Pankaj Ganeshgarhia Nidhi Kaul Saptarshi Mukharjee Radhika Singh

Mridul Kapoor Hemank Sabharwal Rohit Saluja Vishesh Vikram Singh Vaibhav Sharma

Zubin Arora Abhinav Mathur Shalini Chhabra Karamvir Singh

EB-507, Hostel J

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