Sibyl

nI am one of those

Who could squat by the tracks

Bundled in dulled rag chadar,

Lost to reality ?

While Time grates by,

The world clamouring to be on board ?

Wrinkled cataracted eyes

Hardly bothering to blink at this hulla,

Dead brown skin expressionless, numb.

Would it be unnatural to do so?

Adwaita Das

Her Diary

nIt was early in the morning,

The sun woke without a warning!

She swept the room and she wiped the floor,

She made the tea and opened the door.

She rubbed the greasy pots and pans

And fetched the heavy milk-cans.

Her legs ached and her head throbbed,

And yet her leisure had been robbed

To cook eggs for the breakfast

And water the plants from a jar with rust.

She was a girl from the village with a long braid,

The city folk really needed a maid.

Her dreams often put her in a school,

But she is only a fool!

She wishes to paint with colours bright

And sleep on a soft bed in the night

She yearns for a paper and a pen

God bless her; she is only ten!

Sohini Bhattacharyya,

Class VIII, South Point High School

Stampede

n(Based on the stampede at mandhardevi temple)

When the seas failed to take me,

Myriad feet upon the marble

almost did.

Indebted to the celestial power

For sparing my earthly life,

I prayed.

How could He then subject me,

To such a contingency?

Countless philistine beings.

Jolted suddenly out of their oblivion,

Rushed over my tender self.

Can I forget that moment of agony?

Oh! I cried with those I saw crying.

Mothers with their tender ones lay

About me lifeless.

Many dying every minute,

upon the cold marble.

My own self racking,

my soul shattered,

Refusing to depart.

God still had use of me.

Shubharthi Pandey,

1st year English, JU

Asta...

nPlay with Building Blocks...

And so the carriage grinds the night

And the insect crackles in the embers

Within the hollows of the boat

Asta will you come home in the evening?

The last drops of the lemon

In the forehead

Spells out the murderer?s name

Who flew in like a bat

In the midst of the night

and tore your wheels

While you shut yourself

In the hollow of a tree

And thought of God

and smelt the tears

Of the dear that ran by the lake

To the gates of the garden

Asta will you go to the bees?

You too heard the song of the dust

As it drowned your bells

and the mother?s prayer

But the lonely lunatic

Who crawled up the drains

And threw his eyeballs at your feet

Still fondles the nerves from his forehead

In the fist of his hand

Asta will you stop crying?

Inam Hussain Mullick,

1st year English, JU