1

Credits

Editors

Saswata Roy

Anindya Sengupta

Madhura Duttagupta

Dipanjan Chaudhuri

Sonali Mohapatra

Debopriyo Sarkar

Abhranil Das

Sunipa Dev

Design · Graphics · Layout · Typography

Abhranil Das

Front Cover

Ankan Bag · Abhranil Das

Back Cover

Saptarshi Bej

Illustrations

Soumalya Sinha · Saptarshi Bej · Ankan Bag

Special Thanks to Dibya Chakravorty for his guidance.

Produced by the Literary Club of IISER Kolkata, in

collaboration with the Arts Club and the Photography Club.

2

Contents

Director’s Message ·············································································· 5

Editorial ···································································································· 5

Stories ········································································································· 6

Debapriyo Sarkar

The Third Rail ············································································································ 7

Resilience ······················································································································ 8

Through Time ············································································································· 9

Priyom Adhyapok · Nuisance ···················································································· 10

Maneesha Ismail · Seven Days that Shook Ammalu ···································· 11

Sonali Mohapatra · Tempest ······················································································ 13

Abhranil Das

The Debt ······················································································································ 14

Whispers ······················································································································ 15

The Answer ················································································································ 16

Gaurav Kumar Baruah

Moral Conflict ······································································································ 22

The Last Sunday ······································································································ 26

Salman Hasan

Criminal Intent ····································································································· 27

One Evening ·············································································································· 28

Nishant Kumar · A Befuddling Aroma ······························································· 29

Himangshu Paul

A Long Cherished Dream ················································································· 33

Rain of Wish ············································································································· 35

Poems ·········································································································· 38

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Contents

Anindya Sengupta · Whispers ··················································································· 39

Antareep Mandal · To See off a Friend I'd Never See Again ·················· 39

Jayjit Das

Old Guitar ················································································································· 40

Voice Against Violence ····················································································· 40

Madhura Duttagupta · Unfaithful ····································································· 41

Samarpita Gayen

Copper Bound ·········································································································· 42

Struggles With the One ··················································································· 42

That Smile ·················································································································· 44

Saswata Roy

Me ···································································································································· 45

Tracing Back Childhood ················································································ 45

A Vacation We Never Had ··············································································· 45

Sonali Mohapatra

A Desire of Desire ·································································································· 46

Happy ····························································································································· 46

Syed Zeeshan Ali

Fishes ····························································································································· 47

My Life··························································································································· 47

Sleep ······························································································································· 48

Dibya Chakravorty

Hit and Miss ············································································································· 48

Sin ··································································································································· 48

The River ····················································································································· 49

Ramesh Chandra Barai · To Science ···································································· 50

Hemanta Sarmah · Love ································································································ 51

Harsh Vardhan Dwivedi · Adieu, I said ····························································· 51

4

Contents

Abhinav Yadav · From the Conflict of Thoughts ····································· 52

Articles

Review ······························································································· 53

Kaustuv Patra · Multiplayer ······················································································ 54

Anindya Sengupta · The VJD Method ·································································· 57

Music ········································································································ 59

Deep Chatterjee · More Than Just Rock (Metal Music) ··························· 60

Saswata Roy · Naad (Hindustani Classical) ···················································· 62

Ayan Banerjee · More than Music (Western Classical) ···························· 64

Travel ······································································································· 67

Ananya Mondal · Transcending Trance ·························································· 68

Madhura Duttagupta · Journey to Jerusalem ·············································· 69

Soubhik Kumar · Lindau Diary ················································································· 70

Science ···································································································· 72

Akash Sarkar · Mathemagic ······················································································· 73

Arindam Saha · Approximating π ············································································ 76

Sunipa Dev · Into a Criminal Mind ······································································· 77

Madhura Duttagupta · A Walk in the Fog ······················································ 79

Humour ·································································································· 80

Abhranil Das · Tips and Tricks for Getting into Trouble ··················· 81

Debanjan Basu · On Proofs and Their Respective Validities ··············· 83

Art ················································································································ 86

Photography ························································································ 97

5

E very feat that a child performs for the first time — the first word it speaks, the first step it takes — seems

to be the most remarkable thing for the mother. The spirit with which I am writing this now is exactly

that. And I am sure it is the same with all of us who were involved with the process of bringing out Muse,

our beloved.

The idea of publishing an annual magazine was born two years back. The previous office bearers and members of

the Literary Club of IISER Kolkata worked a great deal towards achieving that goal. We, in our term, took it up

from where it was left and completed the task. Many of the students without whose tireless efforts and

contribution Muse would not have seen the light of day have completed their coursework and left the Institute.

The present Board of Editors cannot thank them enough. We also thank all who have contributed in many ways

to enrich Muse. The Arts Club and Photography Club have provided us with great material which made the

design grand. The designer Abhranil Das has done a tremendous job to say the least. Finally, we thank everybody

whose poems, articles and stories have together given Muse its life. And we thank you, the reader, without

whom this work of art will be less than complete.

I shall not hold you back any longer. Let us hope that Muse lives for as long as time.

W elcome to the first issue of 'Muse' - the annual magazine of IISER Kolkata. It is a matter of great

pleasure for me to know that the literary club of IISER Kolkata is bringing out this first issue of

‘Muse’. The name and fame of an institute depends on the caliber and achievements of the

students and the faculty. Let this be a forum to showcase the hidden literary talents and innovative ideas in the

students and the faculty of IISER Kolkata. I am delighted to learn that the magazine contains contributions in the

form of poems, stories, artwork, photographs etc. and also articles on widely varied genres. I am sure it will be an

enjoyable reading material. It is a matter of pride for our Institute that we will have an issue of 'Muse' every year.

Hearty congratulations to the literary club of IISER Kolkata.

I, on behalf of the IISER Kolkata fraternity, extend best wishes for the success of this challenging endeavor.

7

W inter had set in with unprecedented severity. In the

brightness of the day, his tired eyes had noted the malfunctioning gate, and it was there that he was presently headed. Shuffling on through the snow-filled deserted street, he was mocked by occasional bright windows hiding warm and happy families.

He didn’t manage to get in unnoticed. He did not try. The lone guard at the counter looked up from his book, gazed at the ragged and shivering figure of the tramp for a few quick seconds, and resumed reading without granting him a word. Yes, indifference was nothing new to him. At least indifference was better than being kicked out.

He lumbered down to the underground station. It was considerably warmer compared to the world above, not ‘comfortable’, but warm enough to continue living. Having crawled onto a waiting bench, he was about to drift off, when he discovered another man by a pillar some distance away. The man was facing the tracks with his head bent down; peering at a book he was holding. Late night travellers were always an excellent opportunity. Judging from his clothes, he seemed to be quite a gentleman too. It wouldn’t be a bad time to beg, or even rob, in case of a refusal. The tramp made his way up to him and tugged at his sleeve.

“Sir, I have not eat nothing for days… spare some money. God will have mercy.”

The gentleman looked up in alarm, unmistakably frightened by the sudden presence of another human so late at night.

On seeing the tramp, however, his face calmed with an expression of genuine pity.

“Sorry, fellow. I haven’t got a farthing. Only a ticket to the next train and this magazine. I got pickpocketed you see.”

“Sir, I need it very bad.” The tramp had clearly not believed.

“What did I just say? Don’t you see I’m stuck in this freezing station, waiting for a train that’s not due for another half-an-hour? I could’ve taken a cab if fellows like you started earning an honest living for a change.”

“How do ya buy that ticket then?”

“The man at the counter is an acquaintance.”

“Why not he give ya money for cab?”

“Look here,” the gentleman said, irritated “I am not compelled to tolerate your interrogation.”

“Sir, I reelly be needing some money.”

The gentleman let out a sigh, creating a thick cloud of smoky breath. He pointed towards the metro tracks.

“Fellow, do you know the third rail contains 750 volts?”

The tramp looked on without a word. He had no idea what the gentleman was getting at, nor did he know what ‘volts’ meant.

“Being here often gives you a powerful feeling,” the gentleman went on, “we can do ourselves away with anytime. But I can’t, I have a family to look after and other commitments to fulfill. The question is: why can’t you?”

(Based on this picture prompt)

Debapriyo Sarkar 11MS

Fav. Book The

Fountainhead, Ayn Rand

Fav. Author Anton

Chekov, Ayn Rand

Hobbies Writing, coin

collection, photography

and travelling.

“What do ya mean?” the tramp asked, frowning.

“Why can’t you kill yourself? I bet it’s the best thing to do, a quick and easy way out from your pathetic life. All you get is pain and hunger anyway.”

“Ya must be a madman!”

“Am I? Maybe, yes. But I see plain and superior logic in my thinking. We all die in the end anyway. I wish I could do it, only I’m too entangled in life.”

“Dying is scary thing.”

“Nonsense! It takes just a second.”

“But sir, I be…”

“All you have to do is touch the third rail.”

“No way I’m touchin’!”

Simon walked into the living room and chucked the morning paper at David.

“Look at the article on the third page.”

“What is it?”

“Perhaps a useful reference for your lecture against alcohol.”

David read through in a hurry. Some tramp had descended onto the subway tracks and had got himself electrocuted. CCTV footage showed that he had been standing on the platform and talking to himself for a long time, before the final suicidal act. The investigators believe it is a case of momentary insanity due to dead-drunkenness. The body had been sent for post mortem anyway.

“Perfect!” said David. He tossed the paper aside and went up to fetch his coat.

Y et another failure. Matt Woodifield frowned at the freshly-painted canvas held in his messy palms. Something was missing. Quite amateurish, he decided.

The dingy, one-room apartment had grown dark over the past few hours of intense work. A beam of the evening sun, having invaded through a gap in the curtains, travelled across the room and illuminated a cheap imitation of Van Gogh's "The Potato Eaters" on the opposite wall. Matt took a long look at it, like countless times before, trying to understand what made it magical. Whatever it was, it was lacking in his nameless creation. He still had miles to go.

He tossed the canvas aside in an attempt to curb his increasing distaste, and looked about, trying to find something else to occupy his mind with. The small room looked even smaller with the burden of countless artworks, all prints bought from local stores, which covered every inch of the four walls, leaving spaces only for a door and a window. Drops of water trickled down periodically from a crack in the ceiling, into a strategically placed bowl, creating a sort of oppressing background music. The sight sent all the old, melancholic thoughts rushing to his mind.

He needed a job very badly. At least he kept telling himself so. He had all the qualifications required for a decent living; an engineering degree from a prestigious college, loads of academic awards in his name, et al... but he got deviated. Salary was no good to him now. Every working or idle minute, he would feel the burning desire to sit down with a brush and colours and paint his heart out for hours and days, till he felt like throwing up at the sight of a canvas. It was only then that he felt the full blow of his growing poverty. However, a bath would wash all that away, along

with the paint, and he'd be filled with the same burning desire, only to relive the cycle again and again.

Matt considered himself no good at painting. His works looked pretty, but then again, millions of people could paint pretty pictures. He never seeked others' opinions, neither did he allow many people to look at his paintings. The chosen few had not commented much; precisely the reason why they were picked. Many a times, he had considered selling them at a cheap rate, just to earn the amount required for some daily bread. But sympathetic friends would always drop by at crucial times, bringing along food and money, and preventing him from taking that poisonous leap. Yes, his past days of glory had earned him several friends and fans.

(Based on this picture prompt)

8

He stretched himself over the pile of art paper lying on his bed, realising that they actually make the 'mattress' more comfortable. His eyes turned towards "The Potato Eaters" again. The beam of light had left it in darkness, having moved further along the wall. The figures were hardly visible. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize. How would he have drawn them? He clearly saw the five

dark figures dining under a dim lantern. He compared the lone human of his last painting with each of them, and felt the difference. Who was the man he had drawn? What was he standing in front of the tree for? He did not know. But how come he never had to raise these questions about the potato eaters? This was not the first time this fact had struck him. It was as if there were paragraphs of description written on each face. But he did not feel like thinking now.

Matt Woodifield felt himself drifting off. Then he felt himself sinking into a dream. He was in the middle of a forest under a clear, starry night. The scene that confronted him resembled the one he had just painted, but with colours... the likes of which he had never seen before. Colours of all shades dripping from every branch, oozing from every leaf, onto the umbrella of the lone man. The same tall, red-haired man, whom he had created and breathed life into. Who was he? He felt a strong desire to call out and ask, but unknown forces of the dream world held him back.

The man suddenly stirred, and lowered his umbrella

hesitantly, as if in great dilemma. Matt watched on, while colours painted the figure and its spotless coat in rainbow. Matt moved sideward, keeping a safe radius. As the scene rotated and the man's face came into view, Matt realised that he was aging by years within each passing second under the colourful downpour, as if eroding away in a

sweet acid, his face distorted in some kind of wild ecstasy. One of his ears had melted away. Matt watched on, helpless, jealous, and agitated, while the man gradually dissolved into a coloured puddle at the base of the tree.

Matt Woodifield, a painter, woke up and set to work on a blank canvas. He repainted his creation, this time, with colours, and named it 'Resilience'. In the middle, there stood his mentor.

“Starry, starry night, Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,

Swirling clouds and violet haze, Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.

Colours changing hue, Morning fields of amber grain, Weathered faces lined in pain,

Are soothed beneath the artists' loving hand.”

(The picture is 'Resilience' by Christina Deubel. The lyrics are from 'Vincent' by Don McLean. This story is a small tribute to painters, specially Vincent Van Gogh, whose works I greatly

admire.)

9

“T his is highly unacceptable! We have been wronged and stripped of our basic rights! But hear you me, my brothers, we shall not stand down!”

The voice boomed from all around in the fairly large conference hall, but seemed to have no effect on the silent audience. No stir of approval, no rustling agitation, no turning of heads; just a stone cold silence accompanied by the icy stares of a hundred motionless eyes fixed on the lonely speaker standing on the elevated platform at the far end.

“How dare they put forward such insults?” continued the speaker in his fiercest voice, trying not to act surprised at the passivity. He was Brad Whitman, former president of the Central Union; a politician of extraordinary caliber who had the reputation of being able to bend the law at will.

Earlier that week the new president had made the declaration that any person with less than 25% flesh in his/her BMI will no longer be considered as a human being and shall be stripped of all human rights. He had given a convincing speech accompanying his declaration, stating how the new technology of body add-ons are being used

more through greed of greater abilities than through need. There had been cases witnessed where babies no older than 2 years were being fitted with memory pockets and stimulators for their brain. People with metallic limbs had been ousting the normal poor in their labor. In fact, since only the rich and the mediocre could afford such add-ons, the poor have been suffering immensely. Their children stand no chance in school where the ‘modified’ lads excel in all fields, they cannot find general labor work since their human arms are weaker in comparison, whereas the higher

jobs require advanced brains along with 500TB of internal brain memory pockets. But most horrifying of all, there has been a recent trend where people are deliberately getting rid of their organic arms and organs and replacing them with artificial ones, thus violating the very purpose of add-ons.

Brad Whitman knew the man had a point. The add-ons were killing mankind. But they had become a part of the human world. Just like back in the 21st century, when humans realized their industries were killing off forests. They fought for decades, pretending there was a way out when there was none. When it was slowly becoming evident that all industries were indispensable, Inor Baldwan came up with the virtual eco-balance system, and suddenly trees and pretention were no longer needed. Few wise people gathered up seeds, which later made them billionaires through tree museums.

Whitman scanned the hall through his glasses. The audience seemed attentive enough. Each one of them was a multi-billionaire and fell into the category which had just been declared inhuman. They were more than a century-and-a-half old, and almost completely artificial except for the human brains inside their metallic skulls, which too was kept alive by various machines. But all that was efficiently

hidden under smooth skin, and if you look at them, you’d see handsome gentlemen of twenty-five. If they survived till the AI system is mastered, maybe they’d get their brains replaced too and gain immortality. Whitman admitted to himself that standing in front of these people was a little disturbing. He himself was just seventy years old and completely human, apart from the compulsory filters added to his sensory systems when he was born. He had no interest in what became of these men, but their money and power were needed for him to win his cause.

This made him think of the real reason behind him being a part of this protest movement. He thought of the little girl waiting for him patiently at his lonely home, so beautiful that it broke his heart just to think of her labeled inhuman. She has been the same little girl for the past forty three years now. She cannot grow, for she’s all metal, ever since that accident. The visualization of her face gave him a new strength. He was about to start with another lengthy speech, when he glanced at the clock and sighed. It was time for the men to leave, and nothing in the world could’ve kept them inside that hall.

Sure enough, they all stood up as the clock struck twelve, and headed out through the door in a single file. Just like robots, it would seem…

10

O f late, Mr. X had been unable to sleep during the night due to the

indecent barking of his neighbour’s dog.

“You shut that dog up. God only knows what has

possessed that little devilish twerp. People are trying to sleep in here.”

He was about 70 years and lived alone as happily as one could after a leg amputation and a broken heart.

“I am very sorry,” said the apologetic neighbour.

Priyom Adhyapok

10MS

Fav. Book The Sense of

an Ending

Fav. Author Kiran Desai,

Julian Barnes, Amitav

Ghosh

Hobbies Scribbling,

doodling, sky-gazing.

The dog, a new addition to his neighbour’s house, was an active little mutt who believed in barking at anything it considered suspicious.

The neighbour didn’t know what to do. He left it untied during the night, hoping, that the new sense of freedom would kill off its acrimonious barking.

It didn’t.

Mr. X didn’t take it kindly either.

“Little pesky vermin. Foul-mouthed beast. Oh my ear, my poor ear. ”

That was too much for his nerves that day. In a fit of anger, he got up and with a speed that he thought would best justify his emotional state, limped over to the next house.

The mutt, a frenzied ball of multifarious activity, leaped over at the new arrival. Mr. X, however, in a strict impulse brought down his walking stick flatly on the dog. A

surprised Noodle only let out a whiny groan. Mr. X, with a ferocious determination, gave it quite a good thrashing till he thought that the dog had been punished enough. The yelping dog lay quietly on the ground, a gesture which Mr. X accepted as an apology.

The same fury carried him back to his bed. He had a sound sleep that night.

The next morning, he woke up to the newspaper man’s illicit thud at his door. As he went out to his porch, mumbling and fumbling, he chanced a look at the adjoining house.

He froze in horror at the true dissoluteness of what he had done that night. A swarm of guilt enveloped him as he understood the consequence of his hasty action.

The dog was limping on the veranda on three legs as it demonstrated a fourth broken one.

11

Maneesha Ismail 11MS O n her 17th birthday, Ammalu decided to do a creative research in an

alien territory.

You know why? She just wanted to leave her hometown, parents, all her friends and relatives and break all the norms of society. Maybe the romantic sense in every individual differs from time to time and person to person. The peak pleasure from solitude in everything

and everywhere must be her philosophical condition. Asleep, in a blank slumber, Ammalu was woken by a patting. It was an extremely handsome old man.

No, no… please wipe out that old man, slightly stooping and

holding a crutch in his hand. The colour of his long dress was sky blue and the blue light has spread through the banks of the Periyar. It was an unpredictable gift that he gave to her. But, she more or less began her journey holding that gift… holding it close to her lips. She inhaled it, had a beautiful current inside leaving her enthralled but finally it would be exhaled through her ears. She was Ammalu’s best friend from Grade School. You can call her beedi. It was a necessity in her Grade School, near the shore of Periyar. Each student had to burn out at least one beedi after each and every class. All the students inhaled this friend and exhaled through their ears.

Once during a School Exchange Programme, Ammalu found some odd people, odd not only in their style of speech or inhalation of smoke but due to the extraordinary exhalation of smoke through their nose. How is this possible? How can they do it? What a drastic difference! Beautiful! Yes, I must research on this.

Are you muddled, why she left home for research? The fact is that once she reached the alien territory, Ammalu wanted to learn much more. Bags crammed with beedi packets were

Fav. Book Khasakkinte

ithihasam, Ente Kadha,

Snow, Animal Farm

Fav. Author Pablo

Neruda, Orhan Pamuk,

Vaikkom Basheer

Hobbies Reading, singing,

listening to music.

not enough. Everyone was holding thick, long beedis close to their lips. They called these ‘veedis’. Ammalu was upset and admired the sight of smoke emerging out of their noses.

In the course of her research work, Ammalu found herself being an odd one out because of nothing but her exhalation.

Day 1, Garden of research lab Professor 1: You know what? Panaran, a brilliant student of my class, made a thought-provoking argument today. Instead of exhaling through the nose, it would be revolutionary if we are able to make holes in the Eustachian Tube through the throat.

Professor 2: (With a deep puff) BRILLIANT!

Day 2, College Hostel (Huge uproar)

Ammalu: What is going on?

Room Inmates: A birthday party…

Ammalu: Come on! Let’s go!!

Room Inmates: No, no… You are not invited — the freshers! We find you very odd!

“It’s me… I know… I have ruined it for my whole class.” Ammalu thought.

Day 3, College Canteen (Ammalu’s uncle’s visit; her classmate standing by his cycle)

Ammalu: Hi. (He passed a strange look to her)

Uncle: Your friend?

Ammalu: Mmm..

“He stared at me, I know. Because I exhale through my ears…!”

Day 4, Veedi Club meeting Leader: We are going to conduct a contest to find the best smoker.

Ammalu: Please explain the different classes of competition, I mean different sorts.

Leader: Different sorts? We are not supposed to do so. It is standardized everywhere.

“I am suffering from a very serious illness! I exhale through my ears…” Ammalu thought.

Day 5, Hospital Ammalu: Doctor! I am not able to exhale smoke through my nose!

Doctor: Okay! I will prescribe some tests. Get them done… Hmm…

A Liver Function Test, Kidney Function Test, MRI Scan, ECG, Sputum Test, Chest X-Ray, Blood Sugar Test, PCX, PSH, ELISA Test.

That’s it.

Ammalu: Doctor! Am I suffering from a fatal disease..?!

Doctor: Of course! My intuition says so.

Day 6, Hospital Doctor: You are HIV negative. Your heart, liver and kidney are functioning perfectly and your blood sugar levels are normal. But…

Ammalu: But…?

Doctor: You are suffering from a block… a nasal block. The medical field has assigned the name ‘Nasaloblastuloblockalophobia’ to this disease.

Ammalu: God! I have been experiencing so many blocks since the beginning of my life! p-block, d-block, traffic block… again a block? Who created me? My parents and my society were so cruel. They never taught me to exhale through the nose.

Day 7, Director’s Office in College Ammalu: I am facing a lot of problems here. I mean blocks.

Director: So you are having a block?

Ammalu: Yes, a nasal block — Nasaloblastuloblockalophobia.

Director: Oh! I know of it. You people usually have this block. You know how? How I have solved these blocks?

Ammalu: How?

Director: Rush! Rush to my block! Grab the sharpest iron bar. Connect that electric bar to 250 V electric supply… It is very simple now! Drill! Drill, finely! Then you can feel nothing inside your cavity… Nothing! No block.

Suddenly the images of a long hospital bill, the terrifying iron bar and many sleepless nights flashed through her mind and she said:

“I am perfectly alright!”

You know, later on, her exhalation was progressing through all the sense organs, in all senses. It was full of smoke outside leaving a clear frame to her.

12

13

S he slowly pushed open the long-shut door and stepped into the unknown.

The dark was overwhelming, and so was

the urge to retreat back. But she must go on.

Here, it was as if time stood still. When the dark cleared, or rather when her eyes got used to the dark, she felt the oppressive weight get lighter.

She was here to hunt.

Hunt for herself what she had lost. The leap of faith she had to take almost killed her. The creaking of the door when she pushed it open had all her nerves frayed.

And now, at last, she was here to hunt. Where should she look first? All her past is erased and all her future is a story that she can write. So, she must tread with care. Or should she give free rein to her pen?

She bundled up whatever courage she had left and decided to risk falling while groping in the dark. And suddenly it was divine melody that was flowing from her heart, vibrating in the air, resonating with the dark, radiating from her and pulsating in her every beat. She could not but give herself over to its feeling, fully, totally.

Over and over again, her mind cried out to stop, to awake from the illusion, she would feel the loneliness, the dark, more profoundly when it stops. But her feet decided to dance in the dark.

She felt the winds grazing her cheeks, her bare arms, but they were only momentary. The moment she slipped to revel in their touch, they left her.

Her body was locked in a tempest, a tempest of emotions and expressions and her mind was playing a reel of

photographs: black and white, all torn.

And now, there was pain, she felt trees and branches grazing her arms, her legs, her cheeks, her lips, tearing her dress, but she could not stop. Could not stop the will of her limbs and the melody. But Oh! The bleeding felt good. There was pleasure in that pain. And then, there was rain. Rain as cold as dew. The lightning streaked and the thunder raked and still the tempest continued, the world for her was a whirlwind of revolving, rotating amalgam of sound, light and touch.

And suddenly her lips opened and her heart poured out, poured out in an unintelligible, incoherent string of sound, the music; it was beautiful but it was terrifying. The screams reached their peak until they echoed. Still her body was locked, her world revolved faster and faster. She felt she was touching the untouchable and hearing the unheard.

The pain ended and there were flowers now. The snow was freely falling and the grass was soft under her feet. Her world lowered its speed and now she was barely rotating and then she was still.

And she was whole; whole and unscathed. The music continued and now it was her own, coming from her lips, pouring out at full force; but soft, slow and soothing. She was at peace, her heart was still beating. But she was there to hear it and the happiness was mellow; mellow but feather light. It was there to blanket her forever and let her sleep in bliss.

Sonali Mohapatra

09MS

Fav. Book Harry Potter

Series

Fav. Author J K

Rowling, Enid Blyton, Dan

Brown, J R R Tolkien

Hobbies Reading,

poetry, imagining

different worlds.

Abhranil Das 08MS

‘M r. Borovski!’ Alfredo called out in a weak voice, squinting up at

the window. Yet another day of futile pilgrimage to the familiar dark buildings of the publishers. Dust now clung all over his shoes, and sweat to his weary skin. Nothing had turned up. All the publishers had rejected his stories outright, a glance at his shabby figure instead of his manuscripts sufficing for most. Now Alfredo stood at the door of his ramshackle one-room rented apartment, afraid to enter and face the emptiness.

Mr. Borovski’s pink and puffy face peered from the first floor window. Alfredo braced himself tiredly for another loud and public, perhaps expletive, reprimand about his rent, due for six months. But Mr. Borovski’s face remained nonchalant today, perhaps even forcefully calm as he threw down the keys. Most curious, thought Alfredo.

Alfredo entered, closed the door behind him, and dropped on the stool. Immediately there was the familiar frantic rustle as Prosper came bounding at him from his dark corner. The sight of this erased at once the day’s pains from Alfredo’s sunken face as he broke into a rare smile and lovingly scratched Prosper’s ears and cooed little nonsenses that people say to babies and animals when nobody is watching.

‘Enough now, Prosper’, said Alfredo, finally pushing the dog away gently. He got up, laid a dish, the only dish, on the table, and brought down a rusted tin box from the wall. He shook it out. A single piece of bread fell sadly on the dish. Alfredo stared at it for some time, as if wanting to ask it something, then flopped resignedly on his seat.

He was about to put the piece in his mouth when Prosper suddenly stuck his head above the table and stared at him with the pleading eyes that dogs are so unjustly good at.

Now this was even more curious, thought Alfredo, because it was. Never, since he had brought him home, had Prosper once done such a thing. He had strangely seemed to realize the circumstances of his struggling master since his first day in the apartment, and had starved ever since without complaint whenever Alfredo couldn’t save him a crumb at the end of the day.

Alfredo looked at Prosper, trying to stare him down, but the innocent brown eyes bore into him. Alfredo couldn’t make himself put the bread in his mouth. Then, all of a sudden, Alfredo laid the piece of bread aside as the only day that Prosper had looked at him this way came slowly back to him.

Prosper was now with him for three years, from when Alfredo arrived at this neighbourhood. He had spotted the puppy one day outside a bakery on his way home, shivering and wet in a late May shower. A sense of empathy arising out of an identification with his own sorry state had made Alfredo pick him up. He had taken the puppy inside the bakery and bought him some biscuits, something he wouldn’t plan even for himself.

As Prosper gobbled down the biscuits with a furious wag of the tail, a plump and pleasant-looking gentleman in the bakery came up to Alfredo and admired his kindness. The two began to converse, and Alfredo let out that he was a writer. ‘Oh my, why must I run into them even out of office?’ said the gentleman, Mr. Faust. He was a publisher. Not too

(Based on this picture prompt. 1st prize, short story competition, 2011)

Fav. Book Short

Stories, Roald Dahl

Fav. Author Roald Dahl,

Satyajit Ray, Philip

Pullman

Hobbies Writing,

travelling, programming,

photography, design.

14

W hen you are in an empty room for some time, you may hear whispers.

There’s a fully sound-proofed room at the annexe of the International Bureau of Weights and Measures in France. It’s used for measuring and calibrating units of sound intensity and frequency. The decibel was first set in that office, and so was the Hertz.

It’s in a far, secluded corner of the sprawling bureau. From the outside, it looks like a small, ordinary office. But it’s when the huge padded and reinforced metal alloy door hisses open slowly via combined pneumatic and hydraulic pumps, releasing a burst of chilly, lifeless air from within its dark cavern, that you first feel a distinct sense of discomfort.

You enter the room, and the door swings back closed, enclosing you with liquid darkness that you can feel clawing up your limbs and crawling into your clothes. There are no incandescent bulbs inside because the air must be at a uniform temperature throughout the room for correct accoustic measurements. There are no fluorescent tubes either because they produce a constant hum, which would be loud in that chamber.

In short, it’s pitch black.

But it’s not silent, especially not after a few minutes.

The first thing you realize after some time is that there is a

constant low sound, pulsating regularly. The man outside would already have told you what that is. It’s the blood flowing through your veins. Even then, it’s unnerving.

Then you sit down on the soft padded floor. You are forgetting whether your eyes are open or closed, it’s so dark. You imagine the darkness facing you, staring at you, cold and expressionless, the ancient darkness that was there before our lights, before our Earth was formed, before all else. A tiny ball of panic starts rising up your throat.

It is then that the whispers start.

You can scream. But nobody will hear you. If you have asked for fifteen minutes, they will let you out after fifteen minutes. Those guys are very particular about time, staying

big, but Alfredo talked him into looking at his stories. He took his manuscripts to him the next day. Three weeks later, Mr. Faust published one of them in an anthology. After two more stories, Mr Faust ended the contract, but Alfredo still felt indebted to Prosper for his first writing job.

Alfredo decidedly laid down the dish at the foot of the table. Prosper immediately gobbled down the piece and retreated to his corner. Alfredo stared at him for some time, the day’s wear making his eyes heavy. He forced himself up, turned off the light and laid himself slowly down on his creaking bed. Staring up at the mottled roof, he felt the hunger gnawing at his stomach. But an old debt had been repaid tonight, and he felt warm and peaceful at the thought of his sacrifice.

Upstairs, Mr. Borovski was late to get to bed, excited that he would finally see the end of this. Six months and no rent, while people willing to pay real money circled the neighbourhood every day like hungry sharks. He was tired of throwing verbal abuse at a nonchalant Alfredo who

seemed to have risen above money matters. Mr. Borovski knew that there would be a mild commotion the morning after, but people would easily be convinced that it was a natural accident from the unhygienic conditions Alfredo had built around himself. And then a few days’ wait, after which new tenants would come pouring in, hungry for the room.

In the last waking moments before drifting off to sleep, Mr Borovski recalled with relish the elegance and surprising skill with which he had entered Alfredo’s room, opened the tin can and moistened the last remaining piece of bread with poison, being watched always by the wretched dog from its dark corner.

That dog. The way it had stared at him throughout was most peculiar. As if it understood.

But dogs don’t speak, do they, he thought. It can only watch its master die.

Slowly, a serene smile came over Mr Borovski’s face as he drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

Dedicated to Tejal, a close friend. You will be missed.

15

in a place that measured the second.

It is not someone else who is whispering to you. It is you. There’s always so much noise in life, they never got to say anything. Now they know, those voices, that you are listening. For fifteen minutes you are theirs. That is all the time they need. And the things you hear are things that you never wished to hear

ever, even without knowing it. Everyone has things like that; you too.

It’s not a good idea to scream. It will drown out the voices for some time, but there is only a limited amount of oxygen in the room. If you scream, you will notice that you start panting. You will have increasing difficulty in breathing. But they won’t know that outside. They will only let you out after fifteen minutes. That is one clause you must sign before entering the sound room.

When you start having trouble breathing, the whispers get louder. And then you can’t scream any more, because you know that you may start to choke. Then you must huddle up and listen.

You cannot cry. You must breathe normally, in and out. You must sit quietly in the blackness, amidst the pounding of your heart and the rushing of the blood through your vessels, amidst the whispers that are tearing your mind apart.

When they come out from the sound room, they all grow quieter. They walk quietly, drive quietly, and reply in brief to questions. It’s because the whispers will keep knocking about inside their heads till the end of their lives. There’s always so much of it to listen to, there’s no room for other

sounds.

Some of them end up in quiet padded cells of a different kind.

In the winter of 1997, when faced with several public cause litigations, the annexe office of the Bureau admitted responsibility for several cases of terminal schizophrenic dementia admitted in various institutions around the country. That same winter, they stopped issuing permits for visitors to the sound room.

Schizophrenia as understood today, is when one communicates with or acknowledges the presence of an other being who is not there. One of the above patients, however, reported in a rare and brief medical interview that she was fully aware that she was talking to herself.

If you want to know what the voices say, there’s a way that sometimes works. After midnight on a clear moonless night, you must go somewhere open, like a roof. You must be alone. Look up so that the sky spans your entire field of view, and there is no source of light in the field. Calm yourself and try to think of who you are. Who are you to yourself? Step outside yourself and observe this being you have been inside for all these years. Don’t look away from the sky. Visualize your face, spell your name inside your head. Who are you? What do you do everyday? How are you different from everyone else? What do you mean? Why are you?

If you are (un)lucky, you might actually start hearing the answers.

Don’t make it a habit.

(Based on this picture prompt. 1st prize,

short story competition, 2012)

O n X2 Prime, or X2603-A115 as it was referred to in the old databases of the Federation, it was always night.

A slowly spinning skyful of stars shone tirelessly down on the barren landscape. The atmosphere was thin and dry, posing little obstruction to the cold, relentless starlight raining down from the great galactic bands stretching across the sky. Yet, it was never quite bright enough. The rugged, rocky terrain, mostly flat except for scattered low ridges rising to a few hundred meters, stretched to the horizon under a dim grey half-light, before giving itself up to the waiting darkness. Visibility was limited to about a mile, beyond which only the pale faces of distant dunes and highlands could be made out with difficulty. Even nearby, the starlit ground lacked clarity

and detail, cloaked as though in a ghostly grey film. After some acclimatization though, you could see better on focused points, and so walk around without great difficulty. However, if you were to suddenly look around, the

16

landscape would dissolve into a blur, a dim, shadowy haze. One would thus get the distinct feeling that this eerily quiet, unsettling world deliberately withheld information, giving it out only as it chose in short, scattered bursts, remaining always unyielding and incomplete. X2 Prime was a world of emptiness bathed by the stars, desolate, yet somehow conscious. It was like being inside someone else’s

dream.

Lying on its side on this rough featureless terrain was something that did not belong to this world, something that should have left this primeval, silent land long ago. It was a small cylindrical object about the size of a bus, whose pockmarked metal exterior shone in the starlight slightly brighter than the ground. Through a clutter of glass-walled holes on its body the interior appeared dark. However, if on a sudden whim one were to crawl in through one of those openings, navigate the maze of cooling lines and squirm through a tiny access hatch to which all the wires led, you would reach the control room. Here a jumble of electronic equipment sat in disarray around a dark chamber, emitting feeble sounds and small, faint lights. Their tiny glow barely lit up a small part of the cramped room, as it did the tired, ancient face of Lincoln Selvo, who sat poring over the little light, twiddling the machines here and there as the night wore on.

Lincoln was one of the last troopers of the Echo generation to leave Earth in search of habitable planet clusters. The state of his planet had been one of complete political disarray half a century earlier, arising out of an escalating scarcity of land and resources, and consequent violence and upheavals. From this chaos that spanned war-torn decades rose the Alliance, a much-disturbed, oft-broken coalition of all the nations, in a last desperate effort to unite all resources to formulate the survival of the species.

Among other conclusions that were reached in the long-drawn political debates at the Alliance parliament, the foremost was to start focusing on colonizing other planetary systems that could support carbon-based life. Half a decade later the Federation for Space Exploration was formed with hard-bargained funds channeled in from around the world, to develop the necessary technology and prepare troopers for exploratory missions. These soldiers, recruited initially from the army and air forces, received intensive, specialized training to handle years of solo flight and address all kinds of situations that might arise in unassisted intergalactic travel. They were conditioned over years to blunt down their need for emotional support, their longing for community, friendship, family and contact with other people. At the end of their long, grueling program, the troopers would emerge almost sub-human, barely fit to blend into society, but perfect machines for the dangerous solo voyages they had been chosen for.

Only a decade into its formation, the Federation launched its first generation of troopers, amidst much celebration and optimism around the world. For once, every human being around the planet, across borders, cultures and political affiliation, was united in their desperate prayers for a successful expedition. The troopers were to travel to planetary systems that had been shortlisted by scientists at the Alliance labs. They would land if possible, carry out detailed measurements of the atmospheric and terrestrial conditions, and report back their results by radio. After completing a list of assignments on site, they were to return to earth with samples for a more comprehensive assay. However, time was of the essence, so the apparatus packed into each trooper ship was usually sophisticated enough to gauge the fitness of a planet for human survival. Thus, following the launch, people the world over waited with baited breath for the first results to start pouring in. The nearest of the clusters that ships had been sent to would require some years for any news to arrive. The Alliance, however, could not wait for such a long period before deciding their next step. The situation on earth was growing increasingly too politically strained and volatile for that. To increase their odds, they needed to keep sending more troops every year to new star clusters, until news arrived of a propitious find. Scientists at the central labs stayed busy analyzing light from the distant galaxies to decide which star systems held the most promise for human settlements. After the first generation of troopers had been sent off to the most promising destinations, the Federation turned to the next clusters in the list. This is how it had to happen, to save time, resources, and in the long run, the species. No stones could be left unturned.

Five years into the exploration, a grim shadow had gathered over the Alliance, with no positive results yet reported from the troopers. It was then, at the time of drawing up the Generation Echo destinations, that the small, fairly unremarkable planet X2603-A115, X2 Prime for short, entered the databases of the Federation. The spectroscopic signature had revealed nitrogen, silicon, some hydrogen and oxygen, and a lot of sulphur. This was hopelessly insufficient information on which to send a human on a potentially hazardous journey. But in the circumstances this sufficed for the Federation heads, who were now growing ever more desperate with every passing month.

Thus Lincoln, at the age of 22, found himself among the fifth fleet of space troopers, strapped into a tiny uncomfortable cockpit, waving goodbye through a misty porthole to his planet, headed for an unknown world which was little more to him than a code name in a database.

Lincoln spent close to a decade in cryogenic near-suspension in a small spaceship hurtling at almost half the speed of light along a computer-charted course. The ship sailed through the Oort cloud, past Proxima Centauri and on towards a small system of planets, one of which was X2 Prime.

17

A month away from the cluster the computer woke him. Now that he was close, he had to re-examine the spectra from their light, evaluate whether the surface was solid enough, and decide whether to land. After an analysis he found almost nothing that held any new promise. The signature was not remarkably different from his 10-year old data, except that hydrogen levels seemed to have dipped a bit.

Lincoln couldn’t call the Federation, of course. Any communication from this distance would require almost a decade for a round trip, so there was no scope of requesting advice or directions. The next nearest cluster in the database was twenty years away, and it could be just as empty. Weighing all the facts that he had in his head, Lincoln decided he would land.

What Lincoln didn’t know yet is that it had started raining on X2 Prime. Active volcanoes near the equator were the source of sulphurous gases in the atmosphere, and a combination of the planet’s rotation and tilt brought great clouds of them drifting towards the poles once in every eight or nine years, where it would rain toxic sulphur acid for days across the great plains, transforming the surface of the planet into a deadly but beautiful dreamscape. And it was on just such a day, when the great northern stretches were being bathed by torrents of the venomous rain, that Lincoln’s small ship came into orbit.

As the scarred surface of the planet came into view of his porthole, Lincoln realized that it was raining. He knew in all probability what it was that was raining. Sulphur acid was fatal for the material of his ship. The metallic exterior and all its attached apparatus would not be able to fend themselves against this caustic liquid for long.

It was not yet too late for Lincoln to turn back. He could still power the rockets into a concentrated boost and safely skim off the atmosphere and out of bounds of the planet’s gravity. He could fly on to investigate the next planet cluster. The atmosphere on this one looked too hazardous for a settlement anyway.

Watching grimly the treacherous landscape unfolding below him and starting to feel the uneasy tumult of conflict arising within, Lincoln drew a deep breath and reminded himself calmly of his purpose. He hadn’t come all this way for nothing. He thought of the people who had sent him here, of how the last bit of Earth’s dwindling resources had been pulled from hungry mouths and begging palms to build this elite group of galactic explorers. He held a responsibility. It was through the decisions of people like him that the living might keep alight their existence in the unforgiving universe. He was a trooper. Not everyone could be a trooper back there.

Lincoln turned on the extra shields, switched off the autopilot and maneuvered the nose of his ship towards the

surface.

Approximately ten minutes later the primeval silence of X2 Prime was broken after a billion years by a blunt, shining block of metal that ploughed through the twisting clouds and landed in a huge sulphur lake eight kilometers from the pole.

For days the sulphur ate slowly into the thick outer shields of the ship as the rain kept pouring interminably over the mute, lifeless plains. Lincoln powered down most of the equipment and kept himself busy in repair, maintenance, and sending more data to the Federation. He knew that it was of utmost importance that he stay alive at this time. But for that he had to find water. The ship was stacked with condensed synthetic chemicals which when combined with water could provide tasteless but essential nutrition to one person for essentially a lifetime. But there was only a small stock of water onboard. Lincoln had to get out, and for that the rain had to stop.

And after some weeks it did, as it always had on X2 Prime. The lake dried slowly for days as the parched land soaked in the venomous liquid. A few days after the last of the puddles had disappeared, Lincoln finally stepped out of the ship in his protective suit.

He looked around for the first time now at the alien landscape. The rain-scarred highlands around the ship looked silently back at him. The clouds were gone, and starlight bathed again the tortured ground from which sulphur vapour still rose in heady fumes. Contrary to all appearances, however, the planet looked more promising to Lincoln than he had anticipated. The ground was solid enough, the terrain was mostly flat, and other than the sulphur the atmosphere was devoid of dangerous gases.

Lincoln’s first task, according to his manual, was to examine his ship. On the first day he checked the photo cells that covered every imaginable square inch on the surface of the ship. All were badly damaged by the rain, but would probably survive a trip back home. On the second day he looked at the thrusters. They appeared fine on the whole, except one. A thruster at the bottom that had been under the lake looked doubtful, but it was only required for a brief period during re-entry on autopilot, and Lincoln knew enough flying to handle that stretch on manual.

The next day he looked at the portholes and seals on the exterior that could have opened during entry. He found one that had been badly cracked from the landing. He ran some tests to gauge how much leakage it allowed. Barely any, but he calculated that at this rate he would lose all cabin pressure in approximately six years. It wasn’t a problem if he stayed on the planet as he only had to use mild pressure inside his suit to breathe, but going back would require the functioning of multiple equipment that needed cabin pressure for much longer. There was no repair he could

18

attempt with his limited machinery that could seal the window against the vicious vacuum of space. This problem meant on its face, no matter which way he thought of it, that he wasn’t looking at going back home on his own.

At that moment, deep inside him, much deeper than his tough space trooper shell, an ominous dread began

to settle on Lincoln’s heart.

He radioed to earth a short note about the situation, asking for a pick-up ship. It was the instruction. Article 5 of the Operation Handbook, titled Emergency Escort. Lincoln stared at the little writing in the handbook on his screen for a long time. Do not shift base. Continue assignment. Wait for rescue vehicle. It seemed so innocuous and routine when he read that. Help was coming. There was no issue here.

The next day Lincoln made an exploratory trip to collect samples of dirt and rock, which is all that the planet offered him off its lifeless surface. He returned and updated his spectroscopic data with the sample and sent them to earth. The soil showed signs of water, as had been expected from the initial analysis in the Alliance laboratories. But he needed water sources that were uncontaminated by the rain, or he would be looking at an early and long-drawn death by thirst and hunger.

As soon as he could put together some hiking gear from the stores of his ship, Lincoln set out on a longer expedition to look for caverns of sulphur-free water where the rain couldn’t penetrate. With a few days of scouting he found one twenty kilometers from his landing site. There were traces of sulphur in it, but with some basic purifying procedures that he could manage with the equipment in his ship, it would be fit to drink.

Water had been one of the biggest hurdles. Having solved that issue, Lincoln felt himself filling with renewed hope and confidence. Not only was his own survival ensured, perhaps the planet would now be deemed fit for colonization. Perhaps, at this moment, he was holding the future of his species in his hands. He immediately sent a detailed report of his new finding back to the Federation.

Buoyed by his new optimism, Lincoln moved to the next step in the instruction, to look for small silicon-based life forms. This kept him busy for a few months. He analyzed hundreds of soil and water samples from different regions, but found nothing. There was no trace of what could be counted as life by any stretch of definition. Perhaps this was because of the dryness of the soil. Or the acidity or thinness of the atmosphere. There must be some reason why life of any manner could not flourish on this planet. Or maybe he was wrong. Perhaps the conditions were always optimal, only that no life had ever got started by the fortuitous

accident like it had happened on earth. Lincoln, with his soldier’s training, was not qualified to know.

There were forty-three instructions in the manual on operations required to be completed after landing. Lincoln was no scientist. These decisions were not his to make. Lincoln trusted the scientists who had made the list. But inside him a small voice had begun to speak of despair. This planet met some of the requirements, but failed in some crucial aspects that he could see even with his limited knowledge. What would possibly grow in this arid land? How would humans feed off this lifeless ground? Wasn’t the atmosphere too thin to breathe? And what about the sulphur rain? Lincoln would forcibly suppress the questions crowding his mind as he went on to the next instruction in the manual.

The last of his instructions was completed in four years. It was now time to go back home, except there was no way to. In these four years Lincoln had trekked so far as the equator of the planet. Everywhere he went had presented him with the same tired sight of dust, rocks and low ridges. The monotony of the terrain was almost deliberate, he would often feel. There was nothing to find, nothing to explore, nothing more to document. Everything had been analyzed, recorded and sent back.

But the bit of information that he could never send as a trooper was what troubled him the most.

Lincoln missed everything. He missed earth, memories of which were slowly fading. He had almost forgotten daylight and sunsets, beaches, and how girls looked. His voice grew hoarse from lack of speaking. It pained when he tried, so he stopped trying. He missed people and music and colours. But curiously, what he missed most about earth, he discovered, was rain.

When he was a kid, Lincoln loved to play a little game in his head whenever it would rain at night. He was a little embarrassed about it, and would run to a corner of the backyard patch where nobody could catch him playing. Here an old light by the garden shed lit up the wind-scattered raindrops against the dark night. Lincoln would stand under the light and look straight up at the raindrops falling from the sky. As the sparkling beads of water flew in towards him and broke over his face, he imagined himself to be at the helm of his planet, a majestic earth ship, sailing through a great dust cloud in space. The drops of water hitting him and the ground all around were a million specks of magical dust hanging motionless in space as the earth sailed silently through them. He was the captain of this ship, the only man on earth who knew the real story behind the rain. Lincoln found an inexplicable comfort in carrying himself away in this imagination, often drenching himself through for hours.

Now that he had been in a real spaceship through clouds of dust in the lonely blackness of space, the one thing Lincoln

19

strangely found himself longing for, more than anything else, was rain. More than people or music or talking or daylight, he wished for the rain of the earth. And trapped for years in a metallic suit pressurized with dank, cold air, he was slowly forgetting what that was like too.

The only company of a man alone on a forgotten planet is quiet despair, and it was this, that in the third month into his fifth year, made Lincoln start sending radio messages to other directions than earth. Although there was still time for a reply from earth, he had grown a dark conviction that it would never arrive. He hoped at least that someone else might listen. Another trooper, a machine, perhaps a different species. How would it hurt to try?

He would sit for hours in front of blinking lights in his small dark coop, waiting for an answer. When his eyes got tired and his head grew numb from watching the tiny unchanging display, he would go outside and lie on the ground, gazing up at the canopy of stars above him spinning through the unending night, thinking of what his life had become. Sometimes he would read through the dry, voluminous technical manuals of the ship’s equipment to pass the ocean of motionless time. He would move around the ship, poking into its machinery, reading the labels on the control panels and porthole glasses, gazing for long at the names of the places where they had been made. There was no relevance of these words to this soulless, alien world; no trace of the society that had produced these machines was to be found in this dark, desolate land. These meaningless labels and pieces of inert technology were his only thread to what he called home light years away, uncaring, oblivious. Slowly, despite his steely resolve, the cold, dimly lit walls of the ship would start closing in on him, and he would have to shut his eyes and scream inside his head to drive the thoughts away. Sometimes, on the bad days when it proved too difficult to keep the voices at bay, he would break the troopers’ protocol and cry inside his visor.

A year later, Lincoln tried turning on the cryogenics in his ship again. He knew it wouldn’t help in any way. He would wake having aged less. If anything, it would make things worse for him. But he wasn’t working on a plan. He was past the time of plans and ideas. He wanted to do it because he couldn’t bear staying awake anymore and listening to the constant buzz of emptiness inside his head as it echoed around his skull.

It didn’t work. Staying in an underpressured environment for years, much of the equipment had become dysfunctional. A lot of the cooling liquid had evaporated. There were no tools to attempt a repair. Vexed and dejected, Lincoln dropped the idea and returned to his cycle of staying alive and sleeping.

Three more years passed before the sulphur clouds arrived to cover the plains and it started to rain again. By this time Lincoln was aged far beyond his body. He barely moved out

of his ship. He would sit in an unmoving stupor for days in his dark control room, staring at the flickering lights, sending radio signals every few hours, once in this direction, then another, sometimes towards earth, in an unthinking mechanical sweep of his fingers. He ate and slept in that position. His muscles had become terribly weak from his fixed posture and he could barely stand himself on his legs now. Any movement he made was after careful planning and deliberation in his head. It was far simpler to just keep on being. He couldn’t hear himself thinking in any particular language any more; it was always a tangle of thoughts that could not be told apart from each other, as if in the middle of a dream. Sometimes he could not tell what state of existence he was in: awake, asleep, or dead. He had lost almost all sense of identity: he didn’t know any longer who exactly he was or what it meant to be him as opposed to another person. The concept of other persons was now a vague, far-receded notion. The spaceship was crumbling around him from the sulphur in the atmosphere. With this rain, it had started getting worse.

It was one blustery night in the middle of this suffocating cycle of despair and hopelessness, eight years and two months after his landing, that as Lincoln sat in his tiny control chamber twiddling the displays, a small light started blinking in his machines.

Lincoln watched without the power to think as the light blinked on. This was not noise. This was a gradually revealing pattern, a signal.

Someone, or something, was sending information to the lone inhabitant of X2 Prime after a silence of almost a decade.

Lincoln’s heart was thumping wildly in his ears as the first stretch of the code ended and the chamber was immersed in darkness. As he stared at where the light had been blinking, he could scarcely summon the courage to believe what was now increasingly apparent in the emerging pattern. That this was, in fact, familiar code. Code zero of the Federation space troopers’ handbook, signaling the start of a message.

Lincoln felt himself waking slowly from a deep coma into the world. Suddenly the sound of the rain against the ship’s walls seemed deafening.

With great difficulty, he managed to raise a shaking finger and press a button to start recording the signal. He was still powerless to think, and acted out of mechanical impulse. It was all happening too suddenly for his shocked and dazed mind to process.

The starting code repeated itself ten times, as was the standard. Lincoln was trembling and sweating uncontrollably now. An intense physical pain of tense anticipation started clawing up his spine. His entire life was arriving unbearably at its climax before his eyes.

Don’t mess this up, somewhere inside his head a little voice

20

said. Lincoln clutched his chest against the rising pain and kept his eyes doggedly on the display.

The content of the message started. First was the broadcast origin. Lincoln read in his mind as the light blinked away before him: Federation for Space Exploration, Alliance East, Earth.

Then a short break, followed by the intended recipient: Lincoln Selvo, Federation Space Trooper Echo to Proxima Centauri Sector A115. He had these codes engraved into his head.

Lincoln stole a quick glance through a porthole at the grey rain outside and found himself thinking: They are sending a ship. I have to survive for some more years. No, wait, they would have started long ago. It shouldn’t be much longer now.

And then his mind was suffused with images of his planet. A hero’s welcome. A sea of people around the pad where the return vehicle touches down. The flash of a thousand cameras, people trying to push through the security, his face on giant holograms doing rounds around the landing stage. Someone gets through the barricades to hand him a champagne bottle. So many things must have changed about the planet, and the people.

Lincoln turned back towards the machine where the light had begun to blink again. This was a brief code to indicate that the message had been autogenerated by a machine.

There was another short break before the body of the message began.

Lincoln found he had no need for a machine to translate the code. He could read it straight off the screen. It felt like an eternity to him as the tiny light blinked away in the dark room in its programmed dance, although the message lasted only a few minutes. This was followed by the stopping code, and then darkness.

Lincoln stopped the recording and sat in the dark for a long time. He didn’t know how long it was. It may have been minutes or hours. He found himself hopelessly incapable of processing the entire ramification of the message at one go. Just to give himself something to do, he slowly opened up a screen with the recorded signal and the code interpreter. He checked if he had understood the message correctly. He had. He checked again. There was no question about its meaning whatsoever. The dispatch was short and clear, and there wasn’t any room to go wrong.

Lincoln turned off the screens and sat in the dark chamber as the noise of the rain battering against the sides of the ship slowly filled his head to become an incessant drone.

No matter how many times he checked, Lincoln knew that the message would remain the same. There was no way to change it any more. In terse Federation format, it simply

said: All Alliance operations have moved permanently to the new colony. Thank you for your service.

That was it. Unanswerable, unmistakable, final.

Lincoln could feel only through his dazed trance that this was not a dream, that he was not imagining this through a confused, half-asleep delusion. But beyond that, he didn’t know what would be an appropriate emotion for him to feel at this point.

He sat in silence for some more time, thinking of Earth. So they had finally found a colony? Why wasn’t there any information about it? Had the planet been completely abandoned? Why did they leave the machines behind? Why was there no more instruction or information in the message? Do they not want the troopers to start for an already crowded colony? Or was it just the stranded ones that they didn’t have the resources to bring back?

Lincoln sat in an uncomprehending daze for what seemed like a long time. Then, through the confused chaos of the delirium inside his head, he started to think of the rain. There was no way that he could drench himself any more in that magical space dust like he once used to, years ago in a different world. There was to be no waiting any more for that, or for anything else. The message had arrived. There would be no help. This was it. There was nothing left in this story, except a long-drawn anticlimax of waiting in quiet despair inside a cold, unfeeling suit until time runs out. This story had ended.

Lincoln looked out of the porthole again. The stars were hardly visible through the great swirling sulphur cloud above. Grey sheets of the rain fell vertically through the windless atmosphere, beating mercilessly against the mute ground. Small puddles were already forming from which fumes rose in the air.

This was rain.

Slowly, through the pain and the throbbing noise in his head, Lincoln felt an ancient knot release somewhere deep inside. The climax of his life had passed, and his verdict had been pronounced. There was nothing to hope for any more, nothing to work towards. He was now free.

For the first time, Lincoln did not send a message of his next operation to Earth as he slowly took off his suit with his weakened arms and stepped out of the ship to embrace the magical space dust.

21

M y heart was beating fast. There was a

rush of adrenaline in my body. I was about to do an unexpected job, a job that

required more skill and courage than any other thing. It was almost midnight and the job had to be done in half an hour. I sat in a crouching position unable to see beyond my instinct- as to what lies ahead of us: Death or Glory? I could feel that I am scared, perhaps nervous to be more accurate. I knew it was only a matter of time before this would soon be over. I told myself: don’t let the panic smite you… you’ll be alright.

Beside me, a man sat with his night field glasses which he borrowed from his rich father. He was rich, unlike me, but I couldn’t find any reason for him doing a job that was this dangerous, dangerous perhaps because of the fear of being caught; this could place him in a humiliating position, if caught, since his father was an MLA. He was in this Covenant (as he himself called) because of his unusual love of some of the most dangerous sports including this. But I needed money. Money was always my first love. I dreamt money, I slept money… My passion was getting money for which I would do anything, his was because of his unusual love of animals; he had once said to me, ‘Animals needed respect, and that respect is by killing them.’ Sometimes I think he is a psychopath. This was the sole reason, which I could surmise, why they had called us in. They included another three elderly men. Elderly, because of the fact that they were experienced in this job; which I considered to be another ten years in this profession. I was about the age of twenty-three, having just completed my master degree in Physics. Then I had a weird thought, Why am I here? Why am I doing this? My mind raced for the answer, two lakh rupees! God, you’ll be rich, you’ll be able to buy a bike, you could improve your life.

I took a deep breath and turned to my friend, and yes I haven’t revealed his name. His name was Gaurav; same age, dark long hair (which was common among the rich lads), completed his master degree in History from Dibrugarh University. He was praying; I could see both his hands clasped and his eyes closed. None could ever say that this man was a passionate believer of the almighty. His looks denied the fact. But contrarily, I was just his opposite because I believed in science; I believed in Physics which answered all the questions related to the Almighty. I was not a passionate believer of God, which I could see because of the fact that I was a man of science. A modern man, I thought. The mission which they named as “God”, was to begin at the stroke of midnight, and after having looked at my watch I told myself to be prepared, prepared for what Gaurav believed was the ultimate test or battle.

“It’s time,” said one of the elderly men, “be careful, it’s dangerous and stay close to us.”

Both of us nodded and followed them towards the deep core of the forest. It was a kind of infiltration to the heart of one of the most exciting parks of Assam. What I could see with my blurred vision was trees, and grasses that were high enough to engulf half of my body. The Rhino which I myself imagined in my mind was supposed to be at least my height - high enough to kick me, I thought. Hovering cloaks covered most of our faces; I found it too difficult to deal with as it scratched most of my body. These thoughts perhaps enabled me to forget what lay ahead. But I couldn’t deny it. I had to get myself distracted from the horrific sight of the Rhino.

Someone motioned me not to make noise. Perhaps we have arrived at the final hurdle, I thought. All of us sat in a crouching position.

Gaurav Baruah 10MS

Fav. Book The Kite

Runner, A Thousand

Splendid Suns

Fav. Author Khaled

Hosseini

Hobbies Finding out

little but interesting

things in the world

around me.

22

“That’s it,” the eldest one whispered, not loud enough for me to hear clearly, “Look at the beast, can you see him?”

We narrowed our eyes towards the pointed direction. All I could see was grasses moving. I could guess that something was there.

“How could you be so sure?” I blurted, without knowing that I have actually shouted.

The eldest one glared at me. Fear groped me. I knew I had done something foolish, as all of them were staring at me. I should have thought, perhaps they were at least professionals. At least they were in this job for almost ten years.

“Boys, tools.” he whispered, “We’ll surround him from all sides, then I go ahead and shoot him with this.” He took out a long gun that seemed to be a tranquilizer gun. My senses told me that this was some kind of a foolproof plan. There was no way to get caught.

“I shoot him with this and in about fifteen minutes, I think, he will collapse, and you get to him, do save his ass,” he said, almost growling like a mice.

“But if he doesn’t collapse, if this plan doesn’t…” Before I could say anything, he stared at me like a man-eater ready to jump at me, any moment. I knew that I had this old habit to raise stupid questions at the wrong place and at the wrong time. He gave another of his cold gazes and went back to discuss his final task.

Accordingly, we were to close in the rhino from all sides which I thought was one foolproof plan without any flaw. The shuffling of the tall grasses grew louder as we closed in from all sides. My friend Gaurav groped me like hell. He thought that perhaps I was one of the rhinos, as he pressed on me harder than anything. I punched him hard on his thigh, on which he stiflingly screamed in pain.

I felt as if I was catching a fish; a fish that was exclusively large enough for us to get that big amount. I felt as if I was hitting a bullet-train when I saw the large body of that beast. Perfect! It was lying like somebody who’s had a good dinner. His belly was heaving up and down, from breathing heavily in deep sleep. Everyone held their breath when they saw the huge body. The eldest (the one who always glared at me) took out his gun as silently as possible and went ahead of us, making the least possible noise.

He aimed his gun. I gulped. Gaurav caught hold of my hand. Everyone was panting not because they were tired but because of the fact that they were in front of a most fascinating one-horned rhino, a species which was almost extinct.

The bell rang in my head again: My inner soul spoke: What are you doing? What has happened to you? You are

slaughtering an animal just for money! You are slaughtering the animal that the country is always proud of! Are you really a… murderer?

Then without warning my voice echoed out from my throat, “Guys, is it right?”

The eldest gave me another growling look, “What?”

“I mean will it be right to murder… murder the Rhino?”

The man stared at me for a moment and said, “Who brought this insane man?”

“I’m sorry sir, it was my fault, he was willing to come, I didn’t know he would behave like this,” a young man said.

“One more sound, boy, and you won’t get anything.”

“You better keep quiet,” Gaurav gave me a friendly look.

Then he shot. The shot was followed by a wild scream — a scream that was too painful for me to hear; a scream too painful for a man to ever imagine. Then it hit me like fire burning in my heart. I felt the pain. It had certainly hurt him. I had never imagined in my wildest of dreams that I would hear such excruciating pain. My heart panted as though it was about to fall in my hand. My eyes became numb. The animal was wriggling like anything. Men from all sides leapt at him, exception: me. My whole body became numb. I had never imagined that the sight would be this painful. Droplets of tears began pouring all over my face. A small innocent victim at the hands of some soulless creatures - it was the only thought that came to my mind. I wanted to stop them, I wanted to kill all of them; but the animal didn’t stop wriggling in pain.

I kneeled down. My tears rolled down, it didn’t stop. My eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Another man took out a sword-like thing and plunged it deep into its face. It was painful. My heart shouted. My mind froze. How could they do that? The only thing that changed in the next couple of minutes was the wriggling of the animal. It must have died, I thought. How could they do that? Are they not human? Don’t they have feelings?

They didn’t notice me slip away behind one of the bushes. I cried and for the first time in my life I felt that I was a murderer. I felt I was a heartless creature. After a minute or so I saw Gaurav sitting beside me. His face was terrified; his face said that he couldn’t believe what he was doing. I placed my hand above his shoulder. I must say, both of us felt that we were murderers.

I saw my heart screaming at me. Without glancing around I said, “I can’t let this happen.”

“What’s there left that we could stop? Everything is gone, we are murderers, that’s all I know.”

“I mean, at least, something.”

23

“What?” His voice was shaky.

After a second I said, “I can’t let this happen. We’ll surrender.”

Gaurav stared at me, his eyes looked infinitely small, as if he was staring to a person he never imagined would do that. I could see his heart panting and thumping like hell.

“Are you nuts?”

“Yeah I am. I am nuts. I went nuts when I believed you and came here. I was nuts to kill a creature that our country has always been proud of. I can’t think of anything. That’s the only way I could correct myself. If you don’t want to come with me, fine. I shall not take your name in front of the police. That’s it.”

Gaurav stared at me disbelievingly, for long.

“Why do you say like that? I’m coming with you. I want myself to be punished. I want god to punish me for what I have done. But what are we going to do?”

“I am going to steal that horn, and take it to the police, and then surrender. That’s all.” I said, relief in my voice, “But right now we have to stay calm and should be with them.”

We raced towards them and helped them to cut the horn. I saw the animal, lying helplessly, perhaps in heaven by now just because of our ruthless feelings. I looked up. The sky was dark except a few stars that added to its beauty.

I saw what I just did, I saw the blood around his shelled body, and I dropped down on my knees and touched his body. For an instant I felt it wanted to take revenge, as though someone inside his huge belly cried, “Why did you kill me?” I had no answer; a tear fell in his body; I couldn’t stop crying, but without making any noise.

Everybody was leaping in the air as though they have achieved something impossible, exception: me and my friend. I took some water from my bottle and poured around his distorted face. All we could see was blood around his whole face; Gaurav broke down. I could say, at least, we are humans. I can’t deny that we were murderers but there was something in us that wanted to take revenge and that was to be on us.

“Listen,” the eldest said, “now we’re going to drop by the dhaba on that road, have our stomach filled and then back to our destination, because after an excellent work, our bellies must be full so that even a fly can’t disturb us.”

Everybody laughed heartily. I don’t know what made the others laugh, as it was one of the stalest jokes I had ever heard, but it seemed it was because of their fear of not getting their shares. For a minute or so they praised their commander (the eldest) for no reason; some said it was because of his brilliant work, brilliant idea; but I could figure

out what was behind all that — money. It was money what they were after. This word “money” had made everyone blind. In fact even me, I became blind. I, a man of science, a radical thinker, a rational thinker to be more accurate, have done this that science has always opposed. Gaurav was rich, why did he need money? The answer was the same, greed for luxuriant things.

I touched the horn; it must have really, really been painful.

With nothing in our sight but all darkness, we headed straight to what I was told was a restaurant that would at least shelter us for that night. I could not think of anything but how to steal the priceless horn, now, not for money but for the repentance of my mistake, a mistake which will always hurt my self-esteem so badly that even god would never be with me.

I knew Gaurav felt the same, maybe more as he was a passionate believer of god. With no words in our lips, we were offered a plate of rice and dal (a traditional food of the Assamese).

All of them rejoiced of their success, with a bihu song playing in the background. The song could not mesmerize our feelings; in fact, it did lift my spirit to do something to take the tag off my back, a murderer, I thought. I had hurt the Assamese pride, the Assamese gem, the rhino community.

We were told by the eldest that we have to spend the night at that restaurant. This was my chance, I thought, as Gaurav looked at me sideways.

“They have taken wine,” Gaurav gestured, ‘they will go to sleep.’

I nodded and got what he wanted to say.

1:03 AM Kaziranga Wild Grass Restaurant 12 January, 07

I opened my eyes. Everything was black. The good thing for me was that everyone was snoring in the same room. The plan was simple: Gaurav would wait for me in his bike and I would noiselessly steal the horn. This was what I thought was to be and I was sure I would succeed. I don’t know what was awaiting me. Perhaps I was never ready for anything. And I never wanted to know what consequences lay ahead of me.

I tugged Gaurav; I knew he wasn’t asleep. Immediately he straightened himself and well, he knew what to do. Everyone was too drunk to hear the sound of us creeping through the room. I crept towards the eldest who was sleeping on the sofa. One thing that favoured me was that they were careless and trusted every member a lot. I took the bag and dashed out and there was no looking back.

24

Forest Officer House No: 21 Kaziranga National Park 1:34 AM 12 January, 07

Gaurav banged the door and yelled at the top of his voice. He was smiling, perhaps for the godly thing that he had done. I knew this would cost my career a

lot. But I didn’t repent, as I considered what I was doing as saintly, next to what a real God can do. Everything was still ringing in my ears : the horrific sight of the rhino being slaughtered, the pain she felt, the excruciating yell… I can never forget that. This was the only way that I could correct myself. I looked sideways to Gaurav who winked at me with a smile, his smile hadn’t faded out and I hoped it never would. I know what he was feeling; the joy in our heart was unimaginable.

After a delay of ten minutes the door opened and an elderly man walked out.

The moment we saw him, we fell on his feet. I can’t say what made us do so. As for him, I would say, he was totally taken aback: two strangers for no reason coming to an officer’s house and that too at the black of the night! What will one possibly think about this? A calamity? Or has a thunderstorm approached Kaziranga?

I stood up as he shoved his legs frantically. When I saw him, my first impression of him was that he was in his mid-fifties, wearing a monkey cap that slid well below his neck and a shawl that covered only half of his body.

He kept staring at us, probably thinking us to be some local ‘goondaas’ which we are in some way but to be more precise, we are good ‘goondaas’.

“Sir, we want your help, we did a crime, a crime for which we should be punished.” I said.

“..severely”, added Gaurav, as I looked at him with an appraising look.

The officer was still gaping at us. His mouth was open enough for a golf ball to slide in.

Before we allowed him to speak something, we produced the priceless horn before him.

The moment he saw it, I knew what he must be thinking. We didn’t have the courage to look at his eyes, but I spoke:

“Sir, we committed a grave crime, we are to be punished, we are both students of Dibrugarh University, and we did it for money. But sir we are not poachers. We stole it from our leader because our hearts said that we had done a terrible thing. I know sir what we did can’t be undone. This horn is of no use after what we had done. Punish us sir, we are here to return you the gem of Assamese community. We are here to surrender, sir, we are here to tell you about the others. We are sorry…. God forgive us,” these were what Gaurav said, and the words were too sweet for the officer to gulp. In my entire life I have never seen such a Gaurav. His words were saintly, as though a deity has taken over his earthly soul…

…It was only a matter of minutes that three jeeps arrived packed with army personnel. The head army official came forward with two hand-cuffs.

“What you did was the most courageous work I had ever seen in my entire career. You deserve my salute. This is what needs courage not many of us has. I’ll try to lessen your punishment”, he smiled, “the others will be punished severely, but you two, I will help.”

His words were more than everything for us, like a balm healing all our wounds that we caused to ourselves and of course to Mother Nature. I felt light hearted. Probably, my sin is forgiven by god.

Gaurav took hold of my hand. I looked at him; but he had closed his eyes with his head pointing towards the sky. He was praying, and I knew this time what he wanted. His smile was always there, and mine didn’t fade either. And for the first time in my life I prayed, I didn’t know what made me do so but I too closed my eyes and prayed. For that matter of minutes, I didn’t know what happened to me, but it made me feel stronger than before because, as I thought, I prayed with a desire, a desire to believe in myself.

And so I felt the chilling wind blowing across my face as the jeep raced forward. I looked again at the sky, the moon and the stars. I felt as though someone up there winked at me with a broad grin. And this time I knew that it was nothing but the smile of God…

25

T his wind still echoes in my ear,

It’s her song that I shall never hear.

I woke up. I saw dozens of faces surrounding me. My expression was blank. I looked around and realised I was lying on a bed in a hospital.

I could hear the whisper of the wind. Those beautiful memories, those beautiful days, I could hear the song of the waves beside me.

She stood there, staring away into the sea. Her long black hair was plaited and reached down below her waist. On her hands, she carried a silver plate with a tiny lamp, flowers and some holy prasad. She had come from the Ganesh temple nearby. But her parents were not aware that she had come to the sea coast. They only knew that she had gone to the temple. Actually, she had come to see someone.

She was there, staring at me, a mile apart. But I could still feel her, as if she was just near me. I kept looking at her, without uttering a word, without singing the song. She was in me, yet I deserted her. A drop of tear rolled down my eyes. I wanted her and that was my last wish.

It was a Sunday; she came to see me, at our usual meeting spot. This has been our place for the last four months. No words were spoken, no emotions were expressed. But the wind always conveyed my feelings to her. I controlled my urge to run and hug her. She looked like a tiny spot in the golden sands!

Her parents never accepted me. I was an orphan. And I was a Muslim. That made matters worse. I was from a different religion. So I was forbidden to love her.

She wore the blue sari that I gave her. She was looking beautiful as always. I wish I wasn’t an orphan, I wish I was from her religion! But does that make sense? Why are there these differences? Why can’t I marry the person I love? Religion? What is that? Why does it have to define a person? Perhaps, God was not with me. Perhaps, I have to fight alone. This is destiny. This is life.

My thoughts swayed me away from all those bitter facts. I again looked at her. In her hand was a lamp that shimmered wildly. She came straight from the temple. She always does. It was the only place where she came to see me. She stopped meeting me after that fateful incident, after I was beaten up by her community. But that didn’t stop me from loving her either. She always came on Sundays. Even this mile-apart-difference couldn’t stop us from our conversations. The wind between us whispered and brought forth all the memories of our lifetime. A single second lasted for another life. I just wish I got another chance; a chance to be someone not defined by religion;

someone to whom God would have shown mercy. God! What does he know about love? Does he have any idea about Love? Does he have any idea why this had to happen?

Her sari fluttered in the wind. She pushed her long hair back and her bangles jingled in the wind. I had always loved the song of her bangles. My mind drifted to old days. I became weak. This was the last Sunday. Tomorrow she is going to get married.

The wind grew stronger; she shaded the lamp with her hands. She again looked at me and probably smiled. She turned right and walked away. I wanted to shout at her and tell her that I can never forget her, tell her that she’s what makes me stay alive. But the wind stopped me right away. She kept walking towards the sea, the lamp in her hand kept flickering wildly. The waves touched her feet, yet she kept moving on and was out of sight.

My eyes widened. I gaped! I shouted! I cried! What was she doing? I ran. Wildly. But this mile-apart-distance failed me. My heart became numb, as if pierced by something excruciatingly painful; tears rolled down but failed to wet my face. I yelled again at the top of my voice. The whole world stopped, as though mocking me of my failure. She disappeared right before my eyes and I... I kept walking straight into the sea, frantically. I saw the flame still flickering wildly. The waves beckoned me. It touched my body, touched my feet... I could hear the song of the bangles... I could hear her voice... the lamp, the flame, the sea! I laughed at God. He was again a silent spectator. He took away the only jewel I had in my life. Destiny? I yelled loudly in anguish. Without thinking, I kept walking, towards the lamp.

I saw the silver plate with the tiny lamp, some flowers and some holy prasad floating on the sea waters. The flame flickered wildly in the wind, but there was no hand to shade it.

26

H is hands froze on reading the news… the dreaded had occurred finally… he remembered the girl very well. She was about twenty-

one. Smart and beautiful, she was doing a course on fashion designing.

How strange now she looked! Lying in a pool of dried blood mixed with mud.

Photographs published in the newspaper always gave him nausea and to see the carcass of someone you knew can be pretty creepy for even the strong-nerved.

He re-read the news item for about the third time.

“Dead body of a young girl found near rail tracks. She was probably traveling by Howrah-bound Jodhpur Express… was possibly thrown from the train… police doubt suicide but possibility of murder not ruled out.”

He threw the newspaper on the table and closed his eyes. He could see her, smiling

and talking, the memories were so vivid… and why not! It was just last night. He was traveling by the Jodhpur Express from Kanpur to Howrah. She had boarded the train from Allahabad. Her berth was opposite to his. It was she who had started the conversation. ”Where are you going?”.

”I am also bound for Howrah… I study there”.

She was such a beautiful girl, he was so happy to be talking to her, she seemed to like him… but it was all so gross.

Why? Why had he gone for the trip? Didn’t he know how sick he was? But the doctor had said he was fine now.

It had all started nearly a year ago. He still remembered the day when the doctor diagnosed him for MPD — Multiple Personality Disorder. He had an alter self which was devastatingly violent and could even resort to murder and carnage on even the slightest of all provocations and worst of all, he would not remember. Was the hell unleashed then.

She was dressed in a pair of jeans and shirt and either because of her superior fashion skills or her natural beauty, she looked very pretty and smart. She had a confident look on her beautiful face and carried herself with an air of royalty. They had talked till about 11 at night and almost on every possible issue ranging from politics to fashion to Shahrukh Khan and even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Probably she liked him, for it was very rare for single girls to strike up a conversation with completely strange co-passengers. Little did she know then that she was playing with fire which would eventually burn her. That too in a matter of some hours.

He was only twenty-two when it had happened for the first time. He had all of a sudden found himself in a desolated street in the middle of night when he was sure that he had fallen asleep in his bed. After that one night, this spooky waking-up-in-the-middle-of-nowhere phenomenon began to happen at regular intervals. Then came the realization that all those whom he despised or who had done him wrong were all becoming the victim of strange accidents, or at least that was the way they accounted for their injuries.

Salman Hasan 06MS

Fav. Book To Kill a

Mockingbird

Fav. Author Arthur

Conan Doyle, Munshi

Premchand

Hobbies Reading about

politics, economics and

history.

27

One night, he vividly remembered, he had suddenly found himself near the abandoned factory site. Next day, his best friend was found in a nearly-dead state. In his official statement, his friend said that he had fallen from the balcony of the old factory where he had gone on some errand.

He had come to know that very day that his friend and his girlfriend were seeing each other behind his back.

“It’s bad to be diagnosed with such a syndrome at twenty two,” the doctor had sighed, “nevertheless you can be hopeful, psychotherapy sessions for few months, depending on the criticality of your condition, would cure you completely”. Before he could realise it, those two months had already extended to a painful year. It was the first time he had travelled after that year in the asylum. What he hoped was that nothing bad would happen. After all he was cured!

He went to sleep at 11 pm. The rocking motion of the train lulled him to sleep in about a minute. The last thing he saw was the smiling face of the girl as she bade him goodnight. It was really queer because one moment he was eating a sweet she had offered him and next he was already dreaming.

It was on the third ring that Dr.Agarwal, the celebrated psychologist, picked up the phone. It was his patient Aditya. “Dr. I… I… think… your treatment didn’t work… I have… killed… killed… a girl… the MPD is still haunting me… I need to see you,” he said.

“It took you quite long, sir, who was it?” the peon asked Dr.Agarwal.

“It was Aditya… he has such an acute habit of fibbing...” The doctor shook his head with hopelessness, “He has now started believing a new lie that he had MPD… and he threw a co-passenger off the train that he used to return to Howrah from Kanpur.”

R iya adjusted the strap on her new pink top as she logged on to chat like every other evening. The top was expensive but a good buy, she decided. The

message came up as soon as she logged on:

RaZor: U look good in pink...

SweetRiya89: Who r u?

RaZor: U always bite your nails?

Riya looked down at her nails jagged at the edges.

RaZor: I'm waiting for an answer...

Riya was undaunted, she knew it must be one of her friends doing some stupid mischief, so she typed:

SweetRiya89: C’mon tell me who r u?

RaZor: Why don't we play the ‘Guess my name’ game? Let's see if you can identify me.

Riya was game. She was the type of girl who loved little adventures. And the internet provided safety and anonymity. On top of this she was damn sure that this RaZor guy was someone she knew very well, maybe someone from her building or one of her colleagues or friends or maybe even her boyfriend Amar. He liked playing stupid, childish pranks. So with confidence she typed ‘ok’.

RaZor: All right… and the rules are U will get three clues… I will tell you something about you that I know… you get a prize if you find out who I am…

SweetRiya89: Yeah, yeah… cut the crap…

RaZor: wait… if you lose… you will be punished.

One of the problems with Riya was that she was greatly impatient. It had landed her in trouble many times previously but she had never changed, not even attempted to do so. Amar used to joke that ‘impatience was in her genes’.

So now, she just wanted to get over with this RaZor business quick. She was already losing interest.

RaZor: After every clue I will wait for thirty seconds… for your answer…

Riya typed hastily:

SweetRiya89: ok, ok… now start it, U MORON…

RaZor: Clue 1: U luv ur bucks… ur apartment… ur plush life… but U DON'T DESERVE IT.

28

As Riya read it her eyes widened. Was this a reference to that? But… no one should know it… Or at least that's what she thought.

SweetRiya89: What do u mean?

RaZor: Incorrect. Next clue: I know ur dirty li'l secret…

Riya froze in her seat as she read the words. Somewhere in her heart she knew her deed has come back to haunt her. With shaking hands she picked up the mug and sipped the coffee. The caffeine produced no result. No matter what she tried, her mind went back to the AC 1st Class train compartment where she was travelling with that gentleman as the only fellow passenger…

RaZor: Time for the last clue. U gonna lose big missy…

Riya wanted to run away but she was paralyzed with fear and uncertainty… How can somebody know? No one was there and it was a year ago…

The gentleman looked quite rich. He was wearing diamond studded gold rings and had a big fat wallet. He was quite friendly and Riya had liked him immensely.

RaZor: Last Clue: ‘too much coffee is bad’… isn't it darling?

Riya stared at the screen. Those were the exact words when she had handed the gentleman a mug of coffee. In spite of his reservations he had drunk the coffee…

Riya now looked at her coffee mug as the computer screen flashed with

RaZor : YOU LOST… PUNISHMENT TYM…

Suddenly she knew what was the punishment. She could feel her throat choking. Her heartbeat was rising. Her coffee was laden with poison just the way she had poisoned the man year ago…

The screen flashed:

RaZor: ok its me Amar… u lost my lady… and they were simple clues … u deserve more than u have my love. U love me and that's ur dirty secret. And last cut down on the caffeine that’s what I keep telling you… See you should have identified me…

Her head lay on the table motionless, her eyes blank. She was dead.

I wouldn’t believe you if you said that there was not ‘one’ instance

in your life, when as a little kid, you saw your father going to buy groceries early

morning, and lingered along without even caring to brush your teeth. He would then put you on the front end of his bicycle or scooter with a small comfortable seat designed especially for you, or alongside him in his car or minivan, making sure you have your seatbelt on.

Well …I used to walk with him, for the market was just a

Nishant Kumar 06MS

Fav. Book The Casebook

of Sherlock Holmes

Fav. Author Guy de

Maupassant

Hobbies Writing short

poems/ short stories,

composing music, playing

FPS games.

29

mile away from my home. “A walk early morning makes you healthy and keeps you energized for the rest of your day”, he used to say. But that wasn’t the only reason I loved walking alongside him. I always walked on his left, because in India that would mean that I am safe from the moving vehicles on the main road. Of course I didn’t realize this fact until I started doing the same while traversing the awfully busy

roads of Kolkata with my girlfriend. I remember he used to hold my index finger, ah so tightly, whenever a ruthless driver used to pass us at an eerily close distance. It was as if he was afraid to make any mistake that could cost him... me.

I never told him that it used to pain terribly whenever he would tighten his grip on my finger. But I never complained. Because somehow even at such a tender age, when I didn’t understand the technicalities of life and emotions so well, I knew that the pain was a part of his love towards me. And it was the realization of that love that used to make that pain not only bearable but ironically pleasurable. Whenever we used to go past the shops, still in the second quarter of the morning, we used to see the shopkeepers all busy in cleaning the area of the road directly in front of their shops or thelas, sprinkling water on the dusty peripheries with a mug in an effort to make the muddy road moist, while emitting a musky aroma which I found soothing.

Imagine for a moment that after several long years, in a land far, far away, you feel the same smell. That was exactly the situation I was in before the incident that I am going to describe took place. I had come to Switzerland for my summer internship. After my flight landed, I boarded a bus going towards Zurich, where the institute which had accepted my proposal for internship was located. The beautiful countryside of Switzerland occasionally presented the musky smell I was talking about and there is no denying the fact that it made me feel terribly nostalgic. The bus had just two parallel lines of seats along the length of the bus which could accommodate around 15 people each. It was much like many of the public buses that you find in Kolkata, except that it was splendidly well maintained. Opposite me was sitting a gorgeous looking lady, one you would think should have been in some world beauty pageant. She seemed to be around 25 years of age. But that was about all I could appreciate about her when my mind was overwhelmed with home sickness. There were instances though, when I did notice that she was also glancing in my direction. I started talking to a co-passenger to avoid giving her any ‘false alarms’, something which generally girls are concerned about. I came to know that my co-passenger was also one of the few selected ones accompanying me to the institute. In no time I realized that we got along really well, and that our field of research interest was also same.

In the next stoppage most of the passengers got off the bus. The girl who was opposite me had also gone. All of a sudden, a male instinct which had developed over

thousands of years, made me look outside the window for a last view of the beautiful lady. But she was nowhere to be seen. Well this wasn’t a surprise because it happens with the male human species almost always all around the globe. Surprisingly, I wasn’t that sad either. If it had been five or six years ago, I would have got off the bus too just to have one shot at that girl, least concerned about reaching my destination. But with age I had come to be more ‘mature’, which is just a casual way of saying that I had learnt to suppress one out of the two most fundamental of human desires – food and sex. Besides I could once again feel that nostalgic fragrance. At that moment I was really missing my girlfriend.

‘Hey,’ I heard a low whisper close to my ear. I looked towards my co-passenger to notice that he was pointing in the opposite direction. I looked back to see that the girl was sitting ‘dangerously close to me’ – a phrase which I had learnt to appreciate as a consequence of my 27 years of upbringing in India. It was then that I realized that the fragrance was actually just a perfume which the girl was wearing. It is the nature of mankind to long for anything that they don’t have. But since the girl was already sitting too close to me, I lost even that little spark I had towards her. I returned her ‘Hey’ with a ‘Hi’, just so that I don’t seem rude.

It was just then that something that shouldn’t have happened – happened. The girl put her hands on my thighs, far too close to the most hormonally active portion of my body, for me to be comfortable.

I started in a low voice, “Excuse me! Would you mind moving a bit?”

“Not at all”, she said moving even closer to me, which started a long duel in my mind, sent shivers down my spine and also of course... ah never mind.

‘If my girlfriend was here, you would have been a dead girl by now,’ I thought of saying. But I realized that this wasn’t the way of dealing with pretty girls and the lady on my side was simply hang-me-till-I-die gorgeous.

Was I getting distracted? Umm, probably yes, but she was worth the distraction.

God, what was I thinking? I knew my girlfriend would kill me if she could read my thoughts. But a portion of my mind reminded me of the fact that Aarushi wasn’t a psychotic; my thoughts were safe in my head and my actions in this country would be safe within the confines of this country.

I knew this wouldn’t be fair to her. But I knew if I didn’t do anything now, it wouldn’t be fair to the lady killing me softly by my side and well also to my… ah never mind.

I knew there was no end to this duel and the best thing for me would be to close my eyes and try to get sleep. “Hey, my name is Salya. Though I must mention that it is spelt

30

with a J instead of a Y. As in S-A-L-J-A”, she said finally lifting her hand from my thighs to shake my hands.

‘What the hell do you think I am going to need the spelling of your name for?’ — I thought of saying. “Hey, what an interesting name! Well my name is Kamal and well it is not spelt C-A-M-E-L”, I said.

I knew girls loved pathetic jokes. She burst into laughter, which was when I realized that she had really pretty teeth. ‘Aarushi never took good care of her teeth,’ I recalled.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from where I was sitting. It is really difficult to find well-built, handsome men these days, especially in a small country like Switzerland”, she said.

‘Go away miss, flattery is going to lead you nowhere’, well you guessed it right, this was what I thought of saying. “Well I do the best I can to stay fit. And my looks, well, thank my parents for that”, I said.

“I know this may seem a bit awkward but may I ask you a personal question?” she said in a voice which could soothe your senses better than the finest of music could.

‘No’, I thought. “Well, yes of course”, I said.

“Are you taken?”

‘Yes of course’, I thought. “Well not presently, but why”, I said.

“Well in that case, I hope you wouldn’t mind if I did this”, she easily moved my hand and placed it over her thighs before she completed her sentence and even before I could get a hold of what was happening.

I don’t know why, but this changed everything. Somehow an image of some arbitrary boy placing his hands on Aarushi’s thighs flashed in my mind. And all of a sudden, my lust turned to rage. My hands moved away in reflex, as if they were in contact with hot flowing water from a geyser which had been on and unused for hours. I wished I could slap the girl at that very moment but I didn’t want to make a scene. I was happy that I held myself strong, not because Aarushi would kill me if I didn’t, but because I felt that whatever was going on was definitely not good.

“Mind your own business girl and just feel lucky that I am not going to paint your face red with a slap. Now just move away or I promise I will make you wish you never met me, you didn’t exist at this moment and … well never mind”, and I said what I thought.

She started saying something in a low voice, almost a whisper. I couldn’t figure out a single word but I was assuming she was apologizing for her actions. “Excuse me”, I said in a firm voice, “It would really help if you could speak a bit more distinctively.”

“I said hand over your money or I will scream that you were trying to forcefully slide your hands under my skirt. Was I audible or would you wish that I state the same ‘a bit more distinctively’”, she said it in such a matter-of-fact way, that I could feel from inside out, my facial expression going blank as a reflex of a sudden and unexpected shock. She was a con woman and had her eyes on me for my obvious foreign appearance and the fact that I had no one to support me. I hated myself for not realizing earlier that gorgeous, spontaneous and genuinely frank women simply do not exist in this planet.

I felt for the first time so bad and so good, mixed together. Bad of course for the situation I brought myself into in spite of no mistake of mine. And good for the reason that I realized a fact which I didn’t appreciate so much earlier. My Aarushi was probably not the most sensuous and drop dead gorgeous looking girl in this world but she was definitely the one who could understand me the best, who loved me the best and who was definitely not a con woman. It was her not being a con woman which I was most thankful about at that very moment. My chain of thoughts and my sense of renewed respect for my girlfriend were broken by the deadly lady by my side (who all of a sudden had stopped looking beautiful). For me her face and heart were now a symbol of evil.

She had probably noticed the expression of fear painted all over my face and decided to use it to her advantage. “Do you know how violent the people here are? Do you know how sensitive they are towards woman-rights issues and eve teasing? They will stop this bus to invite more people, beat you as if you were an elephant gone mad. And just at the moment when you start praying to God that you were dead, they will hand you over to the Swiss police, which by the way is barbaric. But you won’t have to face any of this. Simply hand over the money you have on you and we can tread our separate routes.”

I had never been so scared my entire life. I was carrying around 1000€ in my purse which was equivalent to more than 50,000 bucks in my currency. I was completely unable to figure out any alternate way of handling this situation. I swear by God, I so wished that Aarushi was here with me. Everyone else who was around me won’t believe me over this con lady. I had no option but to give away the money. There was no one who could be my alibi in this foreign land.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s going on here?”— came a voice from beside me. Of course I had forgotten Suleiman, my co-passenger, amidst the entire duel going on in my mind. He stood from where he was sitting and sat towards the other side of the girl. “I know these women. I am sure she is listed on the Swiss police’s list of frauds on the loose. Don’t worry Kamal; I will be your alibi. You need not hand over your money”, he said with a smile so assuring that I could breathe once again, and so cruel that the fraud portrayed the same blank face expressing sudden and unexpected shock which I

31

carried moments ago. Her face had gone blood-red when Suleiman mentioned about the list of frauds.

I had no idea how I should have reacted to this situation. I pinched myself to check whether I was in a dream. I certainly wasn’t. I had never faced such dramatic overload in such a small time. I thanked God for helping me out of this situation. “Thanks Suleiman. I was really starting to get worried. You

made your appearance at the most suitable moment.”

“Don’t worry friend. I know how to handle women like her. You need not worry anymore”, he said in a reassuringly calm voice.

It was all fine but at that moment I noticed that there was something that was making the girl very uncomfortable. Suleiman was holding her hands above her elbows close to her breasts pressing his hands into her. It was really strange how the same girl, who was trying to cheat me by doing similar things, was getting uncomfortable when someone else was doing it to her. Human folk are the most interesting subjects, and their emotions and modes of action in different scenarios are, I guess, the most challenging of all fields of study. It is strange how a body abuse becomes pleasurable when done for selfish purposes, and the same becomes unbearable when the source is not welcome. I was going through the same process of mental duel that very moment for I was feeling more and more pitiful for that woman as Suleiman started extending the reach of his hands and the grab of his fists.

“Suleiman, I guess you could leave her now. She is getting a bit uncomfortable”, I said.

“Don’t you worry, I know how to handle girls like her”, he repeated what he had already said thrice.

Even though a portion of my mind felt that she deserved what she was going through, I suddenly realized that the woman must be facing a severe economic crisis to be readily accepting professions allowing her own body to be abused. She probably had a fatherless kid back at her house and probably didn't have the money to meet his basic life-sustaining requirements. I started feeling a sense of sympathy towards her. I couldn’t hold it any longer within me. I knew most of all that Aarushi wouldn’t like it if she knew I kept sitting mum while a bastard was, in front of my sight, abusing another girl.

“Suleiman let her go. And if you are once again going to say that I should not worry while you carry on with your little mumbo jumbo, think again Mister! Because it is not going to happen, not till I sit here”, I blasted out. My voice was loud enough to catch the attention of a majority of the travelers. I somehow felt contentment finally. I waited for a long time for someone to break the awkward silence which had dawned over the entire bus for a while.

“You just made a terrible mistake Kamal. You know, I should have told you that I am a person who never likes being in the neutral zone. Since it seems evident that you didn’t like my taking your side, I am going to do this beautiful lady a favor. You are in big trouble my man”, he said in a voice so low that only the two of us could hear him.

A passenger from the opposite parallel seat shouted, “Hey what the hell is going on between the three of you?”

Before I could say anything, my mind still eclipsed by the sudden turn of events for a fourth time in a short duration, Suleiman stood up and started saying in a dominating voice, “This guy over here was trying to forcibly slide his hands down the skirt of this girl. She just called me for assisting her. These south Asians are all the same. Bloody terrorists they are. If they think they can come to our country, take our jobs and exploit our women then they are wrong. Bloody hell they are wrong. This is it. I am not going to keep mum any longer. Who says we teach this ogre a lesson? Who says we beat him so bad that he returns to his filthy country to tell those bunch of bastards that we have no place for them here.”

“Hell yeah”, said a man from an extreme corner of the bus. “I say we strip this man to his flesh and throw him stark naked on the road”, said another person from somewhere. I started losing track of how many and how furiously voices were rising from different corners of the bus. I felt like I was a character in some television serial with dramatic twists and turns, where in a matter of minutes, I was facing situations where I was praising and cursing god.

I tried to convey my end of the story to them. But I knew the lady, obviously not intending to get caught, would definitely support my fellow intern to-be. Whenever I tried to explain my situation, the crowd would get even fierce. I thought it would be wiser to hold shut and not agitate the people and turn them into a mob.

Even though the people ultimately heard my end of the story they were not ready to believe in me. One of them said, “If what you say is true then one thing is decided, that at least one of you two are going to get hurt real bad.”

Another person who was so far sitting idly stood up and came from behind the crew circling around us and went straight to the girl. “Everyone back off”, he said. He took out a badge. “Police”, he said.

“No one makes any move. This is a criminal situation, let the police handle it”, he paused for a moment and then started again, “ Only one of the two of you are going to accompany me to the police station on the next stoppage the other one may continue his journey to his destination”, he said it to us plainly.

“Who’s the liar?” he asked the girl.

Three simple words. One answer: two extreme possibilities.

32

My heart skipped a beat. I held still as my respiratory senses denied working with me in symbiotic unison until a verdict was passed. I knew at that very moment that whatever the girl said would definitely have an effect over the rest of my life. I thought that this instance would be a perfect example to illustrate the butterfly effect. One thing that was certain was that, irrespective of what she said, this instance was

undoubtedly going to have a permanent tattoo on my mind.

Never before had I experienced such an emotional and situational roller coaster. At this very moment I could have been either in a Swiss Jail or a Swiss experimental laboratory. As a consequence of what happened next, I am where I am.

In fact she didn’t utter a word.

She simply raised her hand and pointed her finger…

“H ey! You are looking great!”

I turned towards the back as these shrill words ran past my ear. It was Tina, the cutest girl of my class, who seemed busy running

towards the hall but still able to appreciate my looks. I felt my chest broaden an inch or two with pride. I continued walking the corridor, closely observing each and every face I came across. I was dressed in the cleanest and tidiest of uniforms as if I were a new entrant to the class and why not, after all I have been declared the best student in the school. Every face was saying something although they were silent. Some had praise in them while others were full of jealousy. My bright white shirt, which was shining like silver, was perfectly and rightly justifying my newly earned title. I was smiling…

A sudden splash of cold water and a gasp of breath was all that I needed to bring me back from the dream world to the harsh reality of mine. Rubbing my eyes and brushing off the

water off my face I saw Gopi standing with a bucket in his hand and laughing. He was wearing a greyish vest and a short of similar color. The vest was once white but it's hard to find even a single thread which retained its original colour. It has seen a lot of wear and tear, undergone predicaments full of dirt and dust and stains butstill has managed to escape detergents and water. The short also has a similar story to tell and maybe even more. It also had a patch of completely different color knitted roughly by irregular stitches. I looked at myself and my attire was not at all different from him except the fact that it was all wet. I looked around and what I saw could be described as a shattered, thatched hut with only a half-broken, murmuring bed as the only furniture. There were no white shirts, no clean uniforms, no gazing students and most important of them: no school.

Himangshu Paul 11RS

Fav. Book Malgudi Days

Fav. Author R K

Narayan, Jawaharlal

Nehru, Khushwant Singh

Hobbies Playing video

games, watching movies

and creative writing.

33

I have been living with Gopi and his mother for the past six years ever since my mother passed away. She fought bravely for quite a long time with tuberculosis, but ultimately the latter was triumphant and able to take her into its grasp. I was five years old then. She was the second victim of the disease in the family as it had already consumed my father two years earlier. Gopi's mother had been like

a mother. She never treated me any different than her own son. We three somehow manage to run the house. Gopi's mother does household chores from house to house while Gopi and I work in two different ‘dhabas' near the roadside. I had a brief period of schooling for an year, but it all ended after my mother's death. From the last few years I have been in the habit of having the same dream over and again. I don't know, maybe a desire for studying in school is growing stronger and stronger inside of me. Whenever I see school students dressed in nice uniforms passing by on the road, I feel the spark in me flickering and running like electricity through my whole body.

I work as a waiter, or that is what I would like to call myself, in a dhaba by the side of this national highway which joins two very prosperous states. I serve food to the customers, clean the table, wash the dishes and occasionally have to cook as well. Every day, a variety of people come -- some wealthy corporate people would come in cars that were as long as the entire dhaba, while some are so poor that they can afford only a cup of tea. Some would be gentle to offer a tip even for a glass of water while the other would be so angry, rude and misbehaved that they would slap me for no reason. I have grown up in this mess for long and thought that my experiences over the years have enabled me to conjecture about a man's personality and intentions just by looking at him for a while, but I was absolutely wrong.

It was a bright sunny day of June. The hot summer weather was taking a toll on every body. The perspiration, dehydration, loo and everything was driving everyone indoors. Those who were outside also wanted to finish things up and go into the shade. In the late afternoon there was no customer in the dhaba and generally they do not come at this time of the day at this part of the country. Everyone else in the dhaba had left to take an afternoon nap keeping me in charge. I laid my head over my hands on the table and fell asleep. After a while or so, I felt a gentle tap on the back of my head. I raised my half-open eyes to see the figure of a man in his mid-thirties, clad in khadi kurta and an old worn-out jeans. I raised my head slowly and watched him carefully.

His unruly hair seemed like a bird's nest and his unshaven beard made him look like he was out of this civilized world for a very long time. He was completely drenched in sweat, and puffs of dust in the lower part of his trousers and

slippers indicated he had reached this dhaba by foot. “Can I have something to eat?” said the man. In contrast to his appearance, his voice seemed kind and pleasant.

I said, “Well... there is no one, especially the cook, in the dhaba. So it’s kind of difficult.”

“It would have been nice if I had got something, for I have travelled a lot in this sun and there is no other place nearby,” he said. “Anyway, no problem.” He turned his back to me and started walking.

I felt kind of sorry for him and said, “Excuse me Mister. I can cook something for you, but it would cost a little bit more.”

“Thanks, that would be so nice of you,” he said and sat on one of the chairs.

I started making some chapattis and some curry for him while having a small chit-chat with him. I came to know that he originally hailed from this place, but had left for work in a far-away city. He came back recently to visit his family and would stay here for a few days. When I served him his food, he kind of jumped on the food and finished it in seconds. I guess he was pretty hungry. He paid me my money and went on his way. In the evening when the dhaba owner

came back, I told him the story. He patted me on the back and said, “Bravo, you are really picking up.”

“Thanks”, I said.

The next afternoon, I was surprised to see the man again in the dhaba. But, this time he looked completely different. His hair was short and tidy, his dress clean and his face clean-shaven. He requested

me to prepare some food for him and I did so. From that day onwards, it became nearly a daily affair. He would come in the afternoon when there was no one else, he would ask me to prepare food and give me extra cash for it. Slowly, we became friends. We would talk about me and about him. He asked me about my mother and how she died and how I came to Gopi's house and how I am living and what I like and what I don’t like etc. I came to know that his name is Rajesh and he runs a drapers shop in the city by selling towels and other small clothings. He would leave just before the dhaba owner or any other person arrived.

One afternoon, when I was making chapattis for him, a group of schoolchildren returning from school passed by the roadside. I gazed at them, as usual, with shining eyes until they were out of sight. Till then, the burning smell of the chapattis had already entered my nose and I could sense the presence of someone beside me. As I turned, I saw that he was looking straight at my eyes and probably noticed the glitter in them along with the fate of the chapattis. He asked me:

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said.

34

“What nothing? Do you like school children? Would you like to go to school?”

“Yes, I would like to go to school, but it's not possible.”

“Why is that not possible?”

“Because I have to help run the family, and we cannot afford school fees,” I said with a gloomy face.

“Will you go with me to the city? I will admit you to a school,” he said with a glitter in his eyes.

I got excited but could only say “No, Gopi's mother would not allow me”.

“Then let's run away without her knowledge,” he said quite rudely.

“I can't do so. After all she looked after me for such a long time. No, I can't betray her,” I said with a stern face.

There was a long pause after that and the conversation stopped there for the day and he silently went away.

He continued coming to the dhaba and talking to me. He kept persuading me to run away.

He kept me narrating stories of life and living in the city, the big schools there, the smart children of those schools, different uniforms - red and blue and green and all sorts of color. Even though I was rock stiff that I would not leave Gopi and his family, this dream of studying in school was making me weak. And Rajesh acted as fuel to fire and one day, I finally decided to go to the city with him.

That night, after everybody went to sleep, I crept out of the hut silently and went straight to the railway station. Rajesh was already there, waiting for me. He had already bought tickets for me and him. We boarded the train soon. As the train stirred to leave the station, I could imagine two visions -- Gopi and his mother standing and looking at me and the other the big city welcoming me. As I looked out through the window I could make out the trees, houses, shops, etc

passing by at great speed even in this pitch darkness. I felt sleepy and lay down in Rajesh’s lap and fell asleep.

The next morning when I opened my eyes, I found myself unable to move. I was lying on the floor of a large godown with my hands tied behind my back. My legs were also tied. I found that my mouth was stuffed with a huge amount of something which tasted like paper. A ribbon was tied to my mouth so that I could not spit out the stuff. I saw the godown full of bags of rice and potato with measuring scales of various sizes hanging from the ceiling here and there. I saw many children of my age also lying on the ground in the same condition as I was. In the distant, I could see Rajesh shaking hands with a bearded man and taking a packet from him. They were laughing at a joke, I think. I tried to call Rajesh but he would not hear me through my gag. I let out my whole strength but could not even stir. After several failed attempts, I felt weak and ultimately fainted.

Several months have passed since. I am now a permanent occupant of this space near the corner of a traffic signal. My pitiful face and absence of one of my limbs can draw sympathy even from the meanest of people and that is what I do nowadays. I, like many other orphans and homeless,

beg in the city and give the money to our owner, the man responsible for our present condition, who keeps us alive or we can say, do not allow us to die.

I feel amazed whenever I see school children walking by in beautiful uniforms even now, but I know my dream cannot be fulfilled, at least in this life.

“S o, what’s your wish?”

“Huh?”— I replied, shocked by the sudden demand.

She repeated, “What is the one thing you wish we would do in your life, what’s your dream?”

Holding my composure, slowly I said, “I want to be promoted as the chief programmer of my company, earn a lot of money, buy a luxurious flat and live happily with you.”

“I wasn’t asking that,” she said annoyingly. “Let me put it in another way — suppose you are given a whole day to do whatever you want, there will be no burden, no

35

responsibilities, just whatever you want. What will you do then?”

Perplexed even more by the newly-framed question, my mind started to wonder what material these girls are made of. What kind of crap is this? The whole week I have toiled like a donkey, tolerating all the abuses of the project leader and the ill-behaviour of

the manager just to listen to the boring chit-chat of my girlfriend on a weekend which was supposed to be a stress-reliever. How good had it been if we had gone to the movie. The sci-fi thriller was an instant hit and was all over the box-office. Every colleague of mine has seen it. I would definitely have seen it today if only she had not crumpled the idea like a used-up tissue paper and thrown it into the trash bin. Ultimately we ended up sitting in this spiky grass-like vegetation in the middle of a crop-field in the outskirts of the city. Wow, what a weekend! I too need to be equally blamed for this — what on Earth made me agree to take the long drive in this part of the world?

“Time’s up, tell me the answer now,” she said suddenly, dragging me out of the sea of thoughts I have been floating around in.

“Wait, I am thinking. I am not used to this kind of questions,” I retorted back.

“Ok, so now you are going to think and answer? Just speak up what pops up in your mind as soon as you hear the question. Quick, Quick!” — she smilingly answered assuming she had eased the task for me.

“Let me try. Hmm ... Sorry, I can’t. I don’t know what kind of answer you are expecting “, I said, displaying a confused look.

“Leave it”, she said. The frowning face clearly showing her impatience and helplessness.

A moment of silence and my thoughts appeared again as if they were waiting for some kind of interruption in the conversation. Working with computers virtually all my life has made me similar to them. Just as a computer program cannot execute anything other than what has been written in the codes, I too have been shackled to my routine life. I am unable to think beyond my projects, presentations and all those rubbish stuff. Even if I was trying hard to get to a creative or out-of-the-box answer, I was coming up with failure every time. Truly, I have become a slave to my surroundings.

As I resurfaced back to reality, I glimpsed at her face. Tucking her hair behind her ear with her left hand, she was looking towards the far side of the field where some children were playing. Her fair face in the background of the setting sun was glowing like the sun itself. Her black-dot like bindi just at the centre of the space between her two eyebrows adorned her beauty all the more. The slowly

gathering cloud overhead was no match to her pony-tailed tuft hair.

She had been silent and lost in her own thoughts for long. Expecting a volcano might erupt any moment, I tried to put up a valiant effort —

“So… If I get such a day, I will do everything to make you happy.”

She turned her face towards me, a soft smile gleaming through her shut lips and the sparkle in her eye held in it all the love this world can offer.

“Yeah, that I know, but suppose I am also not there, what would you do then?”

Back to level zero, I remembered a certain book in which the author specifies that men and women are entirely from different planets. I was also feeling that way now. Trying hard to regain my lost ground I made the final attempt…

Keeping my smile intact, I said, “Ok, you have to help me out then, I would ask you the same question and you answer it your way, after listening to your answer, I will answer mine. Is it okay?”

To my utter surprise it worked. She agreed. She started —

36

“Do you know when I was in school, there used to be a lush-green football ground just outside the window of my room. Every morning I used to see the sun rising from the far side of the ground and every evening there were children as well as grown-ups playing in the ground. The greenery just filled up every corner of my imagination. I wondered if I could touch the horizon. I wished if I could get one day when I am free from all

bonds of this world, I would start walking one morning and go on and on and on till I reach my destination, the horizon. I will then lie down on the lush green grass and look overhead into bright blue sky. Just the sight itself would be enough for me to live a lifetime without anything else. That’s my wish, understood?”

“Yes”, I muttered indistinctly, still relishing in the dream world of hers. I now realized what she’s been up to. She has been trying to pull me out of this shell of workaholism that I have been into almost all my life. All those crap thoughts about women were gone in a split-second and I was feeling guilty. I recognized that her true worth was much more than her outer beauty.

The definition of happiness for me is now restricted to nothing more than a movie or a party at a friend’s place or going on long drives. Burying my head into logistics and reasoning of the computer language, I have overlooked what life is! But, now I was determined to break the shackles. Setting foot in her footprints, I too tried to dive deep into a world, which I had long forgotten.

The train of thoughts running through the memory lanes of my mind brought me back to my childhood days when we were untouched by anything called “stress” — darting through acres of paddy fields, jumping across river canals, making merriment all day long without even having meal and still not showing any signs of weariness or sadness. The happiness was always within a hand’s reach. All the visions of my childhood started to flash before my eyes just like movie stills inside a bioscope. Overwhelmed by a strange feeling of happiness, I started —

“When I was a child, I was very fond of playing football. I would play day-in and day-out with all my friends. Even got thrashing by mother for all the same reasons so many times especially during the monsoons. Playing football in the rain and in the mud was such a fun that you cannot imagine”, I chuckled. “Maa would be ready with a cane as soon as I enter the house premises in the late evening drenched completely in mud and filth. After a brief session of thrashing, she would take me to the bathroom and use all her strength to scrub the mud off me. Ha ha…”

“Those were some days!” I said nostalgically. My eyes fixed, looking vaguely at the V-shaped flight of birds returning to their nests. With the setting sun casting long, purple shadows on us, the overhead purple cloud growing into an enormous blob and with the distant clouds roaring, we hopped back into the car.

“Still not the answer”, she said closing the door softly.

“Alright! So, now if you would give me such a day, I will go out and run about—through the lanes, the fields, hoping about, crossing the rivulets, feel the wind stirring past my body, break laws, getting battering from a policeman and…”

“And what?” she asked in expectation.

“…and become wet and enjoy that special rain that once was part of my life and relive all those happiness”, I said admiring the relief upon her calm face. She smiled and leaned her head over my shoulders. I too brought my right hand over her shoulder and we both looked at the playing children through the front glass of the car and were soon lost in thought. The sound of rain drops trickling down the window pane brought us back to reality. We looked at each other’s face for a while and then something remarkable happened. I slowly opened the door and went out into the rain. I felt as if something whispered into my ears — close your eyes, and embrace the rain with stretched arms…

37

Did ever a hand quiver more?

Waving bye what I so keenly adore

Did ever a heart feel so sore?

To let go a smile that’d bliss no more.

Words retiring in a silent cry

Hiding beneath a speechless eye.

So much to listen and so much to tell

Hushed up all by a ringing bell

Cursed art thou aye Time profane

Perpetuity doth pleasure never retain

Memories fading in Her decadent clutch

I blur in you and you in me smudge.

Yet, somewhere, in mind’s most treasured store

That smile will hover, long beyond it’s there no more.

Anindya Sengupta

09MS

Fav. Book The Stranger,

Pother Panchali, Tintin

Fav. Author Swami

Vivekananda, Rabindranath

Tagore, Jibonananda Das,

Pablo Neruda

Hobbies Music, sports.

I lent myself few moments of sanity

and I knew where the pursuits lead.

I couldn’t be so dead, after all,

I couldn’t be scraping the surface all the time.

So I cried my heart out, father,

so I closed my eyes and saw you.

Walking through the asthmatic songs,

you called my name -

and I lifted the whispers off your chest.

When all is lost and calm,

we shall take turns and light the fire…

Antareep Mandal

07MS

Fav. Book The

Godfather, Angels and

Demons, Madhukori

Fav. Author Satyajit

Ray, Narayan Sanyal,

Narayan Gangopadhyay

Hobbies Watching

documentaries and films.

39

To the demise of my dearest friend,

Whose life came to a sudden end.

I thought of writing an elegy,

But knew it won’t be easy.

Still I gripped my pen and began,

To express the impressions of that age,

And that's how I ended up writing,

What you'll read down this page.

I still remember,

Long back in December

There came a piece of news,

That changed my views.

Robbing me of my friend's care,

And making me recall his last stare.

Though I'd seen a lot of goodbyes,

But none compare to those through his eyes.

I felt weakest from deep inside,

As all my dreams and desires died.

I kept the entire world aside,

And from soul within I deeply cried.

With this sort of lingering pain,

Will my life be the same again?

With all my will and wits broken,

I approached towards his only token.

And as I gently made it ajar,

I found in it an old guitar.

The same guitar, that he used to play,

With ardent effort both night and day.

He played it with all his love and care,

As it helped to make his feelings share.

Whenever his fingers touched those strings,

The melody turned autumns to springs.

I still miss the tunes so fine,

And the music that worked a rhythm divine.

But, today, after years so long,

I hear someone sing that song.

And as if from the void so far,

He's still playing that old guitar…

Dropping bombs here and there,

Destroying peace, unity and care.

Crippling each innocent's life with fear,

And every mother's eyes with tear.

Don’t know what they want to make clear,

Is this the fate of our world my dear?!

But this may be one half of the game,

Hence we must think before we blame.

As the same, may have happened with them,

Turning their mind towards terror's flame.

Making them change their soul and aim,

And commit massacres without any shame.

Wittiest are the ones who use the opportunity,

To soak the gentle minds in their filthy preach.

Making religion and race as issues,

Destruction is what they finally teach.

Jayjit Das 11MS

Fav. Book The Guide

Fav. Author R K

Narayan

Hobbies Singing, playing,

cricket and drawing.

40

Do colour of blood and drops of tears,

Vary in any place or case?

Rather, it’s the difference in thinking,

That's causing a shame to the human race.

And be it Islam, Hinduism or Christianity,

All they've taught is to glorify humanity.

Arms and ammunitions are meant to hurt

And all they cause is destruction,

While love and care are meant to cure

And all they fetch is satisfaction.

They sacrifice their splendorous life,

In the name of god, to escape the hell.

But these foolish creatures, don’t they know

That doing so is a devilry yell?

Violence must be rooted out, from soul within,

Know how not why.

Since all this evil prays is:

To "let me live, and others die!"

Madhura Duttagupta

11MS

Fav. Book The Palace Of

Illusions, Chitra Banerjee

Divakaruni

Fav. Author

Rabindranath Tagore

Hobbies Sketching and

reading.

My life, your gift

Every heartbeat seeped in debt

Your graces abound in every breathe

From a sapling to a tree,

You have chaperoned me.

Yet, how thankless I have been.

Ungrateful?! You know, I am not

But, unfaithful, I may have been.

Each mistake forgotten

Each deliberate sin, forgiven

Every outburst overlooked

Such boundless love and yet,

I failed to see...

Your loving arms which held me.

And all the while I was at it,

You held me even more tightly.

The child who sat weeping in the dark,

Waiting for redemption,

Her faith never faltered.

Now that she’s treading the dark,

Yours remains a rock.

Burdens piled on,

Innocence wounded... not lost,

Strength hidden but summoned at will,

Will shape the clay,

Driven by your desire.

Unfaithful I may have been,

But you will never fail me.

‘cause I know the fable

That the lone set of footprints is always yours,

Yours alone, as you deliver me.

Rewards I do not seek,

A wish very humble and meek-

Be my guide

And help me be a Light.

41

In the mind's eye

I imagine you

Like a lullaby

You put me to sleep

And I die

Thinking well, this is it

This is it.

And suddenly

My eyes open up to see

You in front of me

With the blade in your hand

And a prayer on your lips

I quiver with fright

Thinking now, this is it

This is it.

I try to see

But it’s too dark in here

I run around, orbiting

Like gravity, insanity pulls me

And I cry

Thinking why, this is it

This is it.

Peace and calm

Reign over me

Possessed by you

Now I see

How you cleansed me

And now I haunt the Heavens

For my soul is pure

But I am not free

And yes, this is it

This is it.

Ride with the Devil

Hide with the Lord

You seek forgiveness

'fore the blade of the Sword

You strangled Hope

You killed Faith

Dead eyes staring

High, glazed with Dope

But here you are

Barely alive

Heart still beating

You still breathing

And you remember

The Times when you used to

Ride the Devil

Hide the Lord

Quiver with ecstasy

At the touch of Him

Every nerve of you

Stank with the smell of Him

Angel from Hell

Devil from Heaven

Tell me who is worth it

Worth the Trust you bestow upon HIM

And then you

Pride the Devil

Samarpita Gayen 11MS

Fav. Book Blink,

Malcolm Gladwell

Fav. Author Sidney

Sheldon

Hobbies Musing.

42

Praise the Lord

Black world

Bleak world

Heaven and Hell

Now you want a piece of HIS bell?

Calling upon the ones who made it

To the list of ones 'forgiven'

Saved from HIS Sword

To be nursed in his ward

Fake bliss

Fake bless

HE laughs

Naive creatures, you!

Coz the Angel you seek and the Devil you abhor

Both are One

And you are none

Soon you too shall perish

Like all others who tried

Hiding from the Devil

Seeking the Lord

Finally found HIM

And were hit with the Truth

Angel from Hell

Devil from Heaven

Who is who?

Can you tell?

And here I am

Barely alive

Heart still beating

Me still breathing

For I have

Donned the Devil

Conned the Lord

And now you are

At the edge of His Sword

And you shall perish

Like you were destined to be

And I shall laugh

At your naivety

You chose to believe

What you were told

By the people who sought the Lord

You chose to believe

What you were told

By the people who heeded the Devil

I chose to believe

What I had felt

That there was One

Neither from Heaven

Nor from Hell

It’s just me

I am the One

And now I have

Endured the Devil

Heard the Lord

Saved myself

From the wrath of the sword

Beaded myself

In the length of the cord.

43

The eyes don’t see

The heart doesn’t feel

The mind doesn’t mind

How far apart that you had to go.

Was it me or was it you

The first to realise the smile lacked glow?

You had to leave

Like you said you would

Unboundable as you are

And that you did, no doubt.

Nostalgia creeps in.

The love, the memories

The cherished moments

Seem far far away.

Time and space,

So transient as they are

Still remain unchanged

Hidden in our hearts

The loss, the pain

If only they could be washed away

By that sweet smile of yours.

But you know too and so do I

How untrue are you and I

We smile, we laugh

Yet we know how fake all are.

Yes it is the heart

Lulled by your sweet smile

Did sing that song of love

Knowing what lay ahead.

Ignorance is bliss, they say

And that indeed is true

Ignorance of the feelings

And what the heart involves into.

No guilt, no remorse

For things which made me smile

Yet the heart bleeds inside

With the memory of your bewitching smile.

44

Sometimes it feels so good just to be me,

Not to worry what others have thought.

Alone in a room, with dancing candles,

A mirror in the wall, just reflecting me.

Or do I become myself at all? I see

Myself clothed and booted, well clad!

Dare I see myself naked in the mirror?

Afraid to see even in merry candle light.

A face, deadly, to burn me to death,

A hand, ruthless, ready to cut,

A stone cold voice, a blood curdling look.

An iron grip to snatch away what need.

“Is it me? Or is the ‘me’ hidden the most?”

A voice of choice shouts inside me.

A voice heavy with me smell, soft with me tears.

Sweetened with my love, toughened in my belief.

A choice that makes me what I am.

A choice daring to ask, “who am I”.

Small footsteps, bloody marks spotted the floor.

Have long forgotten where I had cut my feet,

The football grounds many miles away.

Funny, I forget the plentiful goals we scored.

The sunlight hasn't dimmed in all these years

And somewhere I find my footsteps grown long,

And a long forgotten cut, just a bloody blotch today;

Years, my dear friend, have also changed my fears.

The children in the park are frolicking in the rain.

I, in a shaded seat, watching them in their play,

Can't remember when I had taken the seat,

Bored by the unchanging rules, or the pain?

Walking back is not as easy as I had guessed.

Dried up blood on the grass, loose strings,

Some old papers, marks of love, of fight,

The football field is miles away from here.

There is once again that same darkness,

A sense of not being anywhere, anytime.

If you walk past that beach for a short while,

Feel the breeze kissing your temples,

The night time is breathing at our neck,

Goodbyes and goodnights are not far off.

The bloodied sun floats on the ocean's brine

An eternal gift that I can present to you.

Saswata Roy 09MS

Fav. Book The Book

Thief

Fav. Author Khaled

Hosseini

Hobbies Singing, cooking,

playing the flute.

45

Memory is not enough to preserve

The sparks of joy, of passion I have.

Confined in this wooden room

I carefully present you these little words.

Goodnight is to be said, but may we depart

With that bitter salty smell and the scraped knees

The reddened eyes and wrinkled fingers.

If not for real, let us pretend.

Let me dream for me. Let me dream for you.

Aimless, I wander

Among trees, among leaves, among stumps.

Looking for a feel,

Yearning for a touch

Of desire.

Searching

In the rippling of the wind

For a call;

For destiny.

I find no meaning in the clouds,

I search for shapes,

But in vain.

Trying to clutch

Invisible dreams.

Slip away before the touch,

Clutching my solitary heart,

I await.

The lights are starting to dim

The stars are starting to dream.

And fairies are dancing on the rim

Of the turret in the castle of my dreams.

Breathing in the heady scent

Of the roses in the narrow bend

I lean ahead to feel the wind

My sleeves rustling like the leaves.

I creep down barefoot

Not a sound to be heard

And shh! You must be quiet too!

Not a hum, not a word.

That feeling's back in me again

That magic magic way

I feel my heart is healing

I want to hold on to this day.

I feel like I am a princess

Back to where I belong

I am able to weave my fantasy

I am able to weave my song.

My dreams have lost their pattern,

They are back to random again.

The light is dancing full of glee

The shadows are all in vain.

Sonali Mohapatra

09MS

Fav. Book Harry Potter

Series

Fav. Author J K

Rowling, Enid Blyton, Dan

Brown, J R R Tolkien

Hobbies Reading,

poetry, imagining

different worlds.

46

First day in project, I saw the fishes

In a small tank downstairs,

And I felt sorry for them, as I thought

They are so pitiful and no-one cares.

‘Cause then I was a free man, free from all bonds

And I thought freedom was all one needs

And those fishes should be set free to wander

Across the river, into the seas.

One month had gone by since that thought

And I was sitting with a smoke in my hand

With friends surrounding, chatting, laughing

And listening to our fave rock band.

Suddenly my eyes fell on those creatures in water

But now I was jealous to see ‘em there

As this time I thought they were so lucky

To be together, with each-other, forever!

‘Cause now I’m not free anymore, I’m bound

With a few strangers, by a strange bond

And now I know what pain it causes to part

With friends of whom I’ve become so fond…

I always fail

To do things right

Covered up in darkness

I am betrayed by light.

But still I try to rise

Just to fall once again

It doesn't matter though

I've got no notion of pain

And in this puppetry called life

I am a joker I always smile

'Cause the puppeteer told me

I am best suited for this style

But sometimes I want to give up

Sometimes, I just want to cry

But the master of puppets is rude

He makes my eyes go dry.

He says, 'The show must go on

And your smile mustn't stop

This has to be a blockbuster, son

Can't let you make it a flop!'

Yet, one day I will break free

I'll cut loose from this thread

And it'll be a new dawn for me

'Cause on that day, I'll be dead!

Syed Zeeshan Ali 07MS

Fav. Book The

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the

Galaxy, Ha Ja Ba Ra La

(Bengali)

Fav. Author Sukumar

Ray, Jonathan Stroud

Hobbies Reading, fishing,

flying kites.

47

I try to sleep

Still thinking of the moon

And hope that my dreams

Will flood in soon

N' they'll carry me o'er

To a brighter dawn

Where all these pains

Of mine would be gone.

But am I not a fool!

'Cause I have got no dreams

Just nightmares crowd

And the demon screams.

So I wake up in horror

Sweating and cold

And I face the real ones

Scary and old.

Yet, for that one day

I still go on

When angels will smile

On a brighter morn.

A small room white with ashes alight

Felt cold inside my armour slight

The red was bright for a coffee delight

To ruin it all with a simple fight

A hit and a miss for a lion's might.

I don't want harm for a friendly kiss

A cup of tea is all I seek

Sweet sugary touch all out o' my reach

Trying endless doors in a city asleep.

I wonder why I wander so

To stain my hands in crimson rows

The night falls dark and I should go

Live content with what I know

Tea and lemon, with salt to taste

Is my flavour, I know that well.

Stop doubting me, the endless doors!

That span along the city roads

All pride beneath this orange hide

Won't help me much with the bitter kind

From swirly dreams for endless nights

Of a small room white with ashes alight

A cub and frost on Aphrodite

Sneering water boiling tight

A miss and a hit for a lion's might.

It's tough to sleep with a tea so deep

Please! A little sugar! And I will leave.

Vicious lies, Vain contempt

Your royal stunts, Alluring scent

Your wild soul, Preying eyes

I should cut you in pieces and milk you dry!

Oh my deranged mind, starved to death

I love to play with what I should hate

I am growing sick and too damn tired

I still respond, as if caged, hard-wired

To prey on your skin

The fruits of sin

To tear, and drink

A bloodmeal thirst

Hormones burst!

An urge insane

As chaos reigns

Through my blocked veins,

Higher than the highest highs

Your wild soul, preying eyes

Your beckoning lips, urgent thighs

My wisdom calls and screams and cries

Rise the symphony and slowly die.

Dibya Chakravorty

07MS

Fav. Book The God of

Small Things, Arundhati

Roy

Fav. Author Ayn Rand

Hobbies Reading,

writing, music.

(Inspired by the song ‘Sleep’

by the Poets of the Fall)

48

A fallen victim from a war just fought

A fragment left as an afterthought,

The fragment grows in ominous haste

To serve her evil Lord's taste

Everyday he must drink and feast

At their evermore devious midnight tryst.

For you must keep the beast well-fed!

Or the fallen victim, though near-death

Will be shot again and laid to rest.

So eves wither and night be gone

A new day dawns but woebegone

The divine song plays on and on

The master beckons and the servant fawns

We perish clasped in the other's hand

In a dark, unknown, unseen land,

The maestro of our blackened fate

He pulls our strings till Heaven's gate!

Makes me play what I should hate!

A puppet marching the dance of Death!

Do not accuse me of murder,

I did not kill him...

He was innocent

He was simple

He was a good friend

To all.

Desire, oh desire!

But you ruined it all.

Shall I compare thee to poison?

I wonder, in my infinite thoughts so dark

So hateful

Churning inside an evil cauldron

Planted deep inside, so deep

Are you slowly burning my passion

My pride, my dear dear love?

Or is it just a glorious fall

A hint of a shallow thud

Into a pitch dark pit

Where the lustre of your green veins

No mortal eyes can see

Or feel?

In rhymes, in speech

In songs,

Why do I always feel your cold arms

Why do I long for it?

Isn't there a place on earth

Be it a grave, a marsh, slimy and green

Where I'd feel less cold, a little awake?

I still have memories

Of a sweet child of ten

He was eager

He was lean

His bones came out of his skin!

And he was tired

He was rough

He loathed tender touch.

Ignorant, touchy, helpless,

Dull, ugly, shameless!

He deserved to die

'Must be killed' - was the popular opinion.

49

They bow and pray to Gods of clay

But honor you not with a rose

Still in every step, in every breath

They yearn for you to be close.

Brothers in arms, the forces five,

They created all that grow and thrive

But who will sing of their wife,

The Queen, who governs human life?

You tamed the fire and gave us strength

From the depths of Earth, O warrior of light!

You dammed the river through all its length

And lit the gloom of endless nights!

We took the oath for industrial growth

But how, if not for your amazing grace?

Yet they do not see you fit,

They refused you a God’s place.

Computer, phone, paper and pen

From speeding cars to bullet trains

The wonder that’s the aeroplane!

You made them all for our gain.

You turned the tide for better health

We do not fear for disease and death

You ushered in an eternal spring

For crops to thrive and food to bring.

In every breath, in every step

There’s no denying the one true God.

Still people pray to Gods of clay

For you they do not care to laud.

On Christmas, Holi Id and likes

We have a holiday all the same.

It’s about time we fixed a date

To honor and praise thy hallowed name.

You served us all and gave our lives

A gift so rare and immensely great

I honor you now with the title of God

With my heartfelt gratitude and respect.

Ramesh is a familiar face

in our campus. Many of

our friends commute by

his cycle van from hostels

to the Institute. He

writes poetry for his own

pleasure. He writes in

Bengali. This poem is

translated by Dibya

Chakravorty.

Ramesh Chandra Barai

To prove his worth

Dear dear love

Oh Dear dear love

Why did you make a monster out of him?

Some for love, some for something else

I live in a world of monsters

Where feelings

Vicious, loving, sad,

Are all hidden.

Love, dear dear love, soft poison.

Do you still accuse me of murder?

Dear dear love,

Do you still think I could have saved him?

50

Adieu, I said

to the soggy eyes and to the tears never wiped

cleaning the area for imagining wide,

I have a vision, all I need is time.

Adieu, I said

to the humdrum tries and to the feelings never shared twice

heirs of sorrow are inspiration and might,

this realization, I know, is right.

Adieu, I said

to my gloomy trend and to my Friday scent

forwarding tension to my pillow and bed,

So sorry! Depression, no room on rent.

Thumbs up, I gave

to my burgeoning skills and to my new denim jeans

found the key to the closet of dreams,

discarded the buttermilk, left with cream.

Hemanta Sarmah

09MS

Fav. Book Harry Potter

and the Philosopher's Stone

Fav. Author J K Rowling

Hobbies Cricket, Football,

Reading History and

Mythology books,

travelling.

The night has a thousand eyes

And the day but one,

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

What drives my mind past,

As more and more elements come by,

A conglomerate of instincts

And the fear to fear things.

As the woods grow deeper,

And turning back isn't smarter,

But, my friend, the light isn't gone,

For life teaches us to go on and on and on.

The mind also has a thousand eyes

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of the whole life dies

When love is gone.

Harsh Vardhan

Dwivedi

07MS

Fav. Author Robert

Frost

Hobbies Cricket,

travelling, writing, music,

working out.

51

A voice from a city

I opened a factory of its own kind,

To churn up the growing young minds,

Moulding them to think my way,

Folding them to gain my gains.

They work for stomach and give their brains,

I give them food according to their shares,

My stamp on their face decides their fate,

The way they please me marks their rate.

I built a dam across their home,

To control the flow of how they grow,

They have to flow - it’s the law of nature,

I extract the energy it’s a man-made feature.

Gain and gain I store it all,

Rain and rain I pour it all,

Filling the drains with dead desires,

Dark with soot of dreams on fire.

My mammoths of money have roared again,

I became the leader because of my gains,

A feeder of billion hopes,

Chosen by million votes.

Carrying the flag painted by my ancestors,

For service and honour of my mother,

Making them believe that they are unique,

Singing the anthem which I repeat.

A voice from a forest

What they call me, I am a tribal.

Lacking in knowledge and not desirable.

I live in open without the walls,

Feed on things which nature gives to all.

I owe the lands open and fertile,

Nourished by nature, young and juvenile.

Where ideas flow without directions of reason,

No hunger, no greed for taste and pleasure.

I remember that evening of rains,

When those dark men came for gains,

Dark coat, dark pants and dark brains,

Called themselves the pioneers of change.

Comfort and pleasure was the offer they made,

Money was the measure for the offer we claim.

Money and money they pour it all,

Creativity and labour they store it all.

Now I live alone with barren around me,

No one to nurture the life around us,

River of imagination floods no more,

Dams of school control their flow.

I heard a roar by some creature,

They chose a leader for their future,

How can they sell their life so cheap?

Singing the song which he repeats.

Abhinav Yadav 09MS

Fav. Book The Little

Prince

Fav. Author Khaled

Hosseini

Hobbies Writing songs,

poems and anything

creative.

52

54

W ith the recent boost in the development

of CPUs and graphics processors, a decently powerful computer is available for a surprisingly low price. And, for an average user, such a computer can be only good for one thing – video games! (Of course, if you

are involved in work related to computation, designing or photography, then video game support is just an added feature for the computer.)

Earlier, video games available in the market usually had a linearly progressing storyline which involved a single central character. Nowadays, the non-linear narrative style is more prevalent, along with multiple protagonists. However, the main selling point for video games is the multiplayer. That means not only do you enjoy the game, you can multiply the fun by inviting your friends to join in on the same game over the LAN or the internet. So great is the popularity that several dedicated multiplayer games have been launched which have gone on to be best-sellers (think of World of Warcraft and the Counter-Strike series).

In college life, one of the popular pastimes is playing video games with friends, as it is extremely entertaining and an excellent way to vent out anger and frustration without affecting anyone. And as a college student, I have had my share of video games. Here I give you a list of games which my friends and I have enjoyed immensely.

Unreal Tournament 3

The latest instalment of the Unreal series of shooter games from the studios of Epic Games is just what the title suggests – detached from reality. It includes a single player story mode; however, the game is mainly focused on the multiplayer aspect. It includes all variants of multiplayer gameplay imaginable; try to get the highest score among your friends in ‘Free-for-All’, team up with others to complete objectives to destroy the enemy’s base while defending your own in ‘Warfare’ and ‘Capture the Flag’. The fun addition to this game is that some game modes support several types of vehicles which lead to siege battles.

Though a bit old (released in 2009), excellent graphics and an easy-to-implement multiplayer system make this a very good game to play with your friends.

Borderlands 2

Sequel to the 2009 sleeper hit ‘Borderlands’, Borderlands 2 is out. And there are two words to describe it – ‘incredibly entertaining’.

The main campaign supports 4 players to play over the LAN or internet. Gameplay is intense with challenging enemies. And as the game’s promotional materials had advertised – there are over 875 bazillion guns to help you fight them. To promote the multiplayer aspect of this game, the developers have included special ‘raid’ bosses – incredibly difficult enemies which require coordinated efforts on all the

Kaustuv Patra 08MS

Fav. Author JRR

Tolkien, Rabindanath

Tagore, Mark Twain,

Parashuram

Hobbies Reading,

swimming, playing video

games.

players’ part.

The only downside in this game is that only four players are supported in a session at anytime. However, the beautifully rendered cartoonish graphics, tastefully implemented black comedy, the tongue-in-cheek humour and the fun-packed additional downloadable content more than make

up for the drawbacks.

Rainbow Six Vegas 2

You are a member of an elite counter-terrorist team called Rainbow and it is up to you to end the threat posed to national security by a mole in the organization while carrying out your duties as a counter-terrorist. The story mode can be completed with up to four players cooperating together, while additional competitive gameplay modes are available which support up to 16 players at a time.

Gameplay is extremely realistic, to the point that even a single bullet-wound will end the game. So, there is heavy emphasis on cover and coordinated team actions. It is the tactical element which really brings out the best in this game. Players can slide, climb or dodge in and out of cover; provide suppressive among other things. All these things make this a very enjoyable title to play with friends. And to all people who like to customize things, you can customize the setup of your weapons and clothes, and, if you have a webcam, even model the playable character after your own self.

SplitSecond

A racing game published by Disney Studios (yes, you read that right), it is guaranteed to be unlike anything you have ever played. Set as a reality show where drivers participate to race under extremely dangerous and exotic situations, the game features intense racing action in exotic, destructible and volatile environments (like an abandoned nuclear power plant and an airplane graveyard). Precision driving and good performance (in general) make you eligible to invoke certain events which may either radically change the racetrack to your advantage or put your opponents in a severely sticky situation.

Up to eight players can play at anytime over the internet or the LAN. Several game modes are available which you have to play to believe such intense action can actually be implemented efficiently in a racing game.

Left 4 Dead 2

A country has been ravaged by a viral infection which has transformed almost every human into zombie-like creatures. Only four immune survivors remain who struggle to reach the evacuation point set by the army to get to safety. Left 4 Dead 2, produced by Valve Software, puts you (and 3 of your friends) in the shoes of these 4 survivors as they fight against all odds using a handful of conventional and makeshift weapons to make out of the zombie apocalypse alive.

Though only four players can participate in a single game session, the intense and fast paced action along with the overwhelming numbers (well over 1000) of infected you have to face in order to survive as well as several unscripted panic moments make the gameplay a truly memorable experience. The enemies are controlled by an adaptable AI algorithm which changes the difficulty of the game to keep it from being neither too easy, nor too difficult.

Other game modes are also offered including a competitive mode where two teams consisting of 4 players each play as Infected and the Survivors respectively and the Infected try to prevent the Survivors from escaping. This game is a ‘must play’ title for all multiplayer fans.

55

Portal 2

Now, this title (again from Valve software) is a totally different experience for gamers. In the multiplayer mode, two players play as two robots equipped with some sort of a ‘teleportation’ device. They are placed in a testing centre and under the supervision of a highly advanced and self-aware AI they are forced to work in tandem to solve several unbelievably mind-bending puzzles as an experiment to test ‘cooperation between robots’. The game proper is short, but the radically different gameplay lacking any sort of violence and multiple solutions to the different puzzles guarantee that you and your partner will remain hooked to this game for days, if not weeks.

Resident Evil 5

If you have any prejudices against this title because of the horribly disappointing film series of the same name, please shed them. Capcom’s latest title in the Resident Evil video game series has everything a gaming enthusiast can hope for. A gripping and convincing storyline, excellent gameplay and multiplayer implementation, a perfect balance between action, horror and beautiful graphics make this another ‘must play’ title for all video game fans. Imagine the best aspects of all the Resident Evil games and films, put it in a

lush and vibrant African setting minus the poor control system of the previous title; you have Resident Evil 5.

The story mode can be played by two players taking up the roles of hardened Chris Redfield and the svelte Sheva Alomar, two anti-terrorism officers investigating the growing threat of biological weapons in an under-developed African country. Upon completing the game several other modes become available which are also playable with two players.

Mass Effect 3

Whatever may be the reactions of fans to the Mass Effect series, I have to admit that the inclusion of multiplayer content in Mass Effect 3 is one of the best decisions developer Bioware had made. The multiplayer aspect features on the action only mentioned in the single player campaign – the actual skirmishes between the allied troops against the forces of the main antagonists of the game.

A player must choose a character from 6 playable classes and, along with 3 other players, join a multiplayer session. This consists of surviving 11 waves of progressively difficult enemies. Different maps are available to play on.

Though it may not sound much, Mass Effect 3: Multiplayer is incredibly addictive. Credits awarded at the end of each session can be used to unlock new characters and weapons. The vast variety of characters and weapons, along with the large number of free downloadable content provided by the developers prevent repetitiveness creeping into the gameplay. The only drawback is that a persistent internet connection is required to play. But yes, being evacuated after surviving 11 waves of enemies who propagate by wiping out entire galaxies of civilisations is pretty epic.

That pretty much sums up my review on games. If you have a moderately powerful computer and are willing to play with your friends, I recommend you try out some of these titles. And always remember, do not support piracy. Support the developers by buying a legitimate copy.

Happy gaming!

56

57

T he idea behind introducing limited-over games in

cricket was fairly simple. People wanted decisive results at the end of the day. And then, people

wanted decisive results at the end of every day. Games marred by weather interruptions were not cool and the International Cricket Council realized the need to introduce the concept of “revised targets” in interrupted games. Several attempts were made to work out a solution. Some ad hoc methods were employed, but they turned out to be unsatisfactory — results obtained were often lopsided, favouring the team with greater luck. Thus, the need for a smart method was always there.

But it was made all the more prominent after the bizarre loss South Africa had suffered in the Semi Final of Benson & Hedges World Cup, 1992. Rain interrupted play before the last ball of the 43rd over. South Africa then required 22 runs off 13 balls for victory. With two overs lost due to rain, the target was reduced to 22 runs from only 1 ball according to the system (something called Most Productive Overs) in place at that time. This isn’t the only instance of South Africa being beaten by luck. But we should stick to our present interest (which, in my opinion, is a wee bit less interesting than how sadistically fate loves to play with South Africa). Well, you see, mathematics scores poorly in our cool-book (except for a few whom we Define to be nerds), but Boy! You need it. Thus, in came consultant statisticians Frank Duckworth and Tony Lewis, both Englishmen, who “soon realized that it was a mathematical problem that required a mathematical solution.”

The Duckworth-Lewis method (or the D/L method) was thus born, to set a revised target for the side batting second when overs have been lost by a suspension of play. The

revision is in accordance with the run-scoring resources the two sides have at their disposal. These resources include both overs and wickets left in hand. We shall talk about it more in a little while, but let us focus on the chronology of events first. Duckworth and Lewis’ prescription was first used in the ICC Trophy in Malaysia in 1997. Soon, in 1998, it was being applied in places like New Zealand, South Africa (no wonder!), Pakistan, India and West Indies. Here and there, we saw some other candidates like the parabola method, a derivative into percentage method, Clark Curves etc. But the D/L took over all of these ahead of the 1999 World Cup. The ICC adopted D/L method for the 1999 World Cup in England but the weather stayed fine, which denied the method its first application there. It was formally adopted by the ICC in 2001 and was used on a trial basis in all levels of limited-over cricket for three years before it became a permanent ‘rain-rule’ in 2004, the year which saw the Professional Edition of the method employing computers. The method has been being reviewed every three years since then. Once again, I can’t resist mentioning what awaited South Africa when they were playing the World cup on their home soil in 2003. They failed to progress to the second round of the tournament after they miscalculated the revised score. You decide whether to call it hard luck or not, but one thing seems clear — D/L or no D/L, South Africa suffer.

So far so good. But all this while, a curious fellow called V Jayadevan wasn’t absolutely happy. He had a solution to the problem of truncated games right from the beginning of our story, i.e., the 1992 South Africa game. But apparently, nobody would listen. This civil engineer from Kerala posted to Madhavrao Scindia, the BCCI President in 1992. He wrote to Jagmohan Dalmiya when he was ICC president (1997-2000). But the D/L method was the one to be implemented. From then on, the trend continued. Jayadevan was persistent in his attempts to convince people how and why his method was a better (meaning fairer) one than the one

Anindya Sengupta

09MS

Fav. Book The Stranger,

Pother Panchali, Tintin

Fav. Author Swami

Vivekananda, Rabindranath

Tagore, Jibonananda Das,

Pablo Neruda

Hobbies Music, sports.

in place. In July 2001, the chairman of the BCCI Technical Committee, Mr. Sunil Gavaskar invited him to give a presentation. That went well, but Jayadevan’s method wasn’t recommended to the ICC by the BCCI. In the meantime, the D/L method came in for a fair bit of criticism from the players. Mr. Gavaskar said, “I am no mathematician but from whatever examples I have seen that V Jayadevan's

method offers a fairer balance to both teams and is not loaded in favour of one team as the D/L method seems and which is what has caused such consternation among players.” But the ICC people declared that there wasn’t any significant difference between the two methods and hence there wasn’t any immediate necessity to bring about changes. However, last year, the BCCI Technical Committee recommended that the method should be used in the IPL. But the Working Committee of the BCCI didn’t entertain the suggestion since the D/L method was being used internationally and there were overseas players participating in the tournament. There was some consolation, though. In 2005-2006 season, Jayadevan’s system was for the first time implemented in an Indian domestic tournament. Then he made a separate system for the Indian Cricket League for which he was rewarded with Rs 1.2 lakh for a year’s use. Finally, in June 27, 2011, Jayadevan was again called to give a presentation before ICC officials in Hong Kong, the results of which are yet undisclosed.

By now, you must be thinking why this is of any importance to us at all. Reason number 1 is patriotic (please don’t argue, rather define it that way if possible) — an Indian’s method being followed internationally is something to boast about. Reason number 2 is more practical, or technical. The VJD method is conceptually different from the D/L method. The D/L method assumes that the scoring rate accelerates throughout an inning. Jayadevan’s method, on the other hand, is more empirical than the former and it assumes that scoring rate will first accelerate during the fielding restrictions, then settle down to a more or less fixed value during the middle overs and accelerate again in the final slog overs. According to Jayadevan, “In the D/L system, the increase in the rate is exponential right from the beginning, whereas in the proposed system such an increase is observed only after 60-70% overs. In the initial part it behaves quite differently. Since the curve is developed based on data at different stages of the match, it so happens that this curve lies closer to the actual match situation than the D/L curve. This is the basic reason why the results obtained from the proposed system become more acceptable”. Clearly, Jayadevan has chosen an empirical approach. Regression equations obtained from a detailed statistical analysis of a data set of closely fought matches have been used. Jayadevan’s method is different in another way. It takes care of the fact that a team will change strategies after the game has been interrupted. Before an

interruption, the tactics will be based on the fact that a full quota of overs is available. The scenario changes after an interruption and the team might have to adjust their strategy to suit the new number of overs. To achieve this improvement, Jayadevan considers two sets of curves called the ‘normal curves’ and the ‘target curve’. The D/L method uses only one set of curves.

Jayadevan has come up with some easy-to-use tables for employing the method on the field, though a user-friendly computer programme has also been developed. I will again quote from Jayadevan here: “This method was shown to experts in the field of cricket, including players, umpires and statisticians. There was unanimous opinion that the method always gives sensible results. On the other hand, the widely talked-about opinion on the D/L system is that it favours the team that is batting when the interruption occurs. Also, when the interruption is between the batting of the two teams, the target set for the second team is quite high.” Jayadevan has presented his method to the ICC with a few illustrative examples — some hypothetical and some actual match situations. “In the few situations where the D/L method seems to lead to inappropriate targets, those obtained with the present method are seen to be quite satisfactory”, said Jayadevan.

The VJD method is capable of taking care of any number of interruptions in a limited-over game. It gives results that are likely to satisfy the players and the spectators alike.

58

T he dimmer light from somewhere above gradually reveals the existence of someone on the

stage. It is evident that the guy has a guitar strapped around him but the facial features are not seen yet. However, something that you can see is the long hair which sort of is responsible for hiding the guy’s outline against the light. Questions flood your mind regarding the character before you. Then, as if to clear your confusion, you hear the sound of the instrument the guy was holding which makes you tear away from the stack of questions that was building up. The sequence of notes repeats itself once again but this time it is the voice of some other instrument that accompanies it, as if demanding attention. Almost simultaneously the dimmer shows up another person who steals your attention. A few more seconds and the strobe lights come in followed by a blast of all the lights and the fuzzy, distorted roar of the guitar set free from bondage. If at this point you feel that you have been cast out of shackles of civility and a wildness building inside you, wildness that wants to make you soar and not just tap to the tempo, you definitely are worth more than just Rock music. You deserve Metal.

Metal music as one can figure out is that form of music that is meant to satisfy one’s wildness, frustration, anger and warm blood. No room for sweet words or silent, polite emotions. Being emphatic is the order of metal and being emphatic requires being loud. So, want to express emotions and opinions the emphatic way? This is the panacea.

The history of Metal music dates back to the 1960s. The electric guitar had become an essential part of the rock n roll culture by then. People wanted to get something

more out of the resources. The new components that were introduced were extended guitar solos, darker lyrics and emphatic drum beats - overall, a much more massive and heavy sound than that which prevailed earlier. However, this form of music in its nascent stage was much lighter than what we classify today as Metal music. Bands like Deep Purple, AC/DC, Led Zepplin which had been known for composing Metal music back then are put under the subgenre of Classic Rock. However, the essential components included crunchy guitar riffs and solos with techniques borrowed from the blues genre along with use of the electronic organ sounds. The vocals are of special interest - the melody was replaced by screeches and higher pitched sounds, which the usual pop loving community classifies as noise. Black Sabbath and Judas Priest were the very popular metal bands of 70’s, and, by the 80’s, metal music was as much popular in the US and Europe as any other genre of music. At this point of time, one saw the birth of newer forms of metal. The New Wave of British Metal music was popularized by Iron Maiden. The new features included the use of shredding and tapping in the guitar solos, sudden changes of mood and tempo and emphatic and powerful drumming using a larger kit and double bass drums. Another form called Thrash Metal was popularized by Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer and the like. This genre focused on faster riffs with heavy distortion along with fast guitar solos and gruff vocals. It is not the lyrics but the expression of the vocalist mostly that singles out this subgenre even today. The use of a keyboard is usually missing in these two forms.

The third most prominent division was the birth of Death Metal. This form was an

Deep Chatterjee 10MS

Fav. Book Kidnapped,

R. L. Stevenson

Fav. Author Roald Dahl

Hobbies Singing, playing

the guitar, jamming with

Simple Black

60

entirely new breed and took the endurance of the drummer and vocalist to the extreme. The compositions were and are usually based on blasphemy and apostasy. Although the form started off in America, it soon moved to the Norwegian and Scandinavian regions which were rigid and orthodox. The features include growling and grunting vocals, perpetual double bass drum accompaniment and extremely heavy guitar riffs with solos which are fast and sound weird and dark. This is the heaviest and darkest form of music.

Considering the fact that the listener is completely new to the rock genre, switching directly to the metal genre might be a difficult job. In this case it is recommended that one must get used to the subgenres of rock first like modern rock. Punk music is another form that leads the way down to metal music. One must first get used to the bands like Hoobastank, Incubus, Element Eighty, Poets of the Fall. None of these bands are Punk though. The heaviness of their music is a degree above the traditional heaviness of rock music. However, the reason why these are suggested is that they maintain the same tempo all throughout the song without changes in mood. There is yet another reason to this - the songs of these bands are typically of shorter length and hence it suits newcomers better. It is indeed a strange thing that the complexity of metal music has decreased over the years and to get used to the legends of metal one has to get used to the modern bands first.

For the ones who are accustomed to listening rock and desire for the extra wildness, it is good to start off with

metalcore bands like Bullet for my Valentine, System of a Down and Avenged Sevenfold. The feature of this subgenre is that it mixes the Punk category with extreme heaviness in all aspects - guitaring, drumming or the screaming vocals. It also includes typically faster riffs and guitar solos. The group 30 seconds to Mars specially interests me since their music lies somewhere between metalcore and metal. Although they do not include guitar solos, it makes the listener get used to the fact that metal doesn’t comprise the same repetitive sequences throughout the whole song.

Transition to metal is only for those who at this point feel that the sudden changes in mood are actually doing justice to the music. At the same time paying attention to the lyrics also pays off. The realisation as to why the lyricist has such bitter, uncivilized feelings is also required. The first step towards metal must be taken through thrash metal legend Metallica: Focusing firstly on the albums of the 90’s like Load, Reload and St: Anger first and then moving onto the albums of the 80’s - Master of Puppets, The Black Album and And Justice For All. British legends Iron Maiden have a sound quite different from the Thrash Metal bands. The extremely fast distorted riffs are practically not present. The bass guitar has a distinctive sound and the vocals are indeed much more impressive. On account of heaviness, the sound of Iron Maiden is not as much as Metallica but the intricacy prevails. The lyrics of Iron Maiden are of an altogether different mood and subject and focus on war and destruction. This is probably because the lead singer Bruce

Dickinson had some experience working in the army. The album Brave New World is the best to start with. Once used to Iron Maiden, the journey to the founders of Metal music will not be difficult.

The concluding segment must deal with the most extreme form of metal, Death Metal: As already mentioned, this subgenre tests the very endurance of almost all the band members. One must start off with groups that compose relatively simpler compositions. Children of Bodom is the best example. As one feels the energy build up, a taste of Antestor, Behemoth, Dimmu Borgir and the other Scandinavian bands might work out well. Finally, to taste the complexity to the maximum accompanied by abrupt changes from extreme to the most soothing sound, Opeth is to be followed. There is however one negative point regarding this form of music – the loudness often is more disturbing than giving you the feeling of the warm blood in your veins and the energy to feel wild. Only the few who can bear the loudness and darkness for a long time are the fans of this form of music.

I personally prefer Thrash Metal the most along with Metalcore. This is because as a teenager, extreme darkness is not my cup of tea. Same is the case with ideals of The New Wave of British Heavy Metal that don’t correspond to today’s life. The best choice pertaining to myself in Metal music is the sound that will make me go more than just rocking which is aptly provided by the mentioned subgenres.

61

H industani Classical music is not the most popular genre of music among the Indian youth.

However, it would be a mistake to assume that it was popular in the past. Hindustani Music was never a popular form of music among the commoners. It resided only in the palaces and the mansions. It lacked, and still lacks, mass popularity, the reason being the absence of an introduction. Like the poetry of T.S. Eliot, or the plays of Shakespeare, Hindustani classical music needs a formal introduction for it to be appreciated.

A formal training in any form of this music, be it instrumental or vocal, would have been the best introduction. However, if one decides to listen and appreciate classical music later, without having to take the pains of learning it, an educated playlist is the best bet. It is important to realise that this is a form of art, and entertainment is definitely a part of it. The other half to this story is patience. If one seriously wants to enjoy this music, patience and a little bit of effort will be required on that individual's part. In my opinion, instrumentals are a little more attractive than vocals for a novice. So, the top of the playlist should be an instrumental recital. For those who are used to rock music, sitar recitals by Niladri Kumar can be very attractive.

There is a crucial point here. The first piece of Indian classical music that one puts an effort into listening to should not become boring. Indian music is extremely long. Songs range from thirty minutes to over an hour. Listening to such pieces needs an acquired taste. However, short pieces ranging from three to ten minutes are entertaining enough to hold the attention of an untrained ear.

Another issue is the raaga. For brief information which would be crucial in

understanding this music, raagas are rules about how the notes are to be played on a scale. It sets a path for which notes to give preference to and which notes to omit absolutely. Almost invariably, Hindustani music sets a recital on a single raaga. Now, raagas have their qualities and ages. It is always advisable to start with the old and basic raagas, be it for learning or listening: Yaman, Bhairav, Bhairavi, Malkauns, Jaunpuri, Bilawal, Kedar, Megh and Desh to name a few. These raagas are inherently entertaining and it is my personal opinion that the first piece one should listen to should be on one of these raagas. (Note of caution: this is not an absolute or complete listof basic and old raagas.)

Hence, the first track in the playlist should be a small recital based on any one of these raagas, preferably on the sitar or sarod. Ustad Amjad Ali Khan has several small pieces on his sarod, of which some are of these basic raagas. There are a few modern renderings by his sons, Aman and Ayan Ali Khan, which you should avoid.

After listening to several of these, when one can effortlessly enjoy the melodies of these pieces, the next step would be to attempt listening to the long recitals. I would suggest listening to the same raagas heard before in their elaborate renderings. Recitals by Ustad Vilayat Khan and Pandit Ravi Shankar are the best for this purpose. It would require some time to get used to the length of these recitals, the same raaga being played for over 40 minutes.

However, it is time the listener starts noticing the complexities in these simple raagas, the intricate designs woven by the same notes over and over again. Instead of blindly trying to enjoy the pieces, one should pay careful attention to the music and how these musical geniuses come out with different colours from the same

Saswata Roy 09MS

Fav. Book The Book

Thief

Fav. Author Khaled

Hosseini

Hobbies Singing, cooking,

playing the flute.

62

raaga. By the time one graduates to listening on this level, one should listen to some other artists like Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia and Ustal Ali Akhbar Khan. More complicated raagas like Lalit, Todi, Miyan ki Malhar, Darbari Kanada, Puriya Kalyan and Jog can be ventured into at this stage.

When one feels comfortable in the instrumental form of this music, listening to vocal music should be attempted. It must be kept in mind that lyrics are of least importance to Hindustani musicians. The entire focus is on the music. Once again, one should begin with the short pieces. There is a record of Pandit D.V. Paluskar: a short rendering of several raagas. This can serve as the introductory track in vocal music. There is also a piece by Jaytheerth Mevundi available on the internet, a short khyal on raaga Kedar. (As the word suggests, khyal is a rendering by an artist of their whim. Usually guarded by a rythm, called taal.) Though aesthetically not comparable to his master, Pandit Bhimshen Joshi, it is extremely attractive and entertaining, and useful in removing the superstition that classical music is 'slow'. A few names for short khyals would be Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan and Ustad Faiyyaz Khan. There are some short khyals by these great maestros on the basic raagas. These are the best for the introductory purpose.

After the introduction, one should go for the Madhyalaya songs (taals with moderate tempo). A beautiful example is raaga Shyam Kalyan by Ustad Rashid Khan, in madhyalaya tritaal, the bandish (the small piece of lyric based on a particular raga) being ‘Payel mori

baje’. Pandit D.V. Paluskar's ‘Kanha Re’ on raga Kedar is a legend in this style. Kishori Amonkar has some recitals on Jhaptal, one of them being on raaga Behag. These are good enough for a short comprehensive picture of this field.

Now it is time for the listener to experience the most celebrated form of our music, the Vilambit Khyals. It is the dilation of a taal, usually four times. It is a taal which is extremely slow, almost 1 beat per second. Pandit Jasraj, Ustad Rashid Khan, Pandit Ajoy Chakrovarty and Parveen Sultana have popularised Vilambit Khyal to a great extent. Their khyals have high entertainment value, and should be the first ones to listen to. To be specific, there is a jugalbandi by Pandit Hariprasad Charurasia and Pandit Jasraj on Raaga Jog: ‘Tum bin Kaise’. It is heavenly, crisp and beautiful. One should identify the best of these artists, an example being Pandit Jasraj's attractive voice and the way he uses it.

It is now time for the ultimate rung: listening to Ustads like Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, Faiyyaz Khan and Amir Khan. It is difficult to find long vilambits by Ustad Faiyyaz Khan, but the other two are sufficient for the complete picture of modern Hindustani classical music.

Anything sung by Amir Khan seems legendary. I am particularly fond of a Malkauns by Ustad Amir Khan, the drut of it being ‘Aaj mere ghar aila balama’. It is a piece that can keep its audience spellbound for hours after it is over.

After the Khyals, one may go for the Dhrupads. (Ancient form of music, philosophy of it being exploring a raaga. Mostly sung without rhythm.) Their importance, though, has faded over the years. However, in the last few years the Gundecha brothers have revived this art and it is worth listening to any of their records. Beyond this, if one feels like, he or she can grab any record and start playing it. By now one should be able to distinguish between the good, the better and the best.

How would one know that one has been able to adequately appreciate this art? Simple. If one finds oneself unknowingly humming ‘Binati suno mori’ on raaga Bagesree or ‘Lagi Lagana’ on raaga Hanshadhwani on a Sunday morning, one is through. The success of an art is when:

“The music in my heart I bore

Long after it was heard no more.”

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C ry, he said. I cried. Laugh, he said. I laughed. Dream, he said. I dreamt. Die, he said. I couldn’t.

You cannot will yourself to die. Even if Mozart tells you to. And of course, once the aura of the Lacrimosa fades away, you probably chide yourself for being an over-romantic. But seriously, if I do have the Requiem filling me when the moment comes to pass into eternity, I would melt away willingly…

It is not just the music; it is the idea associated with it, the story, the chilling reality where the composer was probably writing for his own death; it was indeed the last piece of music he ever wrote (D minor, K626). The film Amadeus tries to recreate moments of this horribly unfair death, the death that robbed humanity of magical music that remained unexpressed in this genius – to whom making music was like talking. The tragedy lay in the fact that his music flowered magnificently as he walked down his years. His last works were absolutely his best; gone was the frivolous vivacity of the early years, being replaced by a melancholy that lay hidden in even the Allegro (typically the lively first movement in concertos or symphonies of the Classical period belonging to Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Schubert). Name you any of the later works — the famous G-Minor Symphony no. 40 , the Clarinet Concerto in A major (his last instrumental work, K622), the piano concerto no. 20 in

D minor (K466), the String Quintet in G minor (K516), all have their moments of incredible sadness, of pain, of bitterness — the bitterness of a person who for some absolutely bewildering and almost perverse attitude of society, slipped downhill in social acceptance through his life, after being acclaimed as a genius by the time he was six. Basking in the company of princesses in his childhood (the famous seven-year old’s question of “Will you marry me?” to the infamous Marie Antoniette, only two months elder than him and guillotined two years after his death, is the stuff of legends), he died a pauper – not even a gravestone at his final resting place. His mortal remains were tossed into a mass grave, leaving an ever-increasing burden of guilt for future generations to bear until eternity. Yet, maybe this was all somewhat necessary – perhaps, just as the continuous personal tragedies that Tagore suffered throughout his life brought forth his most beautiful poetry, a life of increasing rejection brought out the melancholy in Mozart’s music, and made it so fulfilling. But is it only the melancholy? The sheer beauty of the melody of his work — the notes that transport the listener to such profound feelings covering almost every possible emotion — I probably do not know a composer who has this much variation. As Anthony Burgess put it so succinctly in his remarkable play, ‘Mozart and the wolf gang’ — “to Schubert, melody was natural. Mozart plucked melodies like

Dr. Ayan Banerjee

Asst. Prof. of Physics and

President of Aarshi, the

Drama Club. He takes

special interest in

dramatics and music

among many other extra-

curricular avenues.

64

apples from a tree”. Some melodies which poke their head just once in an entire movement and leave an impression for ever — like the one in the second movement of the D-minor piano concerto (K466), or some which linger for a long time in the composition, such as the theme of the second movement of the Flute and Harp concerto (K299), or that of the second movement of the Elvira Madigan (Piano concerto no. 21, K467); his melodies can cure headaches I tell you! A very close friend of mine (who had actually not really heard too much prior to this) accompanied me to my place one day during those good old college years. It was, as usual, one hell of a hot day in Kolkata, and he collapsed on a sofa and clutched his throbbing head – and I put on my latest collection from MaxMueller Bhawan (the librarian, my good friend, never turned me down when I asked him to record something) — the Piano concerto no. 23 (K488) in A major — on the cassette player. As the first notes of that wondrous piece of music floated out, he actually said, ah, shanti! And by the time it ended, he was trying to whistle the theme (albeit very badly) with the headache a distant memory. A theme very similar to the second movement of the same concerto was used in a most haunting manner by Krzysztof Kieslowski in his bewitching film ‘A short story about

love’. The way Kieslowski enmeshes the visuals with the music, it is almost certainly one of my desert island films.

The main appeal of instrumental western classical music to me is probably the directness: it can evoke images, stories, emotions almost instantly — even my five-to-be son recognizes the drama in the music — I need to help him of course by making up a story that rises and falls with the music. And the images — oh the images! Every time I hear Schubert’s Unfinished (Symphony no. 8 in B minor), I have this image of seeing from afar a train disappearing into the night — I can never be on that train, it is speeding away out of reach — the people inside off to their destiny, and me alone, completely alone, only the night enveloping me. Schubert did not finish the symphony — it is not known why — he died very young of course, but lived a good six years after he had written the first two movements, and part of a third movement. The first public performance of this miraculously beautiful work was almost fifty years after his death. But then, if this was tragic, what would you say of the life of the ‘King of Harmony’ (as he was referred to even while he was living) — Ludwig Van Beethoven? The man, who when he was only twenty-eight, started realizing he was going deaf! Deaf — could you believe it, the worst state of

existence that could befall a musician — and a composer of the ability of Beethoven at that! Even at the bloom of his youth, his world grew silent. And all his music was in his head. Legend has it that he broke off his engagement at this time because he did not want his fiancé to be burdened for her life with a deaf man (should we, in retrospect, feel sorry for him or for her?!), and wrote a sad, sad Romance in F major (Opus 50) dedicated to her. If the Romance is sad, you really feel the tumultuous passion that was Beethoven when the fifth symphony (C minor) bursts forth with its gargantuan drama, it is virtually like riding over a musical tempest. And on the other hand, you have the Moonlight (Piano sonata no. 14 in C-sharp minor). If Tansen could evoke rain with the Megh Malhar, the Moonlight evokes visual stimuli almost unerringly converging to moonbeams dancing along still waters. When the ninth symphony was finally finished and Beethoven himself conducted the first performance, his deafness had reached an extent where he had to be turned around to acknowledge the tumultuous applause that had greeted the end of the composition! It is probably because of this incompleteness that signified his life that Beethoven wrote pieces that evoke such infinite longing – the two themes that follow each other in the first movement of the only violin

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68

T he vista of the curvaceous mountains invites

caresses from the mind's eye that seeks to 'wander far over vales and hills, lonely as a cloud': travelling through the narrow roads of Mussourie surrounded by the lofty mountains, lined with waterfalls and lush green, I felt as if I was in the Room on the Roof. Lucky is how I'll feel if my wish to travel around the world is

granted ,for I do not long for Midas' golden touch nor do I beg for immortality.

"Truly, would you not, for less than that, make a tour of the world?"

Without any doubt, travel is like an investment in oneself, it is the transformer of human souls, it makes you forget the humdrum of the urban world and a charger of minds whose batteries are exhausted owing to mundane lifestyles. After months of irksome work, would someone not want to run away from the screeching tyres and constant honking of the cars and swerve in his car on a mountain road or frolic with the birds in forest paths or sit in solitude and view the glimmering purple sea waves which lash against the shores and keep no grain of sand unturned? Sightseeing does not only mean viewing the landscape with your eyes but I relate it to the wild blooms in the valley, the gurgling of the river, the great canyons and a tiny dew drop, the chance to bask under the sun, the sudden adrenaline rush when I hear the roar of the king of the jungle, the ecstasy I feel when the lights are gone and the mountain seems like a dark cavern

but the full moon bathes a nearby lake with its silvery white light and the clouds above say:

"Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas

like strips of the sky fallen through me on high

are each paved with the moon and these..."

I love to notice the contrasts and the marvels of nature while I travel, like the presence of the snow-covered peaks on one side and the deodar forests on the other pleasingly complementing each other, the trees growing on the slopes of mountains having been designed by nature to divert humanity from that direction, the spider's web and the anthills proving that they are far better engineers than us, the interplay of sunbeams while traversing the titanic mountains which go up and down like the sensex.

It is not just the sights which make up a vacation but man, being a sociable creature, loves to interact with his kinsfolk, taste various foods, learn their customs and insights. Once you are in the north of India, you will find the people really tough, with huge swarthy physique. Their food habits, accents, dressing styles differ a lot from those of men from the southern India. The festivals and the customs even show a great variance in India. The more we travel the more we explore. It’s a great opportunity to interact with the locals whose ancestors have lived there for many decades and extend the horizon of knowledge.

A strange emotion grips me as I trudge my way back home. There is a painful tiredness in my body, but my mind is recharged and rejuvenated. The images of the travels of the last few days keep flashing by and help me relax as I slowly get back into the rhythm of my daily but not anymore dull, routine.

Photo: Abhranil Das, Subharup Roy

Ananya Mondal 12MS

Fav. Author Agatha

Christie, Enid Blyton

Hobbies Basketball,

reading, writing.

69

T he Asian Science Camp provides one of the most

dynamic and well-known scientific platforms for young students to gain exposure to the multitude of arenas in modern science as well as to allow ample interaction and cultural exchange with peers from different geographical locations

leading to long lasting friendships and potential collaborations in future. I have been extremely fortunate to be among a handful of students chosen to represent our country this year. Also it was an extraordinary stroke of luck since this year the camp was being hosted by The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Yes, Jerusalem, the capital of Israel, one of the oldest cities of the world and home to three major monotheistic religions- Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Although a Hindu by birth, growing up in a catholic institution has had a profound impact in shaping the person I am today. Naturally then, being able to visit this holy land on my first trip abroad was a gift straight from the heavens, unexpected but extremely joyous.

Landing in the Ben Gurion International Airport in Israel, we found ourselves in a beautiful country with friendly people, ready to break all our pre-conceived notions about them. A country as small as our state of West Bengal with meagre resources apart from human resource can put us to shame because of the giant strides it has taken in science, technology and development in general. Incredibly, we can drive across the width of Israel in just about 15 minutes. The people here are extremely loyal, punctual and hard-working by nature.

In the camp there were more than 200 students from nearly 30 countries of Asia and the Pacific region. A round of friendly speed dating was all it took to overcome the initial cultural shock. Making friends, exchanging tales, thinking,

learning and working together in a team with people who do not speak your language and often do not share similar interests sharpens one’s communication skills and enables better cooperation. And this is exactly what happened during the next six days while we participated together in many scientific and non-scientific activities, learning about each other, on aspects of culture and tradition, on the methods of approach towards science in their respective societies and universities.

In the academic part of the camp, we were exposed to a host of lectures delivered by renowned scientists and Nobel laureates who took us through diverse topics ranging from personalised medicines to chromosomal instabilities in cancer, from simulating the human brain to sustainable development of society, from use of game theory in international law to quantum mechanics in nanoelectronics and from astrophysics to dynamics of photochemical reactions. We also had the opportunity to interact with Professors and doctoral students who are presently doing cutting-edge research in some exciting fields of science like adult neurogenesis and visual perception. Apart from this, there were other fun activities which involved thinking out of the box and a mandatory poster presentation round in which teams were supposed to present a poster on an important scientific question and elucidate relevant solutions to the chosen problem.

Not long ago I read in a popular magazine a piece titled ‘Israel: the beauty and tragedy of the Holy land’. This beauty was revealed to us in ample measure through the various trips that were arranged for us. We visited the Old City, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (where Lord Jesus was crucified), the Western Wall (known to be the holiest place on earth for the Christians) and the Mount of Olives (where Jesus was resurrected) among other places. Even though we relished beautiful views of the magnificent Dome of The Rock from the Mount, we were not allowed in because entry is restricted to the followers of Islam. A day trip to the historical city of Old Jaffa was superbly balanced by the spectacular ‘Momentum’ show by Mayumana followed by a wonderful night by the beach in Tel Aviv. Walking through the bazaars of Jaffa, making friends with the shopkeepers

Madhura Duttagupta

11MS

Fav. Book The Palace Of

Illusions, Chitra Banerjee

Divakaruni

Fav. Author

Rabindranath Tagore

Hobbies Sketching and

reading.

70

W e all knew that, a new country, a new culture,

new foods, new friends are waiting for us but things went far beyond expectation. That week will be one of the most

cherished ones for many of us. The motto was, Educate-Inspire-Connect. And it succeeded.

After some initial tension regarding the visa, 18 of us were there in I.G.I waiting to catch a Lufthansa to Munich. There were three of us from IISER Kolkata - me, Ankan and Dibyajyoti da. The plane took off, we were up on cloud

number nine, and after quite a while we set foot on Germany. It welcomed us with its blue sky, lush green meadows and whizzing convertibles on a disciplined highway system … we were in the land of motorcars. We reached the Lindau insel (insel means island in German) in the evening; it was a place which revealed itself to us in two distinctly different flavors. With its medieval buildings, narrow alleys and stone-made roads, we were in totally different atmosphere. The Lake Constance was breathtaking. It was vast and neighbored Austria and Switzerland whose countryside beautifully lit up the other side of the lake, and forced all of us to take out our cameras. It was chilly near the harbor, but again, who cared? Actually, we were enjoying the chill after the summer we had spent in

Soubhik Kumar 09MS

Fav. Book My name is

red, Galpaguccha,

Krishnakanter Will, The

old man and the sea

Fav. Author Orhan

Pamuk, Bankimchandra,

Sharat Chandra.

Hobbies Music, reading

novels.

while bargaining at the same time and almost, yes almost, drowning in the Dead Sea are other unforgettable memories associated with this trip.

The warmth of the people, their friendly smile and eagerness to make us feel at home did not let us realise even for a second that we were in what is possibly the most politically divided metropolis in the

world. All of us who were a part of this journey can proudly claim to have at least one Israeli friend who will welcome them with open arms every time they visit. It is this indomitable spirit of these people, many of whom live amidst constant conflicts and tensions, to live their dreams to the fullest that makes you happy to have had a chance of knowing them.

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India.

With the registration the next day, the committee started their amazing display of organization and management. The time has also begun for tasting new food and drinks. I can’t say the vegetarians had the best times of their lives, but I did. The meeting began with Countess Bernadotte’s warm speech, and

then they were there, the Nobel Laureates! The lectures, discussion sessions started in full swing and listening, discussing physics, taking autographs, posing with Laureates were our part of the job. We watched them smiling, laughing aloud, and even, dancing ---the experience reached one of its maxima when we saw a new Higgs like boson being born and the Laureates were also experiencing the same excitement. We were even lucky to watch a video conference between them and the CERN guys. Gross said, “I have been smiling all day!” when asked about his feeling. Another maximum was the Bavarian evening, we were supposed to dress up in traditional outfits and as it turned out, apart from Bavarian lederhosen and dirndl, Indian kurta-pyjama and saree stole the show. Bavarian beer and dance steps were also unforgettable. Many of us tried their hands in the Polonaise ball in another event. Yet another high point was our trip to Austria. We met one Lindau alumni, and we told

him about our plans to bunk one morning session to bike to Austria. He initially seemed not very happy about skipping the lectures, but we were IISERians after all. He agreed to take us to Austria, in his Audi a4 Quattro, at 240kmph - amazing countryside and awesome view of Lake Constance - it was more than what we asked for.

Then, came the 6th of July, our boat trip to Insel Mainau. The island was literally full of flowers; probably it had every single beautiful flower possible! Sadly, the closing ceremony was also on its way, the palace courtyard was full, and we started recounting the six days that had passed so fast. On the return trip, I sat for a long time on the deck, recollecting memories and chatting up with new friends for one last time. Who knows when we are again going to meet? By that evening, the place had become a lot more calm. We went for a walk, and the place seemed altogether different, again getting back to its original life after a week of rejoice and glee --- It was the packing time.

The main message was about keeping your mind open in these days of ever increasing specialization because nature can surprise you in any damn way - you never know. It was about educating, inspiring and connecting, and this really says it all.

1. The Margin Sensation

We all know how a new piece of graffiti on the New York’s Eighth Street subway station had become one of the most important theorems in history:

“xn + yn = zn, no solutions for n > 2. I have discovered a truly remarkable proof of this, but I can't write it now because my train is coming.”

Sounds familiar. But terribly false? So it is! This is a parody of Fermat’s Last Theorem (Pierre de Fermat), which he had

scribbled on the note margins of a copy of Diophantus’s Arithmetica along with the all-too-famous note:

“I have discovered a truly marvelous proof of this, which this margin is too narrow to contain.”

You may wonder why this is the only mention Fermat makes of the statement, which would go on to become one of the most difficult mathematical problems in history since its mention in 1637. Fermat was not a professional mathematician – though it may be hard to believe, Fermat was a French lawyer at the Parliament of Toulouse. He was an amateur mathematician who had taken it up as a hobby to spend evenings. He led a very secretive life and revealed little about himself or his results except to close friends through letters.

The parody above is right about the mathematical statement though – however, there is the restriction that x, y and z must be natural numbers. Such equations, whose solutions are restricted to natural numbers, are called Diophantine Equations (named after Diophantus – it’s no mystery why Fermat chose that book).

‘A challenge for many long ages Had baffled the savants and sages.

Yet at last came the light: Seems old Fermat was right — To the margin add 200 pages.’

NOTE Fermat’s Last Theorem was finally proved by British mathematician Sir Andrew Wiles in October, 1994, which the limerick proudly proclaims, span over two hundred

pages! It is unlikely that Fermat actually possessed a proof of the theorem, since the proof by Wiles required various mathematical breakthroughs developed throughout the three centuries which have passed since the margin note was discovered.

2. Prime Oddities of Odd Primes Magic! Take any prime number p (not 2). Square it and subtract one from the result. I will hazard a guess that the result will always be divided by 6.

Want to know the logic? All prime numbers except 2 can be expressed as 6k+1 or 6k-1, where k is an integer (Because 6k+2 & 6k=4 is even, and 6k+3 is a multiple of 3). Now if you square it, you get:

Hence subtracting 1 gives a multiple of 6. Now you will all

grump your face and say, “Trivial!” – but what remains of an

illusion after the magician has explained the trick?

3. Navashesh

Give me any large number, say, 18646782897. Now I ask you, what is the remainder when you divide this number by 9? While you jug on, “Brrrmmmppphh!! Mrmmmpphhh! Oooooh!”, I will conveniently add up the sum of the digits (which, by the way, is 66) and keep doing so, until I reach a single digit (66 -> 6+6=12 -> 2+1=3), and will say, “Voila!! The remainder is 3!”

So, guys, what did you learn? Next time, anybody asks you to do the same, keep adding the digits, until you get a single-digit number. This simple rule (Navashesh) was invented by Vedic Mathematicians in ancient India.

4. Goldbach’s Conjecture

Okay. I give you a very simple task. Divide 20 into 2 primes.

What did you say? “Easy! 17+3, 13+7!” So, now tell me if you

will be able to do so for 100? 1000? Any even number?

We don’t know. Christian Goldbach wrote, in a letter

addressed to Euler, that he proposed that every even

number more than 6 can be expressed (at least in one way)

as the sum of two prime numbers. This became famous in

history as the Goldbach’s Conjecture. With the advent of

computers, the conjecture has been verified up to 1018.

However, as the even numbers increase, the number of ways you can split them into 2 primes increases, giving us all

72

Akash Sarkar 11MS

Fav. Book Foundation

Series, Isaac Asimov

Fav. Author Saradindu

Bandopadhyay, Isaac

Asimov

Hobbies Reading,

painting, playing the

piano.

the more reason to believe that every number can be split into primes in at least a single way. If you plot it, it should look like this:

This is aptly called Goldbach’s Comet.

"Divide fourteen sugar cubes into three cups of coffee so that each cup has an odd number of sugar cubes in it."

"That's easy: one, one, and twelve."

"But twelve isn't odd!"

"Twelve is an odd number of cubes to put in a cup of coffee..."

5. Twin Prime Conjecture

Can you find a prime number p, such that p+2 is also a prime? Some examples are (3,5), (5,7), (11,13), (17,19), (41,43), (71,73)… These prime pairs are called twin primes.

So, you may ask, is this a coincidence? Will we still find twin primes as we go higher… in the millions? Billions? Computer searches show we will. However, if you ask whether there are an infinite number of twin primes (shouldn’t it be? There are an infinite number of primes!), I won’t be able to tell. We still don’t know, but we hazard a guess we do have an infinite number of ’em, and stylishly call this the Twin Prime Conjecture.

6. Convergence

Let us take the series,

Now there is a very easy way to find S. Simply multiply the above equation by 2,

Hence S=2. Now, let’s use this trick for another series. Let us

sum the series,

So, 2S’ will be,

Baffled? How can a sum of positive terms give a negative answer?

The reason is that the sum is large, very large… larger than the largest number you can think of.

We have unknowingly stumbled upon a very important cornerstone of mathematics which goes by the name of convergence. You see, we got the absurd value of S’=-1 because our trick utilizes the fact that the sequence converges, that is to say, approaches a unique fixed value as the number of terms become larger and larger. However, the sum S’ did not! It had become what would be termed as infinitely large… add sufficient number of terms and the sum will surpass any number you throw at it. In “Mathspeak”, we say that S’ is “divergent”, whereas our simple, obedient S is “convergent”. So, you can ask, how do we know which infinite sum converges and which diverges?

Easy though the answer may seem, it is not at all

straightforward. Mathematicians have devised several tests

to check the convergence of Infinite Series. However, most

of them fail to determine convergence for specially hard-

nut-to-crack series. There are series which appear, in all

conceivable aspects, to be surely of a definite sum, but

which turns out to be divergent.

‘A mathematician organizes a lottery in which the prize is an

infinite amount of money. When the winning ticket is

drawn, and the jubilant winner comes to claim his prize, the

mathematician explains the mode of payment: “1 dollar

now, 1/2 dollar next week, 1/3 dollar the week after that…” ’

The joke relies on the beautiful and intensely counter-intuitive result that the sum of reciprocals of the natural numbers does not converge. In other words,

Though the series seems to sum at a snail’s pace, it can be

shown that the first n terms sum to approximately (actually

slightly more than) the natural logarithm of n.

However, as Euler has brilliantly proved, the sum of reciprocals of the squares of the natural numbers do converge, astonishingly:

73

A result which is no less astonishing is that although the sums of reciprocals of natural numbers do not converge,

the same series with alternating signs does:

“I could only get arbitrarily close to my textbook. I couldn't actually reach it.”

7. Collatz Conjecture

Take any number. If it is even, halve it. If it is odd, multiply the number by 3 and add 1. If you go on repeating this process, you would eventually reach oneness… that is, 1. Try it. If you find a number that does not reduce to one, Congratulations! That every number, through this process, would reach one is called the Collatz Conjecture, and you have just proved it false.

23 → 70 → 35 → 106 → 53 → 160 → 80 → 40 →

20 → 10 → 5 → 16 → 8 → 4 → 2 → 1

8. The Prime Number Theorem

You have probably heard stories about a child prodigy who, when he was three, had discovered and corrected a mistake in his father's calculation of the weekly payroll for his workers. You probably also have heard that the same child when at age ten, had surprised his math teacher by instantly summing the natural numbers from 1 to 50 in his head (he rediscovered the formulae for arithmetic progressions)!

Right you are! The child in question is none other than the dazzling mathematician Carl Friedrich Gauss, often referred to by his colleagues as the “Prince of Mathematicians” and the “greatest mathematician since antiquity”. Though he significantly contributed to many fields of science, his favorite was number theory.

“Mathematics is the queen of sciences and number theory is the queen of mathematics.”

— Carl Friedrich Gauss

At 15, Gauss was the first to find any kind of a pattern in the occurrence of prime numbers, a problem which had

exercised the minds of the best mathematicians since ancient times. Although the occurrence of prime numbers appeared to be almost completely random, Gauss approached the problem from a different angle by graphing the incidence of primes from peering at tables of primes (he also checked their primality as he graphed them — turned out three of them were composites). He conjectured that

π(n) being the number of prime numbers which lie between 1 and n (if n is a prime, then it is also counted). For example, the approximation gives 22 primes between 1 and 100 as opposed to the actual 25). At such a tender age, Gauss had discovered what had been since hailed as the Prime Number Theorem.

Plots of π(x) (rough) as opposed to x/logx (smooth) for ranges of 100, 1000, 106, and 109. Observe how the approximation becomes closer and closer as the range increases.

The Prime Number Theorem is a mathematical keystone which unveils a hidden order amongst the apparent chaotic behavior of the prime numbers. Though young Gauss could not prove it at the time, there have been several proofs and several more accurate expressions – however, the Prime Number Theorem remains the most simple of them which gives excellent over-all idea on the distribution of prime numbers.

Q.E.D

74

O ne of the very first puzzling numbers that we

came across in our school was pi (π). The number which was always represented, but only approximately, by 22/7. The versatile utility of the number makes it impossible to get rid of. From geometry, trigonometry and statistics; π crops up in almost all areas of physics, chemistry and engineering.

The simplicity in the definition hides a fascinating story of human endeavor, intellect, creativity and

persistence. The story features many great minds who tried to describe the one which they knew could not be described to perfection.

Formally, π was defined as the ratio of circumference of a circle to its diameter. The fact that it does not depend on the size of the circle is a fact that in itself is interesting but for now, let us look into the various ways which people of great wisdom tried to close in to a value of π.

1. The Polygon Approach

The first approach to rigorously calculate the value of π was devised by Archimedes around 250 BC. The idea was based on the observation that a circle can be viewed as an infinitely-many-sided polygon. He obtained upper and lower bounds to the circumference of the circle by inscribing the circle in a polygon and constructing a polygon inscribed in the circle. The higher the number of sides in the polygon, the better is the approximation.

This remained the only way to estimate π for a long time. Archimedes himself calculated pi using a 96-sided polygon and proved that 3.1408 < π < 3.1429. The Persian astronomer Jamshid al-Kashi produced 16 digits in 1424

using a polygon with 3 × 228 sides which stood as the world record for about 180 years. Similar attempts were made by Chinese mathematicians with an improvement. Liu Hui took advantage of the fact that areas of successive polygons followed a geometric progression.

2. The Infinite Series Approach

The next revolutionary phase in the quest came as the theory of infinite series was developed. The first written description of an infinite series that could be used to compute π was laid out in Sanskrit verse by Indian astronomer Nilakantha Somayaji in his Tantrasamgraha, around 1500 AD. The series are presented without proof, but proofs are presented in a later Indian work, Yuktibhasa, from around 1530 AD. Nilakantha attributes the series to an earlier Indian mathematician, Madhava of Sangamagrama, who lived during 1350-1425 AD.

The first step via this approach in Europe was first taken in 1593 by the Frenchman Francois Veite. He proposed an infinite product rather than a sum which can be given as:

Another very efficient method of estimation of π was that using the expansion of arctan(x) and the fact that arctan(1)= π. This method was initially used by Madhava and then rediscovered by Scottish mathematician James Gregory in 1671, and by Leibniz in 1674.

Apart from these, numerous other series were developed which converged to π. But with the advent of computers, the focus of research shifted to a newer regime.

3. Iterative Algorithms

In the mid-twentieth century, as computers were developed, a team led by George Reitwiesner and John von Neumann achieved 2,037 digits with a calculation that took 70 hours of computer time on the ENIAC computer. But the real development came in the forms of the development of iterative methods and faster algorithms to multiply.

One of the most significant methods developed which is still in use is the arithmetic-geometric mean method (AGM method) or Gauss-Legendre algorithm. It goes as follows

Initialization: Choose

π

75

Arindam Saha 11MS

Fav. Book Around the

World in 80 Days

Fav. Author O Henry,

Harishankar Parsai

Hobbies Blogging,

computer gaming.

Iteration: For each n calculate

Determination: After sufficient numbers of iterations have been made p can be estimated as

The iterative algorithms were widely used after 1980 because they are faster than infinite series algorithms: whereas infinite series typically increase the number of correct digits additively in successive terms, iterative algorithms generally multiply the number of correct digits at each step. For example, the AGM algorithm doubles the number of digits in each iteration.

4. Motivation to calculate π

Today the value of π is known for more than 1013 digits. As can be anticipated, this is way beyond what is required by any application of practical utility. Almost any calculation can be done to appreciable accuracy by at most 39 significant digits of π. Then one is tempted to ask why we are breaking our heads on finding pi to unbelievable accuracy. Well, most of it was a part of an unsaid competition — an aspiration to break records.

But what is more amazing is the determination that they show towards a single problem. The persistent efforts to improve the methods of estimation clearly shows the various ways in which one can look at a problem: an essential quality to make strides towards development of science.

But the efforts were not completely futile in terms of practical utility. The speed with which the digits of π are calculated is used to measure the speed of supercomputers and the efficiencies of numerical analysis algorithms, especially high-precision multiplication algorithms. Studies are also in progress on how random are the digits of π, and whether all finite sequences of digits are encompassed by the decimal expansion of π.

π is an amazing number. It has given us great insights on mathematical structures of irrational numbers. Yet the fertility of the field is not lost. Maybe you are the next one to unravel another secret of this simple yet intriguing number.

Sunipa Dev 11MS

Fav. Book Princess,

Jean Sasson

Fav. Author Salman

Rushdie, Jeffrey

Archer, Charlotte Bronte.

Hobbies Reading,

writing, sketching and

travelling.

W hat makes a criminal? His society? His all-consuming needs? Or is the tendency to

commit a crime inbuilt in his genetic design? These questions have rattled many minds over decades. With crime rates increasing in every country and a crime taking place every second somewhere in the world, getting to the root of these questions has become of paramount importance.

A man who walks out of his house and shoots another, need not always have a motive. He may not inherently be a

homicidal psychopath either. It might just have been developed out of a condition inflicted upon him in his early years, like physical trauma to the brain. Researchers claim that such incidents can lead to social apathy along with delinquency and often criminal behaviour.

Genetics too is a hot topic where criminology is considered today. Research involving prison inmates showed that a majority of them have an XYY chromosomal structure. In this kind of genetic glitch, a chemical anomaly is seen as excess androgens are released which

76

increases the person’s masculinity, strength and lowers tolerance levels. This induces feelings of invincibility, often leading that man to execute drastic steps.

A theory goes that a recessive gene carried by the sex chromosomes is responsible for the criminal penchant in a person and is carried through

generations before getting expressed in a particular individual. In a female, two recessive copies are required for this trait to become visible and this is correlated to the fact that there are fewer female criminals than male ones in the society.

Apart from genetics, a person’s environment and society are next considered responsible for moulding his mind, nudging it in one direction or another. Along with poverty, which is a rampant propagator of criminal behaviour, a commonly seen instance is that a child suffering from inferiority complex during his forming years, strives to gain superiority in later years. This desire often claims him so completely that he forgets where to draw the line. What seems utterly irrational to us, then becomes a necessary step for achieving his psychological goal.

Child abuse also spoils the formative years resulting in a greater probability of aggressive behaviour in later life. Antisocial behaviour inculcated at this stage leads to maladaptivity. The believers of this theory further propound that criminal behaviour, more often than not, arises out of underlying problems such as that of sub-optimal environments during childhood.

Advancing neurosciences has succeeded in tracing differences between the brains of certain criminals and that of the other members of the population. It has lead to a belief that certain parts of the brains of criminals function in a way that inhibits their information processing abilities. It errs their conceptual thinking, deliberation and awareness of options, and makes them act without restrain of any sort.

This defect has been traced to a hyperactive amygdala in their brains which interferes with the proper functioning of other cortical areas of their brains which are responsible for contemplation and choice making. Further, it was found that certain criminals have reduced cortical activity, which came as an affirmation to this hypothesis.

What still remains speculated about is the intensity and variety of emotions ruling a criminal’s mind. Psychologists consider fear to be a deep-rooted emotion in most of them. However, the way criminals perceive fear is different from how a common man perceives it. Despite the facade of fearlessness, a criminal’s fear is mostly generated by their own brains, disconnected from the outside world. His anger is described as chronic and unrelated to the world around him. Such pervasive emotions further deter his interaction and understanding of the outside world.

However, one must remember that not all people having such strong emotions are criminals, nor do all people failing to achieve their goals exhibit belligerent behaviour. Nevertheless, these are important tell-tale signs, seen in the early years of a person having a proclivity towards criminal behaviour. When untreated or met with negligence and derision, such internal turbulence in a person can lead to extremely savage behaviour in subsequent years.

Criminology thus involves the crucial yet difficult task of decoding the criminal mind. This task is further complicated by the multi-faceted nature of human mind and behaviour. Relating behaviour to brain sizes and abnormalities is just one of the many approaches taken today. This clearly is essential in today’s scenario which is marred with criminal activity all around.

What remains to be fathomed is the extent to which we can accurately interpret a human mind, which still remains the most complicated piece of machinery that our world has seen!

77

‘S moking kills. If you are killed you’ve lost a very important part of

your life.’

— Brooke Shields.

When one buys packets of cigarettes, one can't miss the statutory warning on the packing which warns against smoking. It may not be a piece of common knowledge, but it is fact that the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare Government of India has promulgated the "Prohibition of Smoking in Public Places Rules" which came into force on 2nd October 2008. In spite of

the expressed prohibition of smoking in "public places" including "restaurants" and "open spaces surrounding such premises", it is indeed unfortunate that several people indulge in this derogatory act in plain defiance of government rules. But one can’t really blame them because for many smokers it is a ritualistic, psychological habit or at times a Pavlovian reflex when the act of smoking has been associated with other daily activities. People start smoking in a misguided attempt to fit in with the crowd, to lose weight, to calm their nerves, as a sign of rebellion against authority — there are reasons galore. Many a times they are seduced by the rampant glamorization of smoking in movies and advertisements. In reality smoking does not solve any problems. Instead it leads to a host of other deadly ones.

Nicotine, the main alkaloid in tobacco smoke stimulates the adrenal glands to release adrenaline and noradrenaline into blood circulation, both of which raise blood pressure and increase heart rate. Smoking is associated with increased risk of cancers in the lungs, urinary bladder, throat and oral cavity apart from bronchitis, emphysema, coronary heart disease and gastric ulcer. The Department of Gender and Health Research of WHO published in a report in 2004 that lung cancer due to smoking is a major cause of premature and avoidable death. Male mortality rate due to lung cancer in developing countries is showing a steadily increasing trend. Moreover, smoking increases carbon monoxide content in blood and reduces concentration of heme-bound oxygen thereby causing oxygen deficiency in the body.

Passive smoking is the inhalation of smoke called second

hand smoke (SHS) or environmental tobacco smoke (ETS) from tobacco products. It occurs when tobacco smoke permeates any environment causing its inhalation by people within that environment. ETS contains more than 4000 chemicals, out of which of special concern are polynuclear aromatic hydrocarbons, tobacco-specific N-nitrosamines and aromatic amines such as 4-Aminobiphenyl - all of which are known carcinogenic compounds. A 2004 study by the International Agency for Research on Cancer of the WHO concluded that non-smokers are exposed to the same carcinogens as active smokers. In an experiment conducted by the Italian National Cancer Institute, ETS has been shown to produce 10-fold more particulate matter than an idling low emission diesel engine. Pulmonary Emphysema can be induced in rats through acute exposure to ETS over a period of 45 days. Degranulation of mast cells contributing to lung damage has also been observed.

Third Hand Smoke - that's the term being used to describe the invisible yet toxic brew of gases and particles clinging to hair, clothing, cushion, carpeting etc that lingers long after second hand smoke has cleared. "Third Hand Smoke is tobacco smoke contamination that remains after the cigarettes have been extinguished", says Jonathan Winickoff, Harvard Cancer Centre in Boston and the author of a study and the new phenomenon published in the journal Pediatrics. Tobacco particulates have been associated with cognitive deficits in children; even extremely low levels of these compounds may be neurotoxic.

Three words: disease, death and horror… that’s what smoking invariably leads to. Now, one may be at liberty to blow away their life in puffs, but who gave them the right to endanger those of the scores of other fellow non-smokers around them? Still need a reason to add "quit smoking" to your New Year's resolution list - here's the last one. The health benefits of quitting smoking far outweigh any other risks of weight gain, emotional or psychological withdrawal symptoms that may follow quitting.

78

Madhura Duttagupta

11MS

Fav. Book The Palace Of

Illusions, Chitra Banerjee

Divakaruni

Fav. Author

Rabindranath Tagore

Hobbies Sketching and

reading.

Tips and Tricks for Getting Into

~ Trouble ~

C ontrary to

popular belief,

it is

delightfully great

exercise for body, and

especially soul, to get

into trouble every so

often. College life

provides plentiful

opportunities to

conveniently dip

yourself into the

boundless oceans of

trouble, but to frolic in

its waters and not drown, to derive wisdom beyond its

insults and fortitude beyond its injuries, you need to

know some tiny but important pointers.

For enigmatic reasons which I cannot reveal, but which

many of my compatriots will testify to, I deem myself a

competent authority on the subject of smoothly and

efficiently passing from peace to trouble in 0.7 seconds

or less. Therefore, do allow yourself to be guided on

this enlightening and spiritually fulfilling journey to

the holy Tao of Trouble. After you are finished with

this article, you shall be able to:

1. Bet a friend with full confidence on getting into

trouble within a minute, or your money back. (0.7

seconds, as mentioned earlier, is for Premium

users. Give me a call to negotiate pricing.)

2. Put yourself in situations so sticky and fantastic,

the next cheapest way is an LSD trip. And that,

dear reader, if you keep yourself informed, is not

cheap at all.

3. Encounter hordes of ‘authorities’, ‘advisors’, and

other disillusioned self-important nincompoops in

general in such bewildering frequency and variety,

you shall consider switching to philosophical

literature for the rest of your life. Or zoology,

whichever you find better equipped for their study.

Good, so you decide to continue. Entrust your faith

with me; you shall not be disappointed.

The first part of this tutorial addresses

the question of

How to Get into Trouble

with ye Authorities

1. Authority costs a dime.

What does it take to be an authority? Feynman said

it’s the uniform. I say it’s the butterfly effect;

unpredicted, chaotic, statistical fluctuation. One

moment there’s this small, perfectly harmless

faculty member in his office sipping his afternoon

tea, next moment there comes a bit of paper on his

desk or a bit of e-mail in his computer and at once

he is transmogrified into an Authority, vested

with sudden dictatorial power over something

or the other in college. He’s scared too, of this

newfound monster within. Do not fear him, but

tame him; you are every bit as powerful. Let that

Chi shine through.

2. No only means you’re not invited.

Whenever faced with an order, instruction, rule or

general direction that indicates some form of

restriction, ask yourself this: ‘Why? Why this rule?

What’s beyond it? Which golden bliss are they

preventing me from sunbathing in?’

3. Take that step. Your Nirvana inches closer.

We have been sent to earth with a secret task each,

if the golden wisdom of cheap, pirated roadside

paperbacks are to be believed. This, your destiny, is

80

Abhranil Das 08MS

Fav. Book Short

Stories, Roald Dahl

Fav. Author Roald Dahl,

Satyajit Ray, Philip

Pullman

Hobbies Writing,

travelling, programming,

photography, design.

known in oriental philosophy to be well-

guarded behind hindrance and distraction,

manufactured especially to repel you from

accomplishing your divine task. A rule saying

‘no’ would thus be a very good place to start

looking for your personal salvation. Never fear;

no matter what the consequence, know that it will

count somewhere high above. Of course, you may

choose to sidestep this process entirely and:

4. Arrange your Nirvana yourself.

Stop attending classes and submitting assignments.

Advanced users may skip exams. Grow your hair

until you can barely look through it (who needs to

anyway) and boycott bathing or changing clothes.

Sanity will leave soon after sanitation. Next, flip

your circadian cycle by 12 hours, and stretch it to a

non-multiple and non-factor of a day, so that you

slowly swing in and out of phase every week or so.

One month of this and you’ll be floating high above

us through the elemental cosmic fabric, laughing

down at our minute figures as we scamper about

our petty pursuits. You have now made it to the

Dark Side, where one is finally rid of mortal cares

such as CGPA and skin fungi. (Documented cases

for both; contact for details.)

5. Pick a girl you cannot have. Then raise hell.

(This last pointer is especially for boys, being

forever the embodiment of despair in college social

life.)

College is the absolute last opportunity that life will

throw at you to mingle with and single out your 7-

year-life-partner, like they mention in the Hindu

scripts. Take this fact very, very seriously, then

make the wrong choice. (The scripts don’t prevent

that though. Classic circularity.) When you are

denied your cookie, go bonkers and wreck mayhem

among friends and relations until authority arrives

to pick you up by the scruff of the neck.

The second part of this tutorial

addresses the question of

How to Get into Trouble

with thy Compatriots

1. Encourage arguments, saying it’s for the sake of

science.

Then reduce them to a combination of verbal mud-

wrestling and ill-disguised name-calling, with

random statistics thrown in at opportune moments.

99.83% of statistics are random anyway.

Good topics to explore (man, isn’t this tutorial

smashing?):

a. Which department is doing more ‘real’ science?

b. Which nitwit submitted the assignment on time?

c. Why don’t good-looking girls choose science? (Pick

a female student for this discussion.)

2. Be the teacher’s pet.

Attend all classes, ask questions and submit

assignments, all with a smile on your face. Carry

three different-coloured ink pens to class (for

headings, body text and self-notes resp.). Be on

hugging terms with the teacher, and nod incessantly

in class. Offer to carry his baggage around. Insist on

extra classes and tests to solidify your grounding.

(Assure the teacher that you are speaking for the

class.) Do not share notes or let others overhear you

reciting them. A regular, healthy dose of in-the-face

laughter at other people’s mistakes and lateness

will be of additional help. An unfortunate side-

effect of these practices will be inevitably getting

into Big Trouble with Real, Unfair Life, the one

waiting at the other end of college, and which

despite my best intentions is a topic I do not yet

have a manual for.

3. Spread myths.

Hearsay is not science. Therefore, spread without

verification, but not without exaggeration. Craft

intricate love polygons and complete subgraphs

with interesting characters and pass it to the mass.

Or contribute to rumours of the institute’s next

(alleged) evil conspiracy to fail the lot of us and

save on scholarships. In a college as confined as

81

ours, karma will do a small, comfortable circuit

and eventually come around and screw you

good.

4. Cold = Evil.

When a college-mate shares something they are

greatly emotional or passionate about, be brief,

and technically and factually correct in your

reaction, and just that. (Think Spock, Sheldon

Cooper, Dr. House.) Don’t be emotional or

passionate yourself. An example to illustrate the

point:

What he says: ‘I got through to the <whatever>

summer workshop program! I’ll be working in

their awesome optics lab with Prof. <whoever>!

Yippeee, don’t you think?’

What you say: ‘Oh, I know that lab and professor.

The lab is small and completely air-tight. The

Professor has gas.’

What he hears: ‘What a lark. Why don’t you do a

summer project on subtraction instead?’

(Pro tip: works better in public.)

4. When pissed off, become incomprehensible.

(An unwavering smugness goes well with this

procedure.)

Breathe not a word without sarcasm. Quote from

xkcd, abstrusegoose and self. If you haven’t the

foggiest clue what I’m talking about, you are

appreciating the point.

Trust me, they suffer when they don’t know how to

retort. If they misinterpret and retort like an idiot,

explain briefly your statement. You may then

elaborate on why they are an idiot. Leave no holes

in your proof.

These magic mantras to mayhem should suffice to

kickstart your career in stirring up the proverbial

hornet’s nest. Follow them diligently, and very soon

you shall attain the realization that real productivity in

life actually comes from having the right enemies, and

always enough of them.

So now that you have been educated on the timeless

tips to troublemaking, the world is yours to bend,

buckle and bifurcate into an instrument of masochism.

Dive right in.

82

Debanjan Basu 07MS T he semester-

that-was saw

me take up

two minor

courses in mathematics,

one titled ‚Analysis on

Rn ‛ and another called

‚Discrete Mathematics‛.

Let’s not go into a

detailed analysis of why

this might be a good or a bad idea. But there were some

things I did think about, once into the courses.

The dominant part of mathematical development

progresses through the time tested paradigm of

HYPOTHESIS — PROOF — POOF! (the last one being

onomatopoeic in sense of the exultation that follows the

proof)

There are the following that we faced in the

mathematics course, or let’s say we were supposed to!!

Fav. Book The

Adventures of a

Reluctant

Messiah, Richard Bach

Fav. Author Tolkien,

Meera Syal, Anita Desai

Hobbies Books, movies,

procrastination/loafing.

~ On Proofs ~

and Their Respective Validities

Given any two statements P and Q, the

following are different routes to proving (P=>Q)

Direct Proofs

The straight ‘un that proves (P=> Q) by proving

Q from P. Needless to say, like all

uncomplicated tools in mathematics, mathematicians

tend to avoid this kind of a proof.

Contrapositive and Equivalent Forms

This aims to prove (P=>Q) by showing that its

contrapositive *not(Q)=>not(P)+, which is equivalent to

the claim, is true and is the first step into organized

mayhem that mathematics eventually becomes.

Proof by Contradiction & Reductio Ad Absurdum

In acceptance of the claim that (P=>Q), one assumes that

P and not(Q) are true and arrives at not(P) is true. Thus

P is true and false at the same time, which is impossible;

this is Proof by Contradiction.

Reductio Ad Absurdum arrives at the negation of a

statement KNOWN to be true from the same

assumptions as before.

Existence Proofs

Here one has to prove that an element with given

properties has to exist.

Uniqueness Proofs

Here one has to prove that an EXISTING element is

unique.

Principle of Mathematical Induction

Come on! Everyone knows this one!

This is what a serious article would have led you to

believe. But unknown to the mainstream mathematics

community, there are other methods of proof constantly

being used in classrooms all over the world. Here’s an

account of those unsung heroes of logic<

Proof by Confusion

The teacher writes an awful amount of greek letters and

script letters on the board, and speaks very fast to avoid

suspicion of the ‚note-takers‛(this technique is to divert

the attention of the students; known as PATTER in

magicians lingo). The added advantage of this method

is that one doesn’t really have to construct the

hypothesis correctly to prove it.

Proof by Intimidation

The teacher HAS to state the hypothesis properly. The

gist of the technique is to trick the student into

believing they can never understand the topic on the

blackboard. So, once the hypothesis is stated properly

the teacher launches an offensive with every bit of

dutch, techspeak and elfish he can muster, with bits and

pieces of the black tongue of mordor thrown in for

added effect. Thus the illusion of not understanding a

simple proof (from the transparency of the statement of

the hypothesis) stands completed.

DIY proof

Do It Yourself (DIY) is a useful derivative of the punk

subculture in the mid-1970s (yes, Wikipedia). The Do It

Yourself paradigm is very effective because it

minimizes the work of the teacher and maximizes the

distress of the students. The teacher may or may not

write the hypothesis on the blackboard and then repeat

the DIY mantra till everybody shuts up. And then onto

the next one.

Democratic Proof

This is an early Greek creation and has been discovered

only in the 1960-s from a leak in the Pythagorean cult.

The proof is REALLY simple. The teacher writes down

an immaculate statement of the proof and stands back.

He then proceeds to ask if anybody has a problem with

the statement, and makes sure that everybody can see

83

the board and/or is awake. Thus with

unanimous consent of the students, he declares

the proof to be complete. This is one of the most

loved proofs of all time and is philanthropic to

its very essence.

IngSoc Proof

George Orwell’s classic ‚1984‛ has left its mark on the

hallowed mathemagician’s bag o’ tools. The teacher

writes the hypothesis, and follows up with ‚THE BIG

BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU‛. The students,

already virtuosos in the principle of DOUBLE-THINK

from the summer-school-that-was, thus train their

minds into believing that the statement is the truth,

truth and nothing but.

Nazist Philsophy of a Proof

Nazi Mathematicians have thus presented something

with a semblance of utility. The Nazist Method is

simple: get a mathematician, who also is a practicing

Jew (full-time or part-time), to prove the complement of

the proof.

For example to prove (P=>Q), the Jewish, or Quasi-

Jewish, Mathematician has to show that *P=>not(Q)+.

Felix Hausdorff, the mathematician, is said to have

committed suicide after he tried- and failed- to change

the scheme of this proof to the contrapositive and

equivalent form we discussed earlier.

Most of the proofs by this method tend to be wrong,

although why it is so is still mysterious. The author

does have a nagging suspicion that this is not a valid

method of proof, but then personal beliefs have to be

held at arm’s length to indulge in a mathematical

exposition of this import.

LOTR method

If Orwell be seen, should Tolkien be far behind? No,

indeed he is not. One has to create a bijective mapping

of the problem at hand to the problem of Frodo

disposing off the ring* in the fires of Mount Doom.

*ring: is an ornamental object of an annular appearance

worn on finger. NOT to be confused with RING the

algebraic structure.

There is another version of this method that says, even

if a bijective mapping to the original story be not made,

one can produce long films on the modified-Frodo story

and then if the film gets more than 16 academy awards

in total, the proof is complete. However it IS

impractical, isn’t it?

Disclaimer:

The article is intended to be entirely fictional and

without a ‚shard‛ of truth in it. If any of this gibberish

be true, I shall be astounded about the extent of my

mathematical knowledge.

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