New Generation Writers Explore Life's Complexities

Foreword
Once upon a time in a faraway land, a restless man decided
to climb up a steep hill and see what lay beyond. After the
arduous ascent and just before sunset, he made it to the top
and to his surprise found a hermit standing still on a stone
slab. Above the hermit’s head was a whirring golden wheel.
Just as the climber came within sight of the hermit, he was
welcomed with a big smile.
“Come, my friend, step on to the slab. I was indeed waiting
for you,” he said.
The climber stopped, curious to know why.
“O dear traveller, why are you in two minds? This is your
destiny. That’s why you have made this difficult journey,”
the hermit said.
“What’s in store for me,” asked the traveller.
“This rotating trove of stories, stories of human
experience.”
And truly so, as the traveller stepped on to the slab, the
wheel changed position and came spinning over his head.
“Now listen to my story and wait till another man arrives to
tell him your own,” the hermit said and left.

2 New Voices in The New Age
We are inveterate storytellers and are forever looking
for listeners. We tell stories about our drives in the
countryside, ghosts from the past or simply, about
why we came in late for a business meeting. All of us
are seduced by the artful lies of fiction in some way or
the other. For the writer, it’s that uncontrollable
urge to unravel that story inside her head. As Maya
Angelou put it, it is agonizing to bear an “untold story
inside you”.
Like in the story above there is a greater need to pass
on the narrative wheel.And the newer the voices, richer
the experience. There’s none better than the young who
can tell the stories of the new world. They don’t look
at realities in dazzling light. Their perception bears the
glow of twilight, where light and shade play a big role.
It is heartening to see a whole set of young writers
stitching together different experiences of life in the
stories here. The triumph of this anthology is in the
crop of promising talent. The journey is, of course,
longer as far as the search for plot, character and prose
is concerned. But then, the story is always growing.
When you turn a page, the tale may not necessarily
have ended.
Happy reading…
Jayanth Kodkani, Senior Editor, The Times of India, Bangalore.
He has lived in Bangalore all his life and written extensively on social and
cultural topics, besides trying his hand at fiction and translation. He has co-
edited an anthology called ‘Beantown Boomtown: Bangalore In The World
Of Words’

New Voices in The New Age 3
Keynote
Tear drops
Wet cheeks
Sweating hands
It’s raining salt
Perspiration
Inspiration
In what order?
Disorder.
Conscious beyond consciousness
Beneath the stone surface called skin
Oceans thrive on the salt of sorrow
Unresolved by you, me, humanity…
Such are my thoughts as I read between the lines of
the inspiring selection of prose and verse in this special
edition anthology by Bangalore’s young brigade, all
under 21 years of age. Step into their shoes. Feel pangs
of loneliness. Experience love. Passion. Grief. Empathy.
From the podium in classrooms across colleges
in Bangalore, I saw beneath smiles and sparkles in

hundreds of pairs of eyes, the tug of war between
adolescence and adulthood. When the entries to the
short story writing, poetry and fan fiction contests
came in, this struggle became prominent through
words and phrases, which leave you in the knowledge
that Gen Now is thinking, caring, loving and yearning
for a better tomorrow. This yearning is implicit in the
texture of their stories today.
And in their actions, too. Special thanks to Yogita
Dakshina, Sanskriti Pandey and Tushar, who have
helped to spread the word and put this anthology
together.
In unison, the poets and story tellers featured in this
anthology leave me smitten by their depth.
Nirmala Govindarajan
Editor, New Voices in The New Age
Co-Festival Director, The Times of India Literary Carnival, Bangalore.

Words
By Nirmala Govindarajan
Hidden
Beneath the old mattress
Under the cot
In the laundry bag
Inside CD covers
Envelopes
Old books, Inland letters
Within the heart
Knocking at the head
Cajoling the fingers
Words
Phrases
Strung together with emotion
Call themselves…
Stories.

I am
By Yogita Dakshina, Final Year BA, Mount Carmel College
The man sat there, with his left elbow over the
wooden handle of the chair, his body inclined to
the same side, busy discussing the day’s work. A
balding, spectacled man, dressed in a conventional
checked shirt and fading grey pants, was deep
into conversation, smiling, sometimes frowning,
sometimes even laughing out loud. He had no care
for this world. His friend was his true companion and
over a cup of tea, they would enjoy their past follies
and blissful memories. As I shamelessly stared at the
almost enrapturing expressions of the man, I knew that
someday, I would be sitting in the same place, having
a hearty laugh with that one friend who would never
leave my side. And then I realised that the man wasn’t
speaking after all. The words were pouring out of his
grey, cracking, lips, but no one could hear them- his
thoughts were a secret, a secret only his friend knew
and would die with them when they are gone. And as
I slowly turned my head towards the direction of the

friend, I saw no one. No chair, no cups on the table and
no tangible form of a being. The man, very abruptly, got
up from his chair, arranged it in a neat order, arranged
an imaginary chair to the left, and walked away in
silence. And it dawned upon me, that his companion
remained to be no one, but life itself.
It was late at night. Dinner was, as usual, a herculean
task. Walking up the stairs on a cold, windy night whilst
all were asleep was scary enough. And as I climbed up,
a searing scream startled me. Three young boys on a
bike seemed to have taken it upon themselves to wake
up the sleepy lane. And as they whizzed by, a man, not
more than thirty, painfully pulled a hand-wagon down
the empty street. His tattered clothes, and the brooding
face that I saw through the dim street lights, was not
at the very least pleasing. His head turned, as the boys
drove away, almost chasing the west wind. He gave the
slightest of smiles- a smile that he himself would not
have noticed. He was lost. The smile left, sooner than
it appeared. And even in a crowded place, his broadest
of grins would have been ignored. He was no one. He
had no one to smile for. The dark night, most possibly
overshadowed his emotions. As I turned to see a flying
bat that had startled me with its screech, and turned
back to find the man, he had disappeared. He had
disappeared a lonely man, and the darkness was his
friend.
A fat brown dog down the lane of our usual tread,
had caught the fascination of a friend once. The dog

neither acknowledged the attention nor showed any
profound hatred towards it. It simply ignored the
“hi doggy” and “bye doggy” that usually was used
to greet it. It always sat at the edge of the pavement
of a shack-like shop that had a large male population
surrounding it and an even larger wave of smoke
engulfing them. What it ate, where it lived, we never
knew, and honestly, we never really wanted to know
either. It was what we famously called, the one-sided
love of my friend. We grew older with time, and busier
with work. The presence of another constant being was
forgotten. And after about a week or so, it dawned on
us, that we had not seen the dog for quite some time
now. What had happened to him, we had not known.
“Maybe it died,” another friend said, matter-of-factly.
We remained silent.
I will grow old someday, and the happy protection of
my heart will be broken. Friends will leave, family will
die, and I will have no one, but me. There will be no
one to share, no one to smile for, no one to remember
me after I am gone, and no one to care while I live.
The warmth will linger, until everyone walks away.
My thoughts will pour, aimlessly, soundlessly, into the
bottomless pit that is my life. My memories will mingle
away with darkness. My being will be lost in a crowd.
But I will survive. Lonely, suffering and locked in a jail
of emotions. I will get used to it soon. I will like my
jail. And I will make new friends, friends who might
be imaginary, but friends who actually are the only

constant in this changing world. And with them, I will
become constant too, for these friends mould me into
who I am. For friends like life, darkness, and death will
remain with you even in your grave.
I am life. I am darkness. I am death.
Yogita, 19, makes a lot of friends quickly because of her good taste in music,
and is fond of roadside panipuris. You can find her at facebook.com/yogita.
sengupta.3

Moonlight Sonata
By Sumit Dasgupta, Alumnus, Jain University
A blind girl dressed in white
Drenched under the moonlight...
And sitting by the lake side... waiting
Waiting for the world to twist...
For that sand to slip out of that balled up fist
While a mute boy dressed in black
tries to talk to her
Who hears whatever he may, but can’t say a word
back...
Oh... How cruel is Fate
and how just is Misery
to let them hear their own lives
Time and time again...!!!
21 years old, Sumit is a part-time RJ, and is passionate about Indie music.
He likes western classical music, and Rayban Wayfarers. You can mail him at
crsumitdg713@gmail.com.

The Addict
By Tushar, Final year BA, Jain University
I wake up in the morning
And light a cigarette.
I don’t feel like a smoke.
Just an old, old habit.
The smoke fills my lungs, my blood, my mind.
The initial calm is replaced by a feeling of despair,
depression, and this
heaviness in the pit of my stomach.
Feels like nothing is right, and never will be.
My morning air is laced with choking wisps of burnt
tobacco.
And dark, thick tar.
I haven’t smelled anything for years now.
Food is tasteless gruel in my mouth - always ashen.
Sore lumps in my throat.
It’s 6 o’clock in the morning.
I’m 16.
Recently turned 19, Tushar is partial to cats, chocolate, and old books. He
is an unapologetic wearer of grey t-shirts, and misses terribly his mother’s
Rajma-Roti. You can find him at facebook.com/tusshar.sevr.

My Murderer
By Subashnaveen Balakrishnan, Third Year BE,
MS Ramaiah Institute of Technology
My victim once asked me
‘Who are you?’
Just as I was to kill him
And throw him into the deep blue.
As for his question
I had to reply.
It was his dying wish.
I said it with a sigh.
I am who you least want me to be.
Do you still not see?
Your look of horror
Makes me smile with glee.
For if you were a child
I’d be the teacher.
If you were dying
I’d be the reaper.
If you were an atheist
I’d be a priest.
And if you were in hunger
I’d have a feast.

If you were a terrorist
I’d be the soldier.
If you were the beginning
I’d be the closure.
Now if you were the sunshine
I’d be your rain.
If you were feeling pleasured
I’d be your pain.
If you were a coward
I’d be your peril.
And if you believe in God
Then call me the devil.
Therefore,
I beg you to redirect your question.
I’ll see that you do.
Your answer lies in my question dear friend.
Who are you?
23-year-old Naveen exudes intensity and passion. He often drifts off and
stares blankly into space, for no apparent reason. He can be reached at
facebook.com/subashnaveen.

The Confession
By Zohra Jabeen, Second Year BA, Mount Carmel College
The morning sun forced its way into the cluttered
room armed with its most enigmatic rays, like a long
lost lover yearning to meet its beloved. As the blinds
were drawn, it formed strange geometric patterns on
the glass door, thrilled at having found its destination.
The nameplate on the table read ‘Dr. Drishti Bhatt,
MBBS, MD’.
She splashed warm water on her face thawing last
night’s memories. Her face looked pale in the mirror,
her high cheekbones were drooping, and her thin lips
were cracked. It had been a long day like many others
in her two years as a psychiatrist at Mental Health
Hospital. She had spent the day with Mr Murthy, and
had drifted to sleep in her chair, a copy of a much
abused Wuthering Heights in her hand.
She rang her assistant Payal to cancel all
appointments for the day. A plate of steaming hot idlis
with spicy green chutney and a cup of black coffee
was on the table. Making a note to thank Payal, she

pounced on it -- her way of making up for skipping
dinner. As the hot liquid worked its way down her
throat, her light blue eyes fell on the day planner. It
read 29th March 2013. As if on cue, her dormant mind
sprung into life, unclogging memories buried deep in
her neural networks.
An image appeared before her, a familiar one. It was
an angular face topped with messy hair, deep black eyes
overflowing with mischief smartly concealed behind a
nerdy lens and an all-knowing smile that mocked its
viewer but nevertheless as charming as its bearer. The
memory was as clear as it had been ten years ago. Her
cheeks flushed, her eyes danced, her lips curled into a
smile, her body rose and fell like the sea at full moon.
As the seconds passed, colour drained from her face
as another memory nudged its way in. He was going
away. Forever. Her seventeen-year-old heart had cried
out in pain, a pain that had been unknown to her until
then. She had to stop him. She tore the cover page of
Wuthering Heights, her favourite book, scribbled a
few lines and her number and ran to the station; her
small but sturdy legs made it in time. She shoved the
page in his hand. And since then she had waited for
her phone to ring.
The phone rang. It was her lawyer’s office confirming
her appointment tomorrow. She had filed for divorce.
A year back, she had married Suraj. She did not love
him though she tried her best. It was impossible. She
couldn’t love anyone else but Him.

The glass door swung open, bringing her back to the
present. Before she could express her irritation at being
interrupted, Payal blurted out, “Mr Murthy is here, I
could not say no to him. I’m sorry.” Drishti looked at
her; she was shaking, barely concealing her fear. He
was a regular visitor for a year. But Payal had never
gotten used to his presence. She couldn’t even blame
her. His notoriety overpowered his small frame. She
was irritated at this untimely intervention but curiosity
got the better of her. “I’ll see him in a few minutes; have
him seated in the counselling room.”
Mr Murthy was a murderer. He had been convicted
in 2003 for murdering three innocent travellers on
board a local train. He was released from jail a year
before and had called her one afternoon asking if he
could come and meet her. She had agreed and since
then, he visited her once a month for counselling.
Drishti remembered the first time she had met him.
He had told her then of how he had murdered, every
bare fact. It was an act of rage. His daughter had been
murdered on the same train. The police, in spite of
knowing who had murdered her, didn’t make an effort
to arrest the accused, a local politician. The newspapers
did report the murder but as usual, nothing changed.
The only thing he could do was to watch helplessly.
But he chose otherwise. He walked into that particular
compartment, knife in hand, and stabbed the only three
people in it. Before anyone could figure out what had
happened, he walked out taking all that his bloodied

hand could. The next day, he surrendered before the
police and admitted murdering the three innocent
travellers.
She pulled her long, sleek hair into a pony, picked
up her diary, put on a brave face and a courteous
smile, entered the room and said, “Good morning Mr
Murthy, it’s a pleasant surprise to see you again.” She
just received a blunt nod in return for her pleasantries.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she enquired.
“Hmmm,” he nodded. “I wanted to give you
something, not as a token of gratitude but to lessen my
own burden. I want to do away with everything that
reminds me of my past. I’ll be very glad if you take it
from me.” His coal black eyes bored into hers until she
was forced to lower them.
She could often figure out what people thought, how
they thought and why they thought. It was almost as
if she had divine powers. But not him. He intrigued
her. Everything about him was mysterious. He was a
puzzle that she couldn’t solve.
His small, timid frame was hunched, there was
hardly any flesh stuck to his bones. It was as if he had
not eaten for years. She had often wondered where he
got the strength from to commit such heinous crimes.
Maybe the answer was in his eyes: hard and cold,
devoid of all emotion.
“Here, take this.” He pushed a plastic cover towards
her. “This was my life. I kept every bit of it thinking it
will deter me, but it only aided my cause. I don’t want

to look at it anymore, but I can’t throw it away either.
The only way for me to repent is to give this to you.
I am sorry.” Suddenly his eyes flickered back to life
after a deep slumber and she saw in them guilt, anger,
helplessness. They disappeared as swiftly as they had
come. Without another word, he left, never to return
and never to be found again.
She pulled out a yellow cardboard file from the cover
bearing the name Priya Murthy, VII’C’, SMV School.
Drishti carefully opened it, fearful that her touch might
alter its contents. She found numerous newspaper
cuttings. ‘Twelve year old brutally murdered’, ‘Train
ride turns tragic’, ‘Murderer on the run’, ‘Family of
three murdered on-board train’. Her eyes stopped
moving at the last clipping. The half- page article was
accompanied by a photograph. There was something
very familiar about it. And then she saw Him. Again.
She couldn’t help but smile on seeing Him and then
her smile upturned and so did her world.
The clipping was dated 30th March 2003. It read
‘Three members of a family were attacked when they were
travelling from Bangalore to Chennai in the early hours
of Tuesday. Rajesh Seth, 42, and his wife Priya Seth,
38, sustained multiple stab wounds on the neck. Their
son Vikram, 17 was stabbed in the abdomen. They were
immediately rushed to the city hospital where they are said
to be in a critical condition. The attacker has been identified
as Venu Murthy, 40, a small time tea vendor.’
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She frantically

looked through the other clippings in the hope of
finding some follow-up. She found none. She emptied
the contents of plastic cover on her desk. An odd
assortment of objects fell out; a gold chain, a Mickey
Mouse watch, a superhero comic, a jewellery box, a
scrap of paper. At once she picked it up. A wave of
recognition hit her. It was the cover page of Wuthering
Heights and on it was written: ‘I love you Vikram-your
Cinderella, Drishti. Call me back if you love me too.’
She had written her number at the back. Unconsciously,
she turned the page. An additional sentence had been
added, ‘I love you too Drishti-your Prince Charming,
Vikram.’
A potter-head to the core, Zohra, 19, is still waiting for her letter from Hogwarts
to arrive. She finds herself quite fond of fairy-tales, and especially the ones
with a Prince Charming. You can email her at zohra15on10@gmail.com.

Time
Right time, wrong place
Wrong time, right place
The saga goes on
and on.
Until you discover
That there’s no fault
With either time or place.
Just that right and wrong
Refuse to co-exist
Although they are fraternal twins
Born of the same parents
Called Prejudice and Ego.
Dare to go against them?

Just One Stop and a Seat
By Simon Laishram, Final Year BA, Christ University
My heart was almost giving up to a sigh when like
droplets of water falling onto a thirsty landscape,
drove in a 13J --
my everyday travel home after a
hectic day at college and work. I hurriedly paced my
feet… one, two… one, two… getting faster and faster
as the bus retarded its motion to a screeching halt on
platform number 12 at the Shantinagar stop, which
now appeared blonde as the gold dust refracted the
terrible summer sunshine.
I mounted the bus and was delighted to find myself
a place. In fact, very delighted… almost ecstatic! “A
hearty rest for the next one and a half hour journey. My
back and buttocks…” I thought. Usually, I do not have
enough time, or money, to fetch home any goodies…
but today was uncommonly atypical. One and a quarter
kilos of succulent litchis were lying in my backpack
just waiting to be devoured by my sibling and I as soon
as I reached home! Having relaxed myself comfortably
on my warranted bus-seat, I unfastened my bag to

check if the litchis were doing fine, and whether my
wallet was safe. You never know how greedy the entry
to a BMTC bus can get! Some commuters even appease
their suppressed fetishes on board or while getting on
board. Gee!
“Litchis? Check. Wallet? Check. Five hundred rupee
note? Check. Mobile phone? In the pocket. I-pod? Ah!
Listen to music. Adele!
“…And the games you play, you would always win…
always win… but I set fire to the…”
“Sir, ticket beka?” the conductor said in a semi-
attentive fashion. “Seri, ondu Kadrenahalli Cross
beku.”
As I handed over Rs 13 to the conductor, I stole a
glance at the scene. Pretty funny…. I took my ticket
and placed it in my front shirt pocket, which was
sordid with wrapped and unwrapped raw mango
candies. I took one and began sucking on it as patiently
as I surveyed the scenario. An old man struggling to
stand; no empty seats; young men lodging their strong
figures on most of them…
The many stops that the bus halted at, sent the
man tumbling and rolling to the other end of the
vehicle. All commuters at least gave him a look of
sympathy. Each time he repeated the ordeal, he smiled,
looked everywhere… almost embarrassed. It was
an interesting face. But, what was more interesting
were the faces of those young men, much like me. All
staring at him… not with a speck of shame… but being

ominously cynical…
I could sense the vibes… “Why cannot he stand
firmly? Now should I get up for him!? Gah!”
I was tired. Besides, he wasn’t even standing close
to where I was sitting. Now, even if I had gotten up to
clear the seat for him, the other men standing closer
by would rush to it like a pack of hungry hysterical
hyenas! No, I would not be getting up for any man…
old, young… or rich.
The bus went through seasons of being packed
to extreme degrees of claustrophobia to even being
comfortable enough to provide an arm stretch to those
standing. Sadly, under no season was there an empty
seat that the man could rest his time-tested back on.
Today was definitely not one of his better days; he
would have to keep tumbling.
Finally, I got up and signalled the senior to the seat
I had occupied happily for so long. He obliged, and
smiled wryly. I had passed the test just right on time.
The next stop was mine. I got down. I had done a
service!
I’m part of the responsible youth brigade who are
driven individuals moved to make change rather than
waiting for them to happen. The good part is that no
one said that I cannot kill two birds with one stone,
ahem, in this case, the old man and… what?
Simon, 21, is a musician, and he loves to sing and write about little things that
catch his fancy. He can be mailed at simon.laishram@gmail.com.

Bus Rides
By Sanjana Chandrashekar, Final Year BE,
MS Ramaiah Institute of Technology
Early morning, the rush to work, cramped buses and
me. I never thought the rides were tiring. The one hour
always gave space for the mind to wander. But there
would always be these moments, moments that gave
me an insight to the real world. Moments like today.
She got onto the bus, clutching her mother’s saree,
who had two other kids to mind. No seats were empty
at the hour. And the group was forced to stand. So I
wondered. Why didn’t anyone offer the woman a seat?
And then, there were others.
It was Diwali. My brothers were running around,
bursting crackers and eating sweets. Two other kids
were running around begging for some.
I was returning from tuition, I saw an old woman.
Her clothes were falling off and there was no one
around holding her hand and guiding her. She limped
past me. Mumbling. Drooling. Alone.

These encounters were of the strangest kinds. I was
never a part of them. I was never meant to witness it.
I am supposed to be engrossed in whatever my life is
leading me to. But they always caught my eye. I always
noticed the offhanded, uncaring way we treat other
people who come into our lives. These meetings -- all
they left me with --- were questions of how people had
turned out to be. Where would our thoughtless needs
to want lead us? How would it all turn out? Would
we end with a big bang? Or would we vanish like the
dinosaurs, where the future species would never find
the cause? Will this greed of ours end? Who could help?
Then I turned to look outside the window and saw
my reflection in the glass.
I stood up and let the woman sit.
Sanjana, 21, loves cats (the fiercer the better!). She is known to constantly
slip into her own world of fantasy, especially in the classroom. You can mail
her at sanscs92@gmail.com.

Once Upon A Time in
December
By Sanskriti Pandey, Final Year BA, Mount Carmel College
Once upon a time in December
the sun washed over me
and if you looked carefully
(but only from a distance, remember)
you would see
a girl walking, oh a slow
step at a time, examining the sky.
Gaily did her hands sigh
o’er the days of December glow
as she carefully smoothed out the cry
of the bygones.
21-year-old Sanskriti thinks in verse. She is frequently found talking to
inanimate objects, firmly believes that she is dreamy more often than not. You
can find her at facebook.com/sanskriti.pandey

Just Another Day
By A Mary Pascaline, Final Year BA, Mount Camel College
(Friday, 13th November 2013, 20:13)
The moon stands white against the inky black sky.
The city is bustling and full of life. It’s Friday. People
can’t wait to get home and get out and finally let loose.
The night is young and so are we. It’s filled with endless
possibilities. We have all the time in the world. The
days and nights are so tightly packed that we have no
time to breathe. She surveys the city from her perch up
above. She is unmindful of the crowd gathered below.
The world dissolves in front of her eyes. She turns
around, smiles, and then turns back. She gulps in one
breath and jumps. As she free falls, she looks up and
sees her. Their eyes lock, a faint sense of recognition,
but it’s too late.
She shivers in excitement. Finally! The wait was
agonising. She weaves her way through the crowd.
Her parents were horrified. Her friends don’t want to
be associated with her anymore. She doesn’t care. She
knows she is in love. She’ll do anything to make it last.

She couldn’t wait to say it out loud. She rides her old
bike at top speed. What’s that crowd over there? Then
she sees someone standing on top of the high rise. Her
jacket! No! It can’t be. Her bike screeches to a stop. She
throws it away and runs towards the building. She
weaves her way through the crowd constantly ringing
her number, fighting the tears that threatened to spill
out. And then, just like that, the love of her life jumped,
locking eyes with her just before she hit the ground
and then... a blaring silence.
“Where is she, man?” “She’ll be here. Just give her
five more minutes.”
“What bullshit! I bet you’re making all this up. Like
any girl would be dumb enough to date you.”
“Shutupman!She’llbeherealright!”Hemovesaway
and tries her cell phone once again. It went straight to
voice mail, just like the other 12 times. “Where the f***
are you, Elena?” he mutters under his breath. Then
all of a sudden, his friends run to him. “Dude! Some
chick is about to jump off the f***n building, man. Let’s
go, watch!” one of them yells. “What the f*** is wrong
with you man?” he yells back. “Leave that f***n pussy,
man! Let’s go!” another says, but he follows them
anyway. They reach the scene in record time. “Damn!
She looks hot, dudes.” one of them declares. He finally
looks up from his phone. “That’s my girlfriend up
there, you bastard!” he yells and runs up the stairs. His
friends follow him. Don’t, Elena. Please! Don’t jump.
Whatever you do, just don’t jump. I’m coming. At last,

he reaches the terrace. “Elena?” he whispers. She turns
around and looks at him. She looks so scared and pale.
She gives him a slight smile and then, jumps.
(Friday, 13th November 2013, 22:00)
“We’re reporting to you live from the scene of
the crime. Three students, two girls and a boy, all
jumped one after the other in what is believed to be
a mass suicide. Two of the teenagers were identified
by friends as: Josh McKagan and Ashley Knight. The
third remains unidentified. The police have started
investigations but haven’t released any statement
so far. This incident adds to the growing number of
suicides the city has witnessed this month alone. The
toll is up to 18 now and all of them teens. We wait to
see if the police have uncovered any links between
them. This is Erica Wainwright for CNN.”
Superman is fake. So are Batman and the rest of the
superheroes out there. They’re just made up, fantasised
about in hope of surviving another day. And the Joker
was right. The monsters are in us or rather, the monsters
are us. That night, Elena died. She was plagued by
those monsters. She wasn’t the only one. No, they
weren’t the ones that used to hide under her bed. They
were alive and had taken over her and the others. She
was their slave or rather, the host. She didn’t cheat on
her girlfriend or on her boyfriend. At least not that she
was aware of. She wasn’t Elena when she was with her

girlfriend. With her, she was Allison. With her family,
she was Amelie. She loved them all. But the monsters
made her jump. The monsters aren’t under your bed
anymore. Don’t search for them there. Look within or
to your left.
Schizophrenia can do strange things. Even to a writer.
- Elena & Allison (Amelie helped)
(Friday, 13th November 2013, 22: 13)
At 19 years old, “Pasca” sells herself out for food. She has a knack for naming
walls after her close friends and subsequently, conversing with them. She can
be reached at pascaline.radjou94@gmail.com.

Sunset
By Vinita Govindarajan, Second Year BA, Christ University
The front door slammed shut, muting the howling
wind outside on the street. I could hear the shuffle of
boots, the sound of which I waited for everyday. The
familiar feeling of elation coupled with anxiety surged
through me as I heard his footsteps through the hall.
Would he behave any differently today? I got up as
fast as I could, but it was with only one-tenth of the
speed that I used to. I could not do anything about that,
though. It happens when you grow old.
As I ambled down the staircase, I saw him by the
coat stand, unbuttoning his jacket and placing it along
with his hat. He seemed to be doing this slowly and
deliberately, with his back towards me. He pretended
not to hear my usual greeting and moved towards the
kitchen without even looking at me and acknowledging
my presence.
I was shocked and bewildered yet again. This had
been happening for a week. It never used to be like this
before. We had been best friends and roommates for
years, but he had never behaved like this. The pain in
my chest began to throb harder. What in the world had
I done to hurt him? What had I done to cause such a
drastic change in his behaviour? I couldn’t understand.
I needed answers today. I couldn’t take it anymore.
The feeling of rejection swept over me like a tidal

wave. I always did everything he asked me to. I
practically worshipped him, and constantly marvelled
at the fact that he would ever have wanted me to be his
companion. My world revolved around his existence.
My eyes grew moist as I thought of the wonderful
times we had had, strolling around the park, sitting by
the warm hearth of the fireplace and sharing profound
silences.
But what was wrong now? Why wouldn’t he even
look at me? Was it because I was growing old and
weak? He was older than me, but much stronger and
fitter, as if he were at the prime of his youth. Or was
it because I could no longer entertain him enough? I
did try my hardest, but that only made him give me a
sorrowful stare, making me feel extremely foolish by
the end of it.
The throbbing in my chest grew harder and more
painful. I followed him to the dining room, where he
sat and ate his supper hastily. I simply looked at him,
waiting for him to talk. I decided that that would be
my strategy for the day; I would just wait for him to
say something. However, he maintained his frigid
demeanour, although I could make out a hint of
nervousness behind his averted eyes. Perhaps he was
hiding something. He looked guilty. I knew him too
well.
I was hurt and confused. But I was determined to
receive an explanation. I wouldn’t follow him around
like before though. I sat by the fireplace and gave him

a doleful look. I could feel myself weakening by the
moment. I felt as if the energy that I tried saving the
whole day to be able to greet him was draining away,
faster than ever.
Suddenly, I saw him advancing towards me stealthily
through the corner of my eye. There was a sharp
needle-like object in his hand. I thought of springing
up and darting away, for his look seemed menacingly
grim. Perhaps it was some pent-up anger against me.
But I remained still, just looking at him. I had no more
strength, I could only feel pain. Perhaps I deserved his
anger.
He stopped right in front of me and to my surprise,
he let out an anguished cry, sat down beside me on the
floor and began to sob, letting the object in his hand fall
to the ground.
“I can’t do it, I can’t! I have been building up the
courage to do this the whole week but I just can’t. I’m
so sorry, old boy, but you just have to go away on your
own.”
I used the last ounce of my strength to give my
belovedmasteralickonhispalmandgavemybeautiful
golden tail, a final wag. I had finally understood.
A history and political science student, Vinita, 19, likes reading, writing, and
eating fresh ghee, straight out of the pot! She can be written to at vinitarajan@
gmail.com.

Perfect
By Vidya Balasubramaniam, BA,
St. Joseph’s College of Arts and Science
Laurie knew she was beautiful. She had a poignant
gait, and hair never out of place. She was clean, healthy
and content. Her voice, although used sparingly, was
capable of expressing her deepest feelings. It rang with
a distinct note of melancholy when she was discontent,
a clear bell of mirth when she was happy, and a fierce
tenor when she was angry. She had the perfect life. She
had the liberty to go wherever she wanted, take naps
when she wanted, and eat when she wanted. Her only
flaw was the raging envy she bore towards that good-
for-nothing sack of cotton.
Dumbo.
Why should some ridiculously coloured stuffed
animal steal the spotlight she had been revelling in
for the past three years? Laurie was the “purrfect” cat.
There was absolutely no reason to share her limelight
with something that couldn’t even land on its feet
when dropped from the first floor railing.

Laurie heard the door opening, and footsteps echoing
down the doorway. She licked her snowy white paws
that the humans liked to call “socks” because the
rest of her fur was coloured a minimalistic grey. She
jumped down from the windowsill. Tail quivering,
she playfully nuzzled her head against her favourite
human being’s leg. The human being bent down, and
gently began to rub the region under Laurie’s chin, just
where she liked it. Laurie purred in satisfaction, when
abruptly, the human withdrew her hand.
“Dumbo!”, a high pitched shriek zipped through the
air. Laurie cowered into herself, alarmed and annoyed
at the unpleasant noise. She watched as the human
being picked up the mangled remains of Dumbo lying
on the window sill where she had been sitting just a
minute ago. Now, the human’s voice sounded angry.
Laurie knew she was being chastised, but she had done
what needed to be done. Dumbo was not worthy of
competing with, so she had eliminated the almost-
competition. Besides, she had gone easy on him. She
had only used her back claws to tear him into shreds.
Had she used her front claws... But that would have
just made it too easy for her.
For the remainder of the day, Laurie was the recipient
of the silent treatment from her human being. Usually,
it was Laurie who gave the silent treatment when she
was displeased. This time, she was the recipient. She
hated it. She hated not being spoken to by the human
being. She had grown to love the light, conversational

voice floating across the room to her every now and
then. The silence was too loud.
That night, Laurie decided she needed to make
amends, even though it was no fault of hers. She gently
padded across the living room to where her human
being lay, fast asleep. She prodded her nose against the
human being’s head, trying to wake the human being
in the hopes of a reconciliatory snuggle. But the human
being absently pushed her away.
Miffed, Laurie stuck her tail in the air, and exited the
house through the window that was always left open
for her night time wanderings. She sniffed the night
air, and disappeared into the vivid darkness that she
enjoyed the way humans enjoyed daylight.
It was late in the morning when Laurie returned.
She walked noiselessly across the linoleum floor of
the kitchen where the human being was busy at work.
She’d brought back a peace offering that she was sure
the human being would like. She jumped onto the
kitchen counter, and dropped her carefully procured
gift onto the gleaming granite surface.
That high pitched sound grated through her nerves
again. Laurie scrunched her eyes in displeasure. She
hated it when the human being screamed. Had she not
gone to the greatest of troubles in hunting down that
squirrel? Hadn’t she expertly killed it with one swift
bite on the neck? Hadn’t she then gone to great pains
in licking the carcass clean before presenting it to the
human? What greater gift could she have bestowed on

the human (apart from her very existence!)?
These human beings no longer seemed to have the
knack for appreciating The Good Things.
Sulking, Laurie had a quiet meal of the squirrel by
herself on the terrace. She licked her paws clean, and
glanced around to see if she could find a healthy crow
to feed on for dessert.
She sat down, with her tail wrapped elegantly
around her torso, alert to her surroundings.
There was a sudden whirr around her.
She whipped around. Was that a bird? She couldn’t
see anything.
It certainly did seem like a vibratory flutter of wings.
Yet, it wasn’t avian.
Gripped by a feeling of unease, she arched herself
into a predatory pose, and scoured the entire length
and breadth of the terrace, looking for the source of the
disturbance.
She found nothing.
Perhaps the human being would have an answer for
her.
She skulked back into the human being’s room
through the window. She softly landed on the human
being’s lap and started purring loudly and incessantly.
The vibrations grew louder. Laurie felt things
around her rattling. The human being stood up in
alarm. Laurie leapt down on to the floor. Suddenly,
there was a flash of white, followed by blinding pain.
Laurie couldn’t see or hear anything anymore. The last

thing she saw was a look of complete and utter alarm
in the startlingly blue eyes of her human being.
Sally’s Blogspot
Day 1 after the earthquake:
An Ode to My Feline Friend (Kind of).
Yesterday’s earthquake cost me the life of my best
friend. Laurie, my cat, has been my constant companion
for the last three months. I found her at my doorstep
one morning. She was unusually friendly for a stray
cat. I let her in. The rest was history. She came home
every day, and slowly moved in. She watched me write
on this blog every night.
We had a fight on the day she died. She tore up my
stuffed animal, Dumbo, and brought in a dead squirrel.
I was having a bad week, and had little patience left
for her. It breaks my heart that the last thing I did was
reprimand her.
Laurie knew about the earthquake several minutes
before it occurred. I have never heard a more urgent
tone in her purring. She was desperate and frazzled.
It was still too late. I only wish I had been as quick in
responding to her alarm.
My entire living room is a mess, but I don’t have
the heart to enter it. Because entering implies having
to see the heavy photo frame that fell and crushed my
beloved cat. I can’t bring myself to see her mangled

remains again.
I can’t help but wish I hadn’t been upset with her.
Wait, this was supposed to be an Ode to Laurie, not
a feel-sorry-for-myself-fest. Too late for that, I suppose.
RIP Laurie.
Note to my readers: Never take your loved ones for
granted. Especiallythosewholoveyouunconditionally.
Laurie showed me unconditional love by coming to tell
me about the earthquake. Thanks to her, I escaped the
falling debris in time. She didn’t make it, but she made
sure that I did. If that isn’t true love, then I don’t know
what true love is.
Day 14 after the earthquake:
A Real Ode To My Feline Friend
It’s almost a fortnight since Laurie has been gone,
but I found a way to keep her spirit alive.
I bring to you “Pets Unconditional: A Museum of
Memories.”
A place for grieving pet owners to share tokens and
memories of their deceased animal companions. I’ve
already received twenty artefacts to put on display
from people who I’ve been verbally spreading the
word around to. From a pink collar with the word
“Princess” inscribed on it (in memoriam of four year
old Frodo, a happy Dachshund), to a warm black
blanket (in memoriam of ten year old Hertz, who
refused to sleep without it), I’ve received a variety

of touching memories of animals who’ve left for the
heavenly abode.
If you have anything you’d like to contribute,
please shoot me an e-mail. Your artefact should be
accompanied with a 100-word epitaph explaining why
it reminds you of your pet.
At the centre of The Museum of Memories, lies
the cottony remains of Dumbo. This is my way of
posthumously telling Laurie that no stuffed animal
could ever compete with her. I may have been upset at
the loss of Dumbo, but it does not even compare to the
pain I felt on losing Laurie.
Dumbo was Dumbo, but Laurie was Purrfect.
Keeping the love alive,
Sally
20-year-old Vidya says “I like to write, sometimes”. You can email her at
vidyafaps@yahoo.co.in.

Peace or War
By Preetha Peter, 11th Grade, Shanti Bhavan Residential School
In the depths
Of their darkened hearts
In every memory
And moment to come
Deep within they ask
Only one thing
To all those
With weak emotions
And no self control
To all those
Still falling for
Twisted truths
Those
Blind in faith

Even in
The most serene of places
All that is seen
The blinding vision
Of splattered red
The choking sensation
Of loss, fear
Of screams and pleas
Then
The deathly, hollow
Silence...
They want to ask
Why the innocent?
Why can’t we live, breathe?
Between you
Between us
Is it peace or war?
The youngest of our contributors, Preetha studies in the 11th Grade, and
loves reading and writing about things she feels strongly about.

Editor’s Pick
Music of the Mockingjay
(The Hunger Games fan fiction)
By Vidya Balasubramaniam, BA,
St. Joseph’s College of Arts and Science
“Mom, I still don’t know what to play.”
Twelve-year-old Madge Undersee tugged at Mrs.
Undersee’s skirt. The train chugged to a halt at District
11. Mayor Undersee was escorted out of the VIP
carriage, followed by his wife and Madge.
“Madge, don’t bite your nails,” Mrs. Undersee
said, grabbing hold of Madge’s hand. “You already
know what you’re going to play. Elinor spent months
teaching you this piece.”
Madge shook her head. The piece was a lively one,
but she couldn’t feel the music from the piece. There
was nothing about it that stirred her soul. It sounded
flat to her.
Instead, she gazed out at the azure fields of District
11. The sun had just risen. She could see the fields of
gold stretching out in front of her. To her right was a
luxuriant orchard, brimming in green. Despite her

apprehension, she felt a jolt of excitement. It wasn’t
often that she got to visit another District. Thanks to
her father being the Mayor of District 12, she was one
of the few children in Panem who got the luxury of the
occasional visit to a neighbouring district.
“Hurry up, Madge. We’re going to visit the
orchards.” Madge looked up from her reverie to see
her father looking back at her impatiently.
It was late morning, and Rue was hard at work. The
top of the canopy was her home. Heights and falling
were fears that she had never even heard of. She
raised her arms into the air, and deftly sprung from
one branch of a tree to the next. She collected ripe fruit,
and twisted the angle of leaves to re-direct the sunlight
in such a way that it would facilitate fruiting.
She smiled as she heard chatter coming from the
lower branches where her siblings were hard at work.
Rue, at 8 years of age, was the eldest, and hence got to
work at the highest level of the canopy. She hummed
softly, a four-note tune that she had learnt as a little
child.
She continued working. She was dimly aware of
the light shifting into the brightness of noon, before
gradually fading into the shadows of the late evening.
Evening was the time of day when she held the most
important responsibility. She watched the golden ball
of sunlight drop into the redness of the horizon.
It was time.
Taking a deep breath, she let loose a long refrain.

She sang the same melody that she had hummed in the
morning. Except this time, the notes were louder and
more resonant. She sang with her heart, letting loose
the effort of the day. The music poured out of her.
Then she stopped.
One second passed. Then two. Then three.
At the fourth second, she heard the echoes. Her
song was being picked up, and repeated all across the
vast expanse of trees. The mockingjays were doing
Rue’s job. Rue’s song was now heard all over District
11, signalling the end of another day’s hard work.
She closed her eyes, and took in the beauty of the
mockingjays’ chorus. They sang on for another minute
and then stopped.
“Rueeeeeeeee!”
Rue almost lost her balance on hearing the scream.
Looking down, she saw that Fiona, her 5-year-old sister
was sitting on the dense undergrowth, crying.
Deftly, Rue sprang with her arms raised for balance
from one branch to the other, as she levelled herself
towards the ground.
Landing gracefully onto the floor, she knelt down
beside Fiona.
“I bruised my knee,” Fiona sobbed.
“It’s alright,” Rue murmured, holding Fiona close.
Would she have enough time to run home and bring a
poultice for Fiona before it became too dark?
Rue stiffened as she heard footsteps behind her.
Glancing back, she saw a pale girl with long hair

standing behind her. The girl didn’t look like anyone
from her district. ‘Just how long has she been here?’
Rue wondered.
The pale girl felt into her coat pockets, took out three
leaves, crushed them together, and held out her palm
with the paste to Rue.
“Use this,” she said.
Rue looked at her hesitantly.
“It will heal her.”
Slowly, Rue took the paste with two of her fingers
and applied it onto Fiona’s knee. Within minutes, the
redness disappeared and the bleeding stopped.
“Here, take these leaves in case you need more later,”
the pale girl said, drawing out more of the leaves from
her pocket. “My best friend from District 12 uses these
all the time.”
“Madge! Where have you been all along? We’ve
been looking for you. It’s time to go!”
Rue and the pale girl both jumped, as an older
woman appeared among the trees.
“I’m coming mom,” the girl said. She dropped the
leaves on the ground beside Rue, and ran away, casting
one last backward glance at Rue and Fiona before
disappearing with the older woman.
The leaves that the girl had dropped had the distinct
shape of an arrowhead.
The clock was ticking ever closer to 8pm, when
Madge’s performance was scheduled. She still didn’t
know what she was going to play.

The Peacekeepers were setting up the venue. It
was at the District 11 Justice Building, where Mayor
Undersee would have just finished his meeting.
The night began with a speech by the Mayor of
District 11, followed by a few short words by Madge’s
father.
And then her name was called.
Wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt, Madge
approached the piano set out for her. This was the first
time she’d performed before such a large crowd.
Her heart had decided on what she was going to
play. It was her mind that was yet to consent. This was
a piece she had never played before. Her parents were
expecting her to play the prepared piece. She was likely
to get into trouble.
Yet, she could not shake off the feeling that had
gripped her when she heard the girl in the orchard sing
the notes to the mockingjays. Closing her eyes, Madge
conjured up a vision of the girl. She envisioned her
jumping from branch to branch. She found the song
inside her heart. She began playing, slowly, but surely.
This was music that she truly felt. This was the music
of the people. This was the music of the district.
Rue gripped her sister’s hand tightly as the crowd
burst into applause. Even the solemn-looking
Peacekeepers had an awestruck look on their faces.
This was the same girl who had healed her sister. She
had been watched by this piano-playing girl. Rue
wasn’t angry. She was too enchanted by Madge’s

performance. While her own song was raw, Madge
had found a way to refine it into the soothing cadences
of piano music. Rue had never heard anything more
beautiful in her life.
She had to talk to Madge, and tell her.
Making sure that Fiona was with her parents, Rue
shot through the crowd to where Madge was exiting.
Rue, thanks to her small figure, squeezed through the
masses of people. Madge was about to go back into the
Justice Building. She was only a few steps away.
In desperation, Rue sang out the first four notes of
the song, doing her best to make her voice carry as far
as possible. She saw Madge freeze and look around.
Rue sang the notes again. Madge was now looking
everywhere. Rue found a break in the people, and shot
into a small space several feet behind Madge.
“Here!!!” she cried.
Madge turned around. Their eyes met.
Rue saw the Peacekeepers trying to usher Madge
back inside. There wasn’t much time to say anything.
Rue reached into her shoe, to pull out her most prized
possession, a Mockingjay brooch that she had made
herself.
“I want you to have this,” she shouted.
“Catch!”
She threw the Mockingjay brooch high into the
air. Madge reached out, fumbled, but caught it. She
nodded in acknowledgement before she was once
again covered by the crowd.

Four years later, Madge’s eyes streamed with tears
during the Reaping, when the tribute from District
11 was called. It was the same girl she had met at the
orchard. Rue.
She cried even harder when Katniss Everdeen, her
best friend from school volunteered for the Games
in place of her sister, Prim. Madge knew this was the
only way to thank Rue for inspiring her with music.
Her way of saying good luck (or goodbye). And that’s
how Madge gave Katniss, the Mockingjay brooch that
became symbolic of the 74th Hunger Games.
In the arena, Rue saw Katniss sporting the brooch
that she had given Madge. That brooch became the
reason for a short, but beautiful friendship between
Rue and Katniss. The other reason why Rue knew she
could trust Katniss?
She had found out the name of the plant Madge had
given her to cure Fiona. The plant, which had leaves
shaped like arrowheads. The name of the plant was
‘Katniss’.

Fantasy
Thoughts
of amoebic proportions
Between the line of control
Drawn out as norms
By Society
And line ‘out of control’
Invisible to the human eye
Gifted by the Creator
For us to explore
Until we find heaven
Where fantasy is reality
And control
A malfunction of the mind.

Endnote
The lines I like…
I can’t believe it. These young Turks have
accomplished the unthinkable. Casted away the clichés,
went out of their comfort zones, and bared their souls.
That they were empathetic to the world around them
made it all the more compelling and heart-warming.
I have no words to describe the authors’ sensibilities
that are sprinkled generously across these pages. Only
a read will make you tune in to their frequencies.
Therefore, I end my note with a few lines that have
stayed with me long after I read the book…
She found the song inside her heart. She began playing,
slowly, but surely. This was music that she truly felt. This
was the music of the people. This was the music of the district.
The smoke fills my lungs, my blood, my mind. The initial
calm is replaced by a feeling of despair, depression, and this

heaviness in the pit of my stomach.
I will make new friends, friends who might be imaginary,
but friends who actually are the only constant in this
changing world. For friends like life, darkness, and death,
will remain with you even in your grave.

Now if you were the sunshine
I’d be your rain.

If you were feeling pleasured

I’d be your pain.
Then I turned to look outside the window and saw my
reflection in the glass. I stood up and let the woman sit.
I used the last ounce of my strength to give my beloved
master a lick on his palm and gave my beautiful golden tail,
a final wag. I had finally understood.
If you are reading this endnote and haven’t started
on the book yet, it’s time to go back to the beginning.
Happy reading, over and again!
Zahid H Javali
Co-Festival Director, The Times of India Literary Carnival, Bangalore

Design by Chandru N
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Subashnaveen Balakrishnan
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Sanjana Chandrashekar
Sanskriti Pandey
A Mary Pascaline
Vinita Govindarajan
Vidya Balasubramaniam Preetha Peter

New Generation Writers Explore Life's Complexities

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