The Last Bench - Aysha Nizar

The Last Bench

Aysha Nizar

Behind his back, a girl would always watch,

from the last bench where silence kept her company.

Every day she came to that dreaded place,

not for the lessons, but for a glimpse of his face

the only spark that gave her reason to stay.

It wasn’t just his face she admired,

but the sleepy eyes that held hidden worlds,

the careless smile that lit shadows away,

the small, endearing habits

That made him quietly unforgettable.

She saw him more than she saw anyone else,

Yet never once could she speak.

Her voice would vanish,

her mind turning into blank pages

whenever his presence drew near.

Still, she carried him in her secret skies,

painting his laughter like constellations,

holding him close in a place

where courage was never needed.

And then

without a word, without a glance

he left.

The boy she adored slipped away,

leaving her with nothing but silence.

Now, the tiny hope she carried each day

has dissolved into a single tear,

falling quietly,

like the goodbye she never got to say.

Yet in the quiet corners of memory

she still sees him

a fleeting light,

a gentle ache,

a boy who never knew

He was someone’s whole universe.

An Ode to the Victorian women - Sanjana Manoj

An Ode to the Victorian woman

Sanjana Manoj

Oh my lady, your modesty amazes me not as Saint Lucy, 

But as a dove in the golden aviary.

Did you accept your fate to be choked in those corsets? 

Or did their notion of honour blind you? 

Did they only cherish you for your coyness and petite waist? 

Did they ever adore you for who you were, not who they wanted you to be?

Didn't you long for the life beyond virtue and marriage, 

A life beyond the walls of the castles and drawing rooms? 

Would they still love you my lady, 

If you did pen your heart out like a muse?

If you did speak out fiercely like the Great Fire?

If you did desire, not a ring but the pleasure to be in the arms of your choosing? 

If you did rage out like a storm refusing to be caged? 

Oh my lady,

Will you rewrite your story with ink, to tell the truth that guzzled your blood and flesh,

If the pen of a second chance reached your hand?

All the sounds between us - Maria Deepu

All the Sounds between Us 

Maria Deepu 

 Whilst walking to the very embodiment of hell - where I torture my body six days a week (the gym, of course) .

I was livid with myself.

Unlike the other times when the jazz soothed my soul, this time it was just me, my thoughts, and the city’s miserable orchestra.

The vroom-vrooms of impatient cars, the howling wind, the chappals dragging across roads riddled with more holes than a sieve, the honks that came from every direction- each onescraped my nerves raw. 

Yet, beneath the chaos, there were sounds softer, almost secret... themuted bickering of a couple in their car, leaves fighting for dear life in the unpredictable wind,the gentle grrrs of stray dogs keeping me company.

If one blurred their eyes, the streetlights became orbs of vermillion, gamboge, viridian, and white- glittering like restless spirits on the very edge of sight.

The pebbles pecked at my feet, begging to be tossed away. Mid-50s aunties stared ; half inawe, half in horror as I trudged along with my gym bag slung on one side like an unwilling pilgrim.

I judged everything I passed. The pink sofas lounging in the furniture store, glass chandeliers that gleamed like deceit, the clothes draped on deathly still mannequins, the dusty cars, the glowing cigarette tip, the gritty bumps underfoot that turned this walk into a reluctant hike. None escaped my judging eyes.

And through it all, I fumed- combusting quietly over a mortal bond I could not fix. Each notification sent my heart skittering between anticipation and cowardice. How terrifying, how absurd is it that a few pixels of light could make or break me.

The pebbles were screaming by now. The white dust on the stairs lay proudly, refusing to move-daring me to care .Then a soft meow. The cat. That evil little incarnation pulled me in. Icrouched, let her purr in my hands, and felt something soften.

 The mortal who made me love this creature, how do I fix that bond when I myself am broken?

Almost sensing my question, she leapt from my lap. With a tilt of her head and an indifferent glance she moved on to her next target- the tired banker.

I sighed, removed my chappal, freed the grateful pebbles, and put it back on. And at last, I reached hell.

It was not dare I say- bad at all.

With questions unanswered and every life form judged, I laced up my shoes and ran, hoping to fix the bond. And maybe even me.

GenZ: An Era of Neo-Renaissance- Jiya S. Divan

Every time period in history is paused and read by certain markers. Every era has its own character. A silhouette derived from an amalgamation of all its quirks and queries.

So, what represents us? What will history say about the famed techno babies? Genocides. Female violation heightened due to rape culture and unregulated porn. Distortions due to unrestricted social media usage. Pandemics. The rise of technology andthe decline of humanity. Coming here and proclaiming this generation to be a second Renaissance, or a much awaited Revival would be like slathering mud and laughing in my own face.I mean, why would it be any of those things?

Maybe because of the millions of voices worldwide that resonated across the strings of patriarchy and political polarization that holds the community in its poisoned hold. Be it uproars against systemic violence, or screams from wounds resultant of ambushed autonomy, to realizations learned at the risk of life and truths that seek to reclaim identity.

What makes it different from the countless wars fought over skies and seas and across seasons since the dawn of time?Awareness. We are a society shaped and driven by heightened awareness as compared to any previous generation. Gen Z functions as a double edged sword; a blade that seeks to radically dismantle the prevalent injustice, sometimes drawing its own blood to cleanse the space to breathe anew.

Daughters wearing the fabric of their mothers' youth. Some might call it vintage aesthetic -for the stories smudged in dust and silk. They listen to voices woven in the strands; lullabies,laughter, a faint ring of anklets. Dreams caged in the golden embroidery. Faint screams still echoing through the ripped edges. Clinging scents of childhood summer winds and monsoon skies. They wear this, spinning tales of newfound purpose and liberation.

Sons shedding the sins of their forefathers. Boys learning to hold hands and trace lines upon skin, born of wonder and affection, as opposed to the violent bruises of standard norms.Boys learning to taste the salt of their tears and read reflections in the bathroom mirror. Boys growing up to sever the narrative of female counterparts being simply an extension.

While the mount of technology threatens human morality, it also paves the way for digital art,communication and varied self expression. With the right guidance, A.I. can become a most useful tool to visualise and manifest newfound imagination. Technology has enabled humans to test the bounds of what is considered impossible, from simulating consciousness in machines to touching the cosmos and glimpsing history.

Contemporary literature was ushered in, the young generation being the eye of the storm,with nothing escaping it's transparent gaze. Every phenomena and emotion and catastrophe found their mark within quill and parchment- or rather, laptops and ipads. Historians of another period would revive and recount this transformation: a transparency that arose to challege systems running throughout centuries. Be it the meme culture or tumbler posts or instagram posts, the youth uses humour both to heal and to expose.

And so, Gen Z came forward. A generation that was cut and stabbed by the jarred ends of unspoken hurt. A broken generation that refused to shatter, refused to hurt or be hurt further and instead solidified its own sharp edges as protective wards.

Days Of Our Lives: The Young Adult Phase- Sanjana Manoj

On a rainy Friday last year, I achieved my most wanted goal – turning eighteen. The current me wonders what all the fuss about turning eighteen was, as a year later, I still find myself—body and soul—stuck in those lockdown days.

As I mentioned, turning eighteen was indeed a goal I had. Being a single child and also the youngest among my cousins, I often used to look up to my brothers and sisters. They studied hard, and some of them are even placed at famous companies. To me, with age came respect and the space to express one’s views. So, a younger me was quite convinced that being an adult—or reaching adulthood—meant gaining some sort of power.

But as I reached high school, I realized that as age increases, so do the difficulties in our life. After high school graduation, I again had a false idea—that in college, both I and the people I met would be mature, as we were now young adults. But I was wrong again. One year into college, and I am still a teenager with very little maturity, surrounded by people just like me.

But things have changed a bit. I often find myself critically analyzing things around me, which for me is a sign of maturity.

The thing is, the young adult days for all of us are often a time of confusion. We are not yet fully adults in our minds, but sometimes we are expected to act like one. On the other hand, we don’t always get the space to express ourselves completely or have a say, because at that time, we are still expected to be teenagers. With all these confusions, we are expected to behave according to society, which can be overwhelming.

We are not arrogant or back-talkers but people in a tough stage of life. The beauty of this stage is that we automatically adjust to the things that happen in life. We learn to accept our fate, and we will always fight for ourselves in any situation.

Like Greg in The Wimpy Kid, we often crave recognition and a place for ourselves in society. I, in particular, like to take up responsibility to showcase my potential and be a responsible individual. Everyone loves recognition, but being recognized for something unique within oneself is truly special. That is what we as young adults need—to gain some recognition in our own unique arena.

No one is perfect. Everyone has to cope with themselves and evaluate their life constantly. But this stage of life—when you meet some good people and learn new things—is when it’s okay to make mistakes, because this is the time you change and adapt the most.

It is hard to live through this phase of life, but it is the time we will all remember for the rest of our lives. All the moments—whether sweet or bitter—will be a treasure to remember. Amidst all this confusion and rapid change in and around me, this young adult phase will always be my greatest achievement.