Vol. V Issue 3Vol. V Issue 3Vol. V Issue 3Vol. V Issue 3Vol. V Issue 3 Established: 1995 Established: 1995 Established: 1995 Established: 1995 Established: 1995 Tuesday, 14th December, 2010 Tuesday, 14th December, 2010 Tuesday, 14th December, 2010 Tuesday, 14th December, 2010 Tuesday, 14th December, 2010

Sixty-three long and prolific yearsseparate the India that was oncebound in chains from the free Indiathat we reside in today, but yet, here I

am, groping, in the dark, for answers to thequestions that my scruples hurl at me and myprofessed freedom. Have we not taken a leafout of the very past that we so earnestly seemto abhor? Have we not been reliving it over thepast fifty years? I am referring to the draconianArmed Forces (Special Powers) Ordinancepromulgated by the colonial Britishgovernment in 1942 to suppress the ‘Quit IndiaMovement’ which, till date, survives andthrives under the name of the Armed Forces(Special Powers) Act in the North-East Indiaand parts of Kashmir.

The Act has been criticized by theHuman Rights Watch as a “tool of state abuse,oppression and discrimination,” and what wesee and hear around us stands testimony to thestatement. Sparks of antagonism and upheavalto repeal the Act followed its very initiationbut they were fanned into a conflagration afterthe alleged extra-judicial execution ofThangjam Manorama Devi in Manipur in 2004.While the government claims that troops needsuch powers as the north-east India of isstrategically surrounded by different countriesfrom all sides, some of which are hostile toIndia, those with power use it to accomplishtheir hidden agendas. Apart from pointlessraids, disappearances and rampant sexual andphysical torture, deliberate murders areconveniently passedon as the results ofencounters and thereis no one to raise anyquestion about thissavage brutality.

Not a stone’sthrowaway fromhome is a countrythat has not seen therays of Democracywash over its land forthe past two decades.Burma, nowMyanmar, iscurrently under thecontrol of a militarydictatorship (the

State Peace and Development Council orSPDC), who is holding Burma’s leadingadvocate for democracy hostage. Thisdictatorship overthrew a democracy to takepower in 1988 and suspended the constitution atthat time. Control is maintained throughintimidation, strict censoring of information,repression of individual rights and suppressionof ethnic minority groups. The militarydictatorship attacks its own people, killingthousands, and leaving millions displaced. Thosein opposition are either imprisoned or killed.Aung San Suu Kyi, the Nobel Peace Prizerecipient and leader of the democracy movementin Burma, is repeatedly put under arrest.* InJanuary 2009, a hundred and eleven people weresentenced by SPDC to a hundred and four yearsin prison based on laws that repress freedom ofspeech and freedom of association.

Fifty years of civil war have left Burma oneof the poorest countries in the world. Withplenteous natural resources and a literacy rate ashigh as ninety percent, Burma today still remainsdeficiently underdeveloped and backward owingto scarce employment openings, acute inflation,restricted and closely-censored internet and apower supply that lasts no longer than twelvehours in a day, that too, in the comparativelymore developed regions. Under pressure frominternational criticism, the ruling military juntahas agreed to conduct multi-party elections inNovember this year but most have decided toboycott them as the laws governing them areunjustifiably lopsided in favour of the dictators

and the results are mostlikely to be manipulated.

As a lonepowerless individual,there is little I can do forthem but somehow, Ifeel I am a part of thestruggle as my eyesnever fail to moistenwhenever I put myselfor a loved one in theirshoes. I am not ignorantand, least of all,unmindful. They say,indifference is destructionand the little we can do isspare them that.

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Vishakha Sharma, XIIVishakha Sharma, XIIVishakha Sharma, XIIVishakha Sharma, XIIVishakha Sharma, XII

Art

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11111 Weekly Newsletter of Weekly Newsletter of Weekly Newsletter of Weekly Newsletter of Weekly Newsletter of The Assam Valley SchoolThe Assam Valley SchoolThe Assam Valley SchoolThe Assam Valley SchoolThe Assam Valley School

Aranya Phookan, former Editor-in-ChiefAranya Phookan, former Editor-in-ChiefAranya Phookan, former Editor-in-ChiefAranya Phookan, former Editor-in-ChiefAranya Phookan, former Editor-in-Chief

The light at the end of the tunnel glows.I let out a sigh of relief. The long,silver body of the train passes me by.It hurtles under the low dome as faces

– hundreds of blurry faces – streak past me. Thetrain with faces. I think about what anintriguing little stop-motion I could make outof this: a train, pregnant with a thousand bodiesinside her, speeding into a metro stationovercrowded with a thousand more passengerswaiting to fill up her insides. Perhaps, a stop-motion in black and white.

I can see the passengers inside the traingetting ready to jostle their way out. Their handsare in place – glued against the back of the personin front of them. A few have their eyes fixed onthe floor of the train; they have to watch wherethey stamp their feet lest they should trip overthe slight gap between the train and theplatform. The train has now come to a halt. Thedoors slide open. Halfway through the opening,the slimmer ones have already slipped out ofthe train. Once the doors are fully open, theexodus begins...and the influx too.

Scores of people are moving in and outof the train – all at once. The doorways arejammed as people are elbowing each other outand into the train. The ones moving into thetrain are scurrying to find places to sit; theothers are darting to find corners to stand; andas for me, I have no option but to stand rightin front of the door – my face approximatelyfive inches away from the metro guidelines(graphically informative stickers in yellow)stamped on the door. It was the only space leftin the entire train.

I am not really complaining; I quite likemy 6x6 space. It’s always unoccupied as whenthe doors slide open again, people slam right intoyou as if you are invisible and then subsequently

run helter-skelter to find their own spaces. Thatrarely happens to me though. That’s becausewhen the doors slide open, the first thing I do isstep out of the train. I wait; I wait and watcheveryone push their way into the hollowinteriors of the train until I am the only oneleft. Only then do I get back inside and conquermy 6x6 space.

Once I have collected myself, it is aninterest of mine to observe people. Of course,to look around me takes some practice. It tookme a week to master the untaught art of craningmy neck without endangering myself withspondylitis. Nonetheless, I still am a people-observing dilettante. Through a little nookbetween a woman’s earring and another’sloosely-tied bun, I have in front of me a vista of1/9th of Delhi’s population. Brown, bespectacledaccountants; black and white-suited clerks;housewives balancing groceries and a wailinginfant on either arm; dishevelled students inblack, wayfarers armed with thick books; andan occasional foreigner or two who is eitheramused or disoriented by the whole experience.

And suddenly, just like that, the traincame to a halt. The overhead speakersannounced that we had reached my destinedstation. Lost in my thoughts, I quickly bracedmyself for the scuffle. The doors slid open. Ididn’t have to lift my feet – people pushed meout of the train and a few metres onto theplatform. From there, I regained control of myfeet again and dashed towards the stairs, pastthe throng of passengers running from oneplatform to the other, out of the exit gates, andup the steep escalator and into the arms of broaddaylight or rather, the backseat of a dingy auto-rickshaw.

And there, I think to myself. I can do thisover and over again.

The stones caressed by a stream,That flow so gently, like a dream.Ever so lightly, does it seem,Every foible to cleanse and redeem.

a quatrain : by Sneha Khaund, XIa quatrain : by Sneha Khaund, XIa quatrain : by Sneha Khaund, XIa quatrain : by Sneha Khaund, XIa quatrain : by Sneha Khaund, XI

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There were ripples inThe pool, but riots all around.I but, threw a stone.

a haiku : by Jai Phookan, Xa haiku : by Jai Phookan, Xa haiku : by Jai Phookan, Xa haiku : by Jai Phookan, Xa haiku : by Jai Phookan, X

It had rained through the night,In the morn the boy flew a kite,The puddles he had not seen,So engrossed he had been,That, he fell in it and what a sight!

a limerick: by: Prarthana Barua, VIII a limerick: by: Prarthana Barua, VIII a limerick: by: Prarthana Barua, VIII a limerick: by: Prarthana Barua, VIII a limerick: by: Prarthana Barua, VIII

22222 AVE AVE AVE AVE AVE Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010

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IIBe not avaricious for that morning sleep. Let notthe warmth of the quilt lull you to another hourof repose, nor be beguiled by the rising hazethat appears to be a harbinger for another

mouldy and dull day, for a moment not held may be amoment lost. So be up and about, with your walkingshoes and the ubiquitous umbrella and forget not toget the verve along…you may need it during the never-ending escalations.

You will have to jostle along with teeminghumanity. You will tread the pot-holed roads strewnwith aspirations and disappointments; you may evenskirt by hope and despair, and then, just as you are tryingto catch your breath ere you start yet another climbyou find yourself lifting your face to the sun thatpercolates through the mist – and then it appears beforeyou – Mahakal Temple, Observatory Hill, Darjeeling.Standing at an elevation of seven thousand feet, withhotels reminiscent of the days of gentle living stragglingup the steep road, is the glorious temple. A pilgrimagepoint to almost all the inhabitants of this seething town,this connect to the supernatural is, for many, the linkto salvation and a vindication of excesses.

I have never been religious and my belief in aForce or in a Prevailing Will is neither burdened noraugmented by custom. Like not a few, prayer and pleacome to me, I am not ashamed to admit, in times ofneed, and at other times, when life seems not soburdensome and the silver lining behind the cloudshines supreme, He is an avuncular figure that lookson kindly and needs no appeasement or laudations. Iam certainly not an atheist, and am too well-schooledto be a skeptic, but somehow the ceremony and religionof faith has not had much enthusiastic support fromme. So, the anticipation of this yearly pilgrimage tothis seat of fulfillment holds not much of an attractionfor me. Or so I think…

The town is crowded and the teeming tourists,a necessary evil, become an impediment. The concretejungle thickens and at every corner lurks a nasty surpriseof progress. Yet, as your feet move up towardsObservatory Hill, a strange sense of peace settles overyou. The air somehow seems clearer as you leave thepulsating multitudes behind. The old charm hasreturned like a long lost friend and both of you seemnot to have changed in the least bit. It gets into you:the allure of the place, its endearing simplicity, its manypromises and its lovely lack of sophistication. Thecomplete isolation from the hurry burry of seeking andfinding that the sleepy town revelled in, in the not-so-distant past, seems to have magically returned andbreathed to you, in a voice familiar, that sometimes oneneeds to stop and smell the flowers, or rather, sometimesone needs to walk on the steep asphalt road to meetHim.

And then the spring appears in my step and fatigueand ennui gracefully secede to the mystique of themountains.

God seems closer now, here, wrapped up in thehundred prayer flags and enveloped by the carillon of athousand bells that clash and reverberate when stirredand shaken by the wandering winds. God seems to havemoved from the vague recesses of my conscience to amore assertive position. He seems to be someone that Icould remember, if not all of the time, then, at least,most of the time and His benevolence would help meto hold in my hand something which, hitherto, seemedunattainable. The God in the great temple upon the

little hill makes me understand whatomnipresent and omnipotent mean.Faith and belief rise in me and then Ibelieve that even mountains can bemoved. My heart, filled with the senseof the divine and the inexplicable, seemsto burst, and I proudly understand thatmy presence in the scheme of things isnot incidental or accidental butProvidential. How haveI become thus reformed? Is it theresonance of the bells that the rarifiedatmosphere enhances to an almostfrenzied chant, or the whirl of theprayer flags in a myriad multitude ofcolours that creates surrealism? Is it thesmoke of the incense that rises to meetthe clouds, or the fervour of thedevotees who walk barefoot in thebiting cold? Or is it because it is my Godthere at the top of my hill upon myhome? The God that saw me throughwork and play in the little crookedstreets and the meadows filled withclover; the God that helped me to learnlessons in a cloistered classroom that,strangely, freed my mind; or the Godthat taught me that honesty was asmuch soul food as a shared plate ofsteaming momos; or, perhaps, the Godthat helped me discover that a bondcould last forever like the stain from arhododendron bloom.

Yes, here in my mountain-temple, Ifeel as I feel in no other place. My soulsurges with reverence and my beingbows in acceptance. I perform everyreligious ceremony as meticulously asthe next person and, as I throw thecrushed bloom to the foot of the shrine,I believe that what I have asked for willcome to me...more sooner than later.

I believe, here, the Gods arekinder.

Where the Gods are KinderWhere the Gods are KinderWhere the Gods are KinderWhere the Gods are KinderWhere the Gods are Kinder

Pratima ChettriPratima ChettriPratima ChettriPratima ChettriPratima Chettri

33333 AVE AVE AVE AVE AVE Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010

44444 AVE AVE AVE AVE AVE Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010Tuesday, 14th December, 2010

Robert Ackles lay upside down on a rockyroad with skin peeling off from underhis nose and fresh blood oozing out fromhis mouth which trickled down from his

chin to his chest and stained his shirt in deepred. Rob gathered up all his energy, and with along sigh, managed to sit up. There he sat, onthe cold street, trying to recall the odious andsordid incident that had brought his presentcondition upon him.

“You have been gifting me way toomany presents these days and at the same time,you are reluctant to accept them from me,”Sunday, Rob’s girlfriend had said, “I want to showyou something, but you’ve got to cover your eyeswith this handkerchief,” she continued, handinghim her polka-dotted handkerchief.

Sunday pulled him out of the restaurant.He was oblivious of where he was being taken.An ambivalence of love and excitement thrivedin him. As the car came to a halt, his excitementliterally doubled!

As the cloth was removed, he foundhimself standing amidst beautiful gardens, infront of a lovely little cottage. “How about livingin here, love?” And then it all happened! Sundayscreamed out her lungs and there was anuncomfortable cacophony of noises. Rob turnedback only to receive a knock on his nose, strongenough at least to make him fall. He saw Sundayscuttling away, as he was the current cynosurefor the robbers. More than the knock, Sundaybecame the cause of his pain. Before he couldpossibly encounter a second thought, chloroformbrought oblivion.

He remembered nothing else. Hewaited for some time before he managed to stand.

Rob trudged along the stony road. Heknew that he had been robbed as his pockets feltundesirably lighter. But money was not what hecared about. He was a multi-millionaire. He hadlost both his parents nine years ago. His sister,Jenna, was the only sunshine on a bleak day.

With an ankle swollen up twiceits normal size, he finally reached the road.Almost immediately, an old lady came upto him. The coincidence in the timing madehim feel as if the lady was waiting for him.Although she had an unusual face, sheseemed affable, “I could help you , but sincemy weak legs do not permit can you in turnhelp me a little instead?”

Rob, despite the pain, softlyreplied, “What must I do?”

Her tone changed and sheordered, “Go throw this bag...uum…overthere.” She handed over a bag to him,pointing at a waste-bin outside a familiar,or so Rob thought, beauty parlour. Theheavy bag was thrown carelessly into thebin and by the time he reached back, thelady was nowhere to be seen.

He returned home and hisservants immediately sent for a nurse after

whose arrival, Rob was well treated. It was notbefore the next morning that the unwanted newsbroke out to him. His sister had died in a bombblast. His depression got the better of him and inno more than three days after hearing about hissister’s demise, he slit the vein of his left handleading to his fatality.

Sean, Rob’s supposed friend, came to hisvilla with a sorrowful face and a grinning heart;his brains estimating recklessly all that was goingto be his.

Sean felt proud of his immense capacityfor planning. He recalled how, through the years,he had wanted to kill Robert and take over hisbusiness. He knew he was always envious ofRob’s success. He pitied Rob’s innocence whenhe recalled how, with money borrowed from Robhimself, Sean corrupted Sunday and asked herto take Rob to any place unfamiliar to him. Seansent robbers to attack Rob. He had mastermindedevery incident that had happened and had alsoruminated on the repercussions. It was on Sean’sorder that Rob was left like a lost ball in highweeds in the alley. He knew that there was onlyone way out of the alley and so he stood there inanticipation of Rob’s arrival. He had with him atime bomb, timed with precision.

After having known Rob for almost adecade, Sean knew Rob’s love for Jenna verywell. Not only did he know Rob inside-out, buthe also knew Jenna equally well. He knew thatevery Monday, Jenna would go to a beautyparlour on the outskirts of the city, so he plannedthe complete event for a Sunday evening. Hefelt that a success in killing Rob’s most dear onejust after finding out that his girlfriend was afraud, would force Rob into suicide. And it wasRob who planted the bomb and Rob whocommitted suicide. Sean was just a no-one inthe turn of events, just the second majorbeneficiary in Rob’s will.

Publisher: Publisher: Publisher: Publisher: Publisher: DHM (Educational Administration), The Assam Valley School, P.O. Balipara, Dist. Sonitpur,Asom-784101, India.Telephone:Telephone:Telephone:Telephone:Telephone: 096780-74320. E-mail: E-mail: E-mail: E-mail: E-mail:ave@assamvalleyschool.com. Printed at: Printed at: Printed at: Printed at: Printed at: Swastika Printers, Rangapara, Asom.Website:Website:Website:Website:Website: www.assamvalleyschool.com

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Art

By:

Am

biso

Taw

sik,

XI

Yashash Agarwal, XYashash Agarwal, XYashash Agarwal, XYashash Agarwal, XYashash Agarwal, X