Our Candle

Couldn’t think of a better occasion than the festival of lights itself to recall the blissful emotion portrayed in this poem we wrote a year ago. Wishing you all a happy and blessed Diwali !!

Photo by Hakan Erenler on Pexels.com

Here’s our rendezvous with a candle –

It was a normal night.

Well all nights are normal till,

And Everyone with their laptops

Me with a book in my hand

And suddenly something happened 

Actually, nothing a havoc of surprise around.

The lights went out due to a power cut,

It was somewhere 9 ‘o clock?

All of us staring and trying, setting, mushiness into right.

Even though knowing light would come again alright.

So why not wait for it to arrive?

The encumbered batteries about to drain, 

No one paying  here a sight

Not even the clouds and shudders creeping inside,

And agitation growing, dwindling inside.

Hence, a candle somewhere turned out alright. 

 Some time spent in the dark,

With the single candle being lighted and giving light,

The wax gradually melting 

But till the last moment the candle did thrive.

 And we huddled together to the warmth we found. 

The candle stood there alone and we did.

The gloom and the dark, 

The glow both defied, denied.

We took care that it glowed

Brighter than before,

Till everything went alright.

And the light came ,it sure did.

when the lights went out, we hated it

So, instead waiting for the bulb light to pop on,

We lit one right then in its sheer demise.

To have a candle ‘s light in unusual circumstance

one must take it into strangeness,

when the gloom and darkness prance.

And so did we when frightened by a sheer power cut.

And hence the sooted candle, left a grave mark. 


A question of Mathematics!

‘The winds are always cold at this hour’ Reena thought as she got up for school. She lazily scrubbed a brush over her teeth and took a bath. It was 5:30 am.

The ball of sun appeared to rise from a red lid far in the horizon. The surroundings were dark as a starless night sky and as she went to her balcony, she waited for some sounds to occur. There was the muted rush of a bike, and the ding of the morning bell of the Durga temple. Pigeons cooed in unison. But everything was silent. A pale-yellow bus roared, driving out stray dogs from its path. It pulled to a stop at the Mahanadi Society waiting for the only student from this society to board the bus. Reena waved her dad goodbye as she entered the bus.

Jiya beckoned her to the third two-seater. The bus  bellowed and took a ‘U’ turn from the stop in the opposite direction.

After thudding a little it again came to a stop. Reena wondered why the bus had stopped. Was the engine down? According to the bus Didi, it was waiting for a child ‘s mother who had forgotten to bring his art material for his drawing competition.As silence stretched, the pace of blabber and jabber among children increased. Rohan, the ‘BothersomeBoy’ of the bus, cried at a nearby hawker for some bhelpuri. Many gawked at his courageous behaviour which soon invited a spanking from the bus Didi.

‘Which papers have you got?’; Jiya asked, breaking the silence.

‘None’ Reena replied

‘And are you participating in the annual day?’


Reena felt extremely sad and out of sorts. She repelled Jiya’s questions with a No or None. Of course, Jiya soon understood.

She turned her head towards the seamless blue sky. which was dotted with fringes of red, yellow and orange. Rings of birds marched and flapped their wings, cheering the younger pack to join. Red Bulbuls chirped as quickly as they moved. Butterflies circled around the nursery. However, nothing could turn Reena ‘s attention.

Reena ‘s mathematics teacher was to give the marks of Mathematics. Rather than feeling excited or perturbed she felt a numbness settling over her. Her teacher M. R Rangarajan, was a stout lazy domineering fellow. He never taught anything nicely, and whatever he drew on the board was done with utmost listlessness. He loved moving his pot belly to an old song while also drawing the shape of a circle on the board. He never went beyond 3 questions in three days, and soon the chapter got over with children left to do the exercises on their own. He never asked for notebooks regularly but rather in the most unexpected times.

In short, he was nowhere near to a typical Mathematics Teacher.

M.R Rangarajan was called Ranjeet in the class. ‘Ranjeet Sir arrived!’ Ranjeet, a popular actor was known to play villain roles in Bollywood movies in which he ill-treated girls. But instead of terrifying girls he terrified the boys out of their wits. He believed that it was not possible for him to toil hard for grade 10 for he was too busy with grade 11 and grade 12. And that, Reena believed, was the sole cause of her thinking too hard.

Yesterday, he had left half the stack of checked papers of her class at home.  It contained Reena ‘s paper as well.

The bus reached the school. Little graders pushed themselves in to go out first. The rest of the bus meanwhile, tried to wake up from drowsiness while people like Reena tried wishes, swears, and prayers to get out of their predicament. It was the paper showing day for all other 10th graders as well as 11th and 12th but none had got a teacher like M. R Rangarajan. Or Rowdy Ranjeet Sir.

At school, everyone was excited to see their papers. In English the class topper was Priyandarshi Goel. Most had got satisfying marks in science but there were those who still requested a slight increase in marks. In Hindi, people had written all sorts of poor and “unpersuasive” answers. It was the seventh period.

Ajay, the class monitor was given the responsibility to keep a lookout for Ranjeet Sir. His arrival after all, would mark readjustment of: behaviour, changed places, desks, teacher ‘s desk in the class. There would be a readjustment of everything in the class.

‘Ranjeet Sir arrived!!’.

Everyone shuffled and moved. When Mr Rangarajan entered the class, it was super quiet. He took a stride to the teacher ‘s table and sat down waving his hand so that we could settle down as well.’ Roll no. 1’, he called out.  Reena looked around in agitation. Hers was Roll no. 4. What would she do?‘Roll no.2’ Jayeshwari was a good student and everybody cried to know her marks. Reena felt as if Jayeshwariwas stripped of her privacy. Bad or good marks, she had the first right to see them.  Roll no. 3 ‘T.C Sir!’, someone called.‘Roll no.4!’, It was a chance, a punishment or both, for Reena to be having the fourth roll no. in the school.

She approached the teacher ‘s table and drew her hand for the paper keeping her head down.

‘The paper is partially checked’

What? she thought. He made some ticks and gave marks in circles.(2),(2),(2),(3),(3),(3),(5) How could she do all the 2 mark questions right? Wasn’t that trigonometry question of 2 marks thoroughly wrong?’ Reena saw him flick and put ticks. He looked at the marking scheme and gave her 1.5 marks in that question.‘But sir, why have you given 1.5 marks in this question? It is a silly mistake for an easy question!”

‘Aah I don’t remember the question’, he said. She produced her own question paper.‘Well the marks are given for writing the steps’, Ranjeet Sir said casually. But Reena was not satisfied. There was no reason to give marks. She had copied the question in those steps and done that question wrong.

If that is how marks were being awarded in each question, with a chief carelessness and indolence then those marks did not give her any pride.

‘ Sir, if in the final examination I make the same mistake will I get 1.5 marks then?’; Reena pushed.

‘ No but you have written the ste- ‘

‘ I don’t deserve these marks as well.’, She finally stated.

Her mathematics teacher stared at her in astonishment. He wrote zero in front of the question.‘Class this is the first time, No, the second time I have discovered an extraordinary student!’, Ranjeet Sir roared.‘The first one lives in Australia today working in some bank. I always wondered that your class had some inner potential. But most of you, including those going to coaching, worry about getting more marks! Perhaps we should learn a lesson today!’; Ranjeet Sir stood up from his desk.

Reena looked at her still left unchecked paper and sighed.Life can sometimes make strange demands to oneself.

(based on a true story)



‘How is life going?’

Generally, we tend to go over those posts that talk about life.. how life is.. how life has been. One may feel like the person is penning an obituary for his/her blog. (Obviously not us )

We are going through what will be some major exams, based on a pattern in which our brothers passed their grade 10th( Which means extra long answers and less MCQs). This not a reflection of our constant complaining, perhaps it is what is coming out these days.

Tension, monotony, realization, mistakes they all seem to be a part of the cycle of life don’t they? Well right now, we are staring at those emotions in their rawest form.

So we just both want to ask What about you? If schools are hard then workplaces are harder. College may give someone constant anxiety considering you have to come across so many people( and seniors). How is life treating you?


‘It sure did cry,’

Hello this is Khushi. Today I am penning a poem describing how free soul feels crippled when it is constrained. How it feels the force of being shut down…

Amidst the dread of night,
Seeing their constrained plight
 It sure did cry - freedom

Hands forced to comply,
Tears falling down as it cried
Amidst the dead of night

Compelled to follow norms,
It felt stopped and muted, 
Seeing their constrained plight

As it observed  the caged minds,
From the seamless sky, 
It sure did cry - freedom.

Also penned for prompt at: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/17/w3-prompt-16-weave-written-weekly/ where poets were asked to pen a cascade. This was my first attempt at a cascade poem!



‘Seeking Refuge.’

If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.

A country doesn’t merely comprise its native citizens, it consists also of those seeking protection.

Each day.


Every day.

Today we will be talking about refugees. Not the economic playback right now, not the ongoing war, not on religion. Them. They are the center of basically everything. While many “consider” war and big policy announcements on their table the influx of refugees and migrants, who again become a controversial topic for countries, sees little action.

A refugee, according to the UN, is ‘someone who is forced to flee his or her country because of persecution, war or violence.’ A refugee has a well-founded fear of persecution for reasons of race, religion, nationality, political opinion and abandonment in a country, a civil war (like one extending in Syria and manifesting itself Sri Lanka right now), or they may be forced to take this path when they are not accepted by their own country. For instance, the people who came from Bangladesh to India after the 1971 war or the Bloody Syrian Civil War.

High protests against corruption, high unemployment propelled protests against the government that were brutally suppressed by the President Bashar al-Assad. This in no time plunged the country in a state of total chaos, and members of willing rebel groups as well as unwilling civilians died. The United Nations has verified that at least 350,209 civilians and combatants were killed between March 2011 and March 2021 and that number is unclear.

This seems like a perfect tale of an arrogant leader who swept the country and labelled its people as terrorists and made the ground ripe enough for several rebel groups to crawl and  integrate and form their call.

But this war saw a major creation of refugees. According to the UN there are a total 6.6 million refugees worldwide right now.

According to the UN, 5.6 million refugees are hosted by countries near Syria. Lebanon alone hosts 1.5 million refugees from Syria more than it can do. Too much inflow of refugees and lack of clarity of policy has plunged Lebanon as well in a state of total confusion.

As a responsibility to humanity, not just one country alone but all countries share the responsibility of accepting refugees and making them a part of their own country. Stranded from their homes, refugees  face challenges like Young girls being forced into prostitution, men being brutally punished and refugees facing discrimination even at international borders. In other words too many roadblocks.

‘We cannot despair of humanity since we ourselves our human beings’

Nations need to retain their humanity and see these people as assets.  These people can be armed with skills that we may not be aware of and can prove potentially good for economies. Agendas of hatred, confusion and too much false information on social media has blurred the lines between what is our duty and what is not. 

The diverse language set brought by refugees can make them good international sales marketers or maybe a highly linguistic tour guide next door. They can also be a value addition to corporations which contribute to the care and hospitality of asylum seekers and refugees and hence may need a proficient staff in languages. Also they are not a threat for the natives living in the country, they are looking out for other sorts of jobs.

Hence, it’s clear that social media, deep penetration of false fake news, and lack of policies in some countries  prevents us from fulfilling our duty as a community.  Hosting refugees is not a controversial topic among voters. When driven to rise they won’t back down.


As a German citizen said ‘ I thought it was really great that we Germans achieved when our Chancellor stated- that people can come here and that made me feel proud’ during the 2015 refugee crisis.

Even during the Russia- Ukraine war right now, countries which never accepted refugees like Hungary are accepting people in huge no.s. Refugee is not a dream but a reality. If their country stops feeling like home, should the world stop too?


Or should it not?....

What do you guys think about it? But first guess who has given the quote ‘We cannot despair of humanity since we ourselves our human beings’ A very famous person we all admire. Known for his/her mind.

This post is a continuation of the Not-So-Political Series:

  1. It could be someone or you
  2. Experts advices..
  3. Adding
  4. Still here to Stay
  5. Old crisis in the Neighbourhood
  6. Woman a citizen and worker
  7. Hearing more from the UN right now?
  8. Climate change
  9. Could you please wait one more second?
  10. An Awakening, A Wake up Call
  11. ‘Not-so- Political After all!’
  12. Just a tag?

The Good Ol’ Days

This is a short collab with Veera- a poem that came out on its own after long mulling about the Good Old days when we spent a great time to play!

I remember four years ago,
When studies were irrelevant,
When going out and sweating
And playing was important.

Cricket in the morning,
Swimming at twilight,
Football in the evening
And basketball at night.

I remember four years ago
When sleeping did count,
Eyes drowsing innocent,
And blinking up with vigor

Sweat in the hot sun I did,
As every muscle I strained
To give my all in every sport
I played without disdain.

I played without any disdain,
Of yester’s fights,
Enjoying every bit,
In today ‘s sunshine.

And brows drawn
To create something new,
And mind busy on
‘How to add more fun?’

To this question arrived
An answer in games
Invented by young minds
That gained immediate fame

Immediate fame they gained,
Twere played again and again,
New kids learnt them all,
Ne’er forgetting the maker ‘s name.

Police and thief, a classic,
That I shall never forget,
Where I remember infiltrating “prisons”
To free jailed suspects.

Ice and water,
Running with madness
To save ourselves from ice,
To unfreeze our friends left.

Capture the flag we chose
To play when many gathered,
Capture the flag we had to,
The guards a spot of bother.

The grimmest places
Were the best hideouts,
When lights went out,
It was a chance to tread out.

But when all else didn’t matter,
A good ol’ game of squash did,
Smashing footballs onto the walls,
Ignoring angry parents’ cribs.

And when armed with agility,
The best runners were picked,
They overcame the trail of chasers,
The hills and blocks it contained.

Ah those were the good days
When the desk mattered not,
When sweating in the sun
Was quite worth the effort.

-The Forgers of Fantasy
-Kunjal(Duo Disseminators)

The bolded responses are those by veera!😃. Check out his post


Written for Sadje ‘s prompt. A poem by Khushi_M

Prompt pic

In search for a home,

Found solace in mind,

Oblivious to how this would be lost,

In a very short time .


Like  invasion of countries

The mind attacked

By others taunts,comments 

By worthless spats 


No missiles, no bombs

Their words did it all,

To shatter the mind,

To break up its walls 


Unconscious explosions

Grasping my pain

Losing my home, 

I was on the streets again


‘Could you please wait one more second?

‘ Yes could you?’ asked the frightful man to the judge.

‘This spot is quite uncomfortable’

The prosecutor, Draco Phillius * retorted a tone  ‘ And why wouldn’t you be uncomfortable?’ With the black coat swinging and his golden golden wig almost falling Draco swiveled around to face the judge.

‘ So Sam Wenneth, on the night of 16th of October, you were found to be trespassing in the orchard of Williams Penagofler. Did you or did you not steal an apple?’

‘ I did not steal an apple! Yeah, I nicked one out. As a matter of fact, it was evening and Williams Penagofler is no longer alive! Many people visit it!’

Draco Phillius showed his golden teeth and started to pursue in a dramatic way, a long yellow page. ‘ Err as a matter of fact, under Draco ‘s law’. He stumbled and corrected himself ‘ Athens law.   It was dark enough to be called nighttime! And you are there to represent your charge!’

‘The punishment for robbery’ Draco stopped to enunciate ‘under the well known rule of law is DEATH! The judge stood up suddenly and mumbled an ‘ Order Order’ and went away yawning. The man is pushed and taken away by the guards. He is stupefied because the charge is minor and the punishment is harsh.

Does this ring a bell?In the city of Athens, Draco, a man with an unbelievable twisted mind wrote laws that protected the well established nobility and attacked the poor people with severe punishments like Death. Today we use the term ‘draconian’ to describe many laws that generally infringe upon the human rights of individuals,and they leave the doors open to arbitrary interpretation and prosecution. The vague wording of a law also has an adverse impact on framing of the charge against the accused.

We have many laws such as PTA( Prevention of Terrorism Act) in Sri Lanka, Sedition law, UAPA law, Public Safety Act in India, the recently passed Hong Kong National Security Law in China and their usage has been indeed worrying as statistics show.

The basic rights of people such as the right to have fair representation before a court, the right to be produced before a court, the right to free trial etc are being viciously attacked.

These exceptions are often made for terrorists or ‘disturbing’ elements in the society, but at the same time generously empower the government to designate anyone as disturbing or terrorist.

We all know that security laws are essential in ensuring public law and order. However, an essential feature of a developed society are protests, people, and democracy. Draconian features seeking to empower governments to a very large extent over ‘public order and good’ may turn obsolete and not in line with the society which we all seek to dream about.

QOTD: USA is such am amazing country! After reading this, what according to you really makes it wonderful? freedom or prison?

This is a continuation of our illustration series:

  1. It could be someone or you
  2. Experts advices..
  3. Adding
  4. Still here to Stay
  5. Old crisis in the Neighbourhood
  6. Woman a citizen and worker
  7. Hearing more from the UN right now?
  8. Climate change

‘ Memories~ a short story’

Hey there this is me kunjal😃. We both have been tad busy with 10th grade. A new chapter that is Offline class has been so far, both exciting ( not gonna lie!) as well as tiring.

This is my first attempt in writing a sci- fiction story😃. It is titled Memories.


They can be tricky can’t they?




The camera followed the girl with pigtails. She was dumping clothes in a jute bag. There were clothes of all colors and all types- ragged blue jeans, a small blue skirt overflowing with jasmines, a small lily adorned t-shirt peeked from the bag and they were getting under, by the inflow of more clothes. The camera stopped at the girl who was busy dumping clothes. Her curly brown hair were tied in pigtails and her cheeks had the red colour of spirit and excitement. Her fishy eyes opened and closed without staying anywhere, but the black tiny eyeballs- as they moved hither and thither- had tinge of elation and happiness in them. Her fingernails were painted in colours of pink and purple which often ran above to scratch her hair but not in thought and her other hand moved above to rub the head of sweat which was not there. She stopped and the camera which was just a dreamless blue eye flickered with a higher speed. A shrill voice ran through the air and made the eye stumble- ‘ Maya! Come here and have your breakfast!’.


Maya rubbed her head fiercely and ran out of the room. The eye emerged out from behind the bedpost, not without the appearance of an image of a short girl applying some goo at the bedpost. It settled in front of the wardrobe. The camera had a special ability. It could look at anything and conjure up images related to that thing. The image could be any memory. Memory was information. With the exception of very few memories, most could be produced. For a memory, however lost in the mist, remained stored in some compartment of the mind. It was not difficult to navigate. The camera settled before a pink t shirt that was strewn across the floor. Maya had dropped it when her mother called her. Strong geoseptic rays-strong signals-were coming from it. The camera ‘s eyeball turned violet as it focused on the t-shirt absorbing the rays. It focused on the  mark of ink near the bottom of the t-shirt. An image flowed before the camera- and in a memory beckoned.

Maya was 5 and holding a pen. Her eyes were staring ahead and her brows were shot up. She was holding a pen- a pilot pen and sunlight came through the windows lightning up her eyes even further. Drops of ink were falling from the pen at a paper resting below it and she looked scared. The image vanished and another came- the eye turned and focused on a large brown mark which had discoloured. Maya was bending down pushing the bottom of her t-shirt towards her knee. The part of the t-shirt was red.

 The camera focused on all the odd shades, marks, blotches, as small as dots and even tears at some places. It turned vigorously.  Memories- images flew across the eye -maya eating a burger, in maya falling down the pavement, maya falling down with her bicycle- it was a pink Hero bicycle-, maya chewing the cloth of her t-shirt while eating, maya dancing with her eyes closed, maya snoring and saliva dripping out of her mouth- her hand gripping the bedpost, maya holding a knife and standing with a woman in what appeared to be a kitchen , maya holding a blue ball pen and drawing behind an advertisement, two little girls in kitchen touching the knife.

In some pictures she wasn’t there at all. When it was just water and bubbles. The images moved with a high speed and

The camera stayed still as pictures flashed before it even before they could be read. The t-shirt had strong geoseptic signals which meant strong memories which meant that people still remembered some of  them  very strongly while they were stored inside.

‘ Thank you mommy!’ a frantic voice ran in the air and Maya was returning back. The camera turned and  took a look at the knob of the door as it turned and another image flashed before it a brief image which flickered out very soon. A man bent in front of the door.

The camera blinked and hid behind the bedpost and waited. Maya closed the door as she entered and strode ahead to her wardrobe scratching her hair. The t-shirt came before her feet and she looked at it. The camera blinked at her from the bedpost. She picked up the t-shirt, and after moving it for some time, threw it into the jute bag.



~Kunjal Gupta.


‘Running- a short story’

   hey this is kunjal.

Another attempt to write.

Not sure if it’s good. But would love to chat with you in the comments.🙂   .



. ‘Running’

There once lived a princess in a beautiful palace. The palace towered over the entire town and its red domes teared through the sky reflecting light everywhere but on its own. The palace belonged to the ruling family of Mysore that is the Wodiyars. The eleven year old  princess was never happy unlike everyone who visited or stayed in the palace. She was consumed in an undefinable sadness and gloom, but it was not a mystery to be unraveled for many. No one knew she was unhappy. Her father, her mother told, never wished to have a daughter… And she often felt some lingering disappointment whenever she caught him glancing at her.


She remembered the celebrations of Dasara. The whole town had lit up in joy and happiness. Her father ‘s court was highly entertained. There was an act of magic performed by a father and a son. It was very good and entertaining, and she had even clapped for their performance. The son had winked at her and she had giggled. The son’s father had patted his head and with arms around his shoulder proceeded out of the court with gold coins. She remembered her long stare of envy.


Shades of dismay did come with delight. But they were momentary and when they passed, she was left alone with her self-inflicting thoughts.. Wealth didn’t satisfy her, even if it made her feel pleasant for sometime. She wanted to go out and do things. And the idea of not doing them again brought wings of sadness into her.


There was an intruder though who always took space in her thoughts…. For instance, while she was eating her breakfast, deep in thought and took up her cloth to tap her mouth, there it was. A message sprawled on the cloth.

                           ‘Don’t be sad’

She turned her chair to the curtains which were blowing as the wind was open. Her father raised his brow at her. She started eating, filled with thought.

Again, it happened. While she was in her room, marveling at the thought of the busy markets, while her mother braided her hair, she saw a message on her comb.

               ‘ Don’t think too much’

It happened many times. And at odd places. She always saw the messages and her sad thoughts disappeared the moment she read them. One time she saw a funny message  which said


‘Don’t wish too much’

 She began to suspect that there was an intruder who observed her and became excited at the thought. It somehow felt that those messages kept up fire of hope lit inside herself despite the dreariness of the caged palace.


 But once she was too sad. Grief had overpowered her as it never usually did and threatened tears out of her eyes. She had heard her father and mother shouting at each other. And the subject was she, initiated by her father.


The itching was long. The pain was immense. She felt she could never impress upon her parents. Her mother spoke of business, her dress, her jewelry and princes of which she performed with utmost obedience… Now they wanted her married off to a prince, the subject of their discussion being the richer groom! They never had emotions which attached them to her.

And maybe neither did she..

 Her feet trudged and slipped to the top of the tower and at last she reached the opening of the endless spiral.

The fresh air greeted her and wrapped around her. She felt its strong hold, and she was too weak to gather power..

And she finally did what no room in the chambers of the palace could provide for. She cried… tears rang in the air. She wished for the intruder to show up again… With another message.. Before she even finished her thought, she saw a message in little hand, on the bottom of her handkerchief. It said

                                ‘Don’t jump’

‘But what if I do it?’, she asked herself. Afterall, the messages knew exactly what happened in her mind.


‘But what if I do it?’, she again repeated as she walked forward. Her silken blue gown trudged behind, like water receding from the shore. The little eyes, now dried, peered again at the handkerchief. But she found it completely blank this time. There wasn’t any intruder. There was no wish inside her to see the message again. To correct the wrong thoughts, the wrongdoings,to feel unhappy. Wasn’t it bad to feel weak? Wasn’t what her father always said in his little rhyme to her;

Mental and physical;

Emotional and unbent,

It is strength which keeps you going,

When you feel you can grown no more,

God promised you for growth

For light of the day,

And the dark of the day

The strength is you.


– The little girl ‘s imagination had played with her mind. There was no intruder.. No one who cared to intrude..

And it was completely settled then. She jumped. The silken fabric left the floor.


    The sky grew dark,

              The stars pound to mark’

     The feeble light I remember,

Eyes closed forever..





. Let ‘s chat in the comments. Did you like the short story?

~ Kunjal Gupta


check out the previous post here