JT FILES XVII V3

Lahore Grammar School for Boys, Senior Boys Branch
364 - E- I, M. A Johar Town, Lahore. Ph: 35165647-50 Fax: 35165651
Email: lgsboys@yahoo.com & office@lgsjt.com
Website: https://www.lgsjt.com

EDITOR’S NOTE
I write this note at a time when I
would much rather be enjoying my
vacations after countless sleepless
nights, owing to two years of A-levels.
Of the two years I have spent at JT,
this is the first time I have been asked
to express my feelings for the institution,
and while I knew that this was
bound to happen, I am unprepared.
Throughout this time, my friends and
I could not wait to leave this place and
go to college , but now that we finally
managed to do so, we find it hard to
leave what we have called -as clichéd as it sounds- our second home.
Before I go on to say anything else, I would first like to thank my coeditor,
Ali Ejaz, for sticking by my side, and for working with me on this
magazine. Here’s to you, Ali, for all the times we avoided going to sir
Yahya’s office! It hasn’t really been very productive, but it has certainly
been a fun ride! I would also like to thank my successors, Fadil Hashmey
and Abdullah Moeen, for completing what I had left undone, and for
bringing this magazine into publishable form.
Asking me to gather all my feelings about JT and put them in a few short
paragraphs is absurd, to say the least; for I have felt the most outrageous
combinations of feelings at times during my stay at JT. It has been nothing
short of a roller coaster ride. However, as much as I would like to
say otherwise, not a single moment spent here has been meaningless.
Victories were enjoyed and mistakes were made, but I don’t think I can
complain because I have not passed on any opportunity to try something
new. Coming late to Maths class and having to do 20 pushups for committing
the offence; doing anything, besides actually studying in
Chemistry class and as a result, scoring a C in every test; asking the stupidest
of questions in Physics class and getting bistified by sir Azhar;
trying to make sense of what the numbers in Further Maths class meant
and spending the next two hours crying about why I had taken this subject.
To put it simply, I have had it all at JT, and I don’t have a single regret,
because I had clear head before every decision I made and I believe
in standing by a decision once it has been made because JT has inculcated
in me the virtues of steadfastness, honour and determination.
Through this note, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to
my teachers for all the troubles I may have caused, and at the same time,
I would like to sincerely thank them for being the best that I have ever
come across, in all my years of schooling. The A-level coordinator, Miss
Fareeha deserves all the praise in the world for her constant support
throughout my two years here. Goes without saying that this note would
be incomplete without my utmost gratitude for Miss Faiqa. Ma’am, I cannot
thank you enough for appointing me as the Chief Editor. Ms. Faiqa’s
strength and vision is perhaps what defines JT. I would also like to thank
Dr. Nighat G. Khan for her support.
Lastly, I would like to thank you fine gentlemen, for making my stay here
at JT worthwhile. I could have gotten education and knowledge from any
other institution, but the brotherhood and the comradery that I found
here is unparalleled. You have stood by my side through my triumphs,
as well as my defeats. I dread to think what these two years would have
been without you people
Finally, for one last time, Shaaba JT!
Signing off,
Mohammad Furqan Lodhi
Editor – Class of 2017
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CO-EDITOR’S NOTE
My academic years have not always
been the smoothest of rides. O levels
were a tumultuous ride to say the
least and a lot of it depended on my
own ability due to certain realities at
the time. A level has been hectic, to
say the least. The past 4 years have
been a journey of epic proportions.
The past two specifically have been
memorable. . However, most importantly,
they have been some of the
most important and impactful years
to me as a person. In this, a huge
role has been played by this great institution. There have been many aspects
to the JT experience for me, and I would think, for all the readers
of this publication. Highs and lows, laughter and tears, friendship and
rivalry, joy and grief – this school has been the full package. And while
all this can be chalked up to the regular flux of life, what makes JT different
is that everything has been significant. There has been nothing of
my years here that I would ever call meaningless. Thus, it was a challenge
compiling this edition of the magazine. After all, if JT is different and
significant, its magazine would have to be too. It has been the privilege
of the editorial team that our school community has stepped up to the
task as usual and given us contributions that have allowed us to make
the magazine exactly that: meaningful.
No matter what, everyone finds their niche, and it’s because of this that
JT feels so much like home: everyone has a place. I hope that comes
across in our efforts and happy readings.
Signing off,
Ali Ejaz
Co-Editor – Class of 2017
At the risk of deviating from the aim of this note, I will take the liberty of
saying that the most amazing thing about this institution is not its diversity,
but the fact that it has been able to integrate students from every
corner of this country and a wide cross section of the socio economic
spectrum. JT may not be perfect, but it is a beautiful example of equality.
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THE EDITORIAL BOARD
THE DIRECTOR
English:
Furqan Lodhi
Ali Ejaz Mir
Fadil Hashmey
Zaid Ahmad Qureshi
Sahibazada Daniyal Ali
Syed Ali Abbas
Muhammad Araheem Abaid
Urdu:
Abdul Rehman Virk
Zohaib Babar
Muhammad Faheem
Rana Balaj Haider
MRS. SAMINA RAHMAN
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FROM THE DESK OF
O LEVEL PRINCIPAL
I have been trying for a few days now, to
write something about my section……..
Another year full of events & activities just
comes to an end and it seems it had just
begun; LGS JT Senior Boys Branch is a dynamic
group of young scholars who are full
of energy and dreams….!
Their willingness to achieve is so contagious
it keeps us going!!
It is their eagerness to excel which keeps us
motivated;
it is their enthusiasm to push harder which keeps us on our toes!
It is their commitment which forces us to whole heartedly be there for
them!
It is their untiring desires to learn which keeps our faculty updated all
the time!
It is their dedication to excel which leaves us searching for new horizon
constantly.
It is their keenness to win and zeal to experience which leads to such an
eventful sports program and a much diversified co-curricular calendar.
And hence this manifold program where the kids are given the opportunity
and means to choose and experience their destinations; where we
are flexible to innovate and make changes to our program to support
their learning: a program where the student is of paramount interest
where the “hero” is the student and where everything revolves around
this hero.
We have been adding new subjects to our program and are continuing to
do so. We are a program where the vision is “a responsible yet a passionate
citizen”, a leader who has all the leadership qualities yet is humble
and forthcoming to his juniors ….
Where the students have unparalleled academic achievements and yet
their hearts beat for the lesser privileged members of their society.
Where sportsmen know how to compete and win but have the sportsman
spirit to gracefully lose!
Where our gentlemen of LGS JT know how to pick the trophies but also
know how to support winning teams when they lose! ........and they do so
gracefully.
Where they learn to accept challenges that life throws towards them but
also celebrate their success.
Throughout the academic year they continue to do us proud by bringing
accolades and trophies they win in numerous interschool events and
at the end of the year they once again make all our efforts worthwhile
by getting excellent results both in the internal and external examinations:
yes I do feel proud, but am humbled at the same time to announce
another year of glorious result, where we not only managed to achieve
excellent results cross sectional but also managed to bag a total of seventeen
distinctions.
We believe and celebrate happy, contended, successful resourceful and
confident young scholars!!
Dr. Nighat G. Khan
Principal
O Levels Section
LGS JT Senior Boys Branch
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FROM THE DESK OF
A LEVEL PRINCIPAL
Dear Students,
This school year 2015-16 has received its
curtain call as we recollect the events that
comprised it. The year proved to be very successful
with regards to academics, college admissions,
co-curricular events and achievements
in sports, making us joyful, while also
providing a framework to consider the areas
in which much still needs to be done such as
in social work or innovative thinking. The
value of acquiring an education and of attaining
knowledge, especially self-knowledge,
cannot be over emphasized. Students are encouraged to try and discover
what they have been made for and to indefatigably work to achieve excellence
in their field of endeavour. On the one hand, we hope to engender
increased independence and on the other, the practice of empathy
and responsibility. Moreover, our students must value and honour both
the Arts and the Humanities. This, in turn, will produce young gentlemen
of strong, compassionate character, capable of attaining success in
a world which is becoming increasingly more diverse and fast-paced.
At Lahore Grammar School (Johar Town) you find opportunities to
enjoy both a rigorous academic environment and a rewarding cocurricular
programme. The overall personality of my sons is formed
and polished by their treading the fine line between study and action.
While a school magazine helps to record the curricular journey of the school
in the preceding year, providing an opportunity to students to showcase
their talent and explore their creative potential, the latter themselves also
are a living legacy of their experiences in the safe haven of their house.
On many an occasion, we have celebrated our pupils’ achievements,
whether this may comprise of academic distinctions, excellent grades
and outstanding SAT scores or the power of debate or declamation,
dramatic talent, sporting prowess or contributions to their community.
Most importantly, the aim of education is to teach students to think, not
what to think. When students learn to fill both their own life and that of
others with the light of positivity along with striving to touch the zenith of
academic and extra-curricular excellence, it is a cause for celebration. Yet
there are other measures of a man that become evident at times after graduation,
once he embarks upon the journey of practical life. These include
character traits such as grace under pressure, magnanimity and sensitivity
for the less privileged, tolerance and civic sense as well as love for your country
to name a few. Let us together envision a productive school year ahead,
one in which students are ready to infuse the effort and spirit required for
the attainment of personal and institutional or even national goals. Strive
for excellence, for self-satisfaction and seek opportunities to blaze new
trails. Have faith in yourself as I have full faith in my sons, knowing that they
will make me proud yet humble of their achievements in the year ahead.
Miss Faiqa Afzal
Principal
A Levels Section
LGS JT Senior Boys Branch
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A-Level Faculty
Session 2016-2017
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O Level Admin Office
A Level Admin Office
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Co- Curricular Department
M. Yahya Cheema
Co-Curricular Head
Shehroze Ali Jan
Activity Incharge
The Counseling Department
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Custodian Staff
364 - E- I, M. A Johar Town, Lahore. Ph: 35165647-50 Fax: 35165651
Email: lgsboys@yahoo.com & office@lgsjt.com
Website: https://www.lgsjt.com
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JT Artography
Art speaks where words are unable to explain.” This academic year, LGS JT
held the third edition of the art-and-media competition, Artography. Unlike
the previous years, this event saw competitors from both ‘O’ and ‘A’ Levels.
Being held from the 21st to the 23rd of October 2016, the event saw the participation
of over 20 schools and 200 students. This accomplishment could
have not been made possible if it wasn’t for the efforts of Muhammad Hannan
and Jahanzaib Shaukat (Event heads), the productiveness of the art department
and the enthusiasm of the entire management.
The event itself had 11 different categories- Still life, Graffiti, Replica, Nail
art, Poster making, Thematic art, Landscape, Short Filming, Photography
(previously captured), Photography (on Spot) and documentaries. Beginning
right after noon, the participants were free to express their passion,
whether it was on the paper or behind the lens. Be it acrylics, water colour,
pen or pencil, the artists didn’t hesitate to show their true potential. The
competition provided a unique learning experience for the artists as they
were able to learn from their fellow participants. Needless to say, everyone
was having a tense but enjoyable time.
The three days were packed with paintings, videos and photographs. Tense
the students worked to their best extent, giving their all. Each of the three
days ended with entertainment sessions which were enjoyable for both the
management and the participants. However, the scavenger hunt was the
highlight of the entertainment sessions. In the end, there was palpable silence
as each participant waited anxiously for the result.
The art categories were judged by Dr. Ajaz Anwar (a renowned artist of Pakistan)
whereas the media categories were judged by esteemed photographer,
Osman Pervaiz Mughal and talented actor Sarmad Khoosat. The completion
was tough but in the end there could be only two winners bagging
1st and 2nd prizes. Various schools went home with awards but it was LGS
Defence who bagged the Best Delegation trophy.
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JTEC & CURIOUSITY
A large number of delegates attended the two events, including Aitchison
College and LGS JT Girls to name just a few. Add to that the many talented
members of the hist team, and the two days were filled to brim with hotly
contested battles with each team vying to prove itself better than the competiton.
Consisting of 4 rounds, Idea Presentation, Ad and Poster Design, Salesmanship
Round, and last, but certainly not least, Curiosity Trivia, the two days
were a result of the efforts and hard work put in by the event heads Wali Salman
and Rana Abdul Raffay along with their management team who did
their utmost in making the event a success.
All in all, perhaps the best Businees and Science Event in all of Lahore that
was the fruit of the endless hours of labour of the talented students at LGS JT.
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Rick Bragg once said ‘ Every life deserves a certain amount of
dignity, no matter how poor or damaged the shell that carries
it.’ This was the idea behind LGS JTs’ community service event.
Making a return to the centre stage to once again bring to the
spotlight the selfless nature of the students at LGS JT, JTSTC
(2.0), brainchild of Taha Babar, reprising his role this year as
the Community Service Representative, was bigger and better
than before.
By moving it on from a measly two day event, the management
team turned it into a three day event with barely a minutes’
reprise as all three days were packed to the brink with
tons of stuff to do.
JTSTC
The first day began with the showing of an animated movie,
followed by a short, yet highly entertaining performance by the
drama society of LGS JT, which was succeeded by a number of
highly improvised skits by the delegates. Meanwhile however,
the management team proved up to the task provided to them
by discreetly marking each team according to how well they
were looking after the orphans that were present in the school.
The second day truly proved why this event deserves a name
in the Hall of Fame. An astounding turn up of well over 400
delegates saw each and every one of them volunteering with
the physically and mentally disabled in what was, Needless to
say, a truly heart warming sight.
The third and final day saw a shift of focus from the volunteering
activities as it have rise to a special children Olympic,
followed by a praise worthy Sufiana performance by the JT
Musical Society.
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Later that day a number of teams presented their documentaries
and presentations, before the Closing ceremony brought an
end to this prestigious event. While a host of different institutions
won in their respective categories, there can only be one
overall winner. The Best Delegation award was bagged by Sicas
Girls, who truly deserved this award on account of their hard
work.
Before the event the management had promised that they
would make sure the Special children had the time of their life,
and Needless to say they fulfilled that promise magnificently, as
each and every one of them worked hard to give the children
great memories to cherish for years to come.

O Level Annual PLAY
Collaborating for the third time with Shah Fahad, LGS JT produced
what may have been one of the finest adaptations of an Urdu short
story on a high school level in Pakistan. Adapting “Shatranj Ke
Kiladi” for the stage (which was originally penned by Munshi Premchand
and later brought to celluloid by the film guru Satyajit Ray)
could have easily been a ruinous error. However, the JT Illusionists
managed to flesh out a play that kept the essential ingredients of
the short story intact while also adding some spice of originality.
This was a play that relied on both its source materials heavily: the
short story by Premchand and the screenplay of the film version by
Ray.
As a core member of the cast, I think I speak for all my co actors
when I say that this play was every bit fun for us to rehearse as it
was educational. From those taxing script readings in the initial
days to the gradual, scene-by-scene development of the play itself,
what we all experienced was quite different from the usual runof-the-mill
plays. The story, prepped with dark comedy, revolved
around two chess players of prodigious skill who had nothing better
in life to do than waste entire afternoons staring at their sixty
four squared chessboards. When one of their spouses would have
fits of rage upon her husband’s negligence, they would, quite conveniently,
carry their chessboards and migrate to a desolate, more
peaceful locale. Such was their devotion to the game. Their story
was set against a backdrop of the Nawab of Oudh being dethroned
by the power of hungry East India Company and was a satire on the
ignorance of the common folk towards the real game of chess that
was the chaotic scramble for the throne of Oudh. With the notorious
wives fo both the chess players serving as a much needed comic
relief, this was a dual tale that seemed, at times, to be merely a
single coin with two vaguely similar sides.
We saw a war hardened British general negotiating with the queen
mother, who, by need of circumstance was struggling to retain
both: her fractured sense of honour and her son’s frail kingdom.
The ensemble of narrators, besides being a tiresome burden on
the already slow pace of the story, nonetheless managed to bring
a sense of unity and wholeness to the play. The well-coordinated
dances by the courtesans and the instinctively fast and well times
translations by the interpreter added another much required layer
to the somewhat predictable plot. Major stage time was reserved
for the titular characters who, quite convincingly so, absolutely
owned their characters and in doing so, immoratlised the play by
etching their performances in the audiences’ mind. Even so, towering
above them all, was the nawab himself. Be it exhibiting the
fickle expressions of hurt, frustration or reminiscing about an era
long gone, the Nawab seemed spot on and threatened to eclipse
the other actors sharing stagetime with him in almost every scene.
This play, too, as any other successful theatrical venture, was
consistently strong on the work done by the crew ranging from the
opulent set design, the elaborate costumes and the detailed makeup
and hairstyle. The dances, though not strictly classical, were
proof enough of the powerhouse of talent the choreographer was
as these sparse dances, shackled by the limited stage time, cast a
binding charm on the audience leaving them spell bound.
Despite its few failing, Shatranj ke Khiladi was undoubtedly a
triumph which ought to be considered a milestone in the theatre
scene here at JT.
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O Level Annual trip
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O LEVEL GOODLUCK DINNER
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INNOVENTIONS
This year at LGS JT, following tradition, saw the fourth instalment
of LGS JTs’ flagship event, the Science and Maths Olympiad,
Innoventions. Despite being held at the same time as
various other prestigious events across Pakistan, a surprisingly
large number of delegates from various different schools got
together to battle it out against each other in a variety if different
well designed events.
Each event added a twist into the proceedings, be it the truly
humorous instructions provided in ‘Bit by Bit’ or the incredibly
difficult cryptic messaged and questions of ‘Mathematica’.
Headed by Salman Ahmad and Mujtaba Ahmad, the President
and Vice President of the Science Society respectively, this
prestigious event went off without a hitch, although several delegates
could be seen fuming over how the questions of DASSP
(Dr Abdus Salam Science Prize) were well beyond their mental
capabilities.
As the event went on, delegates could be seen running amok
all over the campus for various reasons, be it searching for
their next clues in the somewhat infamous Scavenger Hunt or
simply wandering around searching for their next event .
While every single event tested the contestants ro their mental
limits, it was the famous ‘Crime conundrum’ that truly
tested the delegates’ ability to improvise by comping cryptic
clues together and using only a limited amount of information
to decide which of the two killers is tge killer. Needless to say
they had their work cut out for them.
In the end this three day extravaganza, filled to the brim with
entertaining music and drama, a rather gruelling game of ‘hot
hands’ and we’ll contested events, finally came to an end, as all
good things must.
Following the awards being announced by the Event Directors
and the Best Delegation award being handed to LGS 1A1,
and a formal dinner, the event officially came to a close.
Ultimately, thanks to the hard work put in by the entire
management team, this years’ Innoventions proved to be better
than all of its predecessors, once again proving why LGS JT
hosts truly the most amazing events.
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JT MUN
After much hard work, sacrifice and determination, JT
MUN’16 was finally made possible. The event took place
at LGS JT from 1st to 4th September 2016, where a huge
number of delegates from all over the country had a
chance to participate. The main aim of JT MUN was to
produce a good debate, which would create awareness of
whatever is happening around the world. It also aimed
to showcase certain qualities one must have, such as
confidence, diplomacy, and general knowledge. Thankfully,
our MUN society pulled off the impossible by
organizing it ever so flawlessly, given the circumstances,
and received a positive feedback from all the participants
at JT MUN.
The event got off to a shaky start, as it started raining
heavily on the first day. Eventually, the situation calmed,
as our management escorted the delegates safely to their
committee rooms. JT MUN had a total of ten committees:
UNDP, UNSC, DISEC, HSC, IAEA, SOCHUM,
UNHRC, PNA, SPECPOL, and CRISIS. After the sessions,
delegates took part in a scavenger hunt organized
by our socials team, which was rather amusing to watch.
Intense debate ensued in the following two days. The
delegates gave it their all by preparing their speeches
and strategies, gaining the support of other delegates.
It could be seen clearly, that they wanted more than the
prized “Best Delegate” gavel, for which they had worked
very hard. To let off some steam, small entertainment
sessions were held, along with some stellar performances
by Qawwals, Solar Canvas, and JT Illusionists. A social
responsibility program was also held by the Community
Service society, where several social workers introduced
themselves, and the part they played to serve the community.
The last day marked the end of the debate as the delegates
waited anxiously for the chairs to announce the
results at the closing ceremony. Aitchison ended up receiving
the most awards, and the Best Delegation trophy
(quite well deserved).
Overall, the event was a huge success, and the delegates
either went home with a smile on their faces, or with a
determination to win it all, next year.
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A LEVEL ANNUAL PLAY
The Crucible
Lahore Grammar School Johar Town (for Boys) reproduced Arthur Miller’s brilliant
play ‘The Crucible’ in conjunction with its sister branch on the 4th and 5th
of February 2017. Miller, in his play, explored many 20th Century contemporary
American civilised phenomena, including McCarthyism and Communism.
Lahore Grammar School monumentally depicted the original philosophy with
modernistic influences that undoubtedly crafted a drama guided by concurrent
political occurrences.
Many students who have mastered the art of dramatics participated in this venture,
where Lahore Grammar School’s very own Dramatics President and Vice
President, Sheharyar Hussain and Ahmar Wasim, assumed the roles of Reverend
Samuel Parris and Reverend John Hale respectively. Both actors marvellously
portrayed their identities in a way that appealed to not only the audience, but to
themselves. Our sister branch’s previous deputy head girl, Syeda Zainab Zaidi,
took the initiative in propelling students into assuming their role as not only
participating friends, but as characters acting in harmony. Abdullah Suhail, the
previous Dramatics Vice President, assumed the role of John Proctor, where he
eloquently explored his character via not only Miller’s dictatorship, but through
his own emotional conditioning. This notion was certainly seen during the final
act of the play, where he recited the line ‘Because it is my name! Because I cannot
have another in my life!’ which abstractly touched the gaping viewers as some
emotionally quivered with tears, denoting the level of sophistication with which
Suhail assumed his character and consequently acted with.
The play, daunting as it is, is celebrated as one of Miller’s finest works—along
with Death of a Salesman, All My Sons, and A View from the Bridge. Though all
odds were against them, Lahore Grammar School’s Dramatics Society’s representatives
successfully accomplished the initial plight of reenacting this complex
play: with a full-house!
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gramfire
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As much as LGS JT prides itself on its adademics,
the excellent sports programme is
an equally important part of the curriculum.
Keeping up with this reputation, LGS JT’s
Sports Society was proud to host the fourth
installment of the Annual JT SportsFest for
the year 2016.
Sportsfest
The much-awaited event saw institutes gather
from across Lahore and compete for the
prized cup. Young sportsmen and sportswomen
participated in a variety of events
such as cricket, football and table tennis
(to name a few). The sheer caliber of the competitors
was obvious, with each match going
down to the wire. Referees could be seen
carefully monitoring each and every move.
The crowd roared and pumped with adrenaline
as it urged the teams on; the athletes too
returned the favour with displays of great
skill.
After numerous nail-biting encounters, the
event finally came to its conclusion. In the
end, it was our own institute that emerged
victorious in the wide variety of events. All in
all, SportsFest ‘16 was a monumental success
and its influence will not be easily forgotten.
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A Level Annual Trip
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A-LEVEL FAREWELL
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STUDENTS’ ARTWORK
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Daniyal Siddique 11E

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Abdul Ahad
Abdul Hannan
Saqib
Abdul Mannan
Abdul Rehman
Virk
Abdullah Zaheed Absrar Awan Abu Bakar Zahid Ali Asad
Abdullah Ashraf
Abdullah bin
Nadeem
Abdullah bin
Shehzad Malik
Abdullah Hamid
Affan Shahid
Ahmad
Humayun
Ahmad Kamran
Ahmad Murad
Malik
Abdullah Irfan
Abdullah
Nadeem
Abdullah Saeed
Abdullah Yousaf
Khan
Ahmed
Asadullah
Ahmed Ashraf
Awan
Ahmed Khubaib
Humayun
Ahmed Muaz
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Ahmed Saleem
Khan
Ahsan Karim
Aiyan Humayun Aizaz Arif Ansari
Ammar Shahid Anas Ahmed Aneeq Asghar Arsalan Ahmad
Butt
Ali Absar
Ahmad Khan
Lodhi
Ali Ahmad Khan Ali Baqir Ali Ejaz
Arsalan Ali Asees Ashfaq Asfar Khalid
Mahmood
Asim Shahid
Ali Samiq Ali Shahid Ameer Ali Abdul
Abdur Rehman
Amin Elahi
Ayaz Ur Rehman Azan Ali Bahawar Sharif
Dhillon
Bakht Jahangir
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Bilal Amir Bilal Munawar Chaudhary Ali
Jarar
Danish Sajjad
Feroz Khan
Hadi Hasan
Farooq
Haider Ali
Haider Noor
Daniyal
Abdullah
Daniyal Akram
Daniyal Majeeb
Mohar
Daud Saifullah
Hammad Imran
Mirza
Hamza Ahmed Hamza Ahsan Hamza
Hamayun
Ehtisham Sohail
Khan
Fahad Ahmad Faizan Hafeez Fasih Ur Rehman
Hamza Iftikhar Hamza Murad Hamza Qaiser Hamza Rafi
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Hamzah Tariq Haris Ahmad Harris Aamir Hassaan Munir
Iman Faisal
Jahanzaib
Warraich
Joshua Daanish
Attaullah
Kh. Mohammad
Abbas
Hassaan Ahmed Hatem Asif Humza Siddique Huzaifa Tariq
Khalid Ashfaq
Khawaja
Shahzaib Ahmad
Kumail Ali Khan
Maaz Bashir
Ibrahim Ihsan
Ibrahim
Mansoor Khalid
Ibrar Ramzan
Imam Zaid
Abdullah
Mahad Farooq
Malik
Muhammad
Mujtaba
Mian
Muhammad
Abdullah
Mohsin
Mian Usman
Naeem Kakahel
129 130

Mir Rafe Sajjad Mir Sohaib Sajid Mohammad
Aashir Nadeem
Mohammed Ali
Syed
Mohib Nawaz
Khan
Mohsin Ali
Sindhu
Moiz Ali
Jehangir
Momin
Mehmood Butt
Mohammed
Akram
Mohammed
Furqan Lodhi
Mohammed
Haris Khawaja
Mohammed
Mannan Akmal
Muaaz Ahmed
Alvi
Muaz Abrar Mubeen Tariq Muhammad
Abdul Rahman
Mohammed
Usman Bashir
Mohammed
Zahab Shaukat
Mohammed
Zubair Ahmed
Mohemmed
Hassan Ali
Rashid
Muhammad
Abdullah
Muhammad
Abdullah Aftab
Muhammad
Abdullah bin
Naeem
Muhammad
Abdullah Niazi
131 132

Muhammad
Abdullah Suhail
Muhammad
Afnan Sheikh
Muhammad
Ahmad
Muhammad
Ahmad
Parvaiz Butt
Muhammad Atta
Mohio Din Noon
Muhammad
Azhar
Muhammad Bilal
Muhammad Bilal
Azhar
Muhammad
Ahmed Cheema
Muhammad Ali
Khaqan
Muhammad Ali
Sajid
Muhammad Ali
Shahzad
Muhammad bin
Amir
Muhammad
Daud Mazhar
Muhammad
Dawood Jawad
Muhammad
Dawood
Muhammad Ali
Muhammad
Amlish Anwar
Muhammad
Arqam Shehzad
Muhammad
Asim
Muhammad Eesa
Wazir
Muhammad
Fahad Khalid
Muhammad
Fahad Malik
Muhammad
Fahad Saeed
133 134

Muhammad
Furrukh Saeed
Muhammad
Haasin Saleem
Muhammad Hamid
Wajid
Muhammad
Hamis Haider
Muhammad
Huzaifa Khan
Suri
Muhammad
Ibrahim Noor
Muhammad
Jawad Hassan
Shah
Muhammad
Junaid
Muhammad
Hamza Asif
Muhammad
Hamza Fawad
Muhammad
Hamza Riaz
Muhammad
Hasan Qarshi
Muhammad
Kareem Saleem
Muhammad
Khan
Muhammad
Mahad
Muhammad
Mobeen Shuaib
Farooqi
Muhammad
Hashim Goraya
Muhammad
Hassaan
Zulqarnain
Muhammad
Hassan Mahad
Muhammad
Hassan Tanveer
Muhammad
Mumshad
Hassan
Muhammad
Musa Ahmed
Muhammad
Mutasim
Billah Khan
Muhammad
Najeeb
135 136

Muhammad
Nausherwan
Mangat
Muhammad
Omar Arshad
Muhammad
Osama Faisal
Muhammad
Raza Aziz
Muhammad Talha
Naeem
Muhammad
Talha Safder
Muhammad
Tayyab Altaf
Muhammad
Turab Syed
Muhammad
Sabeeh Rehman
Muhammad Saif
Imtiaz
Muhammad
Salman
Muhammad
Salman Raza
Muhammad
Umer Mumtaz
Muhammad
Usama Ijaz
Muhammad
Usama Nasr
Muhammad
Usamah Shahid
Muhammad
Shayan Khan
Muhammad
Sherbaz
Muhammad
Somaan Javed
Muhammad
Taha
Muhammad
Usman
Muhammad
Waleed Anwar
Muhammad
Waqas
Muhammad
Zain Sultan
137 138

Muhammad
Zubair Alam
Muhammad
Zurgham Khan
Mujtaba Ahmed
Khawaja
Mujtaba Jamil
Malik
Punnail Ismail
Khan
Rafay Abdul
Mian
Raffay Atiq
Rai Abdul Nawaz
Murtaza
Manzoor
Qizilbash
Mustafa Arshad
Mirza
Nabeel Naveed
Nauman
Hakeem
Rai Muhammad
Salman Habib
Kharal
Raja Muhammad
Mustafa
Ramish Majeed Rana Abdul Fatir
Nauman Yawar
Butt
Nauman Ahmad Omair Rashid Omer Iqbal
Rehan Imran
Iqbal
Rijas Ramish Rohan Latif Saad Abdullah
Dar
139 140

Saad Ejaz Saad Hussain Saad Khalil Sabeeh Ahmad
Saqlain Zulfiqar Sayd Bajwa Sayed
Mohammed
Saud Jalal
Shaheer Sajid
Saeed Azmat
Gurmani
Saim ul Hassan Sajawal Mumtaz Sajjad ur Rahman
Khan
Tareen
Shahreyar
Ahmad Ch.
Shahmeer
Mujtaba Hashmi
Shahzain Ahmed
Shayan Abid
Salman Ahmad Salman Arshad Salman Umer Sami Usman
Shayan Abid
Shehryar Ali
Khan
Shehryar Khan
Sheikh Usman
Ali
141 142

Shirza Qaiser
Khan
Shoaib Jamal
Shamsi
Subhan Asif
Suleman Wasif
Syed
Muhammad
Murtaza
Syed Murtaza
Abbas
Syed Zain Raza
Naqwi
Taimoor Amjad
Surat Perkash
Syed Abdullah
Hussain
Syed Arham
Hussain
Syed Hussain
Murtaza
Taimoor Atif
Arain
Taimur Mirza Talal Ahmed Talha bin Rashid
Syed Mughees
Haider
Syed
Muhammad Ali
Shayan
Syed
Muhammad
Ammar Hassan
Syed
Muhammad
Ansar Abbas
Umar Ashfaq Umer Abdullah Umer Farooq Umer Gufran
Butt
143 144

Usama Ahmed
Usama Elahi
Khawaja
Usama Fazal
Usama Khurram
Zaeem Riaz Zain Ijaz Zain ul Hassan
Bhatti
Zamzam bin
Imran
Usama Liaqat Usama Raheel Usama Saqib Usman Sadiq
Zarrar Ahmed Zohaib Babar Zohraiz Mubarik Zoraiz Ahmed
Jan
Uzair Khalid Wahib Kamran Waleed Iftikhar Wali Asim Noor
145 146

147 148

HEADBOY’S WORD
In JT you’re not just another
role number of an institution
that cares more about its prestige
and pride, rather than its
own students. When they ask
me to speak about my experience
at JT, there’s one major
thing that immediately comes
to mind, which is simply that at
JT, everyone kind of just cares
about you.
for being the nicest and most patient person ever. As clichéd as it may
sound, I would not have been the same person if not for the amazing
teachers I had during A Level.
Goodluck to all current students. Be grateful for whatever JT offers you
and cherish your times here. Make new friends, attend events and STUDY!
Signing off,
Moiz Jehangir
Head Boy, 2016-2017
You aren’t an individual. You’re part of something that is much larger, and
something that doesn’t ignore you. It feels discomforting to even think of
leaving this place which not only helped me overcome my fears but made
me into the confident teenager I am today. What JT has given me and
taught me is beyond what I had expected when I first came to this school
in ninth grade. From a timid boy to the Head Boy of the most prestigious
school in Lahore, it has indeed been a memorable journey
This year, I was honored to serve as the Head Boy. Running around the
school to gather the council, forcefully attending every event, strategizing
(not so much) with Ammar, asking Prefects to check the socks, and frequently
visiting Ms. Faiqa’s office were bittersweet moments I shall never
forget.
I’d like to thank a few individuals who have helped me become what I am
today (or will be one day). Ms. Faiqa, for trusting me enough to make
me the Head Boy and for always appreciating whatever little I have done
for this school. Sir Amjad, for being the best teacher I have ever had. Ms.
Aqsa, for being the coolest and everyone’s favorite. Sir Shehbaz, for bearing
with me every time I got destracted during his lectures. Sir Ishaq,
149 150

AHMAD KAMRAN
BUTT
Entering this institution as young boys
and leaving it as “gentlemen of JT” is
something we all can relate to. These five
years at LGS Johar town have been full
of ups and downs, full of happiness and
tears, full of glory and heartbreaks. But
when I try to convince myself that this
is it, it doesn’t add up. This institution
has been more than just a school to me.
The people here have been more than teachers or friends to me. I’ve
found a family in this red bricked castle. A family that would accept
me despite of my mess ups and flaws, A family that would support me
through ups and downs. When we talk about bidding farewell to this
institution, it’s very difficult to do it without mentioning the two ladies
who have made JT what it is today.
Thank you ma’am Faiqa and ma’am Fareeha for bearing with us throughout.
Twenty years from now, our lives will be very different. We might
not even remember the people who are close to us today, but there is one
thing that I’ll never forget: Miles away from my place, in a red bricked
castle, I found a home.
SHAYAN KHAN
Waiting outside the bricked office of
Miss Faiqa, clad in a suit, waiting for my
interview, I contemplated: will an education
from this institution bolster me
in accomplishing my aspirations. Today,
two academic years later, I feel irrational
to have thought so otherwise. You don’t
culminate into JT, its cultivates its roots
into you and strives to instill the merit of
trustworthiness, honesty and integrity.
And it has been doing so, with ease, for the past multitude of years. My
time at JT, like every student, has had its vicissitudes. There were days,
when I would outright feel dejected and dismayed, and there were days
when I couldn’t feel more ecstatic. And the latter were in majority. The
long classes, the efficient management, the knowledgeable teachers, the
custodian staff at JT all make you feel at home from the moment you
step into this institution.
And to this day, I believe that I could not have been a part of something
more rewarding. Truly, the students, my peers with whom I developed
bonds stronger than kinship, never alienate anybody. The uniform unifies
them and amalgamates this body into a family that will help each
other in all ordeal of life. Whether it be helping hoard money for Biryani,
or studying for an upcoming exam. And all of this comes with only a
small price attached to it.
To develop the morality, the attitude, the chivalry, the generosity of what
this institution instills in you: to become what old ladies so hectically
nurtured you to become – the gentlemen of JT. And as I march to journeys
beyond this institution I feel pride in what I have become. Indeed, a
gentleman of JT.
151 152

ABDULLAH SUHAIL
The “Red brick castle” Is what I call it.
Five years ago I came to this school,
without any friends, without any social
skills and without any memories. I’m
leaving this now, half a decade later,
with the greatest friends, social skills
so great (trust me), and the most perfect
memories. I’ll never forget JT, not
because it was my school and my college,
but because it gave me lifelong
friendships, shaped me into the man I am today, taught me to pursue
my passions and dreams, and most of all, taught me to respect,
myself and everyone I face. Thankyou JT for everything.
AMLISH ANWAR
The red bricked building looks so unyielding,
almost intimidating but the people who
dwell with in are so different. People who
will knock you down and make you feel unwanted
and moments later they will embrace
you like brothers bound by blood.
LGS JT has given me ambition, opportunities
and most importantly friends I will hold dear
for the rest of my life. Farewell JT, your son
will never forget you.
ABDULLAH HUSSAIN
Most people feel excited leave school and
go to a university of their choice. They can’t
wait to meet new people, make new friends,
go to parties, have fun, and generally gain
the freedom they long for. It is only when
school officially ends for us, when we realize
that this is the beginning of a new
chapter. Which means that we have to let go of our past, and start anew. And
that’s when it occurs to us that it won’t be easy. I’ve spent nine years at LGS,
which is exactly half of my life, and I know for certain, that I will miss JT dearly.
Each and every moment will be imprinted in my mind for the rest of my life,
whether it’s the monthly address of Miss Faiqa, or Sir Ishaq’s class, where we
would do anything but study, or the debates on daily issues with Sir Shehbaz
or the countless times we would be running after Ammar Shahid with a
bottle of water, trying to drench him, just to get revenge for the exact same
thing he had done from the roof. When all of us have gone to our respective
destinations, we would die spend just one more day at JT, our home.
But as they say, life goes on, and we have to let go at some point. My
message to my juniors is that cherish each and every moment you have
at JT. Sure, it may be boring and quite tiring at times, but you will learn
to love it. With that, I bid you farewell, and I wish you the best of luck
153 154

HUZAIFA KHAN
SURI
It was exactly 2 years ago the first
time I stepped into this building,
after being convinced by a lot of
people that “JT is the way to go”.
I had great expectations from the
2 years to come, and now that my
time at LGS JT comes to a close,
I can confidently say that I have
absolutely no regrets over my
decision.
I’ll admit this, the first few weeks of school had me thinking “Why did
i join this place?”, mainly due to the tough schedule and the long list of
rules which I had also heard about before by my peers; perhaps the strict
rules were one of the reasons the school was so popular. But I just can’t
seem to properly remember any of those struggles, particularly because
of how well I started to adjust to life at JT, feeling right at home after a
short time. Many of my batch-mates would still argue as to how an A-
levels student should have more freedom, but JT never let me feel out of
place, and that is something I will always cherish.
I, like a lot of other people I’m sure, had heard a lot about JT’s famous
events for years. Hearing about them was one thing, but being a part of
them was something no story could have told. The level of coordination
between the student body and the administration, and between the
students themselves, was something I had never seen before, and time
and time again I felt thankful of my school for allowing me to be part of
something of this scale.
and my batch mates, and I am sure will continue to be for the batches to
come, In Sha Allah. The good moments spent with the administration
team including Sir Faisal, Sir Hadayat, Sir Salman and Sir Bilal, and the
and the event coordinators, will also remain with me.
I would also like to thank my teachers who have been ever-supportive
and have given their all to make us better students and better humans.
Classes with you have been both intriguing and entertaining, and I could
never have asked for a better group of teachers.
Lastly, I would like to thank every single batch-mate, the people I spent
most of my time with, and those who made life at JT truly worthwhile.
Whether it be study, sports, music, event management, casual gaming,
or even a drowse in the common room, I always had you guys by me, to
support me and to make every moment priceless. In you guys I see the
doctors, engineers, scientists, athletes, musicians and managers of tomorrow,
and I’m sure you guys will reach great heights with every passing
day.
Life at JT was something I wanted to be like a never-ending journey, but
alas, all good things come to an end. I am certain that one day down the
road I would cross paths with the red-bricked building again, and say to
myself, “This was the place where I spent the best days of my life.”
Signing off,
M. Huzaifa Khan Suri
I would like to thank Ma’am Faiqa and Ma’am Fareeha, the two lovely
ladies who have always been a source of guidance and motivation for me
155 156

TWENTY YEARS LATER...
Amlish Anwar: Joined Pakistan Army, did CSS, went to UK, and is now
back, trying to complete his A levels.
Syed Abdullah Hussain: Owing to an increase in sectarian violence, Abdullah
went into hiding 5 years ago. No one has seen, or heard from him
since.
Humza Saddique: Pakistan’s leading botanist.
Shayan Khan: Judge at both Masterchef Pakistan, and Pakistan idol.
Ahmad Butt: Kann Pharr?
Muhammad Taha: Still doing sounds on plays directed by Ahmad
Kamran
Asfar Khalid Mehmood: Won a ‘Who’s taller’ competition against Burj
Khalifa.
Ahmad Kamran Butt: Is the owner of a very successful gym
Muhammad Abdul Rehman Asghar: Still waiting for his Visa to arrive.
Ammar Shahid: Drives his father’s Audi A6 everyday, outside a place
called “Pachpan”
20 years later
Moiz Jehangir: World famous batsman. Famous for hitting sixers.
Ali Ejaz: Hacked into world bank, and transferred Billions to Shah jee’s
account
Raza Azi: CEO of Shahjee enterprises
Abdullah bin Naeem: stunt double for Megamind
Rehan Iqbal: He has disappeared completely. No one knows where he is
Shaheryar Ahmad: Custodian at LGS JT (preschool)
157 158

159 160

Silence
A Sleepless Night
Darkness. All around him was the darkness so absolute that even
waving his hand in front of his face yielded no result. Taking deep
breaths to keep himself from hyperventilating, Ahmed searched in
his pocket for his phone, and took it out. Turning on the torch on his
phone, he turned it around, trying to get his bearings. Noticing the
door to the room, he went to it, and turning the handle, went outside.
The door opened into a hallway, with red walls. With a start, he realized
that the walls weren’t actually painted red. Rather, it was blood all over
them. Stomach churning, he crept along the hallway, making sure not to
touch the walls. All of a sudden he came to a door. Taking a deep breath,
he opened it, and went inside, knowing full well what he would find inside.
As he opened the door, his hands felt wet, and looking down he saw
blood. Sighing, he went in, only to be greeted by silence. Tears threatening
to spill from his eyes, he swept his eyes across the room. There,
on the rocking chair by the window, sat the dead body of his wife.
Barely able to keep himself from falling, he stumbled towards the chair,
knowing full well it was a hallucination, but not caring. Reaching the
chair, he blinked once, and upon opening his eyes he saw that the mirage
was gone. He gave a loud shriek, but then grew silent, and the silence
grew until it became a physical thing, while he sat by the chair.
Abdul Fatir
9-G
How…how would he live on? How could he survive? This thought
echoed in his head as he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling with his
baggy eyes filled with nothing but the redness of sleep and sorrow. He
couldn’t blink as the darkness stung, nor could he keep them open as
the forever increasing weight of exhaustion bore down on his eyelids.
He had held back the tears for quite some time now, but his chest felt
heavy as if a truck was weighing down on him, his breathing was constricted
as if someone had tied a knot around his lungs and his insides
were cold… cold as ice.
But that was not the reason he was shivering. He was shivering from
the effort it took to keep his thoughts at bay, for whenever he set them
loose, then like a hungry dog , his mind would rush right back towards
her… to her golden hair, her ocean blue irises, and her perfect
smile… and that was when the onslaught of tears would start.
But he could not let that happen. He had to stay strong… for her sake.
However, he had crossed his limit a long time ago and fatigue bore
down upon him and he had but two choices. Give in either to sleep
or to his grief. In his desperation, his need for escape he choose sleep
hoping that the god above would have mercy upon him, and would
spare him the nightmares for one peaceful doze, but alas, he was mistaken.
For the very moment that he closed his eyes, her face shone right in
front of him, smiling. He reached out for the holographic image, but
to no avail and with a large eruption of sorts, his vision shifted. The
screeching of tires, her excruciating scream, and her limp body, lying
lifeless on the cold wet pavement, and as always, that was as far as he
would go, for he woke up with a start, to rumbling of the skies outside
his window. Gasping for air, he wasn’t surprised to find tears welling
up in his eyes, as this had turned into a nightly ritual for him over the
past several days.
161 162

It had been 11 days… 11 days since the fateful night on which part of
his life, his soul passed into the void. And even still visions of the horrific
disaster haunted him, reopening and then throwing salt on his fresh
wounds on a nightly basis.
Sucking in sharp shallow breaths of cold air, he heaved himself of his
bed, eyes bulging out of their sockets and the veins on his neck popping
out from sorrow and rage… rage at being constantly reminded of his lost
love. Enraged at his outflow of tears and emotions, he slammed his fist
against the wall sobbing and choking. Reaching out he grabbed the nearest
upper he could find and pulled it on and without a second thought
dashed out of his room and headed outside.
The moment the downpour of rain hit him, his lifeless limbs came to life
and his eyes opened up wider and the first gasp of cold air he took in
pierced his insides. The swift cold rain struck his skin like tumbling icicles,
and a breeze of icy wind pushed against him. Everything, every part
of nature screamed at him to go back inside. But ignoring it all, he pulled
up the hood of his upper and started to run. He ignored the painful wails
of every cell in his body as rain poured upon him, ignored the chilly air
freezing everything inside him up till his marrow, and just ran.
But despite all these distractions, he could not overcome his sorrow…
despite all this, the tears would not stop…why? Why couldn’t he just
forget it all? Because he loved her? Because he blamed her death on himself?
Was guilt what tormented him? As these thoughts played through
his mind, he continued to run. His feet struck the hard flooded pavement,
sending splashes of water in the air. His sobs and gasps for air
were lost in the gusts of wind that blew past him.
He continued to run, as his mind was overflown with nagging thoughts
such as, he could’ve pulled her back, could’ve saved her. And hence quite
soon both his mind and legs gave in to weariness and he collapsed in the
middle of the road.
For several minutes, he stayed there, pondering on his misfortune, his
thoughts constantly reverting to “her”- her perfect dimples, the way her
nose crinkled when she smiled, how she laughed even at his cheapest
jokes… and that brought forth another outburst of emotions.
This went on for some minutes, then half an hour, then a whole hour
passed by, and eventually he just lost track of time and wept. Finally after
what seemed like ages, he struggled up to his feet, eyes swollen from crying
and vision blurred due to the rain. His heart still felt like a rock inside
his chest and his temple throbbed in pain and anguish. He struggled
onto the road stumbling as he made his way onto the slippery pavement.
About to run back home, he steeled his tired legs for the pain he was about to
induce on them, when suddenly a loud honking noise came from behind him.
Turning around, he witnessed a pair of large headlights rushing towards
him through the mist. But he didn’t move, for at that moment, the same
haunting incident started to play in his mind. Time slowed down, and
the screeching tires resonated in his eardrums. Several different emotions
flashed in his head…loneliness, despair at losing his most cherished and
prized possession, anger at the heavens for making him go through such
misery, and finally, relief that he would be rejoining his beloved.
As the blazing lights rapidly drew near him, he did not move, nor did
he intend to. Closing his eyes he let out a deep breath, and with that
breath let all of his sorrow, grief and guilt flow out of him. Then her face
flashed before his eyes, calling to him… Suddenly… it all stopped. His
head no longer throbbed, his chest wasn’t sinking, and the tears-were
gone. Finally he smiled, and said one word…one last word… “her” name.
Tires screeched, and the blaring horn blew, but to no effect on his
numb ears. And then in one last flash of searing pain, it all faded.
Abdullah Ibrahim
11-F
163 164

Corruption
Corruption
The act of taking bribes
Through wicked appaling actions
Perhaps the biggest crime
The misuse of entrusted power
They do it for their own gain
The elite are all the same
They cause the public pain
An advantage for the governors
Is the personal usage of state money
A great loss for the country
An illegal use of their money
Their rights are taken from them
People left and right are taking bribes
It is a crime
The word is corruption
Mian Ahmed Raza
11-E
Although I knew what I wanted to say, at
the important moment I could not open my
mouth.
I had been steeling myself for this very moment for the last 24 hours…
the most sleepless, tiring and exhausting hours of my life. Even as I sat,
my breathing felt constricted and I had not the slightest bit of awareness
of what was happening around me. My insides were cold and hollow and
my limbs were numb. My head hurt ad bags of exhaustion were visible
around my eyes. I wanted this to end, and I wanted to this to the best of
my ability. For after my mother had passed away, two days ago , nothing
else had seemed to matter for the last few hours of my dreary existence ,
nothing except for this Mother’s Day speech that I as the council head of
my school had to give.
She had been my life, my guardian, my soul and now I was empty. As if
the fire to live within me had died.
And just look at the twisted irony of fate, to have snatched her from my
hands just two days before the day on which I had planned to honour
her in front of the whole school ,and try to make her blush with happy
embarrassment to make her proud. But alas when mother’s day came,
my mother was no longer with me.
The school staff had told me that I did not need to do this, as I was still
grieving. But I had refused to back down… I would not give up the one
thing that I wanted to do to make my mother happy, despite the fact that
she was no longer here. I was determined to let the world know what it
had lost, what ‘I’ had lost... Determined to tell everyone what a wonderful
person she was. I wanted to define her every characteristic. Her rich
loving voice, her tendency to be my pillar in times of hardship and sorrow,
her every virtue, her every flaw - I wanted to define her to the world
as the gem she was.
165 166

But when the announcer called my name, and the time to walk up to
the stage came, I froze. By instinct I started walking towards the podium.
I had no control over myself, and with every step i took, a searing
pain roared through me, as if each and every rib of my body was being
cracked in half. but knew that this was not physical pain, but rather emotional
pain.
And with every step, the pressure of this emotional pain increased and I
could feel my will breaking.
Finally I stood at the podium and gazing at the immense crowd in front
of me, which included students, teachers and parents. Many among my
audience knew what I had been through and gazed at me with sympathetic
eyes, while others impatiently waited for me to start. I took a deep
breath and closed my eyes. I tried to remember what I wanted to say and
it all came back in a flash. But them , when I tried to imagine her face,
to imagine ‘her’… all that came to mind was an empty space… a photograph
without a face.
I could feel the emotion building up but I could not cry , I promised myself
I wouldn’t. so pushing back all the needle like emotions that struck
my mind , I tried to speak, but drew a blank. I knew what I wanted to
say… what I had to say… but I couldn’t. hence in my desperation, in my
mind shattering need for escape, I mumbled two barely audible sentences,
”I loved my mother…and I miss her so much.” And with that I quietly
walked off stage and exited the hall.
The moment I stepped out of the view of all the pity filled and confused
eyes of my vast audience, the bubble of my emotion within me burst, and
I broke down. Tears welled up in my eyes and choking on my own sobs, I
wept.
Abdullah Ibrahim
11 F
Marziale
Gene Terrence was an enigma; a heavy built, sixty-something mensch
of few words, with eyes the color of a winter crystal. He was a singularity
of saturated sobriety and asceticism. His greying hair was to always
be swiftly combed back and his suit was to always be spotless. He did not
emote, because he had nothing to convey. His brick walls simply guarded
more brick walls.
The man’s only outlet was his music. His fingers were slender and tenuous,
the skin eroded and pallid from years of sliding across the steel
strings of his ebony Gibson Les Paul Studio Custom, circa 1984. He
played at a bar and grill; he could not pretend to be a sensation, and he
did not want to be one, and the nightly tepid audience reactions would
not allow it either. He had been the guitarist in the Harley’s band for
twenty years now. Drummers, bassists and pianists had come and went,
but Gene was a fixture at Harley’s Bar and Grill. But Harley’s was not a
‘home’. He did not fall victim to sentiment.
It was what it was: a vocation. And he was what he was: a musician. And
it was what it was: his last night performing at Harley’s Bar and Grill.
Gene stared blankly at his own aging reflection. The dressing room
door was locked, as always. The sounds of clacking cutlery and clinking
glasses were muffled just enough to let him assuage his mind, not that it
needed assuagement. He stared, not with philosophical quandary (that
would be much too fancy), but with unequivocal nihility.
The conclusion that he would retire was not a decision, as much as it was
a calculation. Twenty years were enough. But the enigma of Gene Terrence
was not just in his stoicism. It was in the impetuous vehemence
that came whenever he started to run his fingers across the neck of his
guitar. The stony Gene Terrence would evolve into an evanescent god.
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But Gene was a man, and twenty years were enough. He rose, took a
deep breath, buttoned his coat and slipped out of the dressing room. He
walked it was his last night, but he walked down the narrow, blue-lit
corridor, not in glorious slow-motion, but like any other night; like any
other man. He shook hands with the Italian restaurant owner, engaged in
simple pleasantries (or what qualified as pleasantries in Gene’s raspy,
rigid demeanor) and walked out onto the stage.
He took another deep breath; the drummer tapped a mid-tempo 6/8
beat, and the god was released for all to see. Gene played with the same
mechanical perfection he demanded of himself every night. This was the
man’s outlet, because the man was psychologically efficient; every note
was every word he had never said, and every chord resonated through
his body, like every feeling he had dismissed.
He played for twenty minutes.
And then he played his last note. It reverberated as a stentorian dissemi
nation: that the nightly routine was broken. There was no tepid applause.
Instead, there was an explosive clamor; an enthusiastic standing ovation.
Gene Terrence nodded, stone-faced, and walked off-stage to receive his
free scotch.
Abdullah Siddiqui,
11-A
Is Capital Punishment
serving its purpose?
A man comes home and finds his wife and children dead. He tracks the
killer and in an act of madness kills him, and everyone he holds dear.
This act of genocide is enough to not only be sent to prison but put on
the death row as well. Because his family had been murdered in his
home, and he decided to avenge them, he is now being sentenced to
death.
In another scenario, a person with a mental problem goes and murders
a whole lot of people because he felt depressed or sad, or any number of
other problems. He too is sentenced to death.
In both these cases, the murderer did not commit the act because he
was a sociopath who gained sadistic pleasure from these acts of murder.
Rather they were people who had no thought for the repercussions, and
only did the act because a) the person they killed had murdered their
family, or b) they were not thinking properly.
Both these cases show the basic problem with capital punishment, a
punishment with the sole purpose of deterrence. Neither of the two had
any thought nor the worry of what would happen to them. This shows
the basic flaw with this system. It does not fulfill its basic purpose; that
is, instilling fear in people of the consequences of their crime and abide
by law. One glaring example is of the terrorist attack on APS Peshawar
in 2014, after which the crackdown on terrorists resulted in the hunting
down of over 400 Taliban thus far, yet they returned to commit further
atrocities.The Death Penalty Information Centre in the United States recently
published that the 31 states that have banned capital Punishment,
on average, have a lower crime rate than those than still practice the system.
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With all these being taken into account, one wonders as to why the
State still has the right to enact this senseless, and to some extent, illogical
method of punishment, if it fails in its basic purpose. Why does the
State have the right to take others’ right to life, when they could just as
easily punish them by sentencing them to live their entire lives in prison,
repenting and realizing the intensity as well as the consequences of the
horrible act they committed.
Having said that, I would now stop, knowing full well that minds much
better than mine have debated over this topic, and if they deem Capital
Punishment a suitable system for Justice, then who am I to argue.
Muhammad Araheem Abaid
11-D
Friends Forever
Best friends are for life. They are the ones with whom we feel most comfortable
so we should not lose them. In order to keep a best friend I
made a great sacrifice a couple of years ago.
I belonged to a poor family and my parents were bearing my education
through their teeth. Once, our school announced to hold a tournament,
the winner of which would be awarded with a considerable amount of
money. My heart leaped with excitement. I could gratify my parents
with the cash prize and could settle some monetary issues, which were a
weight on my father’s shoulders.
I expressed my feelings to my best friend George who also belonged to
the lower class of the society, but his condition had worsened after the
death of his father. It was understood that he would also participate in
the tournament. However, it didn’t affect our friendship. The tournament
kicked off with cycling being the first event to take place. It was a tough
contest but George and I managed to secure our place in the next challenge.
More activities followed such as discus, boxing and hockey. We
kept our momentum high and managed to stay in the game.
Few days followed and archery was to take place. The challenge started,
I kept my spirits high and was able to secure 420 points at the end. The
last person to attempt the challenge was George.
He was grinding his teeth with stress; he had to do it. He shot the arrow,
eyes closed, fingers crossed and it was a bull’s eye. We made it to
the finals. It was a difficult task for both of us to put aside our friendship
and concentrate on the tournament. The last and the final event was
500m sprint. This challenge seemed to favor me more as I was superior
to George in sprinting. The finals were the next day. I could not sleep the
whole night and kept on thinking about my victory when suddenly my
phone rang.
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It was George. His mother was seriously ill. George, being an orphan
and only child, was helpless and could not even afford to pay hospital
fees, which was due in the next two days. Hearing about George’s heartbreaking
problem, I was in a thoroughly black humor the next day. I was
standing on the race track with George on my other side. tried to focus
on the race, which was about to begin. Boots tied, fists clenched and enthusiasm
at its peak, I shot up at the sound of the fire. I maintained great
pace. George knew he would lose but he kept on running. I was near the
end of the race, when I looked back and saw George’s distressed face. I
remembered what he had told me and I got confused.
My heart kept on telling me, “Lose, for your friend’s sake! He needs the
money more than you.”
As I was about to cross the finish line, I lost my footing on purpose and
allowed him to take the victory. He won the 500m sprint; people came
rushing to celebrate the occasion. I headed back to the dressing room.
I sat on the bench thinking about my act when George appeared and
hugged me. I hugged him back tightly. Later, his mother recovered and
our bond of friendship became stronger.
Hassan Farooq
9-G
The Chase of Evil
and Innocence
A man ran through a forest, carrying two crying babies in his arms. He
was panting badly and often stumbled upon the roots of trees, but he did
not let the babies come to any harm.
He could hear his pursuer closing in, but he wasn’t about to give up. His
legs burned from running miles, not stopping to rest once. The enemy
had been hard on his heels for about an hour now.
Ahead, he could see the lights of a small village. If he could just reach
there and request the town’s chief to keep the babies in his custody…
Surely, the chief would not refuse when told about the babies’ parentage.
The lights were coming closer with every step. Just as he thought that he
would make it, a jolt of pain erupted through his left side. He stumbled
but didn’t stop. He couldn’t let the babies fall into enemy hands. They
were more important than even his own life.
The loss of blood was slowing him down immensely. He was stumbling
now. Behind him he heard the enemy approaching.
Running away wasn’t any good. Sooner or later he would be too weak to
move. He knew he had to confront his pursuer.
He put the babies down on the ground on a thick layer of moss and
turned around, drawing his sword. Suddenly, he felt an arrow imbedded
in his side draining him of his blood and strength.
The dark, looming shape of the attacker closed in. The man charged and
stabbed at the figure, who made no attempt at stopping him. The blade
went through the person’s flesh, but that did nothing except irritating
him. He swatted the man aside with one huge hand and made for the
babies.
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The man, with one desperate effort, leaped after him and started slashing
at the person. He made a deep gash in the enemy’s calf but was too late.
The babies were already in the person’s large arms, who was about to flee.
The man swung at one of the escaping person’s arms, and chopped it off.
One of the babies fell down, and the crying intensified. The man hastily
picked the baby up in one arm, dodging an attack from the enemy.
When he looked up, his sword raised, the attacker was gone. Looking
down the path, the man saw a lone, hulking figure stumble away taking
one of the babies with him. The man was too weak to pursue. He doubted
that he could even make it to the village. He roared at the sky, then
picked up the remaining child and made into the night.
Awais Rasheed 9-B
Giving up is more diffcult
than winning!
“Determination, patience, courage ….. determination, patience, courage”,
the words of my long lost mentor reverberated in my head.
“Finals …. No turning back!” I chanted to myself.
They sat in the dark, dingy changing room, with a solitary window onlooking
the massive crowd that had gathered, and a green lush field
wearing a scarlet shirt and white trousers, each one of them was ready to
take the upcoming challenge head on.
“Alright! This is it!” I shouted shakily, delivering each word with the confidence
of a five year old. I tried hard to mask the pressure that was crippling
nd crushing me with each step I tookbut the team saw it n my eyes.
“
Never, ever, underestimate a challenge.” Again my mentor’s words came
back as a vivid memory. Unfortunately, neither the team, nor the coach
shared mine, or my mentor’s caution. They were enthusiastic, cheerful almost,
at taking on the team that had lost three games in the playoffs and
had barely managed to make it to the finals, after beating two equally
ranked teams.
I led the team to the door, with every step feeling heavier than the last.
I opened the door and we walked out into a field lit by bright lights and
the cheerful roaring of the spectators, most of them wearing the same
scarlet garment, as I did. From the opposite end, entered a timid, shy
team welcomed by ‘booing’ from all around the stadium. They were
already demoralized, I thought, giving me the confidence I needed to
stand in the goal.
The match started off and the first half went by in a daze. There were a
few weak attempts at our goal, nothing too worrying, and slowly with
each successful counter, I began feeling confident again, even hopeful of
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winning the National Football Championship.
By the second half we, the Phantoms, were leading by one goal. Then
due to an unintentional foul, by a team member, I was left standing in
the middle of the net, facing a penalty. I had done this a million times, I
thought, I would not let this one be any different. A shot came dashing
towards my left; I jumped and pushed it away. I realized the crowd was
cheering the other team and my teammates looked disappointed. The
ball was in the left corner of the goal.
I had pushed it not outside, but inside the goal. The pressure, again, began
mounting on me. Being the captain, I had learned how to read the
expressions of the team, and for the first time in three years, I sensed
agitation and desperation. Then, in the 90th minute, it finally looked like
we might score another goal until I saw the opponent striker running towards
me, with an unbelievable agility and pace. He shot, but I was glued
to my spot, my legs refusing to follow the ball. Then came the cheering,
once a pleasant, almost melodious sound, now unbearable and piercing.
The whistle marking the end of the match followed. Everyone stared at
the miserable cowardly person that I had become due to the pressure.
I was shocked, terrified and depressed. The air, it seemed, had been
sucked out of the stadium and I gasped, pated, trying to breathe in my
own bubble. I gave in to the weight of the moment and fell down to my
knees. I stayed in that position, curled up on the ground, for what felt
like an hour. Then I gazed at the team and the fans, and I saw him, hundreds
of him, my mentor, in their faces.
“Determination, patience, courage.” I saw hope in their eyes, they had
the same face that my mentor, my father, had when he was lying flat on
his bed, taking his last breath, repeating the same words over and over
again. I will practice, and win next year, I decided, for him, for them.
M. Zohair
11-E
Nightmare
The ominous alley stared him down. The path was made up mostly of
badly dissected cobbles and treacle of sewage gushed out from cracks in
the obsolete pipes on either side. Ali never used routes like these, except
in dire times like these, when he would go out with friends only to lose
track of time and ended up being late for his curfew.
In fact, the track was so foreboding that Ali momentarily contemplated
using the longer way round home; was arriving home before curfew
really worth getting robbed or even worse, mugged. The conflict was
short-lived though, as one remembrance of his father’s stormy disposition
when he transgressed his curfew last jolted him free of any doubts.
Slowly but surely, he started making his way across the track, baby steps
at first but then a brisk stride, propelled by rising anxiety, until a leap of
faith to the other side made him lose his footing and landed him into a
puddle.
He was drenched and his clothes glued themselves to his skin weighing
him down and leaving him scrambling to get back up. He began to ramble
in annoyance until a shrill voice from behind him left him frozen in
his tracks and sent shivers down his spine. The voice came closer as he
summed up the courage to confront this man. All his attempts at this
ended in vain, until he heard the cool reassuring voice of his uncle.
As it turned out, he had seen Ali scurrying back home and decided to
follow him for his safety, given the late hour. It wasn’t entirely unlikely,
as he and his uncle lived in the same neighbourhood and had the same
general route home, as well as the fact that his uncle’s job as a solicitor
left him working late many a night. At any rate, he saw the arrival of his
uncle as a great blessing.
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178

Seeing his sorry state, his uncle decided that he would drop Ali home in
his car and perhaps even negotiate on his behalf when his parents asked
him as to the reason he was so late. The words were music to Ali’s ears
and he retraced his footsteps out of the alley, rushing towards his uncle’s
car. As he reached the locked door, he looked back and this time, it was
his uncle frozen in his tracks as a result of a mugger holding a knife to
his throat.
The cataclysmic change of events left Ali’s mind in a dizzy and chaotic
state. In the mayhem he made a reckless move. Perhaps the most reckless
move he would ever make. Having been immobilized by fear once
before, he decided that this time he wouldn’t give in to terror. He would
confront the mugger. He would escape the dismal situation until the
mugger didn’t feel confronted. He felt terrified. And in this terror, he
made his own ill-advised move, and slashed Ali’s uncle across the neck.
Then he fled.
He was told that it had been three days since the day he was late for his
curfew. The perpetrator had been caught and reprimanded. He now
faced criminal charges and life imprisonment. His aunt and nice were
recuperating well thought they would never be the same. The mayor had
expressed strong sympathies for his uncle and had mentioned him as the
‘ideal citizen’ in one of his more fervent speeches on societal degradation.
The press had also made much racket over it, though it was difficult
to say if it did more good than bad. Overall, though things were looking
well. Too well. And yet Ali’s pain was relentless. Everyone, the doctors,
nurses, his parents, relatives, friends and even neighbours told him it
would heal with time. But deep inside, he knew. The pain he felt would
stay with him for the rest of his life.
Moiz Irfan
10-E
Ali stood motionless in the pathetic alley, as the blood of his uncle mixed
with the disgusting sewage into a brown mixture. He was no longer
gripped by fear, but in fact, something more profound. Hurt, yes, and the
pangs of pain left him hollowed. Guilty of causing his uncle’s death. And,
though he had fought No one he also felt the defeated. The plethora of
self-destructive emotions rendered him unconscious.
When he woke up, Ali found himself staring at the florescent lights of
the local hospital. His uncle had come there regularly. He had suffered
cancer recently and was still in remission. Or he had been. The guilt
hit him anew. The pain was still the same though his dulled responses
showed him that he was heavily sedated. In the mirror adjacent, he
saw his face. The plainly horrific expression was the same as before as
well. He suspected it would remain forever etched there, a remnant of
that horrible, horrible night. He began to recall the events in his mind
and had the sedatives not been so very strong and had his parents not
dropped in at that very moment, the memories would have made him
cry, something he had remarkably, not done since the event.
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The Truth of Things
The Will
They say that dissenters go to hell. They rot in that God forsaken place
for eternity. As a stout believer in God, I had condemned evil all my life.
I believe God helps those who stay on the path of righteousness, and
admonish evil. Yet, an incident made me question my belief, and wonder
whether the world was, in fact, all black and white as I believed.
I was in my third official decade in this world, and was living a nice comfortable
life with my wife and two kids, in the backwater town in Great
Britain. I worked as a baker, serving a grand total of a hundred people.
All my life I went to the church on Sunday, never double crossed anyone,
and always fulfilled my promises. I lived an honest and hardworking life,
with few difficulties, and even fewer interesting events. The only thing of
interest was that most people would find their belongings to have inexplicably
disappeared.
The priest around the area was well known for being a man who was
pure of heart. He had served for over sixty years, and was a prime example
of the famous quote ‘you either die a hero, or live long enough to
see yourself become the villain’. Unbeknownst to any of us, he was actually
the reason many of us got our possessions stolen. Calling us to the
church with promises ranging from cleansing our soul, to live comfortably
forever, he provided the perfect opportunity for his cronies to enter
our houses undetected.
Apparently he had been unhappy with the reward his long years of serving
the Lord had reaped, and had decided to take matters into his own
hands. It utterly appalled me that someone of his stature could ever do
something of this nature, but as I said, there are all manners of people
in the world; people who once served our Lord can dissent, and it is this
knowledge that makes me question my belief.
Huzaifa Farrukh
11 E
The shriek of the doorbell rang through the early morning hours, breaking
the silence. Groaning and coughing, John got off his bed, and with
a look at the digital clock, cursed whoever was at the door at this time.
Taking a moment to gather his bearings, during which time the impatient
person outside seemed to have their fingers glued to the doorbell,
he went to the front door and opened it. The sight before him made
him stop in his tracks, and slowly a small smile played at the edge of his
mouth.
The man outside, with barely an inch of hair on his head, was the lawyer
his father had employed for the past fifty years. And if this man was here,
at this hour, there was only one thing that could have happened. His father
was dead, and the man had arrived at the son’s house to discuss the
will. Trying his best to hide the smile that was threatening to turn into a
full blown grin, he held the door open and moved aside so that the lawyer,
Anthony, could enter.
His wife came out of their room with a questioning look, one eye black
and her left arm in a sling, but he gave a warning glare and she silently
returned to the room. Going to the fridge to get his guest something to
drink, he was annoyed at the fact that there was nothing non-alcoholic,
and had to get the man a glass of water from the tap.
Taking a seat, he waited for as long as he could, about ten seconds before
inquiring about the reason behind the man’s visit. Anthony gave
him a long look before informing of his father’s death. With a somewhat
convincing look of sorrow, John shook his head and almost snatched the
file from the lawyer’s hands. He had waited his entire life for this moment,
and could not wait another second to take a look at the lands and
funds he had inherited.
However, he heard something that made him stop, mid-action.
‘He didn’t leave you anything. Your sister is the one who cared for him.
He left everything for her,’
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The man outside, with barely an inch of hair on his head, was the lawyer
his father had employed for the past
So saying, the lawyer snatched back the file from John’s hands, and with
a mocking salute, left the house, leaving behind an abusive, alcoholic
man, who had one hand raised, with a look of disbelief on his face,
whose only thoughts were, this is impossible. He can’t do this. While he
continued cursing his father, he heard the sirens of police who had come
to arrest him for physically abusing his wife.
The damned lawyer must have informed them, he shifted his curses.
And the sun in the sky continued its slow journey across the land, on the
little act of justice it had just witnessed...
Huzaifa Safrani
11-D
The Spiral Path
Everything was shrouded in deep grey hue. I was perhaps crying – for
help or desperation, violently moving my hands to grab something solid.
What is this place? Why am I here? What have I done to deserve this? It
is cold and all I know is that I don’t want to be a part of this drama. First
thing’s first, I need some energy at least something to bear this atrocious
surroundings.
I have long forgotten the sense of time and space. It looks millennia or
the fraction of second. At the back of my mind a reality is solidifying. As
much as I struggled to the last bit of my will left, I have fought and lost. I
have to make it to the second post. I stood up slowly and every bit of my
body yelled in agony - A pain to remind me of my wounds and all the
suffering since I have started this treacherous path to the summit. I am
just to place my foot on a hunch.
All I know is the post to. One step, two step, three step until I lose the
count and start again. Shivering and deprived of the oxygen, I start panting
as each of my exhaled breath becomes a visible small cloud of smoke.
Perhaps some small stone or broken shard of glass left behind by the
other who has preceded me, piercing.
Looking back, I realize I have become hard to many of the frequent
sufferings of the path - Pointed stones, loneliness, darkness, cold and
many others do not have the impact on me that they had. Second post is
reached and forgotten. The ever longing spiral path is still ahead of me.
However, I am not as powerless as before. My muscles have grown as the
muscles of someone who trains his body to stand extra load, but, has my
soul grown, is all together another story. Looking at the side ways is an
infinite abyss beneath. That offered a much shorter, easier way out. Why
not throw myself in the abyss, after all “as is above, so is below”. Perhaps
my destiny awaits me into the deep layers of abyss. I am to go explore the
depths instead of reaching the summit.
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My only guide that has always accompanied me, always taken care of
me, cries inside me to remind me of my destiny. I am created not only to
traverse the path, not only to make sure that the path is travelable, but
also leave a trail behind to make the path a little bit darker. Perhaps the
path is all about the pull, the gravity, the will, to summit.
Day after day, night after night and yet, no respite in the fact that I have
left many posts behind me. It is just a call to go on. However, it is not
wholly true if I say that the winding path is ever treacherous. It is glowing
and blooming like spring full of flowers at times. As I see to my side
ways there is an amusement park of the sort; Ferris wheels, go-karts
scenery like no other. I have no choice but to step in. Fresh water, so
many smells, colors to forget myself, to forget my ever bleeding wounds.
I am successful in plastering them so successfully that they are out for
a while. However, the problem of problems is that it is just a scenery, a
filter of fireworks, soon to die off in the ever present night that is to be lit
with the suffering, not with arbitrary scenes.
Perhaps the winding staircase of the path is about developing this understanding.
Perhaps I am created to develop compassion and perhaps all
this suffering is not meaningless. It is to make me understand the pain
what loneliness, darkness and meaninglessness is. I am no more than the
one who I was, as I stepped on the stair case. The pain and wounds are for
making me understand the truth that I am here to light the path, as much
as I can make it more accessible to remove a few thorns of the path so that
the countless others following me may find it a a little comfortable. My inner
of inner says that it would never be, but I am not giving up.
If I were to give up, I would have done it long before. I would have done
it at the first site of abyss beneath. Perhaps the fruit of bleeding wound is
the feeling of profound all accompanying compassion. For everyone ‘Path’
is the meaning hidden beneath the dilemma.
Khuwailad Ali Safrani
9 - G
As I despair in the memories of spring part, I am to move on to lift myself
with one way or the other. Apply fresh dressing to stop the pain for
a while. At times my inward reverie yells for a companion, someone to
shoulder me, someone to sing a lullaby as I sleep placing my head in his
lap. There is no shortage of such companions, but are they soul fellows
and can they lift me on their shoulders to take steps for me?
At times it seems yes, they can, but I always cry in despair as all leave to
take one branch or the other, so much so, that I start looking at all such
passersby with skepticism, but this is not a bitter skepticism, rather it has
a profound sense of understanding and sympathy knowing that they all
are wearing the same wounds as I am. It is just the difference of dressing,
some are wearing even brighter plaster and others like me have rather
black or white one. And for the first time I realized that if I ride on their
shoulders, how they can be able to bear my weight on the top of their
own sufferings. I must say that I have seen and borne much more than
I should have, but along with this, has come a profound sense of understanding
and compassion.
Noor Nabi Noor Mir
10-D
Life
Life is about the things which are forbidden
The smile which has been hidden
The mistakes forgiven
The letters to be written
Life is nothing but a riddle
It is about the innocent in prison
Those moments when we make decisions
Life is just a riddle
It will blow in our face like an explosion
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The Lost Love
Mufti M Shahwar uddin Haider
10-B
Where are you, my Qiblah?
Where is my Kaabah?
I am alone in the desert,
My heart has begun to hurt,
That glimpse of your luminous face,
That gait filled with grace,
Your eyes that held secrets deep,
You are the shepherd and I’m the sheep,
Do not abandon me,
My guide, I cannot see,
Where is my goddess!
In your Flowery Dress,
You left behind an admirer,
And he grew into a lover,
Where are you , my Love
Where is my Love?
Musa Kazi
10-D
Change your life
O who believes!
That he has forever to make his fortune worth its while,
He who thinks this,
Shall be repenting over his past,
in his future.
So do something,
Something that is worth your while,
You don’t have forever,
Nobody does...
Step away for a while,
From all your occupations, that waste your time.
And think for once beyond what your senses tell,
Listen to what your heart says,
Open up your inner eye,
Trust me...
And witness the change in your life.
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The Cursed City
My Death Cycle
The horse slowly made its way across the town, its head bowed down
and, its rider dreary and dust ridden. Curious, and somewhat hostile,
eyes of the locals looked upon the lonely rider who seemed to be passing
this small townon his way to some far away destination. Travellers knew
better than to risk coming here, and to see one so boldly ride around
with not a care for his safety was astonishing, to say the least.
The horse and the rider arrived at the inn, easy enough to spot as it
was the largest building in the town, located at its centre. Giving a slight
groan, the rider got off the horse, and tying it safely to a tree, entered the
inn.
Sidelong glances, and raised eyebrows greeted him. Taking off his cloak,
he approached the barman, and asked for a strong drink and a room for
the night, in order to rest his weary bones. An astonished man acknowledged
his demands.
Having had enough, the rider finally asked the barman what was the
reason for the cold and somewhat startling response he was receiving,
and the answer absolutely frightened him.
The town he had unknowingly entered was none other than the infamous
Aelborne. Over the past century, it had been the sight of numerous
wars, droughts, famines, and fires. The Black Plague that had struck Europe
had started there, killing three fourths of the population. Travellers
passing through had mostly died within a few days, and slowly the place
lost all its charm, and became a black site, seldom visited and spoken of
in hushed tones.
The man could hardly believe his ears. He was in a cursed town. The
dread caused his heart to stop beating, and he fell to the floor, dead before
he hit it. The people in the inn averted their eyes and carried on as if
nothing out of the ordinary had happened. After all, frequent occurrence
of untimely death was a part of the peoples’ lives in the Cursed City.
Rohan Shazaib, 9-C
Tears welled up in my eyes as I saw that I was vanishing. Not knowing
what to do next, I closed my eyes and waited for my existence to cease.
I had always looked up to father, who had left me, his only child and his
wife to fulfill his selfish desire, to travel the world. I should have grown
to dislike him, instead a feeling of respect had sprouted in me for him as
I wanted to know what had he seen in the world. I wanted to know what
was so important that he was ready to sacrifice the time he had for his
family to travel the world.
I believe that was the main reason that when I turned 16 and my mother
gifted me my father’s telescope, I could wait no more to follow in his
footsteps, so at night, I left my home to go on a journey. As soon as I
stepped outside, I felt as if a set of eyes had locked on to me. I was not
alone. Shrugging off the uneasiness, I commenced my journey.
The stalkers were actually children. After outrunning them to the outskirts
of the city, I looked up at the gloomy sky and decided it was time
to make camp. After a few struggling tries, I finally got successful. Lying
down in the tent, I again shrugged off the feeling of constantly being
watched and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
When the clock in the town chimed midnight I was awoken by it to find
two hooded people, beside me in my tent, glaring at me. Terrified, I ran
away from the tent with only my father’s telescope in hand to the area
closest to me where I could hide; The Hill of Echoes which was famous
for two things: being foggy and misty, and for the echoes of a boy who
had died there centuries ago.
Entering the hill side, I sprinted as fast as I could until I reached the end
of the hill, barely stopping myself from falling over. As I stood panting
upon the cliff I dubiously looked behind, only to find the two strangers
standing behind me. My fear turned to anger and I screamed, “Who are
you?!” In reply one of them, whose height was the same as mine, lifted
his hood, only to reveal an ugly grotesque face.
189 190

Before I could examine my stalker, he moved towards me. Instinctively
I stepped back and before I knew what had happened I saw the ground
part and I fell, plummeting to my certain death. . Falling down, I regretted
the fact at not being able to live and change my destiny. Then, darkness
enveloped me.
Suddenly, a hand shook me. I solemnly looked back to find a figure.
Looking closely, it looked like the same figure that was present at the
time when I had fallen off the cliff… but he was taller. I figured that
he was the other person who had accompanied my future. Curiously, I
asked who he was. In answer he revealed his face.
It was my dad.
How did I recognize him? Well there was one and only one picture of my
dad in the house and I had memorized it and he looked exactly the same.
I never wanted to cry more. The hole in my heart had suddenly vanished
and all that remained was that my dad was standing right in front
of me. My idol stood right before me and I could do nothing to express
my feelings to him. Giving way to voice to express my feelings, I blurted
out weird noises which made no sense. He smiled then hugged me, and
slowly started speaking words of comfort into my ear.
He told me tales of his travels. He told me of the mysteries and fantasies
and adventures. He told me unbelievable things he had seen. I wished
that time would have stopped and he would have kept on speaking.
Slowly he vanished and bid me good luck with a smile on his face. Never
did I think I would curse my own father. With that tears welled up in my
eyes as I saw that I was vanishing too. Not knowing what to do next I
closed my eyes and waited for my existence to cease but I now know this
would never end.
This is my death cycle.
Salman Tausene Khawaja
10-F
Break time!!!
The restless, impatient students wait for the cacophonic yet melodious to
their ears, ring of the bell. Some have already their lunch boxes in their
hand while others clench money in their sweaty hands. A couple of students,
without making it obvious as not to invite smirks and mocking
from friends, are on strict diet, thus abstaining from food.as the clock
ticks by, most of the students begin to gather on a disorderly manner
around the door, believing it to be their gate to freedom and a truly deserved
reward for hours of patience of being confined to the classroom
for six consecutive lessons.
As the bell rings, the students kick open the door, rush out as free as the
wind, down the staircase, forming an endless stream. The teacher’s scolds
prove to be ineffective as the thundering nose of the footsteps dominate
her voice. However, she also heaves a sigh of relief and rapturously
moves towards the staff room for a cup of tea, in order to regain her energy,
for the rest of the lessons after break.
Outside, in the ground, the starving students huddle to the canteen. In
the absence of any queue, students push and pull on each other, to buy
something to eat before it is finished or the break gets over. Well, it may
not be as bad ad getting robbed by the bandits, commonly known as
bullies. A very low percentage of students prefer homemade lunches,
although it offers them a chance to have their meal peacefully and avoid
the hassle at the canteen.
Yet, there are innumerable boys who won’t miss a chance to try a couple
of shots in the basketball court, despite, the unbearable hot weather.
They run, play, snatch, quarrel, tease and eventually slow down. Perspiring
and panting, they promise each other to be back in the court at home
time. How is it possible not to spot some students, engrossed in their
own world, having a book in hand and taking this opportunity to go
through some concepts taught in class!
191 192

Some boys belonging to this clan often end up spending recess time in
the library. Some of them are isolated souls who do not prefer to mingle
with the rest of crowd, who are full of life and make fun of such ‘nerds’.
Soon, the bell rings signaling the boys to go back to the classes and
be ready for the grind till home time. The same bell, which previously
sounded melodious to the ears, is not regarded less than death knell. The
smiles and relief vanish from the faces of and gloomy look appear. Students
plod towards their classrooms, feeling a bit low yet energized to
grsp the knowledge waiting to be imparted to them.
Sami Ullah Hassan
9-C
Regrets
Death before life
It was the August of 1945 in Badhipur, Amritsar. Asad was sitting under
the dark shade of a lonely oak tree over the hill playing with a leaf. Asad
lay down, his hands crossed behind his head. Suddenly he sat up.
I forgot again, Asad cursed.
He stood abruptly, looked at his watch and grunted. He was half an hour
late! She would seriously kill me this time, thought Asad. He had promised
to accompany Gulalai to the bazaar. Asad sprinted through the narrow
streets of his small town situated at the southern bank of the Sutlej
River. Houses in the town were small and all crammed up together except
for the property of the landlords and angrez, British men, who were
seldom seen now. People believed that India would be independent soon,
hence the Britishers were leaving. Rumors swirled about a new state being
demanded by the Muslim League, a political party representing the
Muslims of India at the time.
Syed Ali Abbas
10-G
The sweet cruel days
They rush past me without delay
Though I try I cannot make them stay
That is my regret I must say
The sweet cruel expectations
Of me that they make
Their trust I always break
That is my regret I must say
The sweet cruel books
Their plots that make you sway
I let them with my emotions play
That is my regret I must say
Gulalai was sitting on a bench overlooking the lake, clad in a black hijab.
“I just lost track of time, Gulalai. It won’t happen again, I promise,” Asad
said, panting.
Gulalai looked at him; her lips pursed, eyebrows tilted to a frown. And,
she still looked beautiful. She held Asad firmly in her gaze and then, she
surrendered, like always, smiling.
Gulalai stood up and said, pointing her forefinger towards him, “I forgive
you this time, cousin. Next time I’ll go for a slap.”
“Your apology is greatly appreciated, Madam,” is all Asad said before
they burst into laughter.
Gulalai was Asad’s only cousin living in Badhipur with him, on the street
next to his. They had spent their childhood playing in these streets and
had formed a strong bond. First, it was of a brother and sister, and then it
transformed into friendship, and finally took the shape of love.
193 194

They were sixteen now and people used to notice them and talk about
them. His father had sat him down yesterday for a private talk, which
concluded with a complaint that he was meeting Gulalai more frequently
these days. They were at the bazaar for an hour now, and Gulalai had not
even bought a single thing. On Asad’s insistence, they stopped by a
potato chip stall and ordered two plates. A group of three Sikhs was
standing by the alley beside the stall, each one smoking a cigarette. Asad
and Gulalai passed them to sit on the chairs arranged near the stall.
“Look who’s here! The gul of Badhipur, the flower of Badhipur,” one of
the Sikhs mocked
Asad shot a look of anger at him and advanced towards them, but, was
stopped by Gulalai who asked him to leave them. But, they had picked
the wrong person to play with. He lunged upon those three, despite being
heavily outnumbered. He threw hay makers, jabs, and uppercuts.
And, received some in return. From that day Asad and Gulalai seldom
met for their parents kept a watch on them.
Time passed. Weathers changed. India was in chaos. Rumors of a new
state were turning out to not be just rumors. Muslim League had become
a force now, whose voice could not be left unconsidered. And, finally, on
3 June 1947 it was announced that a new country called Pakistan was to
be made. Asad had heard of killings being conducted by extremist Sikh
groups in Punjab. Rumors were that they were closing into Badhipur.
The neighborhood Muslims had left. Baba had devised a plan with Uncle
Akbar, Gulalai’s father, to settle near Ravi after crossing the border.
Gulalai was happy that they were moving. She was packing some crockery
they had to carry. Her parents picked up as much weight as they
could and left for Asad’s house, leaving Gulalai with some crockery telling
her to wait for Asad to come and pick her.
She was working in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door.
Pleased that it must be Asad she opened the door. But, it was not Asad.
He was the same person Asad had struck two years back, the one who
had a scar.
In the next street, Asad made his way for Gulalai’s home when he was
intercepted by two people. On looking closely he recognized them. They
were the Sikhs whom he had fought two years back. They each carried a
club this time.
Suddenly, there was a scream from inside the house. A familiar one. Gulalai!
It was at that moment he noticed that the third scarred Sikh was
not there. Years of anger swelling inside him burst in one go. He landed
a punch on one, but, was gripped by the other. They then pinned him to
the ground.. They hit him with their clubs. His thighs, his hips, his back,,
his head. He lay there gasping for air. The constant scream of Gulalai
kept him in the senses. Whenever, he struggled to move he was smote
down. Then, the screams died down. The Sikh came out of the house. A
pink scarf was folded onto his hand.
They left, leaving Asad and Gulalai in the hands of fate. Asad struggled
to get to the door, to save Gulalai. He saw her half-conscious lying on the
bed. He reached for her and held her hand.
“You cannot leave me like this, Gulalai. Don’t go!” Asad was crying. She
struggled for breath.
“Stay with me Gulalai! I am here for you.”
She smiled at him, touched his face and then, she went limp and her
hand dropped. Her breathing stopped. Her eyes did not blink anymore.
Taha
11-F
195 196

The Torment of the Persecuting
Rain
The rain had been incessant for the last few months, but for me the
downpour initiated once I had entered this confined “institution”, where
the students had no regard for a sensitive, though devotional teacher.
There were times when I associated this rain with “bliss” but things had
changed since then. Now the same rain seems to tap repetitively on the
surface of the window pane, not only making me feel trapped in this
place but when I direct my attention towards the individual droplets of
spit, I observe tiny faces mocking me, commenting “You’re old and boring!”
or “None of your students like you” - reminding me of the miserable
life I wake up every day to embrace.
I feel my heart constrict after inhaling a shaky breath as I gaze over my
meticulous lesson plan one last time, ignore the rain and enter the room
for another thirty five minutes of purgatory. I take my seat adjacent to
the white board and shift my glance towards the class only to see students
leaning back on their chairs as if this haven of learning I created
for them is a private youth club. Others continue to read the brightly
coloured and heavily pictured magazines, enjoying themselves. They sit
with their uniform shoddily put together in a way that suggests a deliberate
attempt to oppose authority.
“Class! Focus on the task”, I desperately continue to seek attention upon
which the class clown cracks a joke and the class bursts into laughter. I
could feel my body begin to tremor like a cup of water just before a natural
disaster struck. “Do you want me to go to the Principal?” I shouted.
“Why don’t you deal with it, Sir?” said another of the vultures sitting at
the back of the room while he masticated on some chewing gum.
“Cause he can’t, he’s a failure” whispered his partner to him, pretending
not to be audible enough for the whole class to hear.
The tremor transforms into involuntary shaking. The crystal image of
tyranny becomes clouded, as my eyes start brimming with tears. I could
faintly hear each tear duct bellow “What a cry baby, what a failure!”
I retreated to the back of the room as the world around me fogged up
and the pupils began to appear taller, more vicious as they pointed and
laughed at my displeasure. There was nothing left I could do so I resigned
to my emotions and wept; wept like a child who had just fallen
and bumped his knee; wept like a boy who had lost control over his balance.
The knell sounded. The students rush out of the class leaving behind
barbaric grunts that echo in the class while they jostle past the corridor
leaving me alone to sob. The rain continues to harass me. But I stop crying,
ignore the rain and try to make peace with my mind everyday by
keeping faith in the fact that the greater the storm, the brighter will be
the rainbow succeeding it.
The worst part of their persona is that stare; evil squinting eyes that seem
to accuse me of committing an unpardonable sin. “You’re a failure!”, the
rain seemed to shout at me as the students continued their conversation,
ignoring the task that I had lovingly prepared for them. “Class!”
my scream of attention followed by a lack of response felt like another
slap in my already blistered face. Every lesson had descended into a battle
and clearly my wit and determination was no match for their blatant
desire to systematically destroy me professionally and psychologically.
Usman Masood
10-D
197 198

Moving to Pakistan; the truth
I was fourteen years old. Residing in the Isle of Man at the time, the idea
of a holiday to a Euro-Asian country startled me. Why not? I was up
for it. Being familiar with travelling across Europe for years, the idea of
continuing the activity in Asia seemed attractive (at the time, anyway).
I hurriedly packed my bags - “What should I bring - what shouldn’t
I—?” I would beckon to myself every five minutes - adrenaline galloping
through my amateur physique and my heart aggravating the poetic justice
of it all. Had I only known that the clothes I packed with me would
have been the ones I would be wearing for the next five months; I would
have at least made sure to bring along my cosy Marks & Spencer onesie.
Istanbul is alluring. The decaying bulbs flickering with the entire spectrum
of colours along the cracked paths surrounding the Hagia Sophia
Museum effortlessly caught me starstruck. I was conceived with the
desire to instantly collapse on the flourishing grass adjacent to the footpaths
and begin writing poetry about the rainbow flashing before me.
Sadly, the idea did not progress into fruition due to my father’s eagerness
to explore the city. The history of the Ottoman Empire abruptly began
ringing in my ears (for hours..) as my father read from the pamphlets he
collected at the museum we had visited previously. Little did I know at
the time that about three years in advance I would be sitting a final examination
to consider the level of success of the Treaty of Sèvres - where
I glanced up at the ceiling of the colossal hall, gesturing to a higher power,
resonating about how ridiculously coincidental fate can be.
It was a Thursday afternoon when my father introduced my family
to the serene Indian-styled restaurant which rested by the Bosphorus
strait. The chilly atmosphere complimented the environment that surrounded
the eatery. As we began devouring the naan and chilly curry,
my dad began muttering to my mother. After about five minutes, my
father stated that he wanted to make an announcement. This was uncanny,
as he doesn’t usually make such formal statements habitually. He
warmly pronounced that the family was going to take a special trip to
Lahore in a few days — straight from Istanbul. My siblings and I froze in
shock — we hadn’t visited Pakistan in years and the idea that we could
finally meet our perky cousins was thrilling. Boarding the Turkish Airways
plane, I turned back and glanced at the blossoming country that
was thriving around me. The flush trees, the lively grass, and the stunning
blue sky. I had never been in love, nor a fanatic of the concept - but
at this moment I finally greeted the sensation openly.
We arrived at Allama Iqbal Airport on the 29th of July in 2013. As days
progressed, I timely became curious as to when we were returning back
home - but provided with no direct answer. Finally, on a dull day, my
father announced the final decision to shift homes to Lahore. Despite
not even being present in the room when he told my siblings (seriously..)
of the stubborn decision, my sister began whimpering with agonising
pain. I burst into the room where they were seated, believing that I could
hear laughter and giggles - but in reality cries filled with sorrow and detestation
greeted me. Albeit the event was unanticipated, I settled in the
foreign country and adjusted to the society - something my principal
adores referring to as a ‘culture shock’. I still wonder, with awe, what my
parents’ intentions were by moving my siblings and I across the globe. I
have succumbed to the idea that I may never, truly, figure it out.
My treasured onesie is usually stored at the bottom of my underused
Kashmiri-style wardrobe now. Yet, through the moments I grow apprehensive,
I haul out the garment and gaze at the seamless range of brilliant
stripes across the undersized fabric. The cohesiveness of the rainbow
colours continue to nudge me, and as I glance at the overpowering
cloth; I reminisce the past I worship and contemplate the future that
could be.
Ammar Hammad Khan
A-1
199 200

The Paradox and Dilemma of
Life
What is this life? Is it even real? Do we even exist? What is our purpose? Or
are we just like smothered ink on a crumpled piece of paper. Scientists have
alluded to the possibility of this world being part of a virtual reality or a
higher dimension that cannot be perceived of. They call it the reality of some
other being. Whatever it is, it remains obscure. All we know is that everyone
is jumping on this bandwagon of life and every day with the rising sun and
the scarlet hues in the sky, we hail the start of day. We see office workers and
people from every walk of life commuting in their vehicles sputtering and
wheezing everywhere on the roads. Pedestrians stroll aimlessly on the sidewalks.
Marketplaces are thronged by people. Upon gazing around we witness
the diverse activities going on. We have teenagers sipping sodas, beggars using
every ounce of their energy to wade through the streets, families holding
hands and enjoying little snacks in their hands. Women arguing earnestly
for saving a couple of bucks and street sellers advertising their products by
shouting slogans are a common sight. Everyone is preoccupied. But what is
the purpose of this description? It is simple. People are just carrying on. The
diversity in the marketplace ironically has a sense of overriding commonality
attached with it; this is just a typical day in the daily routine.
But wait! Then what is the purpose of this? I won’t go on saying that they
should bring some colour to this boring routine by experimenting with different
activities and move past their interests. Wouldn’t that be too predictable?
However let’s introduce another angle to this discussion. There is a
street musician stationed near a lamppost. He has a guitar in hand and his
fingers move endlessly back and forth as sweet sounding tunes are echoing
in the street. His act seems ‘real’ when compared to the rest of the people. He
seems content. His expression at first sight seems familiar but his emotions
are inexplicable. The musician playing the guitar has a mysterious aura surrounding
him. The passion for music is oozing through his veins. His body
language suggests the excitement in his heart. He has converted something
common into something very meaningful to him. This is how life should be
‘lived’. These simplest of activities become enjoyable if they are done with
zeal and zest.
Another example is of businesses which develop as a result of personal hobbies.
The unending problem in this greedy, money-hungry and two-faced
world is that talent’s significance is only associated with monetary benefits.
Take a young adventurous lad who roams around the world in search of
‘golden moments’ which he strives to preserve in the form of a picture. He
wanders, relishing every second of his memorable travels. He takes artistic
photographs and explores various opportunities for capturing spectacles
around the world. But this passion soon meets its demise, when he shares
these things on social media and attracts the attention of companies willing
to hire him for their publicity. We all are humans and despite the fact
that we are considered to be the ‘master race’, we possess the basic instincts
of a stray animal which claws around and scavenges for a meal. The lust for
amassing piles of rectangular green paper (worthless on its own) blinds the
lad and misguides him. He now captures moments better than ever due to
better equipment, technical training and other factors. Sharp peaks covered
by snow blankets, hazy morning skies; calm ocean waters and crowded light
polluted streets are among his various crafts. However, these scenes disappear
with the release of the shutter as the lad turns back and scrolls through
on his camera to find the perfect money-maker. With this scroll, he turns
into an empty shell. He discards the camera he initially began his ventures
with. This piece of machinery which used to be a soul-mate is now just a
mere blob of plastic and metal which gets replaced every year upon the arrival
of a new model. Well, ignorance is certainly not bliss. The scenery that
most people cannot even dream of is right in front of the boy’s eyes but does
he ever ponder? Does he look out into the horizon? Does he lie on the grass
and stare at the starry night and majestic constellations? I guess you know
the answer by now.
So what good is such a life? You are physically living, breathing and your
body is functioning but in reality you are just a mere puppet whose strings
are being pulled. But is your heart really satisfied? Do you feel content? Are
the emotions you portray false and your soul restless? The paths for life are
laid out. You go down the path everyone does and get trapped in a pit which
presents no possibility for escape. Or you go down the other path and get
lost again. But I’d rather get lost in a world that matters and which helps
me unravel the true purpose of my life. So go on peeps and realize the true
essence of this life that you have. Stop acting mindlessly and start LIVING.
Humza Siddique
201 202

Other [Purple Lights Are Beautiful
Lights]
‘Purple lights are beautiful lights,
raining down me a truth
of reality: bright
in the slicing life support tooth.
I am intelligent.
And this acknowledgement of
rapport makes me more dangerous than ever.
I am a sticker label price,
and you pay for my maintenance
from across the ocean.
You brought me here and left.
You brought me here in a bet,
because that is all I am to you.
that destroys my crown of gelatine.
I am late again,
but it is not my fault.
The car stops again,
and traffic arranges
me an unknown support
group of friends.
I wiped my shoes and
polished my ankles;
wiped the polish across
my face like the morning sun.
They both demand to be heard.
The heat is scolding a thousand candle lights,
and my shoe polish has melted.
It should have died;
it would have been better.
A trophy of value and good will
evolving into a detention of enlightenment
with a weeping evening shrill.
I am a monster of alienation and honesty,
but you are my juxtaposition of a shaved head.
I try so hard to be perfect everyday,
but forever there is something that
gets in the way.
A phone call home,
a dull spot of shoe polish,
a diet Nazi comb
Only five minutes are left
till your death—
but I am half an hour
away.
I advertise my regret—
but advertisements are phoney,
and all the facades in this world
could not trump my only.
I am so tired,
everyone perceives me
an academic.
They are wrong.
203 204

The girl has no slippers in
front of me, but I cannot
do anything.
I cannot.
Am I a saviour? The wrapper
wrapping me a jungle burger,
the sweet of a candy—
but am I a protector?
I will never know.
I am two in one.
My soul has too many
offsprings of thought
and solitary sours.
Not one, but both have
become my form of magnitude.
One minute I need a sip
of a purple pineapple, and
the next a Wuthering taste
from a green bear.
My friend is in trouble
and standing outside,
watching me in tears,
and him in tears,
and I wish, I wish
I could stop his flowering of
discontentment: but I cannot.
I am an echo of blue—
black, red, orange, purple—
Ammar Hammad Khan
A-1
and death, death, death.
I am the ocean of
suicide and receding happiness.
I breathe wrath like the
villager called rut, called
the ignorer, breathes.
The hate is so real in his
eyes, that even a daffodil couldn’t
make him happy. He is a child
in my eyes, and I am forever
a soul of resentment.
My dual is so vast it is almost funny:
like the bricks around me!
I crash into mountains of truth.
It is not new to me.
Nothing is new.
I am dead in
sand; I am dead
in a plastic can.
I wear my scars
like a medal.
Because you will never
know my pain:
and I appreciate fate, who
has made you ignorant.
205 206

Climax
Identity Crisis
Three years have gone by,
trodden up and down my Gaelic bureau,
a mischief for every single fly,
locking unduly tricks’n symbols of my magic show,
enters a figure of respect’n objectivity,
an aura of a Swiss scented candle,
lighted in the evening before bed,
before flashes of discontentment and bias,
ruptures me a path, a lineage,
of all you are not.
Your door remains locked,
and your life a shut handle:
I twist and turn it until I realise
there is nothing inside.
Raw colours your mouth,
spurting consciousness and truth,
all I would rather shout,
colliding into the phantom of you.
A good verse you have given me,
words sulking through my cilia tree,
O rest me in purple peace,
O rest me in a climactic heightened breeze.
Ammar Hammad Khan
A-1
That maroon leathery texture
That has eluded me for years
Under false pretensions
Left me on the verge of tears
An outcast
Suffering from an identity crisis
Who am I? Will I never know?
The answer is coherent,
However, my mind refuses to accept it
Refuted from the Kingdom
Exiled from the throne.
But it was not by one of them,
It was by one of my own.
The lush conducing feeling
Of the crimson red paper
The only crimson I see is that of my blood,
Left me wondering, kneeling.
How could this happen?
How? Why? What did I do
to deserve this confounding revelation.
I now stand, uprooted from my core,
Left with that dingy green which I throw on the burning floor
Fadil Syed Hashmey
A-1
207 208

Sigmund's last drink
dow, but on finding no one, he relaxed.
“Now my man, don’t go back to sleep again.” said the voice, clearly annoyed.
He was not a very pleasant person, that Sigmund. A stranger to his own
“Is that you again Hermann? Haven’t I told you about coming in here?”
family and ostracized by the community.
asked Sigmund, thinking it was his son.
Once, he had been a proud man, full of vigor and enthusiasm. He was
“Young Hermann is not in the room at the moment, but I am much
the only son in his family. Coming from the famous line of Manstien’s,
more interesting.”
who were respected throughout Hamburg, Sigmund had it all. There
“Who is it then?” he called, in a drunken voice.
were photographs of him, he was boarding the ship to Britain, well
“Me? Of course… I am the devil.”
dressed, smiling, in a posture that radiated confidence which was palpable
even to a person viewing them thirty years later. Of course, like every “Well I suppose you would be..”
“You? The devil?” Sigmund snorted. But then he quickly sobered up,
elite family, generations of inbreeding had given him four toes, but that
“Sigmund, oh Sigmund, Ich! Ich! Ich!” exclaimed the devil. “It really is
had not proved much of a hindrance. And no regrets from him either,
me; enjoy my presence.. while it lasts.”
after all, the blood should be pure Manstien, shouldn’t it be? To show it,
“You seem a congenial fellow, though I suspect your appearance must
he had married his second cousin, just like his father before him. And
say otherwise, as you are not sitting beside me.”
the union bore a son, and with a Russian twist, the boy turned out to be
“Is my voice not enough?”
a hemophiliac, but he was no Alexei and Sigmund was no Tsar Nicholas “I’m afraid not.”
II
“Sigmund, oh Sigmund- you know I really like your name. Sig-Mund.
Alas, he had lost all which mattered. He now sat alone in one of the
German in everything, Sig-Mund. Sig-Mund.” The visitor kept repeating
many glorious rooms of his mansion. Van Eycks and Turners adorned
it aimlessly, droning off.
the walls, splendidly complimenting the vast library he had cultivated.
“I’m glad. Now why have you come here? And I don’t need any of that
But now he read nothing. He sighed and drained his glass of absinthe,
‘smiting’ and ‘I’ll throw you in the abyss’ nonsense that your lot usually
but readily filled another. He took a sip, but a sudden feeling of repulsiveness
overcame him, due to the fact that he had not diluted it, and he
“Can’t a devil converse without fear of being told off?”
says.” said Sigmund.
threw the glass, rather nonchalantly, to the side, where it rolled off, while “Well… I suppose so.” conceded Sigmund.
leaving a steady trail of drink on the Turkish carpet. He slipped down on “Well, enjoy this talk then.”
the recliner, closed his eyes, and began to drool. A pitiful site, he made.
“Why?” asked Sigmund.
“Sigmund.” A voice called, rather gruff and heavy in the tone.
“Why? My dear man, why? For you are about to die.”
Sigmund stirred in his sleep but remained at peace.
“Have you come to take my soul then?”
The voice called again: “Sigmund”.
“Nonsense. I never do that. But on an unrelated note, you do not treat
But there was still no response from him.
your son nicely.”
“Sigmund!” this time the voice called with certain urgency and in an exasperated
tone as if the owner was in a hurry or was simply not prone to condescending tone.
“Hermann? Why, he’s as dumb as a duck himself.” replied Sigmund in a
waiting.
“Such love. It makes me cry.” said the devil, rather sarcastically.
Sigmund woke up lazily. He looked to the sides and out of the large win-
“Go back to the hole where you came, and let me die alone.” Sigmund
snapped back.
209 210

“Go back to the hole where you came, and let me die alone.” Sigmund
snapped back.
“Hole? I am a king.” Laughed the devil.
“Alright, the throne. Go back to your throne and leave me alone!” said
Sigmund, motioning with his hand lazily.
“I am disappointed Sigmund, but the question is, are you at peace?”
“I always was.”
Young Hermann watched from the doorway. His father was babbling
constantly, saying something about devils and ducks and about him.
Must have been the absinthe. But he stopped suddenly and limped back,
his head dangling over his shoulder. A sorry example of a man, thought
Hermann, better off dead..
Soldier of Stone
The misguided soldier,
Cast away,
Not an ounce of remorse,
Amidst acts of dismay.
A man on a mission,
A mission to kill,
An intention to massacre
Merely seeking the thrill
A man on a mission,
A mission to slaughter,
All men, women, children
And all those hereafter
Fadil Syed Hashmey
A-1
A soldier devoid of emotion,
A soldier that will not stop,
Wreaking havock across the land,
For retreat, he will not opt.
He travels further in search of fresh souls
Across the lengths of Southern frontier
Yet he is brought down to his knees
By just another soldier of stone.
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