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The love-hate relationship

by:Aanchal

I remember the day when my brother took me along with him to an old temple dedicated to Lord
Hanuman. I had been reluctant to go at first because I thought the place would be as creepy as the
area where it existed. It was late in the evening and as we were nearing the temple, the place and
the people were already giving me creeps. Every now and then motorcycles and cars would trudge
past us and for some reason I could not be convinced that the place was safe. He parked his bike in
the parking lot and I accompanied him there, for I refused to be left alone at such a place. We
walked up the gentle slope to the main temple premises. It was crowded but not as crowded and to
my relief, most of them were children. I saw the five-faced idol of the deity and thought about how it
could be scary to look at it, sometimes in the dark, when everything is silent and empty. I was still
not quite much impressed by the place and I only thought of going back home. It was only after the
pooja that he showed me the real thing – A sky full of heavenly pink clouds, all filled up to where my
eyes could see. I could not help but stare, in bewilderment and awe. I wanted to be there forever,
not letting my eyes lose sight of what I had just seen. All my life, I had wanted to see sunsets, the
most beautiful ones, but provided the pollution and crowdedness of the city, the lack of time these
days, and the towering buildings that surrounded our house, the sunsets eluded me. They still
continue to. But for the moment, it made my day, my entire year full of harshness was melted into
this moment of immense serenity, of divinity, of peace. All I could think of, on our way home, was
how my brother happened to discover such places only to astonish me later. As to how he did so
much for the things that made me happy. He has never been the expressive one when it comes to
love and affection. We fight like we are the biggest foes of each other. I tell him sometimes that I
wish I were alone, I had no sibling at all. But then, I look up to times like these, times when he makes
me laugh when I’m crying after a long, rough fight, times when I reach for his shirt when I see dogs
coming towards me in the street, times when I rely on him to make the school bus wait when I’m
late in the morning, times when he does not let me lift heavy things, saying he is stronger than me,
times when I look at him with a babyface when it’s already 11:50 and I have a DA deadline, times
when he smiles softly but says nothing when I achieve something, times when he does not return my
“Bye” when he is headed to his office, and all those uncountable moments and memories which
can’t fit into words. I think about how we are just a year apart but he seems centuries wiser. I have
seen him at moments where he supported me to learn things I could not learn otherwise, I have
seen him take a stand for me in front of my parents. One more thing that comes to my mind when I
think of his un-expressive nature is how he never said a good word about me when I got ready for
an event but how he told me that I looked beautiful, the way I am, for the first time when I wore a
suit. I think of how the love-hate relationship continues to grow despite everything that falls in the
way and that I’m glad to have a brother like him, but hey! Don’t get carried away, we just had a fight
and I’m writing this with my left ear still ringing. XD

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Ophelia: The Tragic Heroine

by:Harika

Ophelia, her very name is firmly rooted within the realm of Greek tragedy and as the Early Modern literature scholar Cherrell Guilfoyle wittily notes, “in one of the fragments of Euripidean tragedy, there is the saying ‘Woman brings to man the greatest possible succor and the greatest possible harm.’ 

In this way, from the very beginning of Hamlet, Ophelia is portrayed in a way that she was meant to be a helpmate to the men in her life. Thus, Ophelia’s degradation, descent into madness, and eventual suicide are all incredibly clear signs that “something is rotten in the state of Denmark”.

And this is where I am completely at odds with the given narrative about Ophelia

Ophelia didn’t just go crazy because her ex-boyfriend killed her father.

Ophelia went mad because her entire narrative arc in Hamlet is defined by patriarchal control and being treated like a child despite being an adult. Her first scene is one in which both her brother and father warn her not to be involved with a man she loves, but the way they do it is so telling.

Laertes, brother of Ophelia offers a compelling reason for her to be careful: no matter how true his love or how good his intentions, Hamlet is a prince, and his actions can’t always be his own. If he marries he has to marry for political gains, and Ophelia is the daughter of a court advisor with no title. So Ophelia could never be more than a mistress to him, dearly and truly loved but living in social and moral/religious disgrace, reflecting poorly on herself and on her father and brother. And sure, if Hamlet were king, she’d be well taken care of even if she weren’t married, but there’s still the aforementioned problem of honor. And besides, there’s the bigger problem of Hamlet not being king. If he so chose, Claudius could have Ophelia sent away, or imprisoned, or anything else that Hamlet would have no legal power to stop. So it’s better not to get entangled with Hamlet.

Laertes’ position is one that denies Ophelia happiness, but it’s also one that recognizes she’s an adult woman and one that is based on practical truths. It’s a position that grants Ophelia time and agency to end things with Hamlet gradually and in a way that lets both of them process the situation. Well, although, there’s a certain degree of talking down he does to her, it strikes me more like the way an older sibling will speak from experience when telling their younger sibling not to do something stupid. Moreover, their conversation is also one where Ophelia has a chance to respond to him in kind and remind him not to be a hypocrite because Laertes isn’t exactly old either.

But then along comes Polonius, proud and concerned father of Laertes and Ophelia to trample all over that. He speaks all over her, gives her no chance to respond, and treats her like a stupid child, comparing her to a bird caught in a trap. Unlike Laertes, he insists that Hamlet must have wicked intent and be seducing her—thereby assuming that Ophelia isn’t adult enough to have romantic or sexual agency. He’s essentially the kind of dad who threatens to do violence to his adult daughter’s boyfriends (well, not exactly, but definitely the same mindset). He refuses to believe Ophelia when she says that Hamlet has been genuine and gentlemanly to her, not trusting that she’s wise enough to recognize when someone is “only after one thing” versus when it’s actual love.

He then goes on to order her to return his letters, to order her to cut off from him completely and immediately (with no chance to process), and to then read some of Hamlet’s words to her to the king and queen, violating their privacy and turning something lovely into a reason for shame. Polonius says Ophelia gives him the “doubt” that the letter was out of filial duty, but given his busybody character and how he forced an answer out of her earlier, it’s not too much of a stretch to guess that he forced her to give it to him. Polonius then proceeds to conspire with Claudius, the quintessential antagonist to use Ophelia as a tool against Hamlet, putting her in a position to be deeply wounded.

I know a lot of interpretations of the “get thee to a nunnery” scene which is quite a memorable scene in the play reveals the misogynistic ideals of Hamlet where he tells Ophelia to become a nun, swearing off men and marriage as women who give birth are breeders of “sinners” as all men are sinners. You could interpret the scene as Ophelia completely believing that Hamlet is actually scorning and being cruel to her, and frankly, I’m not sure that that scene can’t be played straight on his end either. Maybe Hamlet sees that this is Polonius’ meddling, but maybe he thinks Ophelia is going along with it. In short, though, her father’s actions have put Ophelia in a position to be verbally abused by someone who she believes loved her.

However, later in the scenes you could make out a flirtatious conversation between Hamlet and Ophelia but that’s all in the tone—you could make it flirty, but you could also make it Ophelia being distant out of obligation to obey her father, while Hamlet’s goading her with sexual jokes. So it’s him once again being loathsome at best, cruel at worst.

And the final straw comes when he kills Polonius. Polonius’ death wasn’t the sole cause of Ophelia going mad, but it was the final straw. Sure, her father was a controlling meddlesome imbecile, but whether we read him as actually abusive or not, Ophelia probably still loved him as her father, complicated love or not. And now she’s an orphan, and it’s all because of the actions of the man she loved.

Like, Hamlet’s actions are understandable from his own perspective. But Ophelia doesn’t know about the ghost, doesn’t know about the murder, knows nothing. All she sees is the severe mental deterioration of her boyfriend coupled with the heartbreaking knowledge that her brother and father are right about the relationship not being viable. So she can’t be with him and can’t even stand by him to support him. And then she becomes a pawn in a political game she doesn’t even really understand, her every action directed by powerful men, which results in said boyfriend lashing out at her. And then her boyfriend kills her father for no reason she can understand other than him maybe being insane.

Consequently, you can see why Ophelia would be a little out of her mind by the time she dies.

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A ballad for the love of death.

By: Ashar

I heard a sound, as faint as her tone

The sun was as shy, the river was nigh

For the world was in a spiral, a story for one’s dawn

I drag by my reflection across the sands of her bly

.

Caught my eye, bright as the sun flickering by the ocean

Fresh as her soul was the dress she wore, ashen

The air gazing through my chest spout out alive

Ah! But her heart was of stone, she could not thrive

.

A story of betrayal, sorrow, and love

It was what made us whole for each disfigured

To each of their own, the darkness came from above

Images dancing of our hands together, walls lingered

.

Golden hair, purple eyes, mango residue

A gentle smile, soft-touch, there were only a few

Warm lighting, cozy was her sensation, innocent like a barn owl

Writing about her I wonder who was she under her cowl

.

Running through the park, memories rewritten, like a dandelion shawl

Giggling and looking at each other, oh! did we fall.

.

She might be gone, fixed was she, for I was broken once more

By my dishonesty, I don’t understand why she has to go

Young was her spirit, or so spoke her lore

Everything seems clear, blinded by the snow

.

It was as if yesterday she was my guardian

Couldn’t see for she was my grim reaper

Shredded once again, I started to wonder

.

Who was she when I first met her, I heard the accordion

Who were are we really?

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MEASURING IN LIGHT

by: Sutanuka

The light at the end of the tunnel didn’t really make sense to me until I was at the end of the tunnel. When you are at the tunnel, it feels like a long stretch of black cloth wrapped around everything you can lay your eyes on. It’s stretchable and it stretches and stretches.

Subconsciously, I had started to count kindness on my fingers. If you were like me, you barely got enough of it to fill in one hand, but I took what I could; I still do. I had learned to lick it in scraps, taking whatever I could and storing it in a jar made of hope and I took a bit more out of it than I should have every time I was told I wasn’t enough. Which was every day.

 The jar didn’t last long enough and there were cracks on the glass. I was not enough. Every fiber of my being was one touch away from being enough but I never could touch it.

 Enough.

Whatever that is.

 I was always short of being the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, the perfect person. I was always tugging it with my thread but those always tore in the middle and I was adrift again. In the emptiness of not enough and never enough and less than.  I was drowning in that vacuum. Years from then I still am not enough for anyone, and even when they tell me that I am, I am constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop – which I know it will – for them to realize that I have pieces missing from when I left them in my previous life. Or maybe the one before that.

But this is not what I am writing this for. I remember when I was fifteen and in a terrible place all around, I asked myself to rebel. One December, I wrote in this ratty tissue paper that I need to dye my hair a bright pink or orange – a color that my elders hated – for me to finally give that fifteen-year-old peace.

Last November, when I dyed my hair a bubbly pink, I did not remember the tissue paper letter, I remembered it long after I dyed it brown again. Ever since I go back to that December a lot. I think if I had to pinpoint a moment I knew about the light at the end of the tunnel, it’d be that. It’d be that moment when I was sitting in that salon chair watching my pink hair dry when I swear I could see the light. I could see it bright and clear as a day.

Days pass and night changes and I found people who love me. I am terrified of being alone, of being loveless, of being lonely. My friends like me and it’s been so long since it happened that I fight a dead mountain trying to believe it. I think about them a lot and I turn up clueless when I think, why do like me?

When you see the light at the end, you also look back and see the long way you’ve come, but then you also see the pile of stuff you missed out on. You see how many people love you so dearly, but you also see the mobilized fear of knowing they might not really love you. It’s a double-edged sword and you never really escape it.

I think about that fifteen-year-old often. I think about how in some parallel dimension or multiverse, she’s stepping into the tunnel for the first time, not knowing she’ll spend years there and in some other dimension, she’s stepping into it again until, in a thousand different universes, she’s stepping into it again and again and again and then some. 

I see the light now and it’s golden, like daylight, I see everything around me and I wonder if it’s here to stay. I hope it is.

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Till death did us part.

by:Sumana

There didn’t pass a day you weren’t on my mind

There wasn’t an act that didn’t turn my thoughts to you

There didn’t exist a time you didn’t reside in my heart

There is not alive another soul like you

I can’t imagine a life without you

.

.

Yet here we are, 

On opposite sides of a fine, fine line

Nothing new, nothing amiss

Only this once, the line is an abyss

.

.

You dance with death

Whilst I stare from across a chasm

Living a lie

Knowing you court death

How could you leave me

To fend all alone

I know not how to live

Without you by my side

You brought out the worst in me

And you brought out the best

Yet there you are 

Caught in death’s tempest

There is no one else like you

No one I respect as I did you

Another quip, just one other taunt

Anything, anything to get you back

.

.

Whom will I thank for all that you have done?

Who will fill this void you have left?

Whom will I challenge, whom will I fight?

Whom will I grind to dust in my wake?

.

.

There was love in this enmity we shared

There was meaning in our story of hate

There was purpose in our every war

There was elation in our rivalry

.

.

There doesn’t pass a day you aren’t on my mind

There isn’t an act that doesn’t turn my thoughts to you

There doesn’t exist a time you don’t reside in my heart

There is not alive another soul like you

I can’t imagine my life without you.

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His Absence

by:Panthalassa

His eyes spoke more than his mouth, 

I don’t know whether it was my thoughts, 

My reflection, in those eyes

Or that was his own?

I don’t know if he loved me the most?

But I know, I know for sure, that I loved him the most!

.

.

There’s more flesh & blood walking same foot with me, 

Closer beings around me I care about but

But his Absence seems a lot to be filled by these all.

.

.

And know that dear I will wait for you in each life, I swear!

I am not sure I will recognize you or not, 

I am not sure you will remember our connection or not, 

I am not sure you will come to me or not, 

But I am sure that I need you to come. 

.

.

I called you ‘handsome’, I meant that with all my 5 senses;

You are still the best boy I ever laid my eyes on !

.

.

You were the most graceful of any of your loyal kind,

.

.

I believed that you will die along minutes, hours, days & years with 

My fading memories but I was wrong, 

True! My memories are fading like it always does

But your absence is living by consuming mine inside,

.

.

It’s making me hollow !

.

.

But I am waiting, I am waiting for your love to fill me from inside

Cell by cell, feeling by feeling, it will;

.

.

I hope it does.

.

.

Because I know my love for you is stronger than your absence, 

Stronger than the absence of your touch, 

Stronger than your irritation for me, 

Stronger than your protectiveness for your food !

.

.

It is the strongest force in the universe!

It’s infinity times stronger than the strong nuclear force !

.

.

But my lord, that damn painful fact stands true 

that I MISS YOU!

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The Stoic overflow

by: Prajjwal

Dinner table conversations at home are often unpleasant. It significantly revolves around how incompetent or inexperienced I am compared to other people of my age. I realized I wasn’t worthy enough to be a boy of my age.

Back in school, I was asked to man up whenever I went to seek help during distressing times. I learned that I should pretend to be fine when I am hurt, deep within.

One day I was shamed for not winning at a competition. I had to digest the fact that defeat was never an option in my life.

There are instances when I preferred to remain silent after listening to triggering statements or derogatory opinions. All credits to my conflict phobia.

Finally, I learned to tune myself with the norms and rules of society so that I could fit in and get some kind of validation for my existence, and this was when stoicism entered like a dreaded monster, extending its bloody hands to cover my mouth and cloud my emotions.

According to Greek philosophy, stoicism refers to the teachings or the ethics designed to lead a happy, virtuous, and wise life. It is regarded as a powerful tool for those in pursuit of perseverance, self-discipline, and master, or in simpler terms, it taught people to be free from any kind of passion, and unmoved by grief or joy. History’s great minds believed in stoicism and sought them out. 

Even though the core idea of stoicism is lucid and relevant, the modern version of it seems hyper-polluted. 

Society’s paradigm is quite a complex subject. As you grow up, you are expected to be the ideal man or woman who is capable of handling responsibilities without any flaws and mold into perfect shapes and sizes to please the people around us. And, this is where the misappropriation begins. You tend to suppress your agonies and hardships without any display of emotions, just so that you can avoid getting called ‘the fussy one’ and when you fail or break down, you silence yourself with phrases like Do not give up, Keep calm and move on when in reality, it just starts to snowball and multiply your miseries. 

The societal norms which define the dichotomy between genders have posed an unspeakable threat to the modern world. At places where patriarchy reigns, you can find a crisis of affection, especially in males. They have no female companionships except for the ones at their home, thereby tricking boys to signal their masculinity. They tend to follow the same rituals for generations unless cooped.

I too am emotionally sterile at times. I constantly worry about the visceral way I cringe when I talk on video calls. I waste my time significantly in “What others might think about me?”, unaware that this very notion has the potential to cripple my existence one day. No wonder, Gen-Z has mistaken the word depression for sadness, failing to realize the existence of a thin line between both. There are days when I feel that I missed a great number of opportunities to express myself, cry, voice out my opinions, vent out my feelings. Maybe I was just afraid of grief, which might make me look weak in front of other people.

It is exhausting to keep up to the expectations of people around us, especially at times when you are grappling with your internal self.  It is worthless to bottle up your emotions and choke yourself with unforeseen consequences. We as humans have the power to express our inner self, vent out our opinions. It has a cathartic effect.

Stoicism is brutal. It is capable of taking a toll on one’s mental health. You may opt for silence, but the echoes inside will remain and thrive, to haunt you forever. 

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A piece of peace

by: Netra

Everything around me was dull. The light glowed dim, at least to my eyes. The pale blue bed sheets, glass tubes and bottles, surrounded by freshly painted walls and no windows intensified the silence surrounding me. The air-conditioned room was unbearably cold. I was claustrophobic, but staying in the room was my choice. It wasn’t my fears that worried me at that moment, it was the expressionless man lying on the bed before me, draped in white hospital gowns, and an inhaler tube plastered into his mouth. It was the first time I’d ever seen my restless, talkative and constantly complaining dad lying still and unresponsive on a hospital bed. He was even more afraid of closed spaces than I was. I felt breathless or had headaches, but my father would puke and panic. I watched silently, internally picturing my dad freak,  jumping out of the bed to open windows and doors in his hospital gown. I smiled, tears welling up in my eyes. 

My father was brain dead. The doctors did say there was a 1% chance that he could survive if a miracle occurred. But thinking practically, I knew that was not possible(despite watching a million k-dramas where brain aneurysm patients somehow survived). A ruptured vessel had completely flooded his brain in blood. Nothing could be fixed. I’d already let my imaginations run wild when I’d heard “ blasted blood vessel”. There was no point crying over spilt blood.  

I scanned my father meticulously, memorizing every inch of colour, texture and hair strands on his body. I needed to remember for almost another 70 years( my father would have been proud if I’d memorized so carefully, inorganic chemistry, for my college entrance exams). I placed my palms into my dads. It was cold but not as cold as a dead person’s. If I turned off the AC, would he become warmer, would life magically flow back into him?  Would he wake up?

The nurse had said his sense organs are still functional, so technically he can hear, feel and taste everything but not process it. So, I tried experimenting with his ears first(Yes, I am kind of crazy). My dad had an obsession with radio Indigo 91.9(If you’re a Bangalorean and haven’t vibed to this radio station, shame on you). He would go crazy every time Trevor Daniel’s falling came on the radio. So on a low volume, I played the song and placed the speakers beside his ears. I stared at his eyelids, toes, and fingers expecting at least a slight movement. No Response.

My heart hurt a little. 

Never mind, I told myself, my dad had always been a little deaf. Another ridiculous idea floated into my head.  I wanted to pinch him, if he could wake up, he would wake up then. It felt like committing a crime as I had to avoid the nurse’s eyes. I carefully dug my nails into my dad’s arms and pressed, deeper and deeper, but he didn’t react. I kept pinching, with each pinch, my heart hurt harder. I couldn’t swallow the fact that he wouldn’t wake up. 

 As I was busy secretly pinching my father’s arms, the neurosurgeon appeared.

“Hey, you are the daughter right. Where’s your mom?”

“ She’s waiting outside,” I told him. 

Due to the coronavirus pandemic, only one person was allowed into the ICU at a time. I felt slightly fortunate, I didn’t have to watch my mom scream and cry in front of me(If there’s one thing that made me cry, it was watching my favourite people cry). But my luck didn’t last long. 

“Oh no, that’s ok,” he looked at the nurse. “Let her in too,” he ordered. 

5 minutes later, my mom appeared. It took 5 minutes because she had to wear the disposable cloak, disposable mask, disposable hat and disposable gloves before entering the ICU. All thanks to the virus crisis. 

My mom, with her red, tear-drenched eyes, walked straight towards my father.

“Wake up, look, your daughters here. Your stupid careless daughter. You don’t want her being careless for the rest of her life. Wake up, watch over her and yell at her till she learns!” (It was just like in the movies).

My heart hurt unbearably now and tears clouded my vision. I silently cried beside my mom, still pinching. I had a long life ahead of me and a lot of new people to meet, but my mom would be so alone. I could tell she was trying to think about anything but the future.  

My mom was being a little scary. The three nights my dad was in the hospital, my mom, who hates being touched, hugged me so tightly while trying to sleep, the fact that there’s a 5% chance that brain aneurysms are genetic seemed to bother her more than it did me, she kept checking on me every 5 minutes. 

Three nights, we let him survive high on medication, so his heart would keep pumping at least until my brother arrived from the US. The last thing any of us wanted was my brother to come home after almost a year to find his dad no more. I wasn’t allowed to tell my brother anything about my dad’s condition either, he was travelling alone, couldn’t risk giving him tragic information. 

At 3 a.m, an hour after my brother visited my dad in the hospital, we were told the medication wasn’t helpful anymore. His pulse dropped rapidly and his heartbeat one last time.

That was the second time in all my life I heard my brother cry. 

“None of you are to blame. He was just unfortunate. He was born with a weak vessel in his brain. Some things can’t be controlled.” The doctor had said. But there must be a reason. Our quest for reason is what makes us human, after all. 

Since there wasn’t any physical sign as the doctor had mentioned, “It is undetectable. It bursts when it bursts”, my mom and I began exploring other kinds of signs. The lockdown was a blessing in disguise so that we could spend more time with him in his last days, maybe we visited our native out of the blue last week because he wanted to meet our relatives one last time, maybe we never celebrated birthdays as the others do because someday someone was going to leave the world on one of our birthdays.

But there was one sign that bothered me the most. It was an incident that happened the day before my dad was taken to the hospital. 

I was filling out details for my college application and I picked up my dad’s phone to get an OTP, that instant his phone shut down and I’d jokingly commented, “ What is this? Get a new phone. This phone looks like it’s going to die any day, just like you.” My dad didn’t like spending on fancy devices. He would spend loads of money on healthy foods and buy himself tons of fancy t-shirts and sports shoes, occasionally get us what we ask for but never upgraded his gadgets unless it falls very behind in technology.

My dad laughed and hit my back,” What did you say? I look like I’m going to die any day huh?”

At that moment it felt like a joke. It was like telling a healthy 6-year-old, he was going to die of a heart attack soon(My dad was nutrition and diet-obsessed and quite healthy for his age).

I replayed this incident in my head countless times and each time felt more bitter than the previous. I knew deep down, this incident had nothing to do with my father’s sudden death but it still bothered me, the absence of signs had made me look at otherwise irrelevant things. My mom didn’t know about this conversation. I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t. I was too scared. My mom was rational enough to know I was not the one to blame but talking about my dad and death might tear her apart.

It’s been quite a few months, I tried to write it down, tell strangers about it. I couldn’t tell my friends, I was afraid it would make them feel uncomfortable. When I run out of things to do or shows to watch, my thoughts drift to this little piece of peace I will never be able to get back unless I tell my mom. Significant or insignificant, I believed my mom deserved to know. Would telling my mom make me selfish, or would it be the right thing to do?

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Blues of the Rain

by:Anshuman Gupta

One of my favorite activities that I look forward to each day is going up to my terrace for an evening walk. Popping in my earphones, listening to different genres of music on different days, gazing at the scenery around me, mostly the skies. Sometimes I even go up late at night to just gaze at the moon. Therefore, it does stand to reason that Monsoon would be my least favorite season, all that rain dampens (pun not intended) any chances of me going up and hanging around for a while by myself. Yet in some ways I’ve come to appreciate this solitude that follows with me cranked up to a windowpane, sitting instead of walking, still listening to music as I watch the raindrops splatter on the ground. 

It does give a person a chance to reflect on things, after all, think mostly, maybe gain new perspectives in the circumstances a person may be in. Sitting in solitude and listening to the raindrops falling one by one does provide a better chance to concentrate, for a reason, I do have some speculations for and will get back to in the end. First, I want to address the themes Rain is usually used for in literature, our best friend. 

Rain has always been used as a literary device to primarily portray two types of atmosphere: the first being the atmosphere of romance. We know how it goes, it starts raining, the couples are enthralled by rain for some reason as if they have never seen it in their entire lives despite being in their twenties or thirties, they step out into the rain and dance the Bollywood dance. *Cham Cham* ensues. Oh, so romantically they then spend hours in the rain, dancing and looking at each other lovingly as they lean in for a kiss, kissing as frequently as a rain droplet falls on the ground. Hypothermia, so romantic isn’t it? Shudders 

The other atmosphere primarily portrayed by rain is that of a bleak atmosphere, with the rain being a metaphor for a cynical and dour mood. The dark clouds bursting with rain as the protagonist looks out his window in sadness or with a sense of purpose, an aura of so much edginess around them you would think it’s a Zack Snyder movie. 

Personally, where do my thoughts lie when it comes to rain and how do I view it? I’d say both these takes are something that resonates with me in a weird quirky mix. I’ve always appreciated the philosophy of the balance between Yin and Yang. As an advocate of that philosophy, I tend to fluctuate between these two atmospheres. 

It is prudent to point out however that which atmosphere I currently immerse myself in when met with rain depends on many factors. Of course, the choice of music can influence an atmosphere as well, the right song creating the right vibe but personally, when I find myself pressed to that windowpane, looking out to the wet scenery before me, that music just becomes background noise to me. A way to keep me at peace more like; but the lyrics don’t hit me like they usually do. Instead, it provides a bubble for my mind to then work its magic, the magic of overthinking and screwing up my sanity. 

Coming back to the two rain atmospheres, a boy my age definitely has his share of romantic thoughts, it’s only natural after all, I’m human. But mix in cynicism with those thoughts to traverse a completely different route and you may get aligned to what I think during this season. I don’t mean I’m cynical of the idea of love or if it will ever happen, I’m not a spoilsport like that. It’s more the idea of how you decide which human complements you. It’s more me scoffing at certain romanticizations present in the media. For example, I’m completely against the idea of “love at first sight” or “opposites attract”. They feel like an attempt to simplify what love is supposed to be, reducing it to a silly genre used to sell literary pieces for a crowd to fawn over, it doesn’t feel true, it doesn’t feel right. 

Besides this, I think of myself a lot. Not in a narcissistic self-absorbed way but more in a trying to figure out myself way. It’s always fun to converse with and debate yourself in that regard, after all, isn’t every human being trying to figure out who they are and how to best improve to be as virtuous as they can be, make decisions that make you happy and a will that makes you be of some use to the world we live in. Cynicism does take a walk around these thoughts as well, satisfaction with oneself is hard after all, especially in this age and time where you just sit around in one place. I’m in my second year of college yet it feels like I have never moved past the stage of graduating school thanks to the same old environment and inability to move forward in life physically as well thanks to the pandemic. Maybe getting lost in the vortex of all these thoughts isn’t such a good idea, but when it rains, and you just look at the raindrops falling down one by one, an imagery not quite hard to imagine, it’s just so easy to get lost in the chaotic rambling of your mind. This entire piece is one chaotic rumbling of the mind thanks to the rainy season. The concentration indeed is absolute, and as for why, as I mentioned earlier, I think I do have one speculation towards this whole conundrum. 

You see, the thing about rain is that it has a rhythm to it. Splitter – splatter, as the raindrops fall one by one, one after another, it’s a beat on its own, a pattern. Human brains are by nature susceptible to patterns and work well with them. Not surprising then that it’s easier to think more and ponder stuff in this season and get lost in the vortex, compared to the linearity of thoughts in other instances……

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The Supporting Pillar

by:Siddaarth

On the 9th of May 2021, the world got together and celebrated Mother’s Day, where we appreciated the contributions of a mother to our lives. Similarly, on the 20th of June, we came to appreciate the contributions of our fathers on Father’s day. But a lot of us forget that it isn’t the contributions of either the mother or father that shape our being, but it is the combined morals of both of them, whom we proudly call parents. Hence, the fourth Sunday of July every year which is the 25th of July this year is celebrated as Parent’s Day. It is celebrated across the world to recognize the tremendous sacrifices that our parents go through to raise their children in the best way possible without leaving a single unturned. 

Parents can be anyone who is raising a younger soul, be it the parent of a pet, your elder siblings or even your “parents”. It might sound a bit cringe or something but I truly feel that parenting isn’t really defined by age but it is a concept. 

Let’s say you are currently a 5-year-old kid currently chilling without any sort of responsibility whatsoever, all you would do in a day would be is to watch the television, play games, and stuff, and then sleep. In the midst of this “chill” life of yours, you suddenly have a new member into your family, say a young puppy or even a younger sibling. Obviously, the parents will take care of the young one, but it isn’t always that easy for the parents to be with the child for the whole day. Hence you as a five-year-old, start to take care of the younger ones by taking care of them by doing the smaller chores like feeding them food or playing with them, or sitting down with them when your own parents are not at home. Stuff like this might not make you a “parent” but it goes a long way in making you understand how hard a parent works for your own sake. This helps in maturing your personality and your behaviour towards others, and also makes you appreciate the work your parents put in just for your betterment. 

Now some might ask, how do I show my love and appreciation to my parents. To that I say, you can show that love and appreciation through extravagant means such as a grand party at the Hyatt or the Taj or at that nearby party hall. Sure that is a great way for you to celebrate Parent’s day and show your appreciation towards your parents, but it really isn’t that realistic because a lot of us don’t have that kind of money to hold grand parties. Hence you could also wish them a happy Parent’s day, express your feelings in words to your parents on how much they mean to you, sit and chill with them, play a game with them or go out with them on a drive or something (when COVID-19 is completely gone of course).  

As the Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung once said “Children are educated by what the grown-up is and not by his talk.” I completely agree with this statement simply because I feel like humans, in general, wouldn’t necessarily do things that are told to them unless they see the other person also doing the same thing. This trait also applies to parents and children, where the child generally is the culmination of the actions of the parents that the child has observed from a young age. Hence it is extremely important to practice whatever you said to your children to do yourself. The quote “Practice whatever you preach” truly applies to parenting. 

The most important thing about Parent’s Day is that all of us identify the contributions of our parents, how much they work for us, be gratuitous towards them, express our love for them and not take them for granted. This is all that we would want to achieve through the celebrations of Parent’s Day on the 25th of July 2021 and every other fourth Sunday of July in the coming years.