Why this blog?

The nascent and fresh minds of students are so creatively inclined that they have the ability to bring into being a universe of their own. They are little tyros who would, with time, unfold into verves, momentum or sensations of various creative dimensions. A chalk sculptor, a clay artist, an amateur painter of Madhubani, Warli, a dabbler of still life, a budding poet, a tenderfoot writer or a fledgling lyricist – one gets all varieties of creatively-aligned students covered in a seemingly dilettantish peel. We at Shishukunj aspire to provide a humble platform to all such potentials to smatter around and mature into the perfection that they are seeking to epitomize or become! This blog is thus an endeavor that would allow all Shishyans to just play around with their latent artistic caliber and enjoy the bliss of a “BRAVO” from known and unknown quarters.

Monday, March 19, 2018

A Fake Letter

Krutika Bhojwani, Class X E

I was picking up my books when I heard a knock at the door. I went and to my surprise it was our aged neighbor whom we all referred to as ‘grandpa’. I welcomed him and we both sat chatting. After about 15 minutes, he asked me, ‘Dear, could you do me a favour, please?’ I replied with a smile, ‘You need not ask, just tell me and I’ll do it.’
He smiled and then handed me a paper and a pen. He said, ‘You know my wife and I are illiterate, so could you please write something for us on this paper? Write something nice, something that you might say to your mother.’
For an instance I did not understand anything but before I could even ask him, he warned me not to ask anything and so, I wrote a small poem on the paper and gave it to him. He thanked me and left me still wondering what it was all about.
And then the other day, I was out for an evening walk and on the way I noticed on old woman – grandpa’s wife, sitting under a tree. She was reading a letter and had a soft smile on her face. Didn’t grandpa say that they both could not read or write. I went to her and greeted her. She looked at me and tears rolled down her eyes. I asked her what the matter was and why she was crying.
Wiping her tears, she said, ‘My son, who is abroad has sent me this letter and poor me, I cannot even read it. It has been two years since he left and I have been trying to touch the words and feel how he has been.
I smiled and said, ‘Give it me and I’ll read it to you.’

As I took the paper, I realized that it was the same paper that I had written that poem on. I understood everything. I pretended to read out something I felt a mother’s heart wanted to hear.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

The Letter from Petushkee

Aditya Tiwari, Class X D

This New Year, I made yet another impossible resolution: To go out every morning to walk in the park. Well, I like to sleep and getting up at 5 AM isn’t exactly the thing I would like to do. But whatever, I had made the resolution and I was going to follow it. so, every morning I rose at 4.45 AM, dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the morning walk. Well, for the first few days, that is. After that, the alarm would go off and I would snooze it for five minutes and when I would finally wake up, it would be past 6 AM.
The morning walk used to keep me fresh the whole day. I actually liked it. so, I decided, if not in the morning, then in the evening. On one such evening, I noticed an old woman sitting under a tree. She had a letter in her hand and she was smiling. I also smiled at her. When she saw me, she gestured to me to sit beside her. As I sat, she started speaking. She told me that the letter she had was from Petushkee. Her son lived there. He used to come to see his mother once every year but for the past two years, there had been no communication from him. The woman had been eagerly awaiting a letter from her son. She was about to hand the letter to me but it slipped from her hand and fell to the ground. I bent down to pick it up. When I looked up, the old woman had disappeared.
I was dumbstruck. What on earth happened! The letter was still in my hand. I noticed that it was still sealed. Nobody had opened it. I took the letter with me and enquired about the woman. I came to know that after her son stopped visiting her, she used to go to the post office every day hoping to get a letter from him. After losing all hopes, one day she was found dead in her house and was buried in the Birla cemetery.
I then went there and kept the letter at her grave. I smiled and went back home. From that day everything seemed to favour me. I got a promotion and my life was better. I had done a good deed! That letter from Petushkee!

Friday, March 16, 2018

The Letter

Gauri Parashar, Class X D

The story begins when I saw my grandmother reading a letter under a tree in our garden. She usually had a big smile on her face but that day there was something unusual. She was smiling but there were also tears in her eyes. I suddenly recalled my father telling me about a letter that grandpa had given to her. This must be that letter.
My grandfather and grandmother married when they were kids. But my grandfather supported grandmother’s education and thus she learnt to read and write. My grandfather’s greatest wish was to join the army to serve the nation. Though my grandmother could not even think of being separated from him for months, but, realizing how important it was for grandpa, she did not object.
Soon, he became an officer in the army and he was immediately called for his first mission. Before leaving, he wrote a beautiful letter addressed to grandma and handed it to her himself saying that his presence will always be with her in the form of that letter.
He never returned from the battlefront. We learnt later that he fought bravely. The lives of grandmother and her children was nearly shattered. It was a slow but steady process moving on. It was today, 35 years ago, that grandpa had left for the mission and I could understand why my grandmother held that letter in her hand.

Thursday, March 15, 2018


Ronit Banerjee, Class IX B

29th February, a day that I can never forget, but as per the laws of nature it haunts its recurring memories back in my heart.
It was the day when my grandparents were involved in a horrific car accident, which managed to take the innocent soul of my grandfather, and shattered it to bloody and maroon pieces. The train of thoughts about this day, is one I wish I had the power to delay, but as the helplessness kicks in, the lush and silent forest of experiences, turns into a raging forest fire of memories.
The loss for my grandmother is one that I cannot compare my loss to. I could redeem memories, but all she could do, was to raise her cheekbones to smile, but actually with the intention to not allow the tears in her eyes to slide and blister her mourning face. She told me that she had stitched a handkerchief for him, which he showcased in his flawless tuxedo, even if childish it may seem. After the crash, in order to stop the pouring crimson stream out of his chest, she used the same handkerchief. But after an hour of no response, alone in a dark forest road, the fearful woman stopped trying and accepted crying instead, near the breathless lungs of her husband.
After the sun rose above, the authorities showed up. And respectfully did the needful for that cripple, who was my fountain of youth and joy. The police cleared up the scene, which included the handkerchief too.
We were informed that the police needed the piece of cloth for examination. But after two months, they showed up on the porch. The inspector told in a stern voice, “We are here to return the belongings to Mrs. Swati”, although I could clearly hear a mumble, an aching evidence to the numerous times I irritated them at the police station in hopes of retrieving that piece of cloth. I still remember it was a pleasant Sunday morning, with a cheerful and adorable memory in the form of a cloth. I was excited, I could hardly wait to break the news to my grandmother, to show it again to her, I left the house to take the handkerchief from the policeman. But there awaited a shock.
It still possessed the stains of the blood of the man whose warmth I felt even in the veil of scars of my grandmother. So I cleaned it, washed the blood off, certainly the way I wish I could wash my pains. And she was so happy, when she caressed the cloth, which once was a possession of her mate.
It may be a bouquet of memories with an addicting scent for my grandmother, but it will remain a haunting omen of the devil for me.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018


Sneha Jain, Class X F

I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up. Resignedly, I trailed behind Arthur as he walked across the platform, absorbing every detail he could.
‘Indian railway stations are amazing’, he commented, staring ahead at nothing in particular, ‘terribly humid and a little dirty, but nevertheless, amazing.’
Arthur was my friend and colleague. When I had mentioned that I was visiting my parents in my homeland, he had expressed his desire to accompany me. Indian had always fascinated him, and so there we were.
‘Really? What’s so great here?’
While clicking photos of the tracks, he replied, ‘I don’t really know myself. The chirping of crickets? We never get to hear that back in Manchester. And this atmosphere – it’s so bubbly and bright.’
‘That’s just the travelling effect. Everybody likes the entire world, except the place they live. There’s nothing special here, trust me.’
‘True,’ he replied with a wry grin, ‘but you’re wrong. This place – every place is special.’
I took a seat on a bench and so did he. ‘Really? How so?’
‘Through this railway station, thousands of people travel, do business, meet loved ones. Just think, how can this place not be special?’
‘That applies to almost every place.’
‘And therefore,’ he said, ‘every place is special. Heck, we are beings made of carbon – very difficult to find free in the universe – making new discoveries and surviving regardless of the probability that we shouldn’t. Everything, everybody, is special.’
And to this day, I can see him smile and say that line worthy of belonging to a philosopher, teaching me a great lesson of life at a remote railway station.
Then of course, he got up and tripped over his shoelaces, but maybe it was his blush after that, that made the line so much more human.

Monday, March 12, 2018

My Mind

Mansi Choudhary, Class XI

My mind is a monkey
All day, it orders me to play
People ask me, ‘Hey!
Don’t you have any work for today?’
But my mind is a monkey
Keeps twerking all the way.

My mind is a bee
Keeps buzzing all the time
I keep roaming on all different ways
As if they’re mine.

My mind is a frog
It loves staying in the misty fog
It wants to jump into the lake
And never wants to wake.

My mind is a butterfly
It flutters all day
It can’t manage on a single flower

It wants the whole world to play.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

From a Dream to Reality

Soumya Tiwari, Class IX B

It was a pleasant Sunday morning and I was as excited as could be. I could not wait to break the news to my grandmother. I left the house and drove to my grandmother’s place. I could hardly contain my excitement. I got out of the car and opened the gate. I remembered how we had started it: my grandmother and I used to sit together after school and dream about a city where children did not think of studies as a burden, where everything could be easily understood by everyone. And now….
‘Saira, is that you?’ my grandmother’s soft voice broke the chain of my thoughts. ‘Yes grandma, it’s me!’ I answered and walked towards her. There she was, sitting on the couch, poring over a book.
‘Grandma, do you remember, when I was a kid, we used to sit together and think about new ways of schooling?’
‘Yes dear, they were such beautiful days,’ she said, remembering our talks which used to continue for hours.
‘Grandma, I have made our dream come true,’ I said, in a serious tone.
There was a shocked silence. My grandma sat there, motionless, still unable to believe it.
‘Come on, I can’t wait to show it to you!’ I said.
Grandma got up and we drove to the beach, there we got into a traditional boat and were ferried across the water, to an island. My grandmother was playing with the sea water by the time we reached there. ‘There it is’, I said.
She looked up. Lying ahead was one of the most beautiful islands in the sea. We landed on the shore and got off the boat. We were the first to step on that island after it was completed.
I took my grandma inside. A spectrum of flowers greeted us. Signboards pointed at them, telling what species they were. A little ahead was a roller coaster ride. My grandmother and I got into it and rushed upwards. We stopped at various places and a speaker blared, telling us about the different layers of the atmosphere. My grandmother was extremely excited. We then went into a cave and saw three entrances labeled – History of India, India’s Architecture and Foreign Revolutions. We visited each of the entrances. In there were animations, models and games for making 3D models of important places. Next we visited a building and we were given markers and dusters. Three doors representing three levels opened. We went into the first level and were shown visual representation of math formulae. After we saw it, a portal opened and we entered into a room full of white boards. We solved sums on them. Still my grandmother did not speak. I took her to the building where we saw chemical experiments, a garden where we learnt about plants and experienced how scientists constructed theories. There were rooms full of art supplies and instruments.
When we had completed the tour, my grandma finally spoke, with tears in her eyes.
“It was the most beautiful day of my life, dear. I hope it isn’t a dream!”

After years of hard work in silence, these words were the best reward I could get.