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.