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.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Special


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.

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