STUDENT ACHIEVEMENTS

Creating artefacts from waste material

Super Model Show on XMas Fete 2018-19

English drama during Cultural Week

• STUDENTS PERFORMING SECOND COMPONENT SKIT

                                     

• Student presenting Seminars as part of Second Component

                   Javeria Kausar winning National and International Awards

    The following story won the Sweek International Micro-fiction contest along with a monetary prize. 
  It was published in the Netherlands. It was also selected as one of the Most Powerful stories in Sweekstars

Foam and Froth

   She washed her hands, once, twice, thrice... and a fourth time. The week-old soap turned in her cracking hands until only a sliver was left. Then she reached for handwashing liquid; and the sink overflowed with foam and froth.

    Again and again and again.

   No one noticed that she was missing from the family reunion until her cousin asked, "Hey, where is Alicia?"

    "I saw her heading to the washroom," her sister said.

   "Well, she has been spending a LOT of time there lately," her husband laughed.

  "Oh my," her mother exclaimed.

"Must be her stomach," her father reasoned, "Did you notice how thin and sickly she looked? Might be some new diet."

"You're right, dad," her brother said, "She's always wanted to be as light as a feather. She's a health-freak."

"She's a control-freak too," added her husband, "She's so obsessed with even the tiniest of things! But I think that's what makes her so efficient."

They all agreed that their beloved Alicia was indeed efficient and they gleefully related a few funny instances of Alicia's odd but 'entirely harmless habits'; while in the washroom, the sink overflowed with foam and froth.

Again and again and again.

  The following story by Ms. Javeria Kausar, 2015-18, BA Litt student, was selected on an international level to be published in the 2017 Scythe Prize Anthology in the United States of America

   STILL ALIVE

My breathing’s fast. It’s the first time that I am in such a situation.

His breath seems normal,almost too normal; as though he has been doing this all his life.

I am hiding behind a crumbling wall, peering through its many cracks; for the state in which I am, I have to be vigilant.

He is standing just a little distance away from my hiding spot, with a too-big rifle slinging across his back. With a small gun in one hand and a big cigarette in the other, he goes around, kicking the rocks on the cracked ground to make way. There are several people around him, dead ones that is. And all those lifeless eyes seem to be fixed upon this rugged smoker, with unwavering accusation.

He does not seem to care. If anything, he looks as if it is the most natural scene in the world: crumbling houses, dying people, flowing blood, howling young, weeping old, and then a long-lasting eerie silence and numerous fixed, lifeless gazes… Just the natural environment he has always been used to since, I do not know when. But I guess it has not been too long since he first saw such sights.

He starts kicking every body on the ground. As if killing them was not enough.

Someone twitches as he digs his spiked shoes into their face. I hear a gunshot. I instinctively scream and shut both my eyes and the ears; as though that was going to keep the reality out.

   The next time I use my ears, I hear footsteps. The kind of sound that is produced when someone too small wears heavy boots that are not made for him. I peer through the holes in the wall again. I see him approaching me slowly. He walks a bit awkwardly in those baggy pants. They too, do not seem to be meant for him.

Yet, he doesn’t stumble. He seems sure of his footing. And he’s coming right here, where I am cravenly waiting for him.

He comes closer and easily smashes the wall with the back of that too-big rifle. I draw back. Not just in fear, but in total disgust and regret at his present state, while he ought to be somewhere else, somewhere better.

After the dust settles, I can see him more clearly. He rubs his eyes with his wrist violently. Dangerously. He probably doesn’t know how a gun’s trigger can be easily pulled and that he could probably shoot himself in the head without wanting to.

His eyes, finally clear, meet mine and a chill runs up my spine. Those bloodshot doe-eyes, almost sinking under heavy bags are enough to paint a miniature picture of his life.

There are no wrinkles of age on his face; only those of past confusion, disaster and fear. He is only a scar of his past.

His lips are cracked, just like his life. His smile is nowhere in sight… just like his future.

      He lifts his rifle and takes aim. He closes one eye and focuses on different parts of my body, as though looking for the right place to finish his work quickly. He seems dull and lifeless, and quite ready for his usual routine.

But all of a sudden, he stares. With those big deprived eyes, shedding invisible scarlet tears, he stares. With those sunken, haunting eyes, he stares.

     I look behind me, and then all around me. There’s nothing there. I don’t see anybody there. But I see something else. Something that is flashing in his previously lifeless eyes. A transient glint. A sudden unexpected return of a long-lost spark.

I suddenly feel encouraged. I swallow the invisible lump of hopelessness and helplessness and stand up. His eyes are fixated on me. He doesn’t move, still staring at something obscure to me. But he is gaping now. His fine little jaw has dropped and he is visibly awed by something.

I want to go near him, but I don’t have the courage. Surprisingly, he drops his rifle and walks towards me in those big flailing boots. For the first time today, he seems to stumble, like a normal person. Somehow, he makes it to me.

He isn’t looking at my face. I know because he would have to lift his head up. I’m not at all taller than average.

   His head is bent and he seems to be staring at the little bag around my waist. He slowly raises his hand and brings it closer to me. I flinch but stay still with my eyes closed.

I can hear a soft sob and a sniff. I open my eyes to see that he had taken the tattered teddy-bear from my bag. I had found it several days ago under some old house’s rubble. It seemed to have been there since a long time. It was dirty and pathetic.

   He hugs it and whispers something inscrutable in his native tongue. But his tired eyes, the clear stream of tears washing his face, the fallen cigarette and guns say more than he could ever explain. His real self is out, brought out by the tattered toy which he used to play with not six months ago.

I look at him once again. Short and slender, wearing somebody else’s clothes and doing somebody else’s bidding without knowing why. A soldier of sorts.

Not even a teen yet.

   Terrorized and traumatized; now terrifying others. Lost past, lost innocence and had thought he’d lost everything. But his teddy’s still there. He’s still there.

Suppressed by war which sees no age, still his real self is alive.