From the Dean's Desk

From the Dean’s Desk Many little steps joined one after the other is what makes success possible. The Second Term is always the most eventful time of the academic year. This term has been a potpourri of events as the Junior College students participated in a miscellany of sporting events like the Z.P’s, Zonal, Regionals and Nationals as well as literary activi- ties such as debates, elocutions, creative writing, etc. and won accolades in the same. ‘Mama Mia’- the annual musical concert saw some thundering performances on one hand while the Coco Weekend was a resounding success in our endeavour towards healthy and conscious living. The Marathon organised on the 2nd of October, 2019 in aid of the Atkarwadi village in our effort of Rebuilding lives received an overwhelming response from our alumni and parents as well. After the hectic 2nd term examination schedule, the staff and students had a joyful day of unwinding at our picnic to Imagica. The term ended with the much awaited Annual Inter-House Athletic Meet and the 8th edition of the All Maharashtra Anglos Meet. To conclude, I would like to extend heartfelt gratitude to our Principal, Mr. J. Edwin, and the members of the Governing Body for all their support and encouragement. As we proceed for our winter break, I wish each and every one of you a restful break and a very Happy Christmas! -Ms. Hora Artwork by: Shevaun Pimenta Editors’ Address The coffee-stained notes, the excessive use of highlighters one night before an examination (honestly, they’re just for the aesthetic at this point), the practices for various events (an excuse to leave class; apologies for the exposé, fellow peers) and of course, break time (always finding an excuse for our friends to treat us to an ice– cream). New editors and a new edition. But we’re taking you down Memory Lane. We hope you enjoy reading it, as much as we have enjoyed putting it together! -Gayathri Nair Aashna Rai Shevaun Pimenta Photographs by: Gayathri Nair Artwork by: Shevaun Pimenta Cover page by: Lehar Agarwal Risshat Shinde Gayathri Nair All I Want for Christmas… Is More Christmas The smell of freshly baked Christmas goodies fills the air, Christmas carols echo in the background, the decor of the house is red and green - it’s that time of the year again. The slight chill in the air indicates the onset of the winter, but it’s the lights and decorations that confirm that it’s the most wonderful time of the year. I rush back home after a long 3 hour long tuition class, eagerly waiting to get rid of my stinky clothes and get into my comfortable Christmas PJs and munch on some rose cookies as I browse through the Christmas movie collection on Netflix. My mum walked into the room and for the umpteenth time said, “Nitya, finish decorating the tree first. If this is your attitude towards the tree, I’m not taking it down henceforth.” I sit up with a jolt and rush to the living room. I hurriedly start finishing up the last bits of the tree just so that my mother calms down and I can get back to binging. I put up the final decoration, get off the stool and head back towards the TV, when my mother stops me and calls me to the kitchen to sample some old recipe that she tried out for the first time in ages. I sat on the kitchen platform as my mum slowly held out the spatula for me to have a taste. The strong smell of cinnamon in the curry hit my nose, taking my mind back to when I was younger. as the flavour of the curry hit my taste buds, memories from all the Christmases past hit me. Writing long, misspelled lists for Santa almost a month before Christmas season, decorating the tree with minimal help from my elder sister, running around delivering Christmas goodies to our friends and neighbours, eagerly waiting to get home from midnight mass to open up presents from Santa, eating heavy meals throughout Christmas day - starting from a chicken and bread midnight feast, to a delectable breakfast consisting of Appam and Chicken curry, a Kerala speciality, to widespread lunch with dishes from all over my homeland, Kerala and finally concluding with a somewhat-light dinner since our stomachs are so saturated from eating all day, all these thoughts came to my mind. As I reminisced, my mother suddenly snapped in my face, bringing me back to reality and asked me, “So what do you think? Is this decent enough for carrying to the Christmas potluck lunch?” I smiled at her and replied, “It’s perfect.” I got off the platform and headed towards the TV as Jim Reeves’ Silver Bells played in the background while my mum perfected her recipe. As I re-watched ‘A Christmas Carol’ for the billionth time, I knew this was going to be yet another memorable Christmas. Written by: Nitya Binu, 11 B (Arts) Edited by: Aashna Rai An Hour with a Muslim Woman Some days can change the course of your life forever. December 7, 1992 was one such day in my life. 7th December, was my best friend’s birthday and just like every year, I had planned for ‘the’ day months in advance. With the help of a few friends, I had planned a surprise party. I had also meticulously prepared a card which I had done, undone and redone dozens of times. However, my plans were threatened on December 6, 1992. It so happened, that a few Hindus demolished the ‘Babri Masjid’ in Ayodhya and this had sparked violent reactions across the country. The school declared a holiday as a safety measure and my mother warned me to remain indoors, as well. Now in this context, I was almost forced to abort my plans. But, I was in no mood to surrender. Keeping in spirit with my nature, I slipped out. I started walking hurriedly towards my friend’s home. The usually packed roads were completely barren. Gradually, the absolute silence lurking along the empty roads started getting to me. I began to feel scared on the very road that I had been walking on every day for the past eight years. Suddenly from nowhere, I began to hear loud and booming shouts. I strained my ears to make out what the mob was shouting (in reality though, I was trying to decipher whether the mob was Hindu or Muslim) and from which direction the shouts were coming from. Unfortunately, every part of my body - eyes, ears, brain and limbs refused to function. My body had gone numb. My mind refused to decide which way to run. And eventually all my strength gave away and I began to cry. I started praying to all of the 33 crores of Hindu gods to save me from this crisis. I vowed to behave impeccably well all my life and even swore to study hard and get good marks in the upcoming term examinations. A lady from the bungalow opposite to where I was, saw me sobbing on the isolated road and invited me inside her home. I ran inside. As soon as I went inside her home, I realized that she was a Muslim woman. I was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. I was in class VIII then and my ‘anti-Muslim’ training was almost done. This hatred infused training was conducted by one of our neighboring ‘aunty’ as a part of ‘Values Education classes’. Besides these regular dosages of hatred, ample fodder was provided through the interactions with family, friends, teachers, and extended family members who were blatantly communal. I used to believe that all Muslims should go to Pakistan and that they had no place in India. Once I was inside her home, my anxiety amplified and I was visibly petrified. My mind began summoning all the gory details of the anti-Muslim tales I had heard through the years. Why did this Muslim woman help me? Is this even help, or does she have ulterior motives? Does she plan on kidnapping me, or even converting me? Sensing my anxiety, the lady tried to comfort me by offering some water to me. I was parched but how can I, a ‘devout’ Hindu, accept water from a Muslim!? The lady may have sensed the reason for my hesitation to accept the water. Keeping a glass of water near me, she said, “Do have water whenever you feel like it”. She further added, “We are Muslims and a true Muslim respects everyone. We should not fight over religion”. She did say a lot more, but all that I remember is that I was blown away by her simplic- ity and goodness. I ended up having the glass of water. An hour later, she and her brother dropped me home. My mother hesitantly thanked them. Usually, she welcomed people home and ensured that they left only when they had eaten something, but this privilege was denied to these two. Till this day, I feel ashamed about this. I could not sleep at all that night. The entire day played in my mind incessantly. That one hour with the Muslim woman compelled me to assess my ideas of religion. It forced me to acknowledge that my ideas of religion were empty with a dubious sense of morality. The hatred that I had nurtured for the minorities did not stand the test of rationality. The hatred, I realized, had given me a basis for my existence and it had almost become my identity and weapon.

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