THE FINAL GAULISH ADVENTURE

The Gaulish village, notoriously famous for their boisterousness was unnervingly silent that night. Even Cacofonix, the bard, had abandoned his instrument and gaiety and sat still outside the cottage along with the other villagers. Inside the cottage, however, in a corner, there were three figures stooping over a cauldron, whispering in hushed tones. Just across the street rose a delicious smell of roast boar but it managed to raise more waters from eyes than from mouths. The Chief’s wife herself was fighting back tears to make the village’s famed dish. As she carried out the dish to the cottage of the warrior, most of the villagers sitting outside broke down. But Impedimenta controlled herself and entered the cottage. That moment, the three figures of uneven sizes stopped whispering
and made way for her.

As she set the dish beside the bed, the warrior stirred his eyes open to the familiar smell. She managed to smile through her tears but the warrior could make out the grief from her shiny, bloodshot eyes. ‘Someone is waiting for you’, she whispered as a tall lady made way into the cottage. The Druid, the Chief and the other Warrior had resigned from the cottage to make a place for the newcomers and to regain their composure. Their friend couldn’t bear to see them like that.
Inside the cottage, Panacea helped him sit upright on his bed, with cushions propped to support his frail figure. ‘You still look beautiful’ said he. She couldn’t help blush. But that didn’t drive away her pain. ‘I can’t! I can’t! I can’t do this’, she shrieked and ran out of the cottage in tears. As the Druid and the Chief consoled her, his friend walked into the cottage to share with him his last boar.

As his friend walked towards him, he made an effort to say something and began coughing. His friend stopped him and eased him into a comfortable position on the bed and began serving the boar. ‘You know, this is my last boar too!’, he said. As they shared their last meal together, they were flooded with the umpteen memories of shared adventures. They finally finished the meal in silence and his friend got up, pushed aside the plates, bade his friend the final goodbye and begun walking towards the door. ‘So you want to leave me before I leave you’, he said. ‘That only seems fair’, his friend replied.

And as the entire village was watching, Obelix walked into the wilderness. That day, the village had lost two precious footnotes of History.

-Apurva Sankar

The Wounded Dwarf

In this poem, we see a paranoid Tyrion Lannister who remembers the pains he had to borne.

The Wounded Dwarf

Oh! I have always been a man to laugh upon;
A man whose house got mocked upon due to his imperfections;
A person who is never summoned and called upon;
Someone who has always been called names due to which he is burdened under shame;
An Imp, Half-man, Dwarf and sometimes the devil who murdered his mother and what not.

I don’t know why they measure me with respect to my physical stature;
I don’t know why they mock me for having so much wine and be intoxicated;
After all why should I be in my senses? To take their hate,
This has made me lose interest in Reality and hence I remain content in my own fantasy.
But they forget that I am a Lannister and now it’s my turn to avenge my Integrity.

For Now I’m returning to claim what is mine;
To return the insults I’ve borne,
I will make them all mourn,
As now I strike back into the landing to take back the Iron Throne.
WAIT! WAIT FOR ME! As you hear me Roar!

This hate makes me swear again:
“I wish I was the monster you think I am.
I wish I had enough poison for the whole pack of you.”

-Preyanshu Phushkania

A Walk in Paradise

The mind’s a jumbled paradise. To me, travelling is a blissful commemoration of the
soul with the place one has waited to discover. Only if I could portray my feelings
the first time I had opened the windows of my hotel to witness, Darjeeling. Located at
an elevation of 6,700 ft. (2,042.2m), is noted for its tea industry and its spectacular
range of mountains. Or in my words, a town in West Bengal that never seemed to
say so much when it could actually say a lot.

The Kanchenjunga mountain range hanged like golden strips over each other, trying
to hide amongst the clouds and I can actually see how lucky the sun would have felt,
waking up at such a divine place. It rises to an elevation of 8586m (28,169 ft.), is
the third-highest mountain range in the world. I was in the palace of my imaginations.
It is difficult to create just the perfect frame of scenery but my morning sight had
made it possible for a while. Disrupting my attention came knocking the hotel staff
bringing my breakfast. I uncovered the cloth and the sudden strong smell of one of
the items played with the attention game again. What else could be better than
Darjeeling tea stealing the scene altogether. I took a sip and it was pretty evident
that an eternal feeling of joy had been witnessed. With the cup in one hand, I flipped
through the pages of the places I had planned on visiting. Before going to the
shower, my heart gained control of my body and I ended up being late due to that
scenic thing of beauty at my window pane. After instructing the cab driver about the
railway station, for some reason he smirked and corrected me about the toy train. At
first, it seemed like a place where children would go, but The Darjeeling Himalayan
Railway, also known as the " Toy Train", is a 2 ft. the narrow-gauge railway that runs between New Jalpaiguri and Darjeeling in the Indian state of West Bengal. Built
between 1879 and 1881, the railway is about 78 km long. It felt like being a part of
history for once. The Toy train station was in itself a magical place. With the Ticket
Consultant more excited than the passengers and making sure that the journey was
one of a kind, he seemed to be dancing on a mysterious but melodious tune very
familiar to him. The train arrived in a majestic way acidulating all passengers. The
greenery passing by and the smiling faces of the workers plucking the tea leaves
made me think as to the lashes of life is in the moment when you start loving it. The
camera’s lenses tried the best but eventually, I could no longer look through it but feel
the warmth of this glimmer of salvation.

The next day began with a lot of pomp since a marriage procession was passing by
the hotel lane. The traditional clothing, rituals performed and expressions on the
faces of the bride and the groom lightened up my mood and I ended up murmuring
that tune for the entire day. My curiosity to capture this moment brought me
downstairs. There is a saying among the people in the area, “The more you are
motivated by love, the more fearless and free your action will be.” said the tea stall
owner, after noticing my presence. Everyone acknowledging this seemed to have a
smile that denoted satisfaction and love for the ones getting married. Next stop,
“Tiger Hill (2,590 m) is the summit of Ghoom, the highest railway station in the
Darjeeling Himalayan Railway – a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It has a panoramic
view of Mount Everest and Mt. Kanchenjunga together.” said the travel booklet that
proved to be more of a lifeline than just pages binded together. The road leading to
Tiger Hill was not that well-constructed but my brief meeting with the clouds along,
have surely nullified them. The Elderly Women on the site had a huge smile that
lightened the traveller’s experience. This part of heaven is an illusion to reality which
is one of my favourites for sure. As I stood in front of the sceptic art, God wished he
would have created; the mind portrayed a mirage of my entire childhood as a movie
played in front of me. After some amount of nostalgia, my phone rang alarming me to
relish the bitter taste of realism, again.

The days are always counted. So, the last day that I’ve got with me could be put to
good use. The cab driver is pointing at his watch as I am twenty minutes late. But, I
have nothing planned. So, I eventually go and talk to him. After learning from me that
I hadn’t had anything planned out, he asked me if he could take me to this one place.
After some suspicion, I’d never stop thanking my heart for this decision; I agreed to
wander in the known unknown town. I sat straight away and my happiness helped
the rejuvenation of oblivious thoughts. Fifteen minutes down the way, it struck me
that I had forgotten to carry my wallet. I guess it would work out. This place is an
hour away and I have decided to hibernate. The cab driver woke me up and I let this
huge body step outside the vehicle. For a change there were no tourists around, any
camera flashes to disrupt my attention. It was me, a tiny blaze of the sun in the lap of the
mighty clouds. I am foolish enough to be using words to describe the scenery. It was
not something huge or majestic; it was simple, light and beautiful.

According to me, everything follows a particular motion, a similar pattern and it’s like
everything is dragged towards this one thing, behind which everyone runs. Looking
at the clouds or illustrations as you may call it, changes every day. A new colour, a
new shape, a new design and sometimes they even manage to serve you
imaginations as a horse, lion, dragon, a raging chariot and sometimes just a
disfigure. It makes me realise that we all are down here, checking every little breath

we’ve got. And up there is a mystery, created by nothing, means nothing but
whenever the time comes surely leaves a memory.

It’s about time and I have conveyed goodbyes to the sceneries. The final goodbyes
are the worst. I am on my way to the New Jalpaiguri Railway Station. The moments
spent here are precious and are locked somewhere special in my heart. I know that
these thoughts won’t come often but surely if I have a place to visit when life throws
its tantrums, I guess I know just the place.

– Aditya Mohta
1 BBA FIB A
Reg No: 1723503

For the love of it.

“There is a very peculiar reason why some of us choose certain words over others, ‘it matters’- and so you run past the world, searching, until you find it, or not. You sit down on the couch and inevitably sleep, it’s a weird sensation, almost like a needle sticking to your sensitive skin, ‘it moves’ and hurts. You still haven’t found the right word. When you wake up, you only have 18 minutes to find the right word, before Kit barges through the door, your editor, looking for just that right letter, essay, article, poem, story or you. But this is the story of just one of these days, when you lie down on your own couch searching for words, before finding a new place to find words in, maybe tomorrow, or the day after. Writing is hard these days, let alone the rest of your life.”   

Dear everyone,

The writer’s club is a place where we help you polish your writing, be it in any form; prose, micro-tale, blogs or academic. This is a space for you to open up, and let loose your creativity.

Everything aside, the art of writing isn’t about knowing everything or writing in the most proficient manner all the time. Writing is about writing alone, it’s about keeping a journal and maintaining it even on days when you are not comfortable with its idea and about recording moments from your life. And about reliving experiences.

Writers don’t face a writer’s block, people who tell you that they cannot write right now because they are not inspired, cannot write at all. Writing is beyond the idea of sheer talent, of the ability to conjure up entire realities, leave alone a familiar face under a different name.

The concept of freezing a moment in time and capturing the essence of that moment in words is insane.

Writing isn’t all about making money, getting famous, finding a date or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who read your work and enriching your own lives. It’s about getting up every day, getting well, getting over but most importantly getting happy. Being Happy.

Love,
The Core Committee.

First blog post

This is your very first post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.