tHE WORLD seems so Strange at times, i look at it from dIFFerent angles, i notice that the sky is mostly the WRong COlour, humAns with mostly wrOng emotions, plANTS with mostly doomed futures


mum must be waiting, or is she, or she is, food, food, clean this, clean this, clean this, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, the ticks start now, enter the ODDBALL, gloom, gloom, gloom, it is a gloomy day, it hurts, my back, HURTS, stop it, stop it, stop

13, 14, 15, 16

what comes next, hello Cheshire, how are you? kill, kill, kill, stupid cat, they are taking me to the detention centre, my parents are spies, help me, help, help, die, die, die, die

“He will be alright. Another of his attacks, I suppose. Is he taking his pills?”, says the doctor, bollocks, nonsense, die, you filthy animal, fee fie foe fum, i smell the blood of an abnormal one, abnormal, maladaptive, insensitive pigs, die, die, die, die

It hurts, my head hurts, can’t breathe, air, air, air, what happened, can’t remember, remember, touch, smell, hear, see, mother looks so pretty in her grave, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead

This is one of many stories of children with mental health issues, schizophrenia, OCD, bipolar disorder etc. It illustrates the thoughts that go on in the mind of a child with no mother, often bullied in school for his OCD. Lonely, hurt and misunderstood, this child has no place to go to and no happiness to look forward to, trapped in his mind. It is a must for our society to give mental health its due importance.

Brevity, Quill


I am numb to the things happening around me. The road is tainted with red paint it seems. I can’t feel my legs. I try to look around but my neck hurts. My throat is raspy but I muster some strength and call out my commander’s name. No response.

The smell of the grass blades and the sweet fragrance of mawalin. As a child I would run for miles and miles in the nearby forest, wandering here and there, looking at trees and chirping like birds. At night I would gaze at the sky, the clear and beautiful sky of Pulwama, my home. A young boy with dreams to make it big.

We were alert, eager lads, ready to serve our nation. The shackles of religion, caste, gender and race did not bind us. We were unfettered by the thought of death. Our nation is always first.

I was in the convoy, talking to my friends, when the bombs blasted. I saw another jawan thrown out of the window. It was chaos. It was the end.

My breathing is heavy. I can smell the gunpowder. The road is tainted in red and the chunks of dead bodies are strewn around. Even though my breath is ragged and I know these seconds are my last, but I am proud. Proud to die for my motherland.

Brevity, Quill


I feed on fear. When guns fire up the sky and your mother holds you tight, knowing her end is near. When you walk on an empty road and the street lights seems to go off. When you play near the dilapidated borders and a barbed wire scratches your skin. When a ticking bomb nestles in a train you are sleeping in. When the starry night is shattered by bolts of lightning. When your kin are murdered and you are next. I come. I feed on you, your hopes and aspirations. I devour your light. I crumble your faith and tear apart your soul. I am a ghoul who always lurks in your shadow.

Poetry, Quill

Superficiality of death

The world thus comes to life,

Yet death still lurks on the pretty face,

Of a mother that just lost her child,

The mourning done, all rituals over,

What next? But the void still exists!

She did everything she could,

Yet nothing changed,

“His soul is at peace”,

Well, how do you know?

What proof do you have to say it’s so?

For all these people,

That never knew her child,

That knew of his existence,

Only AFTER he died,

What good must come from this facade?

The world still keeps turning,

As it should,

And she is now alone,Her hope lost for good…