The Canine Rescue Mission

A man may smile and bid you hail Yet wish you to the devil; But when a good dog wags his tail, You know he’s on the level. ~Author Unknown
For a long time, I’ve had just cats around the house. They’re not annoying, they’re clean, they’re independent, they keep you warm at night. Before that, I used to make it a bit of a hobby to feed a little family of neighbourhood dogs. My neighbours had already named them - the father was Tintin, his wife was Mona Lisa, and the three puppies were Caesar, Penelope and Cleopatra.
My six year old life more or less revolved around this little canine family. I’d feed them, bathe them, talk to them, sing to them, pet them, play with them, buy them collars and biscuits and coats for the winter. It was all a blissful, happy existence for their family as well as mine, until one day, we found Mona Lisa dead on the pavement, laid out rigid and motionless. The doctor next-to-next door, an optician, to be precise, made no secret of the fact that she had poisoned Mona Lisa because – she claimed- she had noticed a steady decline in the number of patients visiting her clinic ever since Mona L had begun hanging around the vicinity.
Cruelty to stray dogs is not a novelty here in Delhi. The choice to buy a Pedigree dog is one form of it, I believe. For years we’ve had people from People For Animals, Friendicoes, Jeevashram and the likes tell us that stray dogs are braver and smarter and more deserving of a good home after the hardship of the streets – not to forget that they come for free and they are much better suited to the Indian climate than, say, a St. Bernard, but we seem to have turned a deaf ear to the advice of animal lovers’ societies.
Before the Commonwealth games in 2010, the government is considering the extermination of all stray dogs in Delhi. Are we going to stay at home petting our Spaniels and our Pugs and our Labradors or are we going to protest against the ruthless murder of these dogs for whom we have already made it a challenge to survive, let alone live the way anything that breathes air and needs food and water should be allowed to live?
My own stray, Belle-Henriette (Pronounced Bell Awhn-ree-yet) whom I adopted about 3 months ago, still seems surprised when anybody shows her any kind of affection – a clear reflection of how she’s been treated all her life. I refuse to make the stray dog population of this city suffer from the injustice the government has in store for them, all for the sake of looking good for the Commonwealth Games. It’s their city too – possible even more theirs than ours, because after all, they live on its streets.
Sara Chatterjee X-B

Nasrin- The Red Vermillion of Feminism

“If you (woman) are human, you will smash your chain to stand tall”
-Nasrin’s Jhumur
Perhaps the talk of feminism and feminist writers is not alien to us and neither is the fact that women have constantly been suppressed under the garb of Patriarchy. But even amidst this social bias, there remain beams which will willingly tear through the curtains of darkness and help the seeds of feminism resurface and further nurture them into full bloom.
What we mustn’t conceptualise fallaciously is the fact that these feminist writers are devoid of power and most of all, expression. On the contrary, many feminist works blatantly echo the female’s trials and tribulations pertaining to the real societal scenario and reek of what is simply termed ‘rawness’.
For centuries, society has had a tussle with these feminists and we do know of occasions when the subject of feminism has been evocative enough to conjure lurid images of communal rioting and many other forms of social evil, stemming from the sinister minds of many amidst us. There have been innumerable controversies surrounding the mindsets of these feminist writers, which if rationally contemplated on, depict the truth that we are too afraid to see. It is not their usage of imagery, but their conceptualisation of the truth that causes this pandemonium.
The topic of feminism is incomplete without an analysis of one of the newest, most complex and sinisterly raw feminist writer, Dr. Taslima Nasrin. An MBBS from the Dhaka medical college, Nasrin grew up in a state of affairs that challenged her sense of autonomy and expression. Oppression played the protagonist, backed by vicarious viciousness that intricately bonded with the author’s contorted life to make it unforgettable. Childhood too was lost somewhere in the murky undergrowth of social evil and so was the sheer energy of being a lady in the traumatising and persistent condition of life that wasn’t anything but black.
Nasrin’s personality is like her writing- rather extraordinary. It reeks of the horrific indignance of a feminist coupled with the golden eye for detail. It symbolises the unravelling plethora of individual stimulation and the bittersweet brew of a little each of pessimism and optimism so typical of human nature.. In short she befits Rushdie’s comment “…a difficult woman and an advocate (horror of horrors) of free love, Nasrin has conjured tears by reconstructing and rearticulating her experience of humiliation.”
Anybody who has read Taslima Nasrin would agree that not only is her thought process bare and wild, it is speckled with innumerably vast attempts at seeking love as a revolutionary concept. Thus, her depiction of the Indian woman is beyond a single role like a daughter or sister or wife, rather it exceeds all others by acting as an arbitrary platform for the female to protest through the mighty power of words and most of all, raw expression.
When I read Nasrin’s controversial Shodh the feeling that came over me was not that of an extensively researched and remoulded soap, but of a dismally true picture of the Indian woman, that felt as if it demanded my sympathy and awe.
Shodh revokes the hues of social evil, telling the tale of young Jhumur and her repressed independence and love. While she bears the fruit of a faithful husband, his consistent rebuttal leaves her shattered, dangling between the doldrums of abortion. Thus sets in a tale of Jhumur’s indignant perseverance and most of all the bittersweet vengeance of her questioning love in the most vividly defined and detailed narration, bound by intricate instances and difficult humanism.
Dr. Nasrin is truly an epitome of spitefulness. She is not an escapist. She is a feminist.
-Nikhil Pandhi, 9

Science in Junior school

Science is fun, that’s a fact we all know
From class nursery to five we have loved the subject so.
Class by class I walk down memory lane
And remember the joyful experiences again and again.

In nursery, the wondrous Junior school lab to us
Seemed as fantastic as the Magic school bus.
It took us several minutes to carry our little legs up
And our eyes opened wide at all the magical stuff

In class one we looked forward to our weekly visit
The vibrant Science lab was truly a big hit.
With specimens, slideshows, experiments and all,
Science seemed like a never ending ball.

Science in class two led to more serious stuff
Blindfolded we differentiated between smooth and rough.
The nature walks to find animal homes were the best
Ant hills, spider webs, fish ponds and the odd bird’s nest.

The Energy show and Tell was the best in class three
And to observe different birds we visited the Aviary.
Whether learning about plants, seasons or the human body
Our diagrams were perfected, no labeling allowed to be shoddy.

Before we knew it we reached class four
At last we were in front of the lab on the second floor.
Collages, projects and quizzes kept us busy right through
Experiments on heat and light we performed anew

Class five seems to have passes in a blur
With the Science Day experiments creating quite a stir.
The greatest fun was at the National Science Centre
Where we saw 3-D movies and illusions with light and mirrors.

A big thank you to the teachers who made Science such fun
As during the breaks often to the lab we would run.
Be it Sunita Williams’ visit, Solar cars or the Science day pet show
Science in Junior school always kept our hearts aglow.
Indraneel Roy, 5