He was a 23 year old Samurai, the most feared in all the land. Allen Raja was found dead on the third floor of a local college on the 27th of July. He was on his way to have lunch with Benehime, his katana, when he was attacked by 30 ninjas. Being the fierce samurai that he was, Allen chopped off the heads on 7 of the ninjas, splattering blood all over the place. He cut down another 16 of them, killing in total 23 ninjas, before his stomach begged for food and he was forced to sprint away from the staircase and towards the elevator in an attempt to escape the 7 remaining ninjas, who were thirsty for his blood.

However, as he was a famous samurai, some of his fan-girls – 10 in number –spotted him waiting for the elevator and ran towards the hungry man, smothering him in an attempt to get his autograph and take selfies with him because he was “too cute”.

The ninjas took advantage of the situation and impaled him with their swords and blades. With all the blood drained out, the samurai’s lifeless body lay in front og the elevator. After a while a figure, identified as Jayashree – the Japanese grim reaper, appeared from within the elevator and ‘reaped’ the soul of the dead samurai. Once her job was done, she left the way she had arrived, taking the soul with her in the elevator.

The incident was captured by the college CCTV.


Random rant:

My friend Nina recently started dating a guy. She has known this guy for a while but I hadn’t heard of him until she introduced us. Now, Nina is the only other sane individual in my class (the first being me, of course); a person I speak to on a regular, normal, and non-political basis. We aren’t too close but she is the only person from my class I can be seen hanging out with around the college. We often speak over the phone, but we don’t share an intimate friendship of any sort.

As is the case with a typical class, my class is divided into several groups based on language, religion, state, interests, etc. Remember, I am in India – in south India – and though I spent most part of my life in south India, I am considered a north Indian because I was born there and I speak their language. This means that in a class full of people, I am often found sitting alone in a corner, reading a book or revising my Persian lessons while the rest are merry in their groups.

Nina, being a good friend that she is, often asks me to beware of certain people for they speak ill of me to others. Not that I bother about what people say about me, but to keep the drama in my life to a minimum, I avoid the two-faced people as much as I can. Looking at the behaviour of most people around me, it would be safe to say that I am not liked by my classmates or their friends. (This piece of information will prove necessary when I get to an important part in this story.)

It so happens that my classmates – especially the ones who dislike me – know this guy Nina began dating. His name is Mark. How these people know each other I do not know; and I do not care about it either.

Everything was going as it does, but after I was introduced to Mark and his friends, things got a little messy. One of his friends, Charlie, tried wooing one of the girls from my class and slowly, but as expected, a bunch of my classmates butted-in, and things didn’t work out for this guy. Now, he’s been friends with Mark for a really long time. The two of them used to spend a lot of time together, were in the same school and college, and walked back home together, and lived closed by, and all that. When he failed to woo his friend’s girlfriend’s classmate, he was quite upset. But, instead of talking to his friends about it, Charlie decided to talk to my classmates who were butting-in.

These guys had their own intentions and filled his ears with crap about me – someone he was least bothered about – and convinced him to pass on the ‘message’ to Mark. The message was subtle, but too direct to ignore and being a good friend to Mark, he went ahead and told him what needed to be told; that I am a bisexual and ‘very close’ to his girlfriend.

I am not bothered about what image these people have of me now; I survived slut-shaming in 8th grade, so bringing it back to me in college won’t break me. I am worried because Nina comes to me when she is troubled, and now Mark is one among the many who dislike me. He believes Nina is cheating on him, with me (out of all people), regardless of the fact that she is a completely straight, heterosexual girl. As ridiculous as it sounds, this is the real problem. Nina is torn between her old friend-cum-boyfriend, aka Mark, and her not-so-old friend-cum-classmate, aka me.

Apparently, my sexuality is posing a problem in their relationship, so here’s a shout-out to Mark –
“I am bisexual, and I am not stealing your girlfriend!”



Dear me from a long time ago,
I should tell you now, that I am proud
of what you may become when you’re older.
I should tell you,
that the first three boys you date will be jerks
and that you don’t have to spend ages crying about them.
I should tell you now, that things get better,
and worse;
and better, and worse, and better, and worse, and better again.
But, I should tell you, things are never the same.
You’ll spend a long time hiding me inside you,
and a long time struggling;
but love, I should tell you,
that cutting layers of your skin won’t help you find me any earlier;
because I’m you from a time yet to arrive,
I’m a memory, not yet created…


College began a few weeks ago, as did the three-day ritual sacrifice of the students. First, the external facilitators came and showered the social work students with the knowledge they had grown tired of gaining, and then, their own professors showed up in order to facilitate the sacrificial ceremony and considered it something just short of a regular lecture because it was given under the tag of a ‘program’.

A not so enthusiastic crowd of students gathered up the courage to attend classes in the morning and later enter their respective slaughter-houses where the facilitators waited with a sharp razor, ready to give each one of them a clean haircut, regardless of whether or not you wanted one. Most of the to-be-sacrificed went through the process like an unwilling child who sits in the barber’s chair, waiting for the moment when he’d be presented with the chocolate for being good – they waited for the credits.

Some bold beasts decided to resist, unaware that a lost attendance meant an unnecessary payment so they could go through the same torture later in the semester, during class hours, and lose out on important lessons and attendance in the class.

This time however, it wasn’t just the cramming of heads with a known knowledge, but an ‘activity session’ where the students were converted into unwilling high-class street sweepers, petitioners, and traffic cops.

The facilitators started out well by introducing themselves and the topic they were to speak on; then one spoke rather violently about the issue of domestic violence, and the one who was to speak about sustainable development ended up discussing the difference between sex and gender; youth challenges were accurate, but the gender sensitization session was strictly for ‘the disciples of Friary’, and the presentation on health consisted of all the useless email forwards from the year 2007 you found in your inbox when a distant relative or an annoying aunt got her hands on your email id.

The climax to this series or torturous three-day student sacrifice festival consisted of one man alone, who pulled the students out of the slaughter-houses, had them put on gloves, hold placards and talk to rest of the civilization, looking like loons, as they picked up the garbage on traffic signals, forgetting about cleaning their own college, and asked the drivers of every vehicle to ‘clean their mess’.  A petition against water privatization was involved in the game, but most of the students didn’t know what to do with it, so the facilitator dispersed them for lunch.

The post lunch session was a scene out of a kindergarten classroom where the students sat in group, with a chart paper and a box of crayons, drawing images of what they did throughout the day. To make things more ‘lively’, an overused psychological experiment was held in order to boost the morale and self-confidence among the sacrificed crowd. That’s a technique used by advertisers today – first they make you feel useless for what you look like, then offer a clichéd, useless product to make you feel better.

‘Hon, are those wrinkles? And whoa! Is that a GREY HAIR?! Maybe you should go for this useless product that’ll probably give you cancer….’


Nobody loves me,
but nobody hates me either;
I am like an okay kid.
I am Wednesday…

I am the third of five siblings
in a farmer’s dwelling;
nobody asks me anything.
I am Wednesday…

I am the symbolic gesture
of the words you mutter
when everything goes wrong;
I am Wednesday…

I feel left out sometimes,
because people know the other days,
but nobody knows me.
I am Wednesday…

‘Manic Monday’ said the Bangles,
and Tuesday was Taylor’s day,
Black covered the rest,
but no one said ‘Wednesday’…

I am not a child;
too far from Friday,
I am not an adult;
not close enough to Monday…

I am stuck forever
in the awkward teenage phase,
I don’t know where I belong.
I am Wednesday…


I only saw a photo of him, once, in his aunt’s phone – and I was in love with him. When his father, my friend Ali, told me that I could be his Godmother, I was overjoyed, and with tears in my eyes, I kept chanting the name of my little godson over and over again.

Hussein. Hussein Ali. Born to Ali Ali and his wife Saba on 21st March 2015 in Sana’a, Yemen, Hussein now had a Godmother in India. The innocent soul came into this world when all he would ever know was being torn apart. His parents were due getting divorced, the country was at war, and the little one’s father was hundreds of miles away in India, where his own mother was getting a medical treatment.

His father was impatient. Not being able to return to his country and his family, and not being able to embrace his dear son was frustrating him. Although he had grown to love India, he wanted to go back to where he belonged, no matter how bad a warzone it may have become.

‘I’ll come back with my son, and work here. I want to settle in India.’ He had said before he left.

When his father left India, Sana’a was in flames. Missiles dropped into the backyards of houses like bird-shit on a car’s windshield. It never missed the civilians, and always caused damages. He was terrified. Crying at nights and not being able to sleep, being hungry and hiding, because the houses were falling like dominoes… Hussein did this when he was less than two months old and still depended on others for everything there was.

I don’t know what his fault was. Maybe just that he was born a Yemeni. His future is a broken blackboard buried under the rubble, but maybe his father will really return with him to India, and maybe they will start a new life. Maybe I will meet my godson. Maybe he’ll love me too.


6th May, 1532 HRS

Pippa: Hey! Where are you? I don’t see my prince in the garden! Lol

Ezra: Haha! I’m with your brother, he’s taking me somewhere..

Pippa: Ooh, where are you off to?

Ezra: I have no idea

Pippa: Be safe, lol
He’s kidnapping you!
We need more people like you in London, we won’t send you back! Say good bye to France! Lol

Ezra: Hahahahaha :D

Pippa: It was my idea to kidnap you, btw

Ezra: Lol, I don’t think so
You’re an angel!

Pippa: Yea, but I can be really mean if I want to ;)

Ezra: Haha! What a girl you are!

Pippa: Yes, I will kidnap you and keep you nice and safe because you’re a nice person and I like you :D

Ezra: Hahahahahaha

Pippa: Oh, and please eat something before you plan on getting kidnapped like this, lol

Ezra: Haha, yes, ok

Pippa: Lol
No, but seriously where are you going?

Ezra: Sea Shell Restaurant

Pippa: Ooh, what a thoughtful kidnapper my brother is! Feeding you before kidnapping you! :’)
Faith in humanity #restored. So proud of him <3

Ezra: Hahaha

Pippa: Ok, enjoy your meal! :)

Ezra: Thanks

Incoming call: Conner – 6th May, 1613 HRS
Outgoing call: Franny – 6th May 1759 HRS
Incoming call: Conner – 6th May, 1803 HRS

LONDON | 8th May 2015


Ezra Barge, a 29 year old Frenchman residing on Avondale Road in South Croydon was found murdered in north-east London woods. The accused are identified as Conner Hill, 27 and his sister Pippa Hill, 19, neighbours of the deceased. Barge was here on a work visa and was due to return to his country in the next three months. Pippa Hill, who is said to have fallen in love with the already married Barge, decided not to let him go.

She convinced her brother to kidnap Barge and keep him in their cottage in north-eastern London until the day of his departure had passed. Conner Hill set out on 6th May with Barge in his car. They stopped at a restaurant where Hill laced Barge’s food with sedatives. He then called his sister and told her they were on the way to the cottage.

The sedatives had worn off before Hill could lock Barge, and an afraid Barge started hollering. To knock him unconscious, Hill hit him on the head with a chair. The hit proved fatal and Hill then fled the scene and informed his sister of the mishap.

Upon investigation, the London Police Department found a chat Barge had had with Pippa Hill. She had clearly stated that it was her idea to kidnap him and not let him go back to France. ‘I will kidnap you and keep you nice and safe because you’re a nice person and I like you’ the text read. Barge shrugged off the matter as a joke of a young girl, a mistake that cost him his life.

It was found that the Hill family has had Socio-psychopathy running in their family. Both the siblings were affected by it. While Pippa Hill was an acute Socio-psychopath, her brother showed next to no symptoms of the psychological disorder.

The case has been present in the high court and a verdict is awaited.