Yash Soni

The first week of college; New place, new faces, awkward first conversations, silent observations. We were asked to register for something called 'The most promising fresher.' Our seniors judged us on our communication skills and talent. In the first round of the screening process, I was asked to give a creative introduction about myself followed by a talent round. A lot of people sang, danced and even beatboxed. I wasn't that kind of a person who'd enter a room and boom their greetings. I finished my short intro. "What's your talent?" someone from the judges asked. "I can write," I replied. They didn't seem impressed. I was interrupted, "Can you narrate a story?" "My stories are kind of big, but I'll try to be brief..." I was interrupted again, "We don't have much time, do you have any other talents?" "No," I replied. "Thank you. Who's next?" I felt dejected. The list of students

The air feels too heavy right now. There are unsaid goodbyes and dreams suspended here. One side there is a chorus of cries and songs being sung for their bravery. Another side there is a deafening silence. Emptiness, grief, pain, and loss collide with each other. Nothing happy is born out of this tragedy, just the remnants of bodies and blood! There are no winners or survivors here. This is a plain cesspool of tragedies. Somewhere in the background, a distinct war cry can be heard. A six-year daughter was waiting for her dad to come home and sing for him the national anthem that she learned in her music class. Somewhere at a home, a mother cradles photographs and memories of her son. She remembers singing him brave songs as lullabies and reminisces fighting with him to come back home. Somewhere a newlywed wife instead of draping sindoor wears white but all she can see is blood and loss. There is a red rose pinned to her dupatta. She places it gently on what remains of him. It