This isn’t an ode to Alan Rickman. This is an ode to my childhood.
Pen and paper seem too hollow,
Comrades to this defeat to my soul.
Yet, it is all I have
In response to this grievous blow.
Jibes by the hundred he took,
In corridors and classrooms alike.
Yet, somehow those barbs pierced,
Our hearts more than the ones intended to.
A palpable sense of hatred,
Grew with every turn of the page,
And with every flick of the wand.
And then came the final one,
That emptied salt cellars into our wounds.
Shook in the alleyway he stood,
As that horrible curse escaped his mouth.
Inviting the seethe of millions abound,
For he had slaughtered his mentor, terribly uncouth.
Cold blood to the boy,
He would still perpetuate.
Even as lawlessness and turbulence took rise,
The preponderance of the promise he made prevailed.
Reverberated in his ears.
As we now fast forward a few years.
“Anything!” He had claimed, tears glistening at the edge of his eyes.
And maybe no one worth realising will ever know,
Snivellus’s Patronus was a doe.
The images of a white beard flashed in his head,
As the walls of the dungeon threatened to close upon his throat.
The Love Potion he had chosen to eschew thus far,
Seemed to now pour out of his veins in qualities sublime.
He hoped that the boy would choose to believe what he saw.
He hoped that he would see the truth, and nothing but.
He hoped that he would hold this memory dearer,
Than all the vitriol he had ever inflicted on him.
Mustering the courage of an army put together.
“Look… At… Me,” He croaked.
And as green found black,
In that moment he knew,
That he had kept his word.
And that no one will ever be loved by the love,
He had for the auburn-haired maiden.
And as I read the papers today,
My insides croak,
Doing their best Dumbledore expression.
“After all this time, Severus?”
And I swear I see a jet black iris meet mine.
April 03, 2016
For the most part, boiling everything down to metaphors and shiny words fails the actual intention. Nonetheless, if Ms. Seema Chawla, from Lucknow, is a master ceramist, then her class of eighty slum kids is clay. And if her class is a garden, then she is the gardener who toils in the heat and provides for water (see: uniforms, bags,...
April 03, 2016
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November 15, 2015
2015 has been a dreadful year, at least if you look at it from the terrorism angle. There have been over a hundred terror attacks in the past eleven months alone, if you are to believe websites such as Wikipedia or The Religion of Peace. To shed some much needed perspective, we’ve combined a list of eight websites...
November 13, 2015
It’s that time of the year again- the streets are lit up with little lamps and the chaos of crackers seems to take over the atmosphere. As India gears up for the Diwali season and the celebrations begin in full swing, we think that India could definitely add a few more occasions to the list to keep the spirit of...
September 09, 2015
Barrels, Vasant Vihar, was where the next convention of us jittery poets took place. It was nice to see the crowd gradually enlarging, which also greatly contributed to the cozy atmosphere created by dim lighting and agreeable music in just the right decibel. The whole place was teeming with people hardly able to contain their words because of the weight...
May 26, 2015
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May 25, 2015
Hello, readers. The ’Zine is back with, well, kind of a bang (excuse the cliché). There are a number of things planned for you all, the first and foremost being that you’ll get to see a different face of The ’Zine with the same body but different body parts (decode this metaphor!) We’re renovating and redesigning, and who doesn’t love...