Creation in Verse - Shreshtha Sharma

The Anatomy of a Child Soldier

by Shreshtha Sharma

They ask me to talk about myself and I say, here you just keep your head low and you pray

Because my shoes are too big for my feet to fit in, as I march every morning with a new war to win

Because my flesh and bones are nearly the same, and I feel like a small pawn in a crazy, complicated game

Because the inside of my cheek bleeds when I bite it, for you don't say what you want, you just learn to fight it

Because you could count my ribs with a finger if you had to, and I look so tiny, it's like I never really grew 

Because my stomach, you see, hasn't had much work to do, between guns and abuse, there wasn't much to chew 

Because I have blood so thick and red stuck in my nails, every time I try to scrub it out, it's like a bird tied with a chain 

Because I have wrinkles that I shouldn't have slapped onto my skin, and an ugly battle scar on the right side of my chin

Because my eyes, they used to be alive, a warm shade of brown, but now the colour might as well be just another noun 

Because there really are no monsters under the bed, no, their true location is right here inside my head 

Because the concept of reaching out or crying is quite foreign, you just keep it inside no matter what the torment 

Because it doesn't matter if you call it post traumatic stress, fact is, I held a knife to a man's heart and dug in, I confess 

Because I wish, I truly wish, that I could say that the world is better and bolder, but some scared, little part of me will always be a child soldier.

Creation in Verse - Udaijit Wahi

Life by Udaijit Wahi

Life is like a box of chocolates
you don't know if you'll get white or brown
it has its ups and its downs
but one should never frown.

Life's a long journey, Life's a long road
for some it's fast, for some it's slow
some take the road that's taken so often
Some go down the path less trodden.
Our destination is a greater place than we know,
for life's is a brief pause on the way to eternity
Our ways are different though we're one fraternity.
We all were meant to take different ways
and learn some things
as no one can forever stay.
We have to be ready for what the future brings.

Life is a story.

What is yours about?
Is it filled with glory
or is it filled with doubt?

Whatever life is, we must

Listen to the words of the wise-
'We only fall so that we can rise.'

More Than Just Maths

Dear Children,

Here are a few articles for you to read about why Mathematics can't contend for the Nobel Prize and about a Vietnamese Fields medal winner.

Article in Hindustan Times

A Vietnamese Fields medal winner

Hope you enjoy them.

Regards,
Tanvi Ma'am

STORYTIME!

             SHORT STORIES this SUMMER!

Hey Kids!

It's Summer!!! 

Time to yourself. Time for some leisure. Time for doing the things you enjoy.  For some of us who love reading, summer vacations are the best time to curl up in some corner with a book.

Well,  at times we do not have time for a full-fledged book, even if we want to.  Do we have any other option, apart from the same old newspapers and magazines? Of course, no prizes for the right guess, it's the ubiquitous short story that keeps our hunger for reading satiated! 

Short stories have been around for ages. In fact, if you study English Literature, there'll be a special bit that deals with the art of short story writing. That's no joke. It's infinitely more difficult to write a short story than a novel, only because it packs the punch in very few words. One sentence is equivalent to a paragraph, sometimes,  and a paragraph? A chapter!!! The charming craft of a short story writer is probably why right from Edgar Allan Poe to Maupassant, O'Henry, Saki, James Joyce, Anton Chekov, H.E.Bates,  Henry James or our very own Munshi Premchand or Rabindranath Tagore or even Ruskin Bond, the short stories have stayed with us for a long time after we have read it. People who have read 'The Necklace' or 'The Gift of the Magi' or ' The Open Window' once will doubtlessly perk up at the mere mention of these names.

So it does make good sense to read a few short stories when you have the time, doesn't it? Especially since many of them have earned their names as classics. 

This summery June afternoon, we bring to you, a beautifully poignant story told through the voice of a little boy, Franz, who walks into his French class only to find that it is a day like no other. Read this exceptionally crafted little story and let Franz charm you with the tale. 

...........................................................................................................................................

The Last Lesson by Alphonse Daudet

I started for school very late that morning and was in great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirping at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of the sawmill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school.

When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—and I thought to myself, without stopping:“What can be the matter now?”

Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me:

“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!”

I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath.Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.

But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly:

“Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.”

I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.

While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said:

“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”

What a thunderclap these words were to me! Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall! My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.

While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:

“I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time. I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till to-morrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you: ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’ But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We’ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with. Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”

Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison. 

Then he opened a grammar book and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. 

That day M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself:

“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”

Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hopvine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day.But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!

All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.

“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on.Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:“Vive La France!”

Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:

“School is dismissed—you may go.”

 

Thank you www.world-english.org for the resource!

Hope you enjoyed this story !!!

Till you turn the next page , then, have fun, and read a lot!

Link for Math Summer Project - Class X

Dear Students,
Hope you are enjoying your vacations and also taking out time to complete your homework and revise.

While making your Math project on snowflakes, you may use the link given below for help/guidance.

http://mathforum.org/mathimages/index.php/Koch_Snowflake

But make sure you do not copy directly from there, show your own creativity. That's what this project is about.
Have a great time!

Looking forward to seeing you all refreshed and poised for further learning after the vacations.

Regards
Renu Ma’am

Mathematics - VIII

Dear Children,

Find below the link to the world of Mathematics which will give you insight of the vastness and versatility of the subject. For the start, download the March 2016 edition of "AT RIGHT ANGLES', you will find your project theme - 'Centres of Triangle' being covered in it.

http://azimpremjiuniversity.edu.in/SitePages/resources-at-right-angles.aspx

 

Read, Enjoy and Mathematise your Summer Vacations!

Tanvi Ma'am

Daffodils by William Wordsworth

'Daffodils' by William Wordsworth is a favourite with many. It is not difficult to fathom why. The simple language, lilting rhythm and vivid imagery that takes us immediately to that Lake District Wordsworth was so fond of , all of this and more make 'Daffodils' a classic.

So much so that the mention of Wordsworth instantly brings to mind the vibrant Daffodils 'fluttering and dancing in the breeze'. 

Here is what is written by the Wordsworth Trust about how the poem came to be written.

"The most famous poem in the English language was composed in 1804, two years after Wordsworth saw the flowers while walking by Ullswater on a stormy day with Dorothy, his sister. His inspiration for the poem came from an account written by Dorothy.

In her journal entry for 15 April 1802 she describes how the daffodils 'tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake.' Wordsworth published his poem, I wandered lonely as a Cloud, in 1807. He altered it several times, and the final version, published in 1815, is simply a revision of the original. "

The poem was actually untitled when it was written in 1804 and was known by its first line, "I wandered lonely as a cloud". Here in this video is the authentic story of how the original poem was inspired and written in Dove Cottage in the English Lake District.

This is how the original poem looked in the poet's own handwriting

Do you want to take a peek into Dove Cottage where Wordworth and his sister Dorothy lived? Here's a video that gives you just that. A good look inside and so much more!

Now for some fun with daffodils.

Do you want to learn how to make an origami daffodil?

Well here are two videos that teach you how to do so. One is easy and the other is slightly difficult. Choose which one you'd like to try out and surprise your friends or family with a daffodil!

                                                                            EASY 

DIFFICULT

Hope you enjoyed learning all about Wordsworth and his poem 'Daffodils'! Do share what you now know about him with your class.

Love

Your teachers

Math - Class XI

Dear Children,

This link is for the students of Math - Class XI. Check it out and let me know how useful it has been to you.

https://www.mathsisfun.com/sets/function.html

Tanvi Ma'am