Daily Archives: July 20, 2019

Q.)Describe the object that matters most to you. By Asfand Mohiuddin 11M

I freshly dip the nib of the Pen in ecstasy into the ink and cure it of dehydration. 

It has suffered much for me- wrote my emotions into pages of my diary making the words embrace the page like two long lost lovers finally finding one another and are overjoyed.


My dearest Pen, to which I owe my life and which I have held in my palms everyday, projecting bold words, messy words, foreign words into my compendium of diaries until the the pages are suffused with a blaring scream of expression and effusiveness that comes out in Royal Blue and Brilliant Black.

No other object in the world could be so spiritually attached to me.


To describe the spectacle- it is a blue 𝘗𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘳 with a thick, broad body, average height and right above the nib, where the fingers are concentrated, a yellow region dominates with a strong grip that is also due to raised, three dimensional markings on the yellow.

The blue is almost translucent and you can identify the region where the ink goes, analogous to an oil pump with thick, viscous fluid.


Whenever I felt melancholy, excited, happy, mad , I would deluge my diary with unbearable vocables and my Pen would act as the isthmus between my brain and the island of emotions and burdened thoughts- the diary.

There was in no way that I could travel anywhere, even to school, that I would leave my Pen.

Within a crazy two years, the Pen has inscribed words into three diaries. All of which came in black, concealed like the secrets within.

Now you must be realising what I’m up-to during free periods in the classroom, sequestered from my friends and everyone else , jotting down words. Pouring my heart out more like.


With the Pen in hand, every single word becomes significant- the time I wrote something, the exact minute, the context.

Here, I would become a historian rather than a writer and take my work in the most sacred and religious of manners. Writing down pieces of history for the ages to pass.

The feeling of keeping your emotions to yourself and telling the whole world simultaneously starts growing within you.

The conflict between secrecy and revelation becomes intense.


My dearest Pen, you are the 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 of erudition, enlightenment, perspicacity, companionship.

Through you do I convey my emotions and through you,my palms stop shivering. No other psychiatrist can come close to that.

Nothing can come close to you.

Personified as a human, and you will be my best friend. You have bared so much pressure from me and I am truly grateful for that.


My dearest Pen, if you were ever stolen, I would ransom all of my wealth for you.

If you were lost, I would die and a new pen would in no way compare to you.


Describe a peaceful place. By Asfand Mohiuddin 11M

My bedroom on a Saturday evening. I lay on my bed with an attitude analogous the regal, noble and elitist as I let wicked yet comforting zephyrs invade 

through the window. My stygian diary, besides me,  basking under emanations from the solis along with me and carrying the vocables of my mind. Those words that I had effusively expressed a few minutes ago.

Now and then, as I behold the view of the trees, my eyelids come to a shut and the luxury of the double- blanketed warmth overtakes my alertness and now I am in a trance and nothing can prevent me from my small but effective siesta.

La ta khuzahu sinatun wala nawmun !

But I am merely a human.

I keep on opening my eyes halfway and let in the warmth between my body and the blanket radiating furiously to keep me distant from the cold- ‘a toast in a toaster !’ ,    I thought chuckling a little with a smile that soon faded away. Similar to the working of LSD, a drug, I could see the Cheetah printed wallpaper warp and swirl, it’s design magnifying towards my slumber-possessed eyes.

It was in such moments of satisfactory bliss, that I realised how strange humans are- in winters, they want heat and warmth, while in summers, they crave the piquant stinging of streams of air coming from the air conditioner. And so,ergo, man is ungrateful, he is unwilling to accept the situation.

I’m one of them, the ‘King of the Blanket Cave’, a sobriquet befitting my winter status as I hide under blankets in a space like void darkness and reject the cold. This task becomes even more daring

Let us go back to the bedroom, where warmth sways prestigiously as a king , serving justice and I greedily rip open the packet of ‘Chocolicious’ cookies , sipping too into a mug of sugared coffee, feeling somewhat unsatisfied for not filling the milk for the coffee to the brim, and so my pleasure will be reduced by a few sips.

On my tablet, I turn on Lee So Ra’s from YouTube- my second refuge and let my mind get deluged in the waves of musical notes and now the cookie is sweeter, the milk in the coffee milkier, the evening darker, but the room you my ask?

Still warm and comfortable.

Peaceful, definitely.

Describe your ideal job. By Asfand Mohiuddin 11M

Princess of the North

Striding and lingering  along the piercing summits of Northern Pakistan, my abode of gargantuan proportions has endured much.

Softly, a cigarette from a local company  hangs from my mouth, wet from the tea I had drunk just before departing on my journey lasting aeons.

I am the driver of this truck bedazzled with art and my foot is ever-loyal to the pedal driving this truck into newfound lands.

I have aged by the kilometres driven . The company of my truck that varies from gypsies, construction workers and blacksmiths for whom Punjabi hit songs are blasted  into their ears as this truck prowls upon the mountains with its beast like nature.

The heights increase as the truck goes higher and the diesel is dying away too.

Like a husband bringing provisions to his sick wife, I inject the fuel, a spicy smelling mixture of hydrocarbons conjuring it with energy and a dauntlessness to move forwards submissively.

Suddenly the mountains are engulfed in mist and my shawl has no benefit as the brumal winds have penetrated deep into my skin. My foot remains paralysed on the pedal, my moustache begins to twitch and my intuition tells me that it shall rain soon.

The rain begins and the uniform, crystalline splinters of water begin to cannonade against the roof of the truck. With an elated aura and ecstasy that explodes in my mind for the love of rain causes me to laugh insanely. I start chewing paan that I had just bought a few miles ago that ‘firework-ed’ in my mouth strangely increasing the power in my leg as a catalyst.

The sky of gloom is donned In a black cape similar to my chadar. I have given to my fellow travellers their share ofnaswar and they are pleased with my generosity.

I shall buy for them a piquant plate of nihaari from my salary along with a naan as rugged as the road. In the night as a gypsy in a trance, the decorative metal pieces hanging from the truck make the noise of a multitude of bangles thrown on the dance floor.

And the doctor shall ever work hours upon hours of medical research and the engineer shall drown in an ocean of calculations and the business man shall conclude deals and an artist splatter paint on his canvass but I, my friend shall only go higher and higher into surreal lands equipped with a spirit of adventure and willpower as a truck driver seated upon a thrown embellished with the shades and figures of my country.

Describe the area where you live. By Asfand Mohiuddin 11M

I live in a place where many have cried , where words of history have been carved and embedded, where people spend ages contemplating life. Some either purify themselves with utter hygiene or even make themselves dirty. If you have not guessed by now then know that I live where pathogenic creatures reside and this is my home, my temple, my shrine and what else is there for a cockroach like I than to spend his years in a sanctuary that is tinged with crimson, green and of-course white. The haven of mine that is a stall bathroom.

I distinctly remember cold mornings when the janitor trudged mundanely enters his boots upon the tile floor bringing a large plastic bottle filled with a red liquid.

As if laying all his burdens out, he pours the liquid upon the tiles eradicating it of all my friends and killing them like those massacred in the holocaust.

Their screams were muted as swiftly as the wind takes away dandelions and makes it nothing but particles in the air.

This acidic liquid is known by the humans as phenyl and this occurs on a daily basis.

There are seven stalls where humans do strange acts of impurity. My eyes have witnessed brown, viscous blobs of goo expelling from their rears with bizarre expressions on their visages. As a human might connect to this, and how pleasurable it is for them to do so !

I have seen diabetic patients holding receipts for medication and producing a rather colourful fountain from their bodies. They ‘flush’ all this and I including the spider by the window find this flushing quite amusing. It were as if they removed all their bad memories and thoughts from that oval object- ‘the toilet’.

The seven stalls represent the seven heavens. It is sad and ironic to know that our heavens are corrupted with humans who write their histories within these enclosed walls. They are rather artsy in doing so with all that black spray paint with vulgar and profane language to express themselves- ‘call me at …’ , ‘ want to make love babe?’ and so such salacious statements are inscribed into these walls that are bender washed.

I live in a place , a vicinity too violent to describe and all the above is too less define the quintessence of what it is to live in a stall bathroom.

I would describe the bullies who plunged their poor victims heads into the toilets, once- a  man who got kicked into the stall, the culprit pulling the trigger at him and letting a bullet go through his heart which was probably revenge. The poor man was only minding his business and now only his blood splattered across the wall.

Then the baby cockroaches that were killed by the gentle sweeping of the wiper.

Yet I do not  pity all this terror to which I have become to accustomed to. To see all my dear brothers burn in the acid. And this is where I live and that is all.

Q) Write a story, true or imaginary, entitled, ‘It was all my fault’. By : Zuhaib Zubair    11-M               


As the referee blew the final whistle to the tournament’s semi-final football match , our football coach came running to us delighted and pleased with our victory. He came , first congratulating me and Usman for our two spectacular goals and then the rest of the team for the impressive defense they managed during the entire 90 minute game.

We had just over an hour before our next match began which was to be the finals against one of Islamabad’s finest under eighteen football teams and truly half of our team wasn’t ready to go up against them.
Fifteen minutes before our match was to start , our coach called the team for a meeting and told us a little about the opposing team. He told us that the enemy team was more attack and forward based so we needed to keep our defense strong and that once we get a god opportunity and get past their attack it shouldn’t be that hard since their defense wasn’t the best. He also told us not to take them too lightly but we already knew what the team was capable of so we didn’t even think of taking them lightly instead took it harder on ourselves.
Just as the match began to start , i started to feel panicky and nervous like i had a feeling we would not win this game. So i told the captain who also happened to be my friend and he told me , “If we’re meant to win , we will otherwise we wont.Just give it your best and don’t panic. “
His little motivational speech gave me a little courage and our team successfully  went through half the game with an equal score of zero – zero and a little ups and downs but nothing too much. At the small ten minute half time break we got , our coach who was studying the game told us that the opposing team had a weak point at the top left side where their attack was weak and we had a chance of making our way through their defense and maybe score a goal and get lucky. Since i was positioned at where their weak side was , our coach said it was my responsibility to take it past their attack and pass it clear forward to our team’s other attacker, Usman.
As the half time whistle blew and the match started again I thought to myself why to give the goal to usman and why not go for it myself. Every time i cleared the ball , Usman stood clear at the opposite corner infront of  an empty goal waiting for my pass but my ego stopped me from giving the goals entire attention to Usman thinking no one would notice me that way.
I received over four opportunities and the opposing team kept intercepting the ball from me each time and during the final five minutes when i decided i should stop my greed of scoring the goal myself because i would never be able to this way , i thought to pass it to usman this time but then then other team team found out about their weak point and changed positions and then slowly but surely they scored a goal letting our entire team down. Our team had tried their best but by then everyone had already lost all hope and their really wasn’t much we could do in a little time of 2 – 3 minutes. And in the end we lost the match for a mistake i was to blame.
After the game was over , i apologized to my team and my coach for my mistake which i was aware of and for letting my coach down who replied to me with a smile on his face , “it’s all right , there’s always a next time , and don’t worry you played great.” even though i had known it was his dream to win this tournament and it was the first time his team had come so far and lost because of one of his students ego.

Write a true or imaginary story titled ‘The Starry Night’ By Subhan Bin Yousaf

Walter White was an ambitious thirteen year old boy.He wasn’t like the other children at school,rather say he was beyond normal and was a gifted boy with aims so high that he wanted to reach for the stars.Well yes,he wanted to reach for the stars both literally and for real.His dad was an Aeronautical engineer working for NASA and his mother was an Astrologist,working overseas for a private firm.His dad wasn’t always around to watch out for him or to spend some time with Walt and his elder sister.Unlike Walt and her parents,Walt’s sister,Margaret,wasn’t really much of an ambitious folk.She focused mostly on her popularity and good looks,which led her to becoming a social media star.Margaret didn’t even cater to Walt and his needs.At times,she would seem to act as if she never had a younger brother,so every night,there would be her friends entering the front door and “crashing” for the night.
Life at school wasn’t too kind to Walt.He was bullied for being a nerd and a bookworm.Walt was disturbed by his mates’ hostile reaction but he knew he set a goal for himself : to follow in the footsteps of his parents and study about astronomy and space,which would help him be an astronaut.Walt was an avid reader,reading about the milky way galaxy and other books on astronomy.What made him passionate about his future career was that his parents would describe it as a “passing of the torch”.What made him study with enthusiasm was that he wasn’t distracted in any way.He would go to the library often to find more books which matched his interests.He would read so many books that once he finished them all,he requested the library to order more books of the same category.
Eight years pass,Walt’s parents have retired from their respected roles in their firms,Margaret moved out to California.Walt is studying for his NASA admission test.Folk advice from both his parents boosts his confidence.A month later,his result arrives in the mail,NASA has selected Walt as one of the sixty individuals who signed up,to have the job he dreamt of the day his father landed on Mars.WALT HAD BEEN SELECTED TO GO TO MARS WITH A GROUP OF 8 OTHER ASTRONAUTS! He had succeeded the dream of his and his parents.Tears roll down his mother’s eye.
An year passes,and Walt’s sitting on the deck of the spaceship on his twenty second birthday.”Prepare for takeoff” says the operator.3..2..1 and up goes the spaceship erupting a ball of fire below it.30 mins later,he begins to see the stars and the surrounding space as dark as the devil’s soul.That’s when his mate utters,”We’re finally in space,the beginning of Starry Nights….”

History is made with the flesh and blood of brave heroes by Ahmad Irfan 10E.


What is history? Is history the significance that occurred from the creation of the universe to the splitting of the atom; or, is history simply the meaningless words that took place in the past, be it as irrelevant as the first pizza? History can also, only be the actions that shaped the future. The diversity of this topic sees no limits in filling hundreds of books by the year. In the below paragraphs we will discuss whether history is made by the sweat and toil of brave heroes or not.

People in favour of the topic believe that history is everything done in the past by influential personalities. To back this hypothesis up, a famous American historian named Owen Rinehart, who graduated from Harvard stated that, “As a matter of fact 80% of history is structured on the impact of actions of well known personnel, like George Washington.” He went on to further explain that these people who shaped the future made “History, History.” However, opponents of the topic maintain their stance that “History is what we want it to be.” This quote said by the British explorer John Raymond, clearly stated that history is a relative term, and no single personality should be given the allowance to steal this huge show. So far, there is a huge population who agrees with Raymond’s stance, due to their belief that this is a less biased path as compared to the proposed.

On the other hand, the proposition still preaches their message that history is meant to be dominated by the actions of individuals like Pablo Picasso. One of the everyday tourists in the museum, Louvre in France was interviewed while standing next to Leonardo Da Vinci’s, Mono Lisa. He went on to say that these prominent people have shaped our future “whether we like it or not”. He then says that their contributions are so widespread and known that they cannot be ignored. More practical viewers at the other end of the spectrum, see the topic through a narrow keyhole. As in saying that, “History is a volume of the past, it is not centred around one person.”

As the other side struggles with their argument, advocators of the topic claim that , “What makes history great is the contribution of the people who made it great.” The above quote said by Dr Clinton Anderson, an Australian historian. He went on to say that history would never have had any significance to it without the actions of people who made it significant. Thus the question is brought up: is it fair for to undermine the work of those very few personalities we call heroes, when their work is what made our today possible? Yet, as much as the validity of this argument is proven, critics of the topic such as Justin Dallas – a widely known American historian – maintain their biased views. “History is a relative term, judged by the actions and views of the society ”,said Dallas at an interview in Harvard’s History Research centre. “The human race advances a step forward by the year, which means, theories in Physics and Maths would have been discovered, without Einstein’s efforts anyways!”

I disagree with the above statement made by Justin Dallas, for, in my opinion, Einstein did make ground-breaking advancements in this world and instead of shoving that under the rug, the human race should be open minded enough, to accept, honour and build on these achievements rather than move a step down. Evidence states that if Harriet Tubman did not fight for the rights of coloured slaves, the mater would still be a long drawing issue up till this very day; and if Louis Pasteur did not invent antibiotics, the plague would never have been overcome. That is why I believe that history is made with the sweat and blood of brave heroes.