U. Quill

Time leaves its trace on most things, and it wears and it tears, and it rusts most things, but there is one great phenomenon, small yet grand, one phenomenon time has left unchanged, as the noble metals of gold and platinum remain. Lying within the Parbhani district of Maharashtra is an archipelago of villages that are tied too strongly together, each village an important part of the magnificent tapestry of the Indian culture and its diversity, which they mirror. And in that cluster, which calls the town of Jintur its central point, lies one peaceful sprawling clachan – unique, as it is, in that unique cluster – the clachan, which is the object of this tale. Kausadi , as this little village is called, is a hub of tranquillity in the midst of green and lush farms which spread out wide on the glorious Indian earth, where the nation’s diversity is perfectliest mirrored. Some seven hundred to thousand houses populate the clachan, each house a unique thread of Kausadi’s fabric. It was a J...

It was late evening on a May Monday, the twenty-sixth to be precise, and an Etihad aeroplane was in the skies above the Arabian Sea , intended to reach its halt on the soil of Mumbai, but at that moment, with uncertainty circling the waters of the sea. Seated on the rightmost seat of a row far back, in the middle column (of three seats, as was each column), was I, watching some movie, almost unknowing that the plane had more than once tried to land, and more than once failed, as uncertainty shrouded its future. And I was unknown to the fact that landing on water might be the only way out... And thus I sat there, ignorant—so much ignorant that my senses awoke only when, with a deafening sound and an unmeasurable speed, our flight did begin a descent—a potentially disastrous descent, of course. And then my blind eyes opened, and I breathed a prayer of protection, and felt some calm as I felt the wheels of the aircraft touch the ground, and race along the runway, in the highest of speeds...

To all those that taught me; That did, in me great potential, see, That let me not from knowledge flee , That made each seed grow to a tree, That set over me knowledge free ; To all that gave with cheer their precious time, So the next generation be, of glitterin' gold made, So the next gen lead man to his prime; O you noble beings whose glory can never fade, To you, I wish with gratitude a Happy Teacher's Day , Forever be praised, honour'd teachers, you may!

Dark were the ages, dark was the time, Dark was the day, dark was night, Mankind sans guidance indulged in crime, The world was its darkest, needful o' light, Its fate, its destiny, unclear as slime. Dark, alike all, a sandy city lay, Where first in the world rose the Day, And in faraway lands shatter'd the clay, Of Ceaser's architecture ; and out was the fire, Of the Magians of the East ; and cry'd a cryer, In the city: "Behold! A son is born, A grandson of our cheiftain." That son orphan'd in early age, Left to his uncle, once went along, To Syria for trade, and met the sage, "This boy, I tell you, will be great, A prophecy'd prophet he'll be, He'll rise, and the world will see, He'll rise, and Satan will flee." Such was the priest's prophecy. Years then passed, and in one cave, A man of forty, in deep-thought, Sat, as he for guidance did crave, And as he there dwelt, he felt, Felt the presence of a noble angel, "Read,...

"Come in," the Mir said, To the Britons' brigade , The Redcoats he led, Into the Tyger 's place, Into his master's place, So did the traitor sans grace. The Tyger fought with bravery, Fought against foreign slavery, His great sword through the air flash'd, His anger upon the Britons crash'd, He storm'd, he roar'd, he thunder'd, And the Redcoats scatter'd and sunder'd, Even the Mir then wonder'd, Thro' betrayal, had he blunder'd? A greater Redcoat legion then did charge, An army very greatly large, And while the Tyger charged so well, The graceless Mir plunged in battle, And the Redcoats open'd their fire and shell, All the Tyger's men fell cold and dead, While the Tyger in duel profoundly bled, And as rose higher the flames of earthly hell, The Tyger his deathly last fall fell, Leaving his Mysore to Briton hell, He fell, its Savior fell, O that Great Tyger fell. Praise the Tyger, Praise his tempest, his storm, Hi...

Ever had that friend who's just doing the most for someone else? Like, they're fiercely advocating, speaking up, running errands for their pal. But here's the kicker: the person they're helping knows deep down it's all a bit pointless. The situation's already decided, and the momentum has shifted. For such a specific, yet widely relatable scenario, a single word is truly needed. And so, I introduce Kaxejivo (say it like: Kah-zeh-JEE-vo). What Exactly Does Kaxejivo Mean? A Kaxejivo is that person who champions a cause for another, even when the concerned party knows full well the effort is futile. Picture this: your buddy is hyping up your old band for a reunion, but you know your music was never destined for the charts, and you're perfectly content chilling with video games now. Your buddy, though? Still crafting flyers and pitching venues. That, my friends, is peak Kaxejivo energy. Why Does This Word Matter? Our modern English, while expansive and adaptable...

An old man came, Walking lame, And said he, With a tear in his eye, "Kill me, I now want to die, I now want to lie, For, in this world, I see, So much hate, so much war, I see them kill'd,  By near and by far, Will mankind ever leave its thirst for - For War, For blood? Please kill me, For I do not want to see, My own race kill itself." I was horrify'd, "No", I said, "No can do, Such a man of peace, Kill will who, No can do." And as I said so, There came a man, In white, young and strong, And the old man said, "long - Long time no see, Long time no see, I thought you were no more, I thought you were vanquish'd by War, O, he is such a wahala,  You know not,  O, Personification of Peace, Your appearance gives me ease, Now you will fight War,  And you will kill him, And Peace will reign supreme" The Personification of Peace said, "Well, my friend, As for War, No can kill, For man seems to have embraced him, And until man says to him...

 A cunning traitor threw open the Gate, In march'd legions of the Mongol Race, And a devastatingly bloody fate, The glorious Capital City of Baghdad did face, Scores and scores of innocents were kill'd, As the murderous traitor had will'd, The library, in it books of art and knowing, Was turn'd to nought but dust, All 'cause of a man who betray'd his nation's trust, And the mighty Tigris did flow, Blue from ink and red from blood, Hulagu Khan, his cold command did show, While his army seemed to be a violent flood, And at the end of it all, the Caliph of the Lands, Was trampled by a hundred cavaliers and bought to death, Betray'd by trusted, hands, And the Battle of Baghdad drew to an end, As Hulagu kill'd the traitor, for such men, their ways never mend, Such is the fate of those who betray, Those who envision their nation such a bloody day, True, they've gone astray, having left the right way.

 On Earth, a freer place is not, Than the vast land of thought, For if you do, then you are caught, To jail, haul'd, and bound, And if you speak not and have talk'd, You are mark'd, endlessly stalk'd, You are by all men sought, Follow'd in pursuit hot, Your sayings become a wound, Which does bleed profound, Which for ages doesn't clot, And on the list of the penaliz'd, For you is open'd a cruel slot, So better speak out not; Then remains the realm of thought, Which for now is the freest plot, Though even that is a-become not:   Makin' me ask - will, by us, Ever our freedom be got?

 Up above the mountain's highs, He stands, a fierce look dwells in his eyes, Above him float the azure skies, Below him the vast ocean lies, His fix'd stare on the prey he ties, And out of the blue, he flies; A great indeed glorious sight, Is this amazin' scene of flight, A show of the Mejestic Bird's might, The Great Eagle's kingly flight.

 All men were born one, The walls of inequality,  We must shun. All men were born one, Be it White or Black, Be it Indian or Cossack, Be it of Cathay or Korean, Jew, Arab, Roman or Hun, Of Adam we all, Are an equal son. The walls of inequality, We must shun. A very many men are out yon, But each sleeps in night and wakes in morn, Each is born and with death gone, Each has lost and Each has won. A very many genius have shone, But God made all a genius, in lone, Every man is unique in his own. Yet every man was born equal, and one Each is of Adam an equal son; But look what we, to this equality, Have ruthlessly done.

"The time comes," Injustice says, "When a world empire shall be found, Of which Dictator, I shall be crown'd; The lands will be roam'd,  by my pack of hound In the chains of my captivity,  Intelligent man, civiliz'd man,  shall be bound; The voice of Justice shall be drown'd, By my evil laughter's sound. This empire will soon be found; Dictator of the World, I shall be crown'd"

 Every tyrant eventually dies, We've seen many before you, Who are you to our seasoned eyes? All traitors eventually betray themselves, We have seen many before you, Who are you in our vast bookshelves? Many liars before you have lied, Many murderous killers have died, We have seen many before you, Who are you to us who have, On many like you cry'd? We all know your weak side, You're cowed by having died, Every soul shall taste death, You, too, will one day have died. We will with you deal, You're a wound that must heal, You, we'll have to in your grave seal.  You will not oppress us for long, When you die, you will leave  souvenirs of your wrong, The tales of injustice will become your farewell song.

France’s name, Napoleon’s fame glittered, All around allied foes slithered, He took on Rome, he faced the navy Briton, From Lodi to Milan, he won it alone, Egypt was one, he found the Stone, And at his masterpiece, Austerlitz, his genius shone, He prov’d his brilliance, etched his name into time, Then the mistake came: into Russia he did dart. They rallied, they penetrated France’s heart. April came, and came the end of his part So came the end of a time, Emperor of Europe to Emperor of Elba, But Great Napoleon never lost his ambition, A hundred-day comeback, and then again a setback, A defeat at Waterloo, Then to exile as well, At St. Helena he breathed his last, The Magnificent Warrior fell!

 In a log cabin in Kentucky, on February the Twelfth, a boy was born with a present most unpleasant but a glorious destiny ahead. Poverty he faced, the passing of his mother, and sufferings aplenty, to make out of him a man who'd look back at his childhood as a collection of memories most unhappy. Schooling, he had, just enough to be called literate – but just knowing to read was enough, at least for him... He found in books a friend in a world which to him was friendless and unknown, which spread into nothingness, promising nothing but naught. Years passed, and when the boy had hit manhood, to become a lawyer, a senator, a loyal Whig, the calamity knocked on his country’s door. He stood a-face an old rival to debate: right is what, freedom or slavery? The parties of the country broke up, and a new party rose from the debris of the Whigs and the Jeffersonians, with the young man as its presidential candidate.  In nineteen sixty, the rail candidate soared; he roared – the boy w...

Euclid hit it first, A round of applause burst, From the math wizards of all time, As the golden proportion divine, Shone brighter than sunshine, Manifesting ‘tself,  In the Mother of Rectangles, Begat, it, the Mother of Spirals, As the falcon went for his prey; It formed the Mother of Angles, As the leaves aassembl’d by the stem. As the Divine Ratio was shinin’, While the number whiz were all dinin’, A crier cry'd: Behold! Euclid Hit Gold!