Zoya Writes....

Berlin. I was sixteen years old. It was the 1st of August, 1944, my birthday. And my birthday was my favourite time of the year; and it wasn’t your typical reason for receiving presents… but it was because my father came home.

It was 1944, the time of WWII, so in short, deep grief, fear and despair. But for me, my birthday provided an escape. It trumped all the negatives.

I climbed down the stairs, feeling wistful that a missing piece in the puzzle of our family would be complete. Almost complete. My mother’s side of the family (her parents, her sister and their kids) had moved to London when I was born, but we didn’t end up going; it’s always been my dream to visit the UK. I guess not so much anymore, since the two countries are opposing.

I took a deep breath and stepped outside.

The sky was a beautiful cornflower blue, not a white puff of cloud in sight, the trees were sweeping and a deep green, and the air filled with not only a deep warmth enveloping anyone who had the fortune to be under the deep glare of the beams, but a certain feeling in the air engulfed me.

I stood by the door, waiting anxiously, closing my eyes in anticipation, nervousness, excitement, until I heard footsteps coming up the cobbled paveway leading up the road to the house. I looked down, and saw some scuffed up leather boots, with an eccentric blue trim; I immediately knew who it was.

“Vater!!”, I exclaimed, sprinting towards him, throwing myself at him. 

“I missed you so much”, he said. 

The whole family was reunited together: my mother, my father, and me. Just like it was almost 4 years ago. We ate a meal together, played some games, and my life finally felt whole again. After a while, I retired to my room, thrilled from all the fun we had had today. I walked into the kitchen to drink some water when I heard my parent’s hushed whispers, listening from the stairway.

“You’re going to have to move, honey. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be”, my father whispered, wearily. “I have to keep fighting this battle, and you two will not be able to survive here over our savings. Not until this war ends. I have already spoken to your sister, she is ready to take you in”.

I peeked a glance at my mother’s face, her looking outraged.

“WHAT!”, she exclaimed. She looked around again, her face apologetic but her deep brown eyes telling a different story. “How do you suggest we even get there? How do you suggest your daughter would take this news?? And…”. My mother’s gaze to my father suddenly softened, looking him deep in his eyes. “How do you suggest we would even cope without you?”.

Wait.

Without him? Let alone moving, leaving Germany, my whole life behind? But… I cannot manage without my father.

I stepped in, consciously stomping my foot so they would acknowledge my presence, and to snap them out of the trance my mother put the two of them in with her emotional outburst.

“Dad, you can’t be leaving. We… we need you here. I need you here”, I said, tears welling in my eyes. But under all those tears spilling out of my eyes, deep down, I knew what he was saying was right. I had seen our financial situation; the rations started to need to last longer, things needed to be stretched out.. But I didn’t want this argument to be. I knew what my mother and I had to do, for the best.

A few days passed, and we had managed to pack together our house. My father had left, to go back to the trenches, and I promised him a letter every week.

Dear Vater, 

You have only been gone a few days yet so much has changed. I miss you so much. It’s so surreal, having to pack everything. I could only bring one bag, so I made sure to keep the copy of the book you gave me for my birthday, Oliver Twist. He persevered, and I know I can do the same.

Mama and I brought together all our valuables and pawned them, giving us enough money to pay Aunt’s friend to take us in a cargo train to France, shipping resources (and us), from which we will travel to Calais and take a boat to Dover. From there, we shall travel to London. Aunty and cousin Anna wrote us a letter, containing their address. They live near the river Thames!

But for me, the strangest part is having to change my name. Obviously, the name Karin is palpably German, and for the least dangerous route, Aunt suggested I change my name to Karen, for safety purposes. I suppose it sounds the same, more or less, so I will try not to focus on it. In London, I will be homeschooled along with cousin Anna, by her father, who seems to be inexplicably wealthy, and is also a trained teacher. 

I could write pages and pages more to you, Vater, but we are only allowed one sheet, and Mama wants to write on the other side.

All my love to you Vater, I will write to you when we get to London.

Yours Sincerely, 

Karin.

A year and a bit later, 4th of September, 1945

I opened my eyes, reluctantly, after having a dream about my father, in Germany, about our old life. I looked to my right; and the opposite cot was empty, meaning my mother had woken up. I grudgingly sprung out of bed, and settled into the morning. 

I was in the midst of making tea, staring out of the window in a daze, when the usual bang at the door for the paper came around. I opened the door and, out of habit, reached down, not looking up.

But to my surprise, when I scanned the front page, only 2 words caught my eye; ‘war over’.

I looked around, but the only thing I could see were some scuffed up leather boots, and a ball rose up in the throat when I saw that familiar old blue trim. I gasped, and looked up, tears welling in my eyes.

“Vater?”, I whispered. He looked just the same, yet so different, like he had aged 20 years since I last saw him, even though it had only been 1.

It was him. He was back from the war, and I would never lose him again.                

THE END

Stories. Every culture is based on stories, which have been told over and over again, modified, changed for tens of thousands of years; and this is what we call mythology.

There is a deeper meaning to it though, because different people believe that different mythology has existed, because they believe it in their own respective religions.

Ever since I was a child, I have been immersed in Indian mythology, whether it be with my family during festivals like Diwali and Holi, or the collection of books my dad has collected over the years.

Meanwhile, I was also deeply interested in Greek and Roman mythology, which are both inherently similar, reading books like ‘the Roman mysteries’, ‘Percy Jackson’.

This essay has many different answers, and possibilities to explore. Here comes the hypothesis of my essay; are these 2 mythologies connected? Similar, but different?

One similarity in Indian Mythology, apart from all the other Gods, Brahma (the creator), Vishnu (the preserver), and Shiva (the destroyer) are considered to be the three most important Gods. In the same way, in Greek mythology, you have Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon who respectively rule the heavens, the underworld, and the seas. These three gods are like a holy trinity to their respective religions.

Like in Hindu mythology, Greek mythology has a god or a goddess for everything. It is interesting to think of how the myths have travelled and how cultures were influenced. There are 12 gods in Greek mythology, whereas there are Hindu deities, who take many, many forms of themselves, for instance, one of Vishnu’s incarnations is Krishna, and one of Lakshmi’s incarnations is Sita.

 In terms of appearance, of the gods, each one has a special thing that they carry around with them; like for instance, the two goddesses of wisdom, Saraswathi and Athena, both carry around an object, and are followed around by different animals. Saraswathi carries around a veena, which symbolises an ethos of passion, creativity and wisdom, which is exactly the kind of ethic that Athena portrays in the epic ‘Homer’s Odyssey’, in which she becomes the goddess of good counsel, in which she shows practical insight to help Hercules with his task and helps Homer return home after the Trojan war.

  And there are more correlations; Hinduism has the Saptarishis (the seven sages), and Greek mythology has the Pleiades (the seven sisters), and both of these are a cluster of stars.

 Moreover, another parallel the with gods; the god of death in Hinduism is Yama, and in Greek mythology it’s Hades. They both rule the underworld and decide the fate of anyone who crosses it. Furthermore, both mythologies have a sacred mountain which they both reside on; Mt Kailash for Hinduism, and Mt Olympus for Greek. Both the religions are monotheistic as well (worship more than one God).

Nonetheless, there are also many differences between the two, like what happens after death. The Greeks mummify their gods to prepare them for their sacred burial ground, and normal people go to the underworld if they’ve been bad, good people go to Mt Olympus if they’ve been good. However, in Hinduism, there is a seven-life cycle called Moksha – मोक्ष (freedom of endless cycle – samsara)

Greek gods also appear to live with and intermingle with humans, whilst Hindu gods live away from humans and are at most times, invisible.

Another part is the ethics of the cultures and mythologies because of the overlap; they began to incorporate elements of each other’s beliefs into their own mythologies when they came across eachother throughout, which can be referenced in the above paragraphs. The Hindu story “Mahabharata” also shares resemblances with the Greek epic “Iliad” in terms of themes of war, morality and duty.

All the similarities that I pointed out all add up to answer the hypothesis that I proposed in the beginning of this essay: and my answer is, I think that Hindu and Greek mythology are not entirely linked, but very similar, like with the gods and the fact that each one has a special (or more than one) attribute, or characteristic, or the cluster of stars.

Or maybe they’re similar because they are both ancient and were formulated over many years by writers who have composed stories to preach humanity’s lessons of life.

Every small little detail adds up to the fact that two entirely different worlds may be interconnected.

Two different worlds!… but thousands of parallels.

Some people believe that money is the answer to happiness.

Well, think about it; it can buy you anything that the average human ever needs; your house, car, and it puts food on the table.

And if you have it, enough left over to buy you the non-necessary things, your wants, not needs, like clothes, luxury homes, basically anything you want, because you can.

But money, and the want and need for money can also lead to bad things, such as gambling, and using up savings, high house prices, high public and private debts, inequality, the environment, and democracy, booms & busts, and occasionally financial crises, depressions and unemployment.

In any case, the need for money is always there. Everyone reading this essay has grown up with needing to have at least a little money to pay bills, rent, mortgage, the stuff you truly need.

 But where did the notion of money even come from? Who invented money? And was it one of the most deadly creations made by a human, leading to most of the world’s, and people’s problems today?

On one hand, money makes everything much quicker and easier; especially transactions. Its a crucial component to life; it meets our needs and fulfils our desires.  Money also gives people a sense of security as it provides a safety net against unforeseen circumstances such as emergencies, job loss, or unexpected expenses. This makes them more secure and able to invest in other good things, such as schools, education in general, healthcare, and personal development, which leads to greater opportunities and a higher quality of life. It also acts consequently for people’s actions, and it causes them to be careful of what they always do.

Before all the making of money, and banknotes, trading was the way of getting the things that you wanted.  In ancient times, trade became a barter system where people exchanged one item for something else of the same ‘value’.

Money is nowadays essential to our economy; it has been proven that the ups and downs of currency can affect the whole monetary system for better or worse, which eventually comes round to affect us.

On the other hand, while money is undoubtedly useful, it can also have fatalistic effects for humans. The unequal distribution of wealth can create a divide between the rich and the poor, leading to social and economic inequality. This can result in marginalised communities and individuals being excluded from important opportunities, leading to frustration, furthered discrimination, poverty, and even violence. And like I mentioned before, the pursuit of money can often lead people to prioritise financial gain over other important aspects of life such as relationships, community, and personal well-being. This can lead to a culture of greed and materialism, and a world where monetary value is the only value that matters. In addition, money can be a source of stress, anxiety, and depression, especially when it becomes the sole focus of an individual’s life.

There is also a lot of examples of this in media and social culture; the idolisation and glorification of money, being rich, and spending money. In countless songs, movies and even books, the idea of being rich. one example is ‘National Anthem’, by Lana Del Ray, which contains the lyrics: “money is the reason, we exist”, and “money is the anthem, of success”. Lana Del Ray has a enormous fan base, mainly younger people, which can vastly influence them that money is indeed the reason we exist, and lead them to making mistakes with money in the future. Her music still promotes good ideologies.

Money can also tear apart families. Statistics from ‘Ramsey solutions’, states that 41% of married couples’ fights are about money, coming from a survey conducted across America in 2020. This can cause stress to the couples, and it is most likely to have an ill effect on the children.

To conclude this essay, in my opinion, I believe that money is the most evil humankind creations, mainly because it can deteriorate the mental wellbeing of a person, and make them believe that money is the only thing that matters, due to a number of reasons: the culture of glorifying money in the media, the use of money to segregate and discriminate people, and it causes stress, depression and anxiety, especially if you have the pressure to make money to support your family and all the things you invest in, which may be good things, but are more often than not, expensive. And if you can’t manage to afford these things, this causes rifts and arguments in you family. All of these frequently cause mental health issues and stress, which makes money an evil thing.

In short: I agree with the statement ‘money is the most evil humankind creation’, because of all the reasons stated above me. While money is good, the bad reasons outweigh the good, by far.

During the day, the weather is beautiful. But at night, it’s different.

It’s like a monster that was hiding in the blue skies, is activated by the moonlight unleashing rains, lightning strikes, thunder as loud as a lion’s roar. It gave me an ominous feeling, as if trying to warn me of something sinister. As I heard the wind howling, the trees swaying, the rain pattering, all a sort of eerie melody, that encouraged me to run back to my car. 

Even so, I took small steps towards the seemingly haunted building, and although there was a light illuminating my path, I could feel an impending darkness overwhelming me each step I took. 

I snapped out of stupor, and craned my neck to ogle the building in front of me.

The dishevelled building, with a decaying, steel gate towering over me like a mountain, stood opposite to me. It was a gloomy sight. I reached for the keys in my pocket, and exerted all my force into pushing open the rusted gate. Once inside, I could take notice of the wall detailing; almost satanic decor. 

Stained glass windows depicted brutal slaughterings, filled with mystic characters, surrounded by a fiery landscape.

Altitudinous, spiky turrets that led as far as the clouds, carvings of demons engraved deep into the walls.

My coworkers always laugh about the asylum being haunted, but they don’t have the night shift like me.

I hauled my mop and bucket, and the light breaths of my uneasiness started to sink into me. 

In the cells, I could distinctly see all the inmates, sitting up, head down, looking away.

I had a new job as a janitor. All the workers here always warn me about one prisoner… in cell 666.

They said he was a demonic creature, hardly human, with such pale skin, that you could see his veins, arteries, everything underneath. They said his eyes were bloodshot, dirt building up on his face. They said his face was battered with bruises all over, red, purple, and the infected wounds turning a sickly yellow. Agonising to look at him… there was a rumour that he had a craving for blood.

I erased my footprints, again. I guess I was paranoid. I didn’t want anyone to follow me. I was being cautious, my head forever spinning.

Maybe I should just leave now.

All that stopped when I finally saw him. I let out a soft gasp when I set my eyes on the… little boy?

He had smooth waves of hair, like honey, silky soft skin, with a red flush lining his skin. As he stood up, I managed to glimpse his eyes, and they were blue as a summer sky.

I was mesmerised. But… this wasn’t the monster that my coworkers had described?

My head jerked up, as I saw a battered sign:

          CELL 666: PROCEED WITH CAUTION  

What could it mean? Caution? Why ? The kid inside this room looked fragile, and the sweetest person I had ever seen.. I needn’t be afraid of him.

Even so, I didn’t really want to attract his attention, and so I continued on my rounds, again, swishing my mop , dragging my bucket. But I might’ve been too loud, for I heard someone’s cracking voice:

“I w-want water! Please!”. I realised it was coming from the cell I had just passed, the angelic looking boy kneeling by the hole in the door.

He looked so pathetic I could hardly say no, let alone ignore him.

Before I could react, my body led me to his cell, opened the door, and took him by the hand to lead him out.

I heard him murmur a thank you, so faint, it felt like his voice had been ripped out. He sounded parched. 

I sat him down, and went to the bathroom to fetch a cup of water for him.

Are you still there?”, I shouted. I almost jumped at the volume of my voice, because it contrasted with my silent surroundings. 

After I filled the cup, I paced back to where I seated him, and slowly checked the other inmates, so as not to disturb them.

But what I saw absolutely shook me to my core.

They were all lying face down, as if sleeping, but a small pool of blood had emerged from their heads, slowly expanding, like when an ink pen stayed on the page for too long.

Maybe I had stayed here for too long…

I frantically looked around, desperate for any sign telling me that this was all a dream, a figment of my imagination. 

The boy had disappeared, along with my keys, which I’d kept next to him.

I slowly turned around, and saw a trail of blood, which I decided to follow. This led me to something horrifying…

My breathing was already hypersensitive, panicked. I tried to cover it with my hands, but in futility. 

And when I caught sight of the thing, it really shocked me to my core. It was exactly the monster my coworkers had described. 

From… cell 666.

I tried to breathe silently, but it caught up to me.

So I ran, sprinted, straining my breath even more, until I started to hyperventilate, choke on my own terror-stricken thoughts.

I kept running and running, speeding up when I heard: 

THUD. 

THUD.

I ran around a corner, and stopped to catch my breath.

Stopping might have been my biggest mistake, because, even though I was sprinting away, the brute took a mere few strides and caught up to me. Before I knew it, he was right there, towering above me as I quivered in fear, shock and disgust.

From what I had heard, there was so much more to this devil. He had eyes made of fire, swallowing you whole. 

The creature’s face, with bruises all over, turning red, blue, black, purple, the boils on its skin bleeding out a sickly yellow liquid.

“I have been waiting for this to happen for months”, said his raspy voice.

I jerked my head up.

“W-what?”, I questioned, a feeling of sickness in my stomach.

“I have been waiting. This particular day. When I could be freed from prison, this hellhole, and quench my thirst for blood.”

I stared at the monster in horror, feeling like puking.

“I have just been waiting for the right time to attack, for an unsuspecting, naive person to show up, succumb to my antics, and set me free…”. I noticed that as it kept talking, the creature was slowly approaching me, gliding, as if it was an angel, devil. Either way I knew it was welcoming me to death.

I began to shuffle backwards, my breath hitched, waiting, for something, anything, to save me.

“ Of course, I can never be free without killing every human in this building. And the last one… is…. you”, he menacingly whispered.

I kept on shuffling backwards, until I felt a thump, and realised I had hit a wall. Devil and a stone-wall. There was no way out of this situation. I closed my eyes and pretended it just wasn’t real… maybe it is still possible that this is still a dream?

“This won’t hurt one bit”, he said.

As soon as I opened my eyes, he had his claw-like hands, wrapped around my neck, squeezing, making me choke, begging him to release me.

The creature suddenly removed his hand from my throat, but started to cut me all over, bringing back the suffering.

The pain became too intense, and all I could do was lay there, limp, against the wall, while he continued to send me to my doom.

“Your screams are like music to my ears, human. You really thought there was a boy in an asylum? And you were idiotic enough to let me out…”.

I was helpless, and I could feel myself fading away. 

I passed out, not knowing what was happening, and I came to the ground with a bang.

~~~

I was being shaken awake. A policeman, dragging me upright, bandaging me up. Red, blue lights flashing. Everything a blur. 

I woke up in a hospital bed. Apparently patient 666 wasn’t a little boy. Apparently he went crazy, got out and murdered everyone, including himself. Almost like me too. 

Nobody believed me, and nobody listened either. 

That’s why I’m telling you this. 

I should’ve left earlier.

As I was heading out the door, on my way to school, Mum shouts out to me: “Hey Jazz! You forgot to take your meds! I put them in your bag. Okay?”.

What meds?, I think to myself. “Uhhhh okay”, I replied with uncertainty. “Bye…”.

“Hi Jazz!” chirps Kailee brightly.

“Hey”, I replied.

“Did you take your meds?”, she asks.

“Huh? What meds… What-”, I questioned.

Before I knew it, she was rummaging in my bag and said: “AHA!”

She handed me a small plastic box that said: 

 MPD MEDICATION.

MPD.

Multiple personality disorder.

“W-w-what?” I stuttered.

And then, I ran out of the classroom.

And then everything clicked. I know what happe-

No. Wait… What?

 I sink into a cupboard, trying to process my thoughts. It’s so dark in here. I can’t breathe. I hear the demonic voices whispering: “Jassira, we’re coming!”.

The funny thing is that I almost corrected them saying: “it’s Jazz!”, but of course I didn’t because I didn’t want to freaking die.

Hahaha! She’s so confused. Or should I say I am… Here’s how it all went down:

Jassira Williams is a girl with 2 people in her brain. Jassira Williams, and me, Juli. 

You see, I want this body for myself. And I will stop at NOTHING to get it. Those signs in blood? All me. Get ready. Because

I’VE GOT YOU NOW…

Oh, you’re back? Ok, let’s proceed from last time…

“AAAHHHHHHH!!!!” I screamed. “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL-”

There was writing on my wall. In red. It said:  

I CAN SEE YOU JAZz!

WATCH YOUR BACK.

“Hey!” exclaimed my mum. “Why the hell are you shout-”.

She stopped dead when she saw the writing. Mum stared at the red scrawl on the wall for at least 10 seconds.

“Go downstairs.” muttered mum.

“Umm…”, I yelped. “Why do I need to-”

“NOW!” mum yelled.

Jeez, ok. Did I mention my mother had anger issues?

I started on my homework. Maths, history and a bit of english.

That’s all I remember of that day. 

I probably had dinner at some point and went to bed. But that section of the day was all gone.

The next day, something even more strange happened. The only thing I remember from that day was me, in the kitchen.

These are my surroundings:

A bloody knife on the kitchen table (WTH), and droplets of (I presume) blood.

So I followed the glistening red spots, and my heart stopped.

Another message on the wall.

LOOK AT YOUR ARM, JAZZ.

DO YOU REMEMBER? 

I looked at my arm.

And there was a large gash on my arm, and my hand had dried blood smeared across.

Something new I’m trying….. Let me know what you think!

It’s so dark in here. I can’t breathe. I hear the demonic voices whispering: “Jassira, we’re coming!”.

The funny thing is that I almost corrected them saying: “it’s Jazz!”, but of course I didn’t because I didn’t want to freaking die.

You might be wondering who these voices were, so let’s go all the way back to the beginning, 2 weeks ago.

2 WEEKS AGO: GREENDALE SECONDARY SCHOOL

“Is it even legal to get that much homework?!?!”, groaned Kailee.
Meet Kailee, my best friend of 6 years. She is a sweet but fiercely protective girl who is FANTABULOUS  at tennis. Like Andy Murray level fantabulous. However school work is not her strong suit.

“I mean”, I started, until Kailee cut me off and huffed:”Don’t even! You know you’re easily the smartest girl in year 8!”.

I guess that’s true – I have an average of 95% in all my subjects and tests.

“Awwwww! You’re so sweet!” I gushed sarcastically. 

“Shut up!”, retorted Kailee.

We bickered like this for the remainder of the walk home. Kailee’s house is first, so I waved at her and 

trudged home. 

Now let me state these series of actions very carefully:
I took my keys from my bag and opened our beat up old door.

I walked into the hallway. I dropped my bag in the hallway, and proceeded to the kitchen.

And I then screamed.

AAAHHHHHHH!!!!

A nonsense poem I wrote for school recently. How interesting that something that reads so wrong can still work….!

I walked down the dirsy road
A dozen wewds by my side.
Glack and cloudy was the sky,
My only iluminie from the moon.

My armsictk clenched with sclore,
Around my killew sword
I was trumbling with my fear,
For many a tale was told:

A dozen kangets haunt the land,
With kliant dagger like teeth.
They live just under the soil,
Sloothering under our feet.

My old man once told me,
If you ever hear a bloomloom
RUN! RUN! RUN!
Better get out of there before they catch you up.

He said I have to smith them,
Ensure there are glero left.
So I went SLASH! SLASH! Right and left,
With my killew sword.

I walked down the dirsy road
A dozen wewds by my side.
Glack and cloudy was the sky,
My only iluminie from the moon.

So I submitted a short story I wrote for my English around historical fiction in May 2020. My year 6 English teacher Mr. Willis liked it so much and he entered it as a school entry for the prestigious Historical Association Fictional Story Writing Competition.
Time flew and when we reached September, guess what awesome news we received… that I was a winner of the prize! It was really nice to receive an award from our headteacher and get congratulated by so many people. I made my parents so proud!
The link to the list of awardees on the history.org.uk website can be found here. So proud to be among such talented story writers.

Here’s the story

The Independence Diary – by Tara Gandhi

19th July 1929
Dear Diary,
My name is Tara. I am 15 years old. And it’s scorching!!
This morning I woke up, again to the sound of screaming, bangs, and protests saying “Azadee!” – Independence. I live in Porbandar, India and we are fighting against the British to be an independent country. So I woke up, got out of bed and went downstairs to eat.
As I sat down with my parents, they told me to stop eating and listen. Then they told me straight out – I’m going to get an arranged marriage! But I said I wanted to fight for independence!
After what seemed like hours of arguing (as much as I dared) we came to a solution. I got 9 months to do “whatever nonsense I wanted” and then I had to get – ugh – married.
Tara

21st August 1929
Dear Diary,
So my grandfather is Mahatma Gandhi, the famous peace protester and he is my favourite person in the world. In my opinion, he is an inspiration to the world. I have done a few protests and even a hunger strike (but I got so many bowls of chaat to eat after that!)
I sit with my Nanaji (grandfather) a lot, just planning the next protests or maybe he’d tell me the stories about being a lawyer in Africa!
Sometimes I ask my friends to join in, and they do! But some don’t, as their parents believe that we need to fight fire with fire, in a hypothetical way i.e use violence against the British.
But my Nanaji thinks we should fight hypothetical fire with hypothetical water – which means not stoop down to the Britishers level.
Tara

7th September 1929
Dear Diary,
It’s so HOT! And also, slight traces of the influenza have started to come back! So we are sort of doing smaller protests, just to distance ourselves for a bit, and then we will start our movement again.
Also, I’m really worried about Nanaji. He got arrested in March, and last week the British officers started screaming at him for breaking up a fight. And even though that makes no sense, I don’t want him to get hurt – or – no, not that. But he is getting old, and frail. Should he even be fighting for peace anymore? These protests can get pretty physical.
Also, yesterday, I had to meet a suitor for marriage. It was TORTURE! He was the typical parent’s dream to-be-doctor, pretty rich but STILL asks for a huge dowry. I had to make chai and sit in silence, which is so not me!
I was speaking to Nanaji about this, and surprisingly he agrees! He says his wife (my Naani) did not have an arranged marriage with him. They ran off to Africa to get married, he says, and to study law.
Tara

25th December 1929
Dear Diary,
Today was a day for the history books! Because the Britishers were not rude, or mean, or calling us racist names! Nanaji says it’s because today is a day called Christmas! They decorated pine trees with colourful balls and string! And, I was getting ready to go to our protest when Nanaji said to me: “Aaj unki Diwali hai. Hum usey kharaab nahi karenge. Kal.” –
This is their Diwali. We will not ruin it for them. Tomorrow, OK?
And I realised he was right. If anyone ruined my holiday, I would be so annoyed!
It’s strange, I always thought of the Britishers as some inhumane aliens (the ones I’d seen anyway), but they had holidays as well. Their family time. But these soldiers couldn’t be with their families. That’s depressing.
Tara

18th January 1930
Dear Diary,
I CAN’T believe it! The soldiers literally rationed our salt! The salt that comes from OUR sea!! They don’t have the right to do that! Everyone was so upset. Even Mama, who doesn’t get involved in this independence fight, was LIVID. So me and Nanaji arranged for things like talks, fundraisers to get salt for our citizens and a big walk to Dandi to collect our own
salt. The walk is not so much to get salt, but to show the Britishers what we can do.
And to add to the fuss, a close family friend of ours, Amit Mehta, was shot last night. His funeral is next week. He was a close friend of my Papa’s, so he is devastated! And so am I. He was a really funny man, and I will miss him a lot. So, here is a message to him:
Namaste Amit uncle!
I am so sorry that you passed. You will be dearly missed. And I promise, I will get revenge for you!
Yours truly,
Tara

21st February 1930
Dear Diary,
I am actually really excited for this Salt march! Me and Nanaji have been quietly spreading the word to our friends (who are not in league with the British anyway) and they spread the words to their friends too. So far around 25,000 people are coming for it! And since the walk is going to be for 2 weeks, I pestered the chaat vendor to give us a ton of vada pav!
I am so excited for India to get its independence! Because ever since I was born, the Britishers have been telling me what to do. But when they leave, no – one (except my parents) will be able to boss me around anymore!!
Anyway, my parents made me meet another boy today. His name is Prasad Bhattacharya.
To be honest, he was okay! I talked him into it and he said he would be coming to the Dandi Satyagraha – salt march. And he loved to read, just like me!
.. Oh no. Do I like him?! No. No. No. But who cares. I have to focus on my country now.
Tara

15th March 1930
Dear Diary,
ITS TODAY!!! Wow! I can’t believe it! Nanaji and I prepped walking around the park to be ready for the walk, and we are going to hold heavy bags of our own food. I was really amazed at how many people are going to turn up! Over 20,000 aunties and uncles and teenagers joined together to fight for our country. I’m so proud. I hope it goes well! I have to go now. Wish us luck!
Tara

31st January 1948
Tara Gandhi Bhattacharya
Dear Diary,
It’s been 18 years since I have written in this diary. When I got married, I moved out of the house, and forgot about my diary. But I thought this would make me feel better. And everything has changed: I am married with 2 children, I now have a job in my charity, helping poor families. But one thing has affected me the most. My dear Nanaji is not with me
anymore.
Even though he said I am a good writer, words cannot express how depressed I am. He was shot… 3 times in his chest by Vinayak Godse. It happened yesterday. But he died happy.
His lifelong dream was accomplished – India got its independence last year. And let me tell you – he was ecstatic! He also saw all his grandchildren get married, and he was the life of the party at my wedding!
The westerners had another war, And Nanaji has had enough of fighting for a lifetime. I don’t know why, but these Britishers can’t seem to stop fighting with other countries. Just like I wrote a letter to Amit Uncle, I am writing one to my dear Nanaji:

Namaste Nanaji!
I cannot say how much I miss you, even though it’s only been a day since you flew to the heavens.
I hope you get reborn as a tiger, your favourite animal, and when I die, I will join you. I miss you so much Nanaji.
Love
Tara.

It was always hard being a balloon. At first, I had the impression that we, the balloons, were the only existing thing in this world. I wish. When I was taken to the shop, though, odd fleshy little hands poked and prodded at me. Finally I was taken. A little human (girl, I presume?) and a bigger version of her (possibly the mother) took me to her home. When I got there in her stuffy car, the mother immediately used a friendly looking piece of tape to stick me on a wall. We had a little chat. He told me that when he was cut, he sort of rebirthed, as he was all one roll of tape. He was nice enough, but the door, carpet and window were all giving me hostile looks. Just then, some guests came. And let me tell you, it was TORTURE! They were all sticky and dirty and smelly. Also, how violent could they be?? I saw them physically abusing a pinata with sticks and felt horrified. Finally, the children left. Everybody was cleaning up as I drifted off to float, but the little girl came towards me with a sharp object. AHHH!  She pressed hard into my skin and I writhed in agony, when suddenly – POP! A fateful noise for a balloon…

The End…

Hi! Did you like that short story? Its one of my favourite ones. How was your week? Mine was terrific! I just went for a long bike ride around the Olympic stadium!
So, thanks so much for reading! 
xx Zoya xx
      🙂