litreat xavier's

  A Poet’s Visit to the Temple of Literature and War in Hong Kong And a tourist’s inability to distinguish between the Taoist gods of literature (Man) and war (Mo) and what it means to worship both  I’m sure you can imagine a writer’s (and English literature student’s) excitement at the mere thought of a temple dedicated to the God of Literature. I knew exactly what I would pray for - literary success, a substantial following of readers, being ‘known’ for my words. I had a lot of demands from Man specifically, and was determined to get them across. I didn’t have nearly as much to ask for from the God of War (Mo), of course.  Through all the looping coils of incense set against Man Mo Temple’s red and gold interiors and the many idols nestled in its wooden walls, the place was at once familiar and unfamiliar to my foreign eyes. Everything from inscriptions to prayers written on paper by worshippers, which were hanging on softly yellow lamps, were in a language that was ina...

  Jane’s Dream or Not…?   Who is Jane, you may ask? Even I don’t have the answer. She's nobody, or maybe, she’s somebody. It doesn't really matter. She lived in a house allegedly made of concrete, but deep down she knew its walls were made of sorrow. In this claustrophobic abode lived people, but I’d rather call them monsters — monsters with a body resembling that of a dark cloud, eyes gleaming like amethyst, their presence causing unease. They held her legs and dragged her into a miserable land. But our Jane wasn’t someone who’d want to be a victim, nor did she want to be a cliché.  Thus, she traversed through the obnoxious air and the ghastly waters, and she reached the Nether. She stole a scythe glowing violet and returned to her sorrowful abode, where she slashed the limbs of those pathetic monsters. The dull gloom vanquished. The walls are now illuminated. Soon, Jane opens her eyes, feeling the quilt of her bed underneath her, beads of perspiration rolling down her n...

Generation Infinite As usual, when I looked down from above the clouds, I found two youngsters walking to a school with bright shining eyes and enthusiastic body movements. One with a few thick books and another with just a small gadget. Both looked the same, with no difference either in face or in body, but the one with the tiny gadget seems to be far superior to the latter in regard to confidence.  Both entered their class, and the one with the gadget was relating and mingling with others, whereas the latter was absorbed in his book. Whether it was a break or drills, the latter was alone with his books, whereas the other guy was moving with the crowd—pulling them at times and leading them at times. Even during exciting school events, the latter preferred to just be with his darling books, while the gadget boy found comfort in being with the moment—capturing and modifying them with his little gadget. One boy, as the time passed, became brighter than all, whereas the other started ...

Stone Garden At the age of twelve, her best friend abandoned her in the middle of a storm — not the real kind, but one that leaves you shaking, eyes burning, trust splintered. When she was sixteen, a boy with warm eyes promised her forever - then walked away without a glance back.  Two betrayals. Two clean cuts. She didn’t wait for a third. Trust wasn’t something she could afford anymore.  Her mother was the exception. The one person she could still lean on, the only one whose presence felt like sunlight in a cold world. They shared late-night talks, secret smiles across crowded rooms, and an unspoken promise that they would never leave each other. Until the night her mother did. A fight too sharp, words too loud — and suddenly her mother was gone, leaving her alone in the middle of a dark street with nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Perhaps "forever" was woven into memories, That night, the final light flickered and died. Her parents became strangers with the same...

 The Forsaken Love I couldn’t believe how gorgeous she looked in the wedding lehenga! She’d always wanted to wear a maroon and beige embroidered piece.“I’ll be the most beautiful bride anyone has ever seen”, she’d say. And indeed, everyone was captivated by her charisma when she walked towards the mandap . Her brothers flanked her sides, with a canopy of flowers held above her head. In that moment, my memory pulled me back to the chilly November evening, when she’d spilled her hot coffee all over my white shirt. All those sweet moments we had shared since then rushed through as a fast forwarded movie in my mind.  A bittersweet smile touched my lips and a lonely tear slipped down my cheek, as I painfully witnessed her sit at the mandap—with someone who wasn’t me. And in that moment, I saw my star become someone else’s moon. Written by Navya Chopra  Edited by Harshada Viswanath 

  Known Strangers It's so beautiful to aimlessly philosophise on how not everyone in our lives is a stranger or a family member: some lie in between these extremes. Some strangers are familiar. The people in your bus, the coffee shop you frequent, the neighbourhood you have grown up in: they aren't entirely unknown, but more like acquaintances than anyone you can truly depend on for the occasional, much-needed rant. Over time, their faces become familiar; they are a part of our consciousness, seeping into our daily routines. And we don't see them in the same place the next day, we can't help but wonder why. We share a few occasional conversations, an exchange of details, and as I walk away, I am struck by the kind of warmth that even a person I considered a stranger could possess. There's still a wide gap to bridge, but you know that they would be strangers you would recall. These are the people who will flit to the edge of my mind as you laugh with friends when tel...

  One July Afternoon As I walk homewards, the sun shines above me in a spotless blue sky. The weather on this day reminds me of the warm summer days I had revelled in months ago, years ago. The path that I walk takes me back to the quaint, picturesque roads I once walked, punctuated by mountains and bazaars. The wind that caresses my face blows back little lost parts of myself, those that I unknowingly left back in moments, and experiences: everything around me is a gate wildly flung open, through which I can go against the imposing gush of time, back to the moments, hours, days, weeks and years when I truly felt free from all influence, when I felt the total chance and serendipity of me being here, drawing breath, alive; when I knew that my feet had their place in this world, and my thoughts and ideas were a part of our shared consciousness. But, even if I were to run away from my road and revisit these memories, would I still be content? Would I feel the miracle of this chance as...

A Scrumdiddlyumptious Celebration: Roald Dahl’s Whizzpopping Legacy   “A little magic can take you a long way.” If there was ever a phizz-whizzing storyteller, it was Roald Dahl. Born on September 13, 1916, he gifted the world snozzcumbers, frobscottle, golden tickets, and enough scrumdiddlyumptious adventures to fill an entire giant peach! His stories are a whizzpop of mischief and magic, where children outsmart grown-up twits and where kindness always tastes sweeter than chocolate rivers. From Matilda’s love of books to the BFG’s dream glow jars, Dahl’s tales remain gloriumptious treasures for readers of every age. On his birthday, I celebrate the person who made reading both revoltingly fun and gloriously unforgettable. Growing up, I devoured Roald Dahl’s slightly wonky, always wonderful worlds. I pictured myself sneaking about, aghast at the Twits, plotting tricks with Mr. Fox, even though he was so ‘fantastic’, and sailing off inside the giant peach that James had. His books w...

The Fine Print of Teaching We find so much of ourselves in classrooms. Our teachers, then, become the bridge between the gaps of so many different versions of ourselves. Through education, we remain both young and old at the same time - because, here, we are allowed to make mistakes, but are also taught to reach beyond where we are. Teachers don’t just expect us to answer; they teach us to question, too. The classroom becomes a sacred, crucial space where thoughts and ideas are nurtured to someday be able to change the world. This Teachers’ Day, we want to honour some of these educators who dedicate their lives to lifting others higher. We want to bring to light their stories and journeys that have aged into their wisdom over time.  Dr. Karuna Gokarn Among the teachers who embody this spirit with grace and passion is Dr. Karuna Gokarn - a name that resonates with wisdom and unwavering dedication. For three decades, she has poured her heart into teaching and transforming microbiolog...