The annoyingly evasive piece of metal that has been cut into a special shape and is used for fastening or unfastening a lock

WARNING: The following narration is 99% genuine with a tad bit of exageration and a few added words here and there. We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience caused due to the above.


I feel sorry for criminals. I mean, for all you know, they might have committed some heinous crime quite unintentionally, and they might be really, really sorry now. They must be stewing in their own guilt, knowing that they're going to die, probably feeling like killing themselves anyways, just to get it over with... I mean, come on people! Have a heart! Give them a break!

You might wonder why I've developed this sudden, repulsive sympathy for these fellows, but I have my reasons. I've been there, done that, etcetera. Alright, so I haven't been to prison, but I have just narrowly escaped from the unpleasant situation of never being able to see the light of day again.

I was at home, it was Friday, and we had tons of homework. My friend and I were tackling the load together. Said friend's mother was offering to take us out for pizza if we finished in time. Friend number two had gone home early and didn't want pizza. So it was the four of us; me and my friend's family. Let's call my friend, Nidhi.

That day I got an unusually large number of calls. First there was dad, telling me he wouldn't be home that day for dinner, then mom, reminding me to get the keys out since she didn't have hers, and lastly my aunt saying that we're supposed to come over to her place the next day. But that's off topic.

At seven-thirty, we decided to go over to Nidhi's place. Friend number two, aka, Mihika, was in the house at that time. We all descended the stairs, talking about our plans for the weekend. I walked into the veranda, closing the wooden door shut behind me.

I can't say for sure whether it was the click of the lock as the door banged shut or whether it was just a mere coincidence, but my mind was hit by a bolt of lightening. The unpleasant kind, mind you. And all of a sudden, the memories of my conversation with mom came rushing into my brain.

Oh and remember to get the keys before coming outside OK? I don't have mine with me. Don't forget!

Of course not mom!

Ha.

My friends, noticing my sudden state of utter terror, stopped talking and rushed to my side.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you OK?"

"What happened?"

I gulped. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then, with the general air of a man attending his own funeral, I croaked out a single word: "key."

My friend's face turned a hideous shade of green.

I sat shakily in a chair, wondering how in heaven's name I'd worm my way out of this one, when my friend (Nidhi) let out a scream of pure horror.

"Where are my shoes?"

I sputtered at her.

"Your shoes?!"

"Yes my shoes! Where are they?"

"I don't know...! Where did you keep them?"

"Right here! God, help me find my shoes!"

I tried to keep my voice level. "I'm about to die in the hand of my own mother and your worrying about your shoes?"

"Well what? You want me to go home barefoot?"

I don't know why, but the word 'barefoot' suddenly jarred my brain. That's it! My neighbours would have the keys!

Before my friends could ask why I seemed so terribly happy at the prospect of Nidhi going barefoot, I shoved them out of the way, and sprinted (barefoot, mind you) around the backyard and into the adjoining compound.

I raced to the front door and nearly collapsed there in fatigue. A nice, kind woman opened the screen door and tried not to show how perplexed she was at my worn out state.

"Can I help you dear?"

"Yes," I gasped, "Do you, by chance, have the spare keys to my house?"

Time stretched for an eternity as the woman rubbed her nose.

"No, I don't think so..."

I was out of there before she could complete her sentence.

I crossed my fingers and prayed with all my heart that the other neighbours had it. Once again, overcome with exhaustion, I banged on their front door. It swung open. A man stood in the doorway, eyes raised sky high.

"Are you alright?"

"W-e-ell, yes..but no...do you have our spare keys?"

A small smile appeared on his face. And that day I learned that people generally smile when they realise that they can be of no use whatsoever.

As he shook his head in a dejected gesture of a person saying "no", I could practically hear the death gongs beat through the deadly night. I was close to tears.

The man, Mr. Joshi we'll call him, noticed my state of utter depression and decided to ask politely what was wrong. I told him the whole story and he peered at me solemnly.

"Does your grandfather have the spare?"

I could have hugged him. Of course my grandfather had the spares! Relief flooded in me...

I froze mid jump. My grandfather was taking a walk. Outside. Within sight of my mother. I'd have to go find him. Outside. Within sight of my mother. That would lead to questions. Outside. By my mother. Which would lead to a horrifying case of murder. Outside. Within sight of others. In short I couldn't go out there....

but someone else could.

I eyed Mr. Joshi, wondering how persuasive I'd have to be...

After some amount of minutes...

I jogged back to my place, my feet trying to avoid the prickly pain of the tiny stones on the road. I turned the corner and caught sight of both my friends, one looking extremely confused and panicked, the other looking extremely bored and decisively un-panicked.

"Where is she?" Nidhi bellowed, her hands waving up and down in an otherwise amusing manner.

Mihika, looking unperturbed by my sudden disappearance and Nidhi's distressed state of mind shrugged, "She went to your place without you."

"WHAT?"

"What?"

I entered into view. Went to her place indeed! Now where did she come up with that?

Nidhi whirled around at the sound of my voice. I cringed at the sight of her disheveled self.
"And where have you been??"

"Never mind..."

I stopped mid sentence.

This time, my mind wasn't triggered by some utterly unrelated set of words, but more by the sight of my house. I leaped over the fence and ran a hand down the barred windows. I slipped my arm in between the cold rods and fingered my way to the latch, which clicked open almost immediately.

My eyes went wide. I pushed open the sliding glass and the netted screen that followed. And soon enough, I had successfully opened the window. I nearly cried out with joy as I saw, not more that a few feet away from the window, was my mom's purse inside which, sitting on the rest of it contents like a crowned queen, was the key.

The only problem? The window was barred.

I eyed it grimly. There was no way I could slip through. Even Mihika wasn't skinny enough, and that was saying something. I wondered if breaking into your own house was considered a crime and soon gave up on the idea. The ironic thing was, I could see the key right there, but there was no way of reaching it. It was quiet a depressing scene, really.

My friend approached me from behind and eyed my arms outstretched pathetically, trying, in vain, to reach an object which lay all the way across the room. "Well, what now?"

"The spare key," I sighed, "Might be with my grandfather..."

Nidhi looked at me, confused.

"What?" I snapped, "I thought that my grandfather might have the spares. But I can't find him."

"Sue me if I'm wrong, but isn't your grandfather right there?"

I whirled around to the direction of her finger. I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. And with the general air of person seeing a ghost, I croaked out a single word: "No way."

OK, so it was two words.

I stared in blank astonishment at my grandfather sitting on the veranda chair, untying his boots at a painstakingly slow pace. My friends and I held our breaths, each one of us not daring to believe, hoping, praying that he had the key.

My grandfather got up. Slowly. Deliberately. He steadied himself on the arm of the chair and eyed the door. He was a man on a mission. He shuffled to the door. Two feet away. One foot.

With a single, quivering arm, he reached for the bell.

I burst into tears.

A large group of girls, namely, the rest of my friends, watched me in complete confusion as I sank dejectedly to the ground. All my hopes and dreams for a peaceful evening were shattered. Not to mention the pizza...

"Look!"

I looked up and found (quite to my irritation) that all my friends had left my side and were now talking casually in my veranda, as if nothing had gone amiss. I slowly trudged inside, my curiosity piqued.

And I froze.

Right in front of me, like welcoming arms, the large wooden door stood wide open.

I tell you, I have never felt better in my life. I let out a cry of pure joy, scaring half the crowd into falling in their chairs and shoved the other half into falling anyways. I ran to my grandfather, hugging him nearly to death. I thanked him a billion times and then suddenly flew off. My grandfather watched me in stunned silence, then shook his head, muttering to himself about "teenager these days!...."

I got to the front table and held my breath. There, shining like a box of gold, sat my Mom's purse. With a trembling hand, hoping this wasn't a dream, I reached for the keys. The whole house seemed to erupt in applause and I felt tears well up . I delicately cupped the precious object in my hands, my eyes feasting on its simplicity. The key.

I turned around and held the key up, like a trophy, for all my friends to see. They stood there, speechless, staring, hypnotised at the key as realisation struck them. All to late, they turned a weird shade of green and then back to normal.

Nidhi pushed her way in front, holding her own prize in her hands (though mine was shinier and more pleasant to look at). Her eyes shone. Cradling them, like a newborn baby, dirt-filled and smelly, were her shoes.

She grinned broadly. "I found them."

A true story from the diaries of Namrata Kakade...

EPILOGUE

I did get to go for pizza that day, just if your wondering. I was the happiest person on earth as I proudly handed the keys to a certain beaming mother. My friends, of course, had to ruin the moment by snorting in the most most suggestive way and making hideous faces behind my mother's back. My mother didn't know about this incident till at least a month later, by which time she was laughing too hard to feel murderous. My grandfather seemed extremely pleased with himself to know that he saved the day.

If your wondering about Nidhi's shoes, they were actually at the back door. I had told hers so a few times, though I had unfortunately omitted the word 'back' in my haste to find the keys. She circled the house four to five times (each time somehow failing to notice her shoes) and ended up remembering where they were when I decided I had omitted the key word 'back' for too long.

Right. And Mr. Joshi, didn't find my grandfather (I wonder why...) but once we all had calmed down, I conveniently tracked the man down and thanked him for his immense help and support for which he replied that he hadn't done anything (which was technically true...but we'll let it pass) and he was always glad to be of assistance.

And for future reference, I did forget the keys many more times after this, but my grandfather conveniently carried his at all times...

Fashioned Forebodings

I'm shaking madly
sniffing sadly
awaiting my doom.
Drum rolls play
the sky is grey
I dwell in grief and gloom.

My mom drives in
that great car bin
dark and made of stone.
I want to shout
as we walk out
into the wild unknown.

A monstrous tower
of awesome power
and people march inside.
I then inhale
my face is pale
bravery, I tried,

But quake with fear
my end is near,
I know, I'm scared for sure.
We walk into
the deadly blue
and flamingo pink contour.

strange are smells;
like one who dwells
in artificial fauna.
The shoppers, gosh!
they look so posh!
like beauty's cruel persona.

The perfume is choking!
the displays, revolting
the music's nice, its true,
but people stare;
"how could you dare?
this place's not for you!"

But head held high
though I shy
away from mannequins
which, from their hair
and murderous stare
don't look like human beings.

The make up stand
the music band
the escalators too
the six large floors
the numerous doors
can't tell which one's the loo...

The polished tiles
the latest styles
the queues at trial rooms
the purses bare
the bright footwear
the attendant that looms,

breathes down your neck
well what the heck?
I can find my way around!
I'm not a thief
o good grief!
she'll wait till I have found

what I need
and God, i plead!
please help me to escape
this prison cell
this indoor hell
with halls of maze-like shape.

"Where is she?"
"where could she be?"
"To so desperately call?"
your curious...
I'm furious!
I'm at the shopping mall.

(I've exaggerated extravagantly in this one...) (*wink*wink*)

A Contrast to Yellow

I was never a very athletic person. Sure, I used to like playing outside, but I wasn't a sports-lover as such. I preferred sitting inside and reading books. I never really specialised in any sport, but I was good enough to be taken seriously. I knew swimming, tennis, basketball, though I was never an expert at any of them. And I was hopeless at stamina and flexibility.

I guess that's why I never even really tried to be good at it either. I just never felt it important. I valued academics over athletics. It never troubled me that I was not very nicely built, or strong or burly. But there was one thing that did trouble me often.

In my school, we had something called the Presidential Fitness Award. It was held at the end of every school year. It was basically a series of tests for all students testing their stamina, strength, endurance and flexibility. According to your age and gender, they classified you as Participant or National.

One boy and one girl from the school were honored with the Presidential award, the highest level you could get. You had to pass certain limits in each category to get each badge. Presidential was hardest to get.

So when the week for the Presidential Fitness arrived, I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it. All my friends were, because all of them always got National. Me and two or three others from my class came under Participant. I'll admit, I was jealous. I had always kind of hoped to get national one day, but I never really gave it a second thought. It would be nice, I reflected, to see a perfect red badge on my desk for everyone to see. It would be a change to the boring yellowness of the Participant badge, that I had gotten used to.

But that year, in fifth grade, things were different. It was my last year at this school, and, I realized, my last chance to really try and get National. But even that thought didn't immediately spur me to success.

The first test was the endurance run. We had to run about a mile, eight laps around the field, in the shortest amount of time. If you made it in eleven minutes, congratulations, you made it to Nationals. I didn't even bother to find out the time limit for Presidential. The test started, and I started out pretty good, at an average pace.

But after about one lap, my pace started to slow down. I started getting tired, out of breath, and felt like walking. But somehow, somewhere, I felt a nagging urge to keep going. I suddenly increased my pace then slowed down a bit to make it feel as if I was going slower. Every lap I covered, I said to myself "only one more to go!" and thus, I completed eight. Nonstop. Without a pause. I just kept running.

And to my utmost wonder, I had passed the mark for Nationals. The endurance run was one of the tests I feared most, and I had aced it. Somehow, that boosted my confidence sky high, and it was after this incident that I truly and wholly, with all my heart, strove to get Nationals.

The next few tests went as a blur. I completed the shuttle run with neck-breaking speed, did all the push ups I could until my arms practically shattered and did so many cur ups that my stomach muscles screamed in pain. But I did it. I aced all those tests. Now I truly had a chance at Nationals.

Bu the last and final test loomed over me mockingly, the one reason I couldn't get to Nationals. The V-stretch. Basically, we had to sit with our feet stretched out in V shape with a distance of two feet between our two feet. Then we had to stretch. That's right, we had to stretch as much as we could past our ankles. The mark for Nationals? Three inches. Three lousy inches. And how much could I make? negative one. negative one. I could so pass this baby, right? Of course not.

That night I sat down on the floor of my room and practiced for hours. I stretched and stretched until I was positive that I couldn't stretch any more. We went to my friend's house. I stretched there. We went to the park. I sat on the tanbark and stretched. I had to do this, it had become a mania for me.

The next day, I was shaking with anticipation and apprehension. Last night's practice had been fruitful; I could make it to three inches. The trick was to be able to hold it there for three seconds. In that particular, ability, I lacked.

In the few precious minutes we had before the test, me and my friends tried to squeeze in as much practice as we could, using our fingers to measure out three inches. Even through all the last minute preparations, I still didn't feel much better. And as I sat on the mat and readied myself, I reflected, for a split second, on all of the events of the past few days. Well, I though as I eyed the marking for three inches, at least you'll know you tried.

Believe me, as I looked at the markings, I had never realised how truly large one inch was. The whistle blew, and, like all the other times at home when I practiced, I raised my hands, threw all my body weight flat on the ground, and stretched. And when the whistle for three seconds blew, you could say that I was the happiest person on earth.

I didn't get to go up on stage to receive the National award since I was already in India by the time the award ceremony was arranged. But I was equally happy when I got the mailed certificate along with my perfect new badge. As I kept it along with the rest of my battered, yellow Participant badges, I thought to myself, the redness of my new badge was such a contrast to the fading yellow of my old ones. And as I sit here writing this story, I only have to glance up to see the badge, gleaming proudly on my desk, looking just as red and perfect as it did, four years ago, in my dreams.

Inside The Glass Dome

'Gather here everyone

the show will begin soon

said the man at the ticket booth

beneath the silver moon

And I was standing in the crowd

sandwiched in the middle

thoguh to the colossal stadium,

our pack, it looked quite little

Today was the day, the significant day

for which with due respect

the world had much looked forward to

thus all were posh and decked

And people poured like grains of sand

women, child and all

men from all across the world

were gathered in that hall

And finally the curtains rolled

the drums did loudly beat

as the world watched expectantly

clutching to their seat

Inside the tiny dome of glass

it stood there, tall and lean

its body was of golden white

and crowned with freshly green

So brittle it looked, they held their breath

and necks craned to see

a spectacle that stood alone

alas, the Earth's last tree

From The Bookworm's Desk

Who says that non-Americans can't write good books in English? Everyone has the mindset that all those English books you read are written either by an American, or British. I admit, even I used to think that way. But I've learned over the past few years that you don't have to be born English to write good English fantasy novels.

I recently read a book by an Indian man named Samit Basu. It is a series of three books called the GameWorld Trilogy. I immediately fell in love with it, and you seriously can not compare his work to anyone else's. He wrote the books in English, but a lot of the names and concepts are derived from Indian mythology, beliefs and are overall Indian in origin. His work brings out the true meaning of utilising your resources. He had expertly woven Indian traditions with the basic lifestyles of fictional fantasy characters to create something very different, and also very fun to read.

The story idea is also very original, and I really liked it. It's not your average save-the-world-from-the-bad-guy story. One major point that the author has tried to emphasise is that a villain in not necessarily always evil. It depends on the way you look at things. From one side, the victim feels the villain to be the bad guy. But for the villain, he's only doing what he thinks is right. For example, in the usual cat-chases-mouse stories of Tom and Jerry, Tom is always looked upon as the villain who tries to get rid of Jerry in the most cruel ways possible. But from Tom's point of view, he is only trying to do his duty to his mistress and secure his own survival by eradicating the pesky mouse.

Samit Basu's tale is extremely colourful, with humour on every page. He has combined various extremely popular stories like those of Alice in Wonderland, Robin Hood and also those of Indian and Greek mythology to get a fresh and very original piece of work. I thoroughly enjoyed reading his stories and I would definitely recommend them to all those who thrive on fantasy fiction.

From the Bookworm's Desk

Hey everybody. Most people know how much I love books, so here's an article "from the bookworm's desk".

What comes to the mind when we say books? School books? Textbooks? If no, then I'm glad you aren't illiterate. If yes, then you're missing out on a lot. Books can be amazin and interesting and funny. Some of my friends share my passion for ink and paper and here's a bit for those who don't.

People ask me for my opinion on a "good book". I think there aren't any bad books as such, it just depends on your taste and liking, kind of like clothes. But if you really want to know, here are a few books that I really recommend:

Inkheart-Conelia Fuke
Inkspell-Cornelia Funke
Thief Lord-Cornelia Funke
Percy Jackson and the Olympians-Rick Riordan
Hoot-Carl Hiaasen

and of course Harry Potter. I need not tell you what the book is about.

Keep in mind that these are all fantasy novels. Those of you who are not into fantasy may not like them. Ifyou'd like to know more about these books I suggest you read the summaries given below. They aren't very good but I tried my best. I don't want to give the story away, or "murder the book" as my friend says:

Inkheart:
12 year old Meggie Folchart lives a normal life with her father Mo. But when a mysterious man By the name of Dustifinger appears at her door at night, her world is turned upside down. She is thrust into a world of fantasy and fiction, danger and adventure where anything is possible. And she finds out a secret about her father that is both terrible and wonderful...

Inkspell:
This captivating sequel to Inkheart takes place in the Inkworld, the one place Meggie has always dreamed of going .There, she discovers astounding secrets, plots and embarks on a quest to save everything that she loves.

Thief Lord:
Prosper and Bo are on the run from they're mean aunt Esther. Their journey leads them to Venice, the city of dreams and that is where they meet a band of thieves led by a boy who calls himself the 'Thief Lord'. But even the Theif Lord has some secrets to hide and suddenly they find themselves in and adventure full of magic and mischief, loss and love and soon they have to make choices that they can never turn back on.

Percy Jackson:
The Series written by Rick Riordian has stimulated many young readers to develop an interest in books. Percy is an everage boy who lives a normal life, well, as normal as possible when you're a half blood. His yearly activites including fighting monsters, embarking on quests, meeting powerful Gods and spoiling evil plots. And of course, going to school.

Hoot:
Roy knew his reputation would be ruined the moment he revealed wehre he was from, Montana. Florida was not what he had expected, and not what he had wanted. Only one thing keeps him from packing his bag and catching a plane back to Montana. Roy, along with his newly made friend, Beatrice, and the mysterious boy, may be the only ones who can save the owls. Before it's too late

The Amulet of Samarkand:
Nathaniel, a young, magician's apprentice with an extrordinary itelligence level and an inborn talent for bossing decides to act on an impulse and summons the mighty, quick-witten Bartimaeus, a demon of the fourth level, to steal the powerful Amulet of Samarkand from the clutches of the skilled magician, Simon Lovelace. What starts out as a foolish want for revenge quickly turns into a deadly game. Now it is up to Nathaniel and Bartimaeus to save all of London from destruction.

Golem's Eye:
Powerful monsters are threatening to ruin the lives of London's people and the city itself, not to mention, Nathaniel's career. Once again, the young magician is forced to summon Bartimaeus to help him on his task of tracking down the cause for London's ruin; a secret, anti-magician society, called the Resistance. But things start getting out of control when a madly possessed skeleton is set free in London to terrorize its population. But Nathaniel has a feeling that the truth behind the destruction is not the fault of the Resistance or even the skeleton, but something much more deadly...

Ptolemy's Gate:
There was once a time when Bartimaeus was the most powerful demon on earth. He could create mountains with the flick of his hand, destroy cities with a snap of his fingers...but now he is forced to clean the shoes of his ruthless master, the very prestigious, the powerful, John Madrake, also know as Nathaniel.
Meanwhile, the refugee Kitty Jones has successfully camouflaged into the everyday crowd of commoners. But strange things are going on, and the people of London are no longer satisfied with the magicians, they too want them gone. The government of London is crumbling from within. And Bartimaeus know he himself has limited time left.
But a more powerful force threatens the very existence of mankind, and Kitty, Nathaniel and Bartimaeus must embark together on one last quest together to save all that they hold dear...

I'll keeping adding once I find more interesting books. Meanwhile, you should start reading them.

Welcome

Hello. Hi. If you're my friend, then welcome. If not, welcome anyways. Feel free to explore the pages and stuff. You might be wondering what 'pshaw' means. Guess what? I don't know either.

...Anyway's I hope you enjoy!