Shopocalypse

Naima Oberoi, AIS Saket, XI F

A fter failing and rebranding every possible scheme, the government finally snapped and declared shopping a national sport. “Patriotic consumption,” the president announced, standing below the giant credit card hologram.
At the centre of this glitter-soaked madness was Anita Patel - forty-five, mother of two, champion of coupons and of end-of-season sales. She joined the National Shopping Marathon only for the pleasure of bargain hunting.
Anita tucked her chin, elbows out. This was a familiar territory. She grabbed socks with sniper-like precision, and stationery her children would lose in a week. At the end of an aisle glowing with terrible decisions, she spotted the reclining massage chair. A staff member shouted, “Ma’am, that’s extremely heavy!” “So is adulthood,” she grunted, deadlifting it. Level two locked the contestants inside glowing glass pods where discount equations swirled like ancient runes. One contestant screamed, “Why 37%? Why not a normal number?” Anita calmly pulled out her battered calculator. A judge tapped on the glass. “You seem disturbingly calm.” “I’ve waited my whole life for this,” she said pressing ‘%=’. Rumours spread that she might secretly be a descendant of mathematicians.
Level three required contestants to style a mannequin. Chaos erupted. Sequins flew. Someone tried to glue feathers to a corset. Another said they were creating “post-apocalyptic maximalist couture.” Meanwhile, Anita dressed her mannequin in sweatpants, apron, and rubber gloves. A judge frowned. “What is this?” “The Apocalyptic Housewife,” Anita answered. Another judge dabbed a tear. “It’s raw. Powerful. An indictment of society.” “It’s laundry day,” she clarified.
Level four was ‘Black-Market Maze’, dim and filled with vendors whispering promises. A man waved a knockoff hover-toaster. “This will revolutionise your mornings!” “I’ve raised teenagers,” she replied. “My mornings are already a battleground.”
Level five - the VR Mall, glitches swarmed and pop-up ads shouted unsolicited life advice. A hologram salesman floated over, pitching a new cryptocurrency called ‘SockCoin’, the future of  digital finance! “Please,” Anita said, removing the headset. “I’m too old for imaginary shopping.” The judges gasped as if she’d spoken  a forbidden truth.
Contestants rolled out with gold-plated appliances, even a robot butler that insulted you politely. Anita, however, simply walked onstage carrying a foldable chair borrowed from backstage. She unfolded it, sat, and sighed. “This is all I needed today. Everything else was merely passing curiosity.”
An economist stood, visibly shaken. “Ms Patel, your restraint is revolutionary. You win.” Confetti exploded. Cameras flashed. Anita was accepting the  golden shopping trolley trophy when an intern sprinted in. “Ma’am! You forgot your lifetime supply of SockCoin!” Anita froze. “I said I don’t want it.” “Yes, but it auto-installs!” Her phone vibrated violently. Congratulations! You’ve earned 12,000 SockCoins! Warning: Phone overheating due to excessive joy! The screen glitched.  Then burst into flames. Anita calmly dropped it into a nearby bucket labelled ‘Burnt Hopes / Faulty Tech’. “Honestly,” she sighed, walking away with her socks and her trophy, “this is exactly why I trust only real, physical things.” Anita didn’t look back. She had socks to take home.

Ethereal elysium

Krisha Rastogi, AIS Saket, XI C

At the last twinkle of dawn everyday
Silver bloom weaves a mystic array
A sanctum of calm, ataraxia unfolds
A garden of awe where magic moulds

Petals in rows, so colourful and bright
Swing gently beneath soft moonlight 
In mellifluent breeze they faintly sway
A dream painted in a tranquil display

A golden glimmer flutters near by
Gleaming like flame as they pass by
Their tender wings craft rhythmic beat
To dance on blooms with nimble feet

As time flows, the sun starts to show
Dawn spills softly on the night’s glow
The silver fades, the peace is no more
As magic dissolves, so ends the lore.