The forehead ledger

Lavanyaa Verma, AIS VYC Lucknow, XII B

In our world, the first thing children learned was how to read foreheads. Government vans would pull up outside schools on Result Day each year, and officials wearing sanitary gloves  sat inside with ink needles as new numbers, percentages, rankings, and grades were neatly tattooed above students’ eyebrows.
It didn’t make my life any outstanding. I received a few polite smiles, but mostly shirks. Teachers too were indifferent to those like me. They just looked at our expressions and modified their expectations. The frontbenchers received accolades before they spoke, while the back benchers sagged in their seats.
The tattoos followed us everywhere. High-scorers were given discounts by retailers. While security personnel were hypervigilant whenever those with low percentages were around in the stores. Even conversations shortened after glancing foreheads. Sometimes, to make the numbers look smaller, we tilted our heads - left, right, up, or down - whichever way hid them best.
Over time, fresh grades accumulated on top of previous ones, turning foreheads into pressure timelines. There was no longer an explanation for success or failure. Then one night, a strange event occurred. I saw that my grandmother had a blank forehead. Just wrinkles from age and laughter. She gave me a smile when I asked her about it. “They were there once,” she remarked, lightly caressing her brow. She asked, “What does a number measure? It gauges a moment, a recollection of a Tuesday test. The ability to forgive yourself for mistakes are not measured by it. I guess the ink decided they were no longer significant and I ceased remembering them.”
Slowly, my marks faded too. Others soon became aware of odd disappearances. Those who lived beyond the strict boundaries of the system were the first to lose their marks. The markings of a painter faded. Next, a street performer. Then there was a woman who started a successful bakery despite failing her examinations three times. In the face of true passion, the idea of the judgment could not stand. The government went into a panic. Like transient stickers, new tattoos slipped off and faces started to clear.
Now, before passing judgement, teachers took a moment. Perhaps for the first time, strangers paid attention, wondering what treasure might be concealed behind a vacant area as faces appeared strange without numbers.

The bridge of memories

Kriti Sharma, AIS Vas 1, Alumna

The bridge is a timeless testament
Of historical unexplored adventure
It stands as a founder of friendship 
The destroyer of unknown glooms

Everyone, with their dearest ones
Whether solo or tonnes in turns
Who’s passed the bridge shall see
World’s wonders reflected in sea

So come, feed on this dreamy tale
Live inside the dreams of a queen 
Behold the world with your eyes
The moon looks over the bridge.

(Kriti is currently pursuing BJMC from Vivekananda Institute of Professional Studies, GGSIPU.)