Presentation of modern facility hoax , a belief annexed in minds of parents who sell the domains of their existence to fulfill the cushions of private schools in kashmir. Long before education was seen an era of sacrifice where the student was pinned in the chains of struggle, it was like a knight was put to the test of battle ground before awarded the title of knighthood in the kingdom of his goals. The saga of education has seen an endless transformation from real to reel kind of education, public transport got entertained into loafs of school comfy bus facility, worth of education got transformed from books to tallest buildings. Quality mentors got transformed from highly trained to meek un skilled mentors. Education got measured with building infrastructure, talent got fooled in the name of dance moves on the stages. Parental meetings became hub of group dances and performance was measured into cultural bollywood dance presentation. Schools did every kind of deception to alter parental brains in the wink of group biryani gatherings to farce dancing talent grooming, and in such they forgot to ask the real performance of ward in such respective schools. The deception game is such peak modelled,that no body is worried in asking school management about the return of real educational output, but every parents has been made to think , the more a school has infra fame clubbed with swimming pools and spas of foamy facility. The production of such schools is just educated lambs who in the long run land no where and ultimately get frustrated in the lanes of unheard world. It would be better if schools focus on basic intellectual quality education and research in the lanes of catering leadership qualities among students. Such actions will bring out real entrepreneur qualities among students and bring the code of job givers instead of job seekers.
From being an outstanding student to one of the youngest rebel of south kashmir, MOHAMMAD FARHAN WANI a lad from wanigund quimoh Quimoh was the youngest member of his family survived by 4 other family members. Farhan from class 0-10 studied in one of the most finest schools of islamabad (anantnag). He was a brilliant student and an outstanding mathematician. He was fond of mildly hot lipton chai with bakerkhani (kashmiri bread). He was my classmate and dearest enemy. we used to fight for reasons unknows.
Farhan was the most honest and sincere student of our batch & had the most lavish lifestyle among us all. He always loved techy thing like calculator watches, iphones, laser lights and THE GUNS. Farhan had an unusual habit of tasting everyones lunchbox not only during our lunchbreaks but also even during classes. i personally wanted to punch his stomach (back then) but today i wish he was here among us to open and eat our tiffins. Again.
Farhan came from a very principled and …
Known but uncertain.
A macabre aura in her lush green valley
Swirls along the lanes and the by lanes,
Humming the death songs, and
Mocking the mother's lullaby;
Inundates the spring of love
Reeling under the gales of remorse !
Unbeknown to the servants of chair,
Leaches out the marrow of tolerance,
Wobbles the calmness of quiet sea,
And reduces the sane to stupors;
Mayhem clouds the canvas of peace
And ruins the crop of pride!
Singing the songs of hope, but-
Hearth of ignominy blazes its zenith
Over the apple-bough bedecked contours.
Perforated is every bud that dares to live
In the middle of the 'dance of death'
Akin to the blind devastating tornado,
Nay, a fair of cherishing right to cease life!
Kind enough to lit the candle of austerity,
Unknown but to decipher abysmal cause of
Long lacuna in a journey called life;
Gog and Magog they name them
Arraying the apostles of deceit;
Machiavellianism it is, do they know!
Writen under a lantern at midnight,
And sent by me to her house.
It's the eighth midnight
Each minute colder
—Colder than before,
The cool breezes clock the sight
Of the city - however;
Of my house, windows grow thicker
That unables to see more.
The dream knocks overnight
Which sits beside me - whisper:
THERE I hold the mirror
Of the thread our tomes floor,
Weird? The hair of mine turns white
Like the first snow—of late november
The square I dwell in folds under
A somber space, of odor.
It's midnight, the last night
Of the poet, the pallid pages murmer:
Pray! betake my spirit to a river
And take me a gander at the Dal shore;
The midnight-hours hold us tight,
Put on the dress—of a mourner
Or note down the wails of city's mother
Bury me there - don't blore. About Poet:
Facebook: Shujaat Hussain