Clochard (beggars can be choosers)

My friend, Don’t go around giving alms
to every man holding up his palms
The money would be better spent
if you gave it to me instead so that I could pay rent
for that man right there,
can easily afford to pay our bus fare
make no mistake, he is my landlord!
who became a professional clochard of his own accord!

AN:

Rumor had it that a man had gotten on a bus, was in the middle of a lively chat with the person sitting next to him when the bus got stuck at one of Dhaka’s famous traffic gridlocks. A beggar came by and asked for some change, the interlocutor was about to oblige when the man stopped him and said the beggar was in fact his land lord who made more money through begging than he could after an honest day’s hardwork.

Well as skeptical as you may feel right now, note that in Bangladesh people have bought farmland, built hospitals for the poor, and much more just by begging. Also, beggars don’t have to pay tax. :p

Beggars can be choosers! ūüėČ (only in Bangladesh)

 

 

 

The Pilot Testing The Pilot Project

Written by:

Banin Abrar, Class XI, Orange.

The horizon lit up with an unfamiliar glow, but not very unlike the prospect of a rising sun. In a matter of seconds, the untamed glow had lit up the entire vicinity with a vile revelation, bestowed by ingenious men of their generation.

High atop the landscape, the pilot perceived of what was once a tiny box, giving off a dense, over-sized cloud, that was now forming the familiar shape of a mushroom, but indeed very horrific to look upon.  The glowing ripple was extending its base at a staggering rate, and the cloud right at the center of it climbed higher, curling inwards, punching through atmospheric layers, and forming rings which seemed like the halo of an angel.

The pilot had come to know the bitter truth; he was only a pawn in a game of chess played by others. And now, no matter how hard he pushed on the throttle, the catastrophe would engulf him and his aircraft indiscriminately.

“A positron¬†with a Y boson down quark, disintegrates into two daughter quarks and emits a gamma ray of 511 kilo-electron volts.”

And with that complex theory the professor put an end to his intricate lecture which had managed to baffle even the brightest mind present at the advanced research facility.

Gently professor Bourden slide into his battered old brown overcoat, and with a flick of his skilful fingers adjusted his thick-framed spectacles to a comfortable angle.  Checking his wristwatch rather tentatively, he retired onto his desk, and withdrawing from his cupboard a folder with extreme caution, and after checking his immediate vicinity within an interval of every few seconds, he finally proceeded to put the folder down on his hand polished plywood desk. Beads of perspiration hung loosely on to the wrinkles of his forehead as he ran his fingers through the confidential files. His eyes were all over the paper. And he was at a loss for words.

Suppressed excitement followed along with a tinge of ¬†anxiety, like a thief all alone in a museum surrounded by priceless antiques. At once his eyes rolled over to the corner of the page, reading out the names of Albert Einstein, Nicholas Flamel, and many others. The headline read, ‘Project Manhattan’.

“It is a hit and run. You drop it and try cover a distance of at least a 2 kilometer radius. For confidential reasons, I cannot elaborate on the purpose of this mission and the package which is to be dropped. All I can say is this: It will end the war. Good luck sergeant Dashner, God be with you.”

The flight commander ended his ended his long speech in his own fashion, and in a few long strides he entered the control room. For sergeant Dasher it seemed that his job was simple, or so he thought.

“Drop in drop out.” he kept reassuring himself. Soon enough he would be flying over the hostile Japanese territory of Hiroshima. It was necessary for him to make full use of his aircraft maneuvers in order to avoid being shot down. If successful he would drop a lead box, the contents of which he knew nothing about.

Quite unfortunately, he did not even begin to suspect that he would have to find out the ultimate truth in such a dismal manner during the last few seconds of his tormented existence.

Reyner reluctantly turned over the pages of his Eighth grade history book; Quite clearly he had a knack for science rather than the arts and Literature, nevertheless, something from the contents of the book had hit him. Upon reaching the chapter ‘World War II’ he began piecing together his scattered attention. The casualty list read over 1 million; it also read how a patriot pilot named James Dashner sacrificed his own life to win the war.

Upon flipping the page there was a little name, ‘Project Manhattan’, and farther down below it were the names of various scientists who were recruited by the project directors. (Somewhere down in the list lay a name- Dan Bourden. ¬†Further ahead in the last few pages a quote from British President Winston Churchill went on to defend the decision of the nuclear strike)

“We all agreed it was too late to do anything about it. It was inevitable for a peaceful world”