Students’ perspective

More than a badge: the true meaning of responsibility

More than a badge: the true meaning of responsibility
It was the day of the Investiture Ceremony. I walked up the stage with confidence, each step steady from the countless march rehearsals etched into my muscle memory. Yet no number of rehearsals could have prepared me for the moment the badge inscribed with the words “Head Girl” was handed to me. In that instant, a weight settled upon me—not that of a burden, but the gravity of trust and hope: the trust of the teachers who interviewed me and deemed me capable of being a good leader; the hope of the students who looked to me as their voice. This weight meant taking accountability, not only when credit was due but also when things went wrong. It was a newfound sense of empathy for the student community, an awareness that leadership is as much about listening as it is about guiding. I realised it was not merely a responsibility to shoulder, but a mantle to wear – a mantle of duty and service. And from that day on, I chose to don that mantle with pride and dignity.

By: Rithanya S- A Level 

We Wait (A Pantoum) 
We wait for weeks. For weeks and months-
For a letter, a postcard or a mere note,
For even a note from Father would mean so much.
I tell little Bessie he’ll be back soon.
For a letter, a postcard or a mere note,
Bessie and I wait and pray, hands clasped.
I tell little Bessie he’ll be back soon-
I get a lingering feeling if that might be true or not.
Bessie and I wait and pray, hands clasped-
For Dad to return with a rose in his hand.
I get a lingering feeling if that might be true or not.
I brush it off and wear my best smile.
For Dad to return with a rose in his hand-
Bessie writes him a poem and asks if he really will come.
I brush it off and wear my best smile,
Though that feeling he won’t, still persists.
Bessie writes him a poem and asks if he really will come.
I promised that he would and filled her with false hope.
Though that feeling he won’t, still persists.
We wait for weeks. For weeks and months.

- Ananyaa, 10B, CBSE 

PROLOGUE
It was cold that night. The wind gushed through the maze of wooden arms flaunting its own arena of leaves to the white pearl floating amongst the scintillating stars in the night sky. It illuminated the surface of earth and the endless stretch beyond it.. They called it the moon. That's what the ongoers used to call it. 

Later that night when the full moon spread its radiance across the sky, the wind grew stronger and stronger, blowing dried leaves across the landscape. That's when it happened.
My cozy brown casing which held me for years now slowly started to loosen leaving the rest of myself hurling towards the ground, away from the protection and nurture of my mother.  

‘THUMP!’ Ouch! I landed hard on the ground giving company to a few other pinecones lying near me. Gradually, with the help of the wind and the slope of the lush green grassy hills, I rolled down the soft green waves frozen in earth to finally come to a stop at the edge of a soccer field. I felt so lonely there - with none of my kind. At least there was no competition for survival. Somehow, I always knew this day would come. 

I waited until it was morning.The round ball of heat spread its sheen across the cloudy grey sky. The park started to fill up with soccer players and their parents, waiting for the match to start. Once the match started, the boys and girls started to kick the ball around. When the ball was kicked into a kind of net fabric structure, everyone cheered and yelled from the top of their lungs. 

After a few minutes of the match,  the children came running back to the fold up chairs which had been set up about a meter away from me. Before I knew it, raindrops started piercing the vast expanse of the tall green grass. It was raining. 

The harsh, unforgiving cloudburst filled the boundless ceiling of light with the cascade that drowned silence. For the first time, I had experienced this thundering rainfall of the 19th century monsoon - without my mother’s unbreakable shield of leaves. The raindrops were like needles from the sky, pushing me into the depths of the earth - until all I could feel was dirt. Wet, damp dirt. The dirt was nutritious and had all the nutrition I needed to grow big and strong - just like my mother. 

FIVE YEARS LATER…
I'm growing taller and taller! I’m on a growth spurt! I am now a full-on pine tree…almost!
Growing up has been hard for me. However, it’s totally worth it. Once you grow up, you have a larger network of roots which help me connect with the more senior trees on the far side of Murphy park. They signaled to me that growing up for them was not a struggle at all. I told them about how getting nutrition and water was getting harder and harder these days, however, the seniors always blame it on the humans. 

I always loved humans. When I was little, the little kids and their parents used to adore me and my beautiful sap green leaves when they were on their evening stroll which always used to elevate my spirit even through the hard times - which never seemed to end.  

As time went on, the wise senior trees taught me that humans were the cause of our struggle - that they always put themselves before anything and took over their world with their filthy inventions to keep their comfort intact while pulling resources like water from us.  

The carbon dioxide levels in the air did increase, but I figured that they were just trying to bribe us and only made the climatic conditions worse and harder to grow in due to the lack of water and the lack of nutrition that they stole from us. Just like that, my love towards humans turned into hatred that grew larger and larger in me as time passed by. 

SEVENTY YEARS LATER…
I stand tall amongst the once lush green fields, towering over the houses on either side of the field standing motionless, with their roofs nestled side by side, lining the roads with their shadows. I am the parks’ centre of attention and attraction of the ongoing pedestrians. 

A lot has changed since the time I was buried underground as a mere seed. Everything is different! The sun has intensified, the atmosphere is arid and the fields are barren with just patches of parched grass. Over the years, the soil has also grown malnourishing leaving us trees battling to grow. And today is one of those terrible days.  

The air is desert-like while the soil quality is even more depressing. The sun’s scorching heat continued its endless marathon of intensity, slowly picking up its pace as noon came by. This Is why I hated humans - for those dirty ways of survival, cheating nature through every nook or cranny they found. They caused this stupid, obnoxious global warming. They did it. 

Before I knew it, the sun was right above my canopy, leaving no shadow to spare from the group of trees from the far side of Murphy park. The heat gradually intensified, leaving the leaves on the edge of my canopy to stand thirsty, soon drying up and slowly drifting down to float on the dry blades of grass surrounding my trunk.  

This is strange. Is this some kind of heat wave? Some kind of drought? Except, I have had plenty of experience In the last 30 years of my tree life to know how they feel. This was worse. And I knew it well.
***
An orange-red inferno had finally shown up at the ridge of Milpitas’s round wave-like hills just a mile away from the park. The flames burst out into all the possible directions, consuming the whole of east Milpitas. This was it. I did not care if I was eaten up or any more of this once beautiful place was eaten up by that wildfire. Those humans needed to learn their lesson. And this was nature's chance. 
***
I waited anxiously for painful death to come to me. Sacrifice is not what I wanted but it is the only way humans will learn their lesson. The blast of rage of the fires' heat is now felt across Murphy park. Meanwhile, the humans are outside their houses packing their children and belongings into their big, bulky, and dirty cars. A flash of hate travels through my branches as I see them pull out of their driveways. Just like that, the fire is here…and it is going to kill all of us…. 

Shashvath Basu - Grade 9 IGCSE 


The Silent Witness
They called me The Watcher. No one knew who gave me the name — perhaps a child, perhaps a poet, but it stuck.
I never moved. I never spoke. I never argued. Yet, I saw everything.
I watched children grow, fall, and rise again. I watched old men sip bitter tea in the early sun. I heard secrets in whispers and witnessed tears caught quickly on sleeves. I stood at the heart of the community, popularly known as the garden square, steady through storms and celebrations alike.
But there was a time, not long ago, when my silence nearly cost the village everything.
It began in a season that defied the rhythm of the others. The rains came late, and the earth cracked underfoot. Leaves fell too soon. A stillness spread, not peaceful, but heavy. People walked quicker. Faces grew tense. There was talk of leaving. Of failing.
Of forgetting.
Yet, as progress loomed and concrete whispered promises of modernization, something unseen stirred — not panic, but a swelling awareness. The earth itself seemed to inhale, as if holding its breath. The sky hung lower. The wind carried not just leaves, but questions. And deep in the centre of it all stood something that had been there all along, unmoving, but listening.
A new group had arrived in the village, promising concrete, order, and “improvement.” They were not cruel, not outwardly. They wore clean uniforms and held important papers. They spoke of “efficiency,” “development,” and “space utilization.” Their words were smooth, their smiles were rehearsed.
And so, fences were raised. Old paths were rerouted. The market was shifted. The benches, old but lovingly restored by volunteers — were removed. The mural, once painted during the Commonwealth Youth Festival by children from twelve different nations, was painted over in pale grey. The square grew quieter, colder, less like home.
Then came the day I feared most.
A man with a measuring tape circled me thrice. He made notes. A woman with a clipboard frowned at my feet. They marked the soil with orange paint. I knew what it meant. I had seen it done to others.
A boy noticed. His name was Musa, and he had sat by me every afternoon since his family moved here from another part of the Commonwealth — a coast where the sand whispered stories and the air smelled of cardamom and sea salt. He watched the orange marks in silence, then returned with chalk. On the stone beside me, he wrote one word in his careful handwriting:
“Why?”
That small word echoed more than any speech could.
It started something.
Others followed. An old woman brought a photo, black and white, edges curled. It showed her younger self, standing nearby with her sister. “We buried a time capsule here,” she said. “Right underneath. Letters to the children of the future.”
Someone else remembered a wedding proposal. Another vigil was held after the earthquake. Another recalled the first-ever village Eid celebration shared between families of every faith, celebrated right here. One man stood silently, tears in his eyes, and simply said, “This is where I found peace.”
People began speaking — quietly at first, then loudly — gathering around me not just in protest, but in memory. In gratitude. In Unity.
But the developers didn’t see value in memory.
The permits were already signed.
The date was set.
I would be gone before the next full moon.
I watched, helpless.
And then... the storm came.
It began as a distant growl. The sky cracked open like a drum, releasing weeks of hoarded rain. Winds snapped wires. Water surged through alleys. For the first time in many years, the square became a place of refuge.
The power failed.
Streets flooded.
Phones died.
But the people came, drawn together in need, in instinct. They gathered under my canopy, huddled against the storm. I sheltered them, just as I had through heat and hardship, festival and famine. Families shared food. Elders offered wisdom. Children whispered lullabies they barely remembered learning. Stories emerged between lightning strikes. Neighbors who had never spoken embraced.
And that night, something changed.
Not in me — I remained as I always had — but in them.
When the sun rose, cutting through the mist like a blade, the square was still. But the chalk was back. This time, not one word, dozens.
“Hope lives here.”
“This place holds us.”
“We remember.”
“Rooted together.”
“Don’t cut our past.”
A letter was sent to the council, signed by hundreds. Photos were printed. A video was made. Children created paper leaves and tied them to my branches with string. Teenagers turned old photographs into posters. A retired teacher translated stories into French, Urdu, Swahili, and Hindi, hanging them for everyone to read.
The message was simple: we are not asking for preservation — we are demanding it.
The developers returned with their machines. But this time, they were met not with silence, but song. Drums. Voices. A human chain around the square. News reporters came. Social media exploded. The news media picked it up.
The permits were paused. The plans have been revised.
The square was saved.
And me?
Well, now they know my name.
You see, all this time, through war and reunion, migration and change, I watched, I listened, and I remembered.
Because I am not a person.
I am the tree at the center of the square.
Planted generations ago by a child with a tiny seed and a dream of unity.
I have no tongue, but I speak in rustling leaves.
No eyes, but I see in rings of time.
No hands, but I have held your secrets and your celebrations.
I am the story of the community.
And I am still growing.
Today, children climb my low branches. They hang bird feeders and wind chimes and hand-painted signs that say things like “Stay Rooted” and “This Tree Listens.” Visitors from across the world leave small offerings beneath me — shells from the Pacific, spices from the Caribbean, silks from South Asia. I am no longer just a local landmark. I have become a shared symbol.
I was even given an official title: The Tree of Memory.
But I prefer The Silent Witness.
Because even as the world moves faster, even as languages shift and buildings rise, there is something powerful about stillness. About listening. About standing firm when others forget.
Perhaps that’s why I was planted here in the first place — not just to provide shade or beauty, but to anchor people when the winds of change blow too strong. I have watched communities transform, watched traditions blend and evolve. You might hear something.
A breath. A whisper. A memory.
Or perhaps... a leaf falling gently to remind you that the past lives here. That unity is not in sameness, but in shared care.
That is what we plant today — in hearts, in communities, in the soil — becomes the canopy under which others will someday find shelter.
And I, the tree at the center of your world, will keep watching.
And I will remember.

Thanvin, 10B, CBSE

Moments That Shine
A realm of unknown mysteries,
The journey seeks its victories,
Skeptical yet savoring every moment,
Awaiting a euphoric fulfillment.
Fresh breeze on new land,
Emotions firmly stand,
Unexpected care & affection,
Guide their direction.
Taught me life lessons,
Reason for success,
A wealth of experiences,
Shaping new appearances.
Joyous times with loved ones,
In my mind, forever runs,
When sorrow starts,
Leaving them, my heart departs.
Thanks for making things bright,
Memories feeling right,
Days frozen in time,
In our hearts, they shine.

Anikaasri, 9A, CBSE

How Suits Inspired Me As A Student
When most people watch a TV show, they look for entertainment. But when I watched Suits, I found something more — something powerful. It didn’t just tell stories of lawyers and courtrooms; it became a mirror, reflecting the kind of person I wanted to grow into. 

I was drawn first to Harvey Specter — not just his sharp suits and sharper lines, but the way he carried himself. His confidence wasn’t loud, it was silent, grounded in preparation and belief. He walked into rooms like he belonged there, even when the situation was tense. He taught me that showing up with confidence is half the battle. One quote that stayed with me was, "Don’t play the odds, play the man." It reminded me that success isn’t only about books — it’s about strategy, reading people, and staying calm under pressure. That changed the way I approached exams, competitions, and even class discussions. 

Mike Ross inspired me too. He didn’t have a law degree, but he had something stronger — a sharp mind and an even sharper work ethic. His story reminded me that even when you don’t have everything on paper, your effort can still make the difference. He stayed up late, worked through challenges, and constantly pushed his limits. I began to realize that talent means nothing without effort, and that pushing yourself beyond what you think you can do is how real success happens. 

Jessica Pearson made an impression I can’t forget. She was power in motion — calm, elegant, and always a few steps ahead. She taught me that true leadership doesn’t need to be loud or aggressive; it can be composed and respectful. She made hard choices without compromising her values. Watching her made me want to be someone who could lead with both heart and backbone. 

Louis Litt was a different kind of lesson. He was emotional, awkward at times, and often underestimated. But he was also brilliant. He showed me that it’s okay to care too much, to be sensitive, to fail and still come back stronger. His journey taught me that emotions are not weaknesses — they’re fuel for growth, if you know how to use them. 

And then there was Donna. She wasn’t a lawyer, but she was often the smartest person in the room. She understood people, and that made her powerful. She taught me that knowing facts is one thing — but understanding emotions, building trust, and being loyal are just as important. At school, it reminded me to value kindness and connection as much as intelligence 

Watching Suits gave me more than a break from textbooks — it gave me perspective. It made me want to be better — not perfect, but stronger, more prepared, more confident. It reminded me that even students like me, without all the answers, can learn to stand tall, to speak wisely, and to never give up on our goals. I may not be in a courtroom yet, but every classroom is a place to grow. 

As Harvey Specter said, "Winners don’t make excuses. They make results." 
That’s what I want to be — someone who shows up, works hard, and keeps showing up. Even on the hard days. 

Because maybe we don’t need to wear a suit to feel powerful. Maybe we just need to believe we can become something more. 

- Jocelyn, 11B, CBSE