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ALL INDIA

ASPIRING WRITER's

AWARD

Rishika Rathore

REGISTRATION ID

B3384

YOUR FINAL SCORE IS IN BETWEEN

9.21 - 9.75

IFHINDIA CONGRATULATE YOU FOR BEING IN THE TOP 10 FINALISTS.
YOUR FINAL SCORE WILL BE ANNOUNCED IN THE AWARD CEREMONY.

1. THE TITLE WINNER SCORE MUST BE MORE THAN 9.70 WHO WILL BE  WINNING 1,50,000/- CASH PRIZE & YOU MAY BE ONE OF THEM FOR SURE BECAUSE OUR FINAL WINNER IS IN BETWEEN THOSE TOP 10 FINALISTS INCLUDING YOU. 
2. SINCE YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE TOP 10 FINALIST YOU WILL BE GETTING EXCLUSIVE GIFT COUPON WORTH 5000/- EACH
(Note : You must participate either in ONLINE EVENT or OFFLINE EVENT without fail to get your AWARD BENEFITS)
3. ALL TOP 10 FINALIST INCLUDING YOU MUST PARTICIPATE IN THE MEGA EVENT EITHER OFFLINE OR ONLINE BECAUSE EVEN YOU MAY BE THE ONE WHO WIN THE TITLE FOR SURE.
4. INCASE YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO PARTICIPATE IN THE MEGA EVENT/ AWARD CEREMONY EITHER OFFLINE OR ONLINE then your journey in the contest will end here. HOWEVER YOU WILL STILL RECEIVE THE BEST 25 WRITERS BENEFITS but you will not get any benefits for being in the TOP 10 incase you quit from the contest hereafter.


click on the below link to know more information about the FINAL ROUND



 

Written By

Rishika Rathore

Soldier's dilemma

It was a stormy evening when Arjun, a seasoned soldier, returned from the battlefield, his heart heavy with the weight of countless battles fought. He sat by the dimly lit fire in his family home, staring into the flickering flames. His wife, Mira, entered quietly and sat beside him. She noticed the exhaustion in his eyes, not just from physical toil but from an emotional war within.
“Arjun,” she whispered, “what troubles you?”

He looked at her, his gaze distant. “Mira, I’ve seen so much. I’ve fought for honor, for justice, for our people. But lately… I’m not sure anymore. Why do we fight when love seems to bring so much more? How can war and love exist in the same world?

”Mira, under her calm and nurturing presence, took his hand in hers. “Why don’t we let them speak?” she said softly.

Arjun raised an eyebrow, confused. “Who?”

“Love and War,” she replied, smiling mysteriously.“Let’s imagine them here with us, having their own conversation. Perhaps their voices can help you understand.”

And so, in the warmth of their hearth, a dialogue began to form. As if by some unseen magic, the room seemed to grow darker and then suddenly brightened, as two figures materialized before them. One, a radiant being adorned with flowers and light, and the other, a figure clad in armor, carrying the weight of battles long fought.

The Voice of Love:

“I dance in the universe and complete the verses of poets,
I am the envelope carrying beauty,
and flow in the moves of dancing duets.”

I am the essence of this subtle universe and the product of every effort. I share a friendly proportion with success, wisdom, asceticism, happiness, and all those elements people do not want to drop into the lap of extermination. People book tickets to my wonderland to escape the helter-skelter of life. They admire me every second by nurturing bonds and relationships in a centripetal way.

I am the blossom that everyone longs for in their life. I am the roof when it’s raining and the coat when winter is gaining its existence. I am a bandage for failures and a stage for the crestfallen. I am not elusive, yet tough to secure. I accept the fat, cadaverous, bony, pale, and every needy person into my own realm. I carry a glory no war can ever win. Have you understood this, War?

The Voice of War:

“I am the one,
Chess takes inspiration from,
and the one chaos
draws its electrifying wires from.”

I am a heap that no broom can clean. Oh, Love, do you really think your path to glory isn’t rotten and foul by taking in all the sick, pale, and bony into your home? I believe your last words gifted Glory with disgrace. He would surely reject them, jump into a well, and live like a frog just to avoid a kiss from the princess of Love, and escape ruling your lovely palace of filth, which you call the home of the bony and the decayed.

Just look at me! I dance among swords on the battlefield. I am the punctuation in the poems, the partner of intense moments. I rule over the land of dignity and power, the point where cowards transform, becoming bold enough to carry the raven, leading them to battle and influence. I bring opportunities that make women drop their bangles and take up important paths. I am the ranger who thrives in danger. I am strong enough to challenge and inspire even the boldest to admire the clashing of triumph.

A mother first fights her own war when giving birth, and when I end, you—Love—step in, sprinkling your touch over the infant. But don’t you realize, Love, that you are secondary to me? You are simply the result of my battle. Without me, there would be no space for you to exist. Even with the mother, you follow in my wake, for I come first, and you are born from my aftermath. You must face this quiet truth.

The Voice of Love:
 
It’s not at all surprising that the lovely scion and humane twig is the product of a synergy carrying me through those nine months. This synergy grants his mother the unperturbed strength to ensure his birth and a joyous worldly welcome at all points of their precise journey.

How could you neglect this fact, War?

Oh, how could I forget?

This fact would be an abrasive to your previous statement, demolishing your existence with scholarly friction!

Forgive me, my superior. How could someone like me, happy with a tiara adorned with poppies, peonies, roses, hyacinths, and camellias, lecture someone as dignified as you? Yes, you, who burdens your head with a crown holding beautifying stones—carnelians, crystals, and chalcedonies so far. I am truly sorry, War, if the synergy of my fact overlapped the vibes of a well-positioned chronology of your sufficient words, placing you first and me next.

The Voice of War:

So, what do you want, Love?

Should I settle in the Carpathian ranges?
Or
Should I plunge into Titicaca like an abyssal diver?

Remember, your words cannot deny my existence, which could make the tribes of the Carpathians rule over nearby villages or make Titicaca the most stormy and dangerous of atmospheres! So why not start pollinating with the bees and find ways to make the peonies, poppies, camellias, and other leafy elements of your tiara more fragrant and pleasant? I can truly imagine it. It suits you.

The Voice of Love:

Whatever War!
I am not dredged; my mere existence can transform a ‘tumult of mass’ into a ‘warbling of birds.’ Let me now share an incident to stir your settled neurons.

An old woman, sadly bejeweled by the Almighty, possessed only a few belongings: a wigwam and a field. She lived in Tsurui, Japan, having lost her husband to a respiratory illness and having no children of her own. Alone and burdened by heart-wrenching phantasmagorias, she struggled to carry on with her life.

The village was known for its indigenous red-crowned cranes, which she found somewhat soothing.

During ongoing festivities, she did not express ambivalence or dismiss them as mere noise, unlike other elderly villagers who were annoyed by the cacophony of tambourines, harps, and drums that overshadowed psalms and hymns. Originally a day festival, it was shifted to the night to accommodate work schedules and the privileged group’s entertainment.

Despite the pleasant surroundings and festivities, her life was not beautiful. The next day, a landlord scorned her with virulent words and took her field, disregarding the gravitas of his actions.

The old lady, suffering from her incapability, requested the landlord and said, “You have silenced my voice and rendered me immobile in ways beyond your imagination. Yet, here I am with a tub, seeking only a bit of soil from my land to find some genuine solace.”

The landlord granted her permission but still didn’t understand her. He followed her to the field with an umbrella to shield himself from the harsh sun ‘regurgitating flames’ in the name of ‘rays.’

After she finished her labor and gathered the soil, she asked the shrewd landlord to place the tub full of soil on her head so she could return to her wigwam.

The landlord said, “I would surely help you with that, but this tub full of soil is so heavy that if your weak and fragile body carries it from here to your home, you could even die from the sun and the euthanasia this weight would provide to your lineaments.”

The old lady replied, “If a tub full of soil could turn me into a dead corpse, then how would you be able to live with the burden of my land with your false claims throughout your life? You would be dead too.”

This statement of the old woman made him envision her as a preacher at a pulpit and himself as a plodding mistaken human. He immediately returned her land.

See, War, no feud by this old lady, in place of a 'thought-provoking' process, could have made her get the land back.

Wars and battles are not the best way to deal with everything.

The Voice of War:

Really, a fragile human personality could define my essence!

‘I would like to tell you, Love, I am attractively unusual and quaint.

I draw the personality of kings and let swords, battles, and blood act as brush and paint,
and this is my raiment and scent.’

Don’t you think the migration of Sandpipers and Godwits between their breeding and wintering grounds is an exemplary attempt to showcase the reach of my scent? Their aerial battle in respect to their seasonal movement to fly away and then settle again reflects me.

They continue to migrate, feed, and battle until their beaks and notes turn them into a sick bugle and a dot in the wide sky.

So adventurous and life-changing am I, right?
 
The Voice of Love:

You cannot hide your irony by using Godwits and Sandpipers as metaphors. Just tell me, how did you learn the art of becoming prairies in the secured space or the entropy in the arrangements?

Why do you become an invisible chute and channel beings to their detriment?

Why do you carry people on your back and turn into a trundling vehicle when approaching crusades?

Why does the terse cackling of swords modify into your atypical amusement?

Why do distressing attributes sometimes justify your savoury operations?

Why did you become a perfect incinerator to turn things to ash, in this case, more apt than cinders?

Why do the thrones you give to the victorious characterize themselves as wads when holding the monarch?

Why do you sit in every scripture behind the bravery of a swerving ambushed group?

The Voice of War:

Oh dear, I am just a wild form of sheenful love—love for people towards monarchs, justice, and rights. I embody an organized system and nurture the brave so they can help those in need. I am not gloomy, but sometimes, my deeper intentions can reflect as a plunge into misery and blood! I act as a chisel when it comes to digging out the humane weeds in the earthly garden and standing against unkind cruelty.

Let's say,
Every strike of the needle through the cloth during embroidery is me.
Every number turned into a code is me.
Every unscathed existence is proof of me.
Every tidbit lying on a plate is the result of me.
Every exsanguination to a dignified end is me.
Every Clurichaun in Irish folklore is me.
Every fact turned into a secret is protected by me.
Every pinch used to burst the balloon of decadence is me, and I suppose every unseen bend that hardens you – ‘Love’, is me.

The Voice of Love:

You need to remind yourselves, War, that even thumbscrews can immerse in my munificent flow, yet I do not claim to eviscerate the unseen within them. Their quality of dissolving into rust in my flow reflects their loyalty to other elements like me. I do not conceal but offer transparency to wager, thereby avoiding the oubliette of knaves.

The Voice of War:

I am really in need of enlistment; which creatures swim in your shimmering, munificent flow? Besides all of it, I am the loveliest devil, seeing my reflection in your flow, and you, in turn, indirectly fuel me with glitter and glow.

I am the evil veil of your 'love,' and you are the benevolent armor of mine. Neither you nor your elements can end me because you are the only reason sufficient to initiate me.

I am the constellation, and you are the stars; thus, you give the final shape to me. The proportion of you can turn an engagement into a nuptial, and my motion in between can turn it into a bad-ended tale.

You see, if we are not mixed well, our proportion is as dangerous as sorcery.

The Voice of Love:

I am realizing that I am the lightest form of war.

The Voice of War:

And I am the hardest form of love.

Arjun looked between the two figures. “I’ve seen the strength of War,” he said slowly, “but it is Love that I fight for. War may give us victories, but Love… Love gives us life.

”War nodded solemnly, acknowledging the truth in Arjun’s words. Love smiled, her glow filling the room.

As the conversation ended, the figures of Love and War slowly dissolved into the air, leaving only the warmth of the fire and the quiet understanding between Arjun and Mira.

Arjun held Mira’s hand a little tighter that night, knowing that while war might continue to rage, it was love that would always bring him home.

PLEASE CHECK YOUR PHOTO

Rishika Rathore

ABOVE SHARED PHOTOGRAPH WILL BE USED IN THE CERTIFICATE AND DONT WORRY IF THE ALLIGNMENT IS NOT CORRECT. IT WILL BE CORRECTED DURING CERTIFICATE DESIGN. 

ALSO THE NAME MENTIONED BELOW THE PHOTOGRAPH WILL BE WRITTEN ON CERTIFICATE. 

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