FJ journals - The Student Blog of FJMU

With the warmth of the winter sun The serenity of a snowy morning  The scent of the spring blossoms  The appeal of the autumn chinars Yes! You feel like home. By Mehak Altaf Wani  Class of 2018

Lost in my thoughts, I was combing my hair. When I finished combing my hair, I needed a ribbon to tie my hair up. But I couldn’t find it anywhere. I was searching for it on my bed, table and everywhere else, except for the drawer of my cupboard where it was supposed to be, because I usually put my accessories in there. When I found it in the drawer, a beautiful thought flashed across my mind, “Just as I was searching for my ribbon in wrong places, we are finding Peace of Heart in all the wrong places. We find it in being superior to others, helluva lot of money and other materialistic things, when its right place has already been told by Allah. Allah says, “Only in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find peace”. Then, why are we dropping the ball knowingly? Hira Akhtar  2nd Year

Seeing the shadows of puppets walk and sit, laugh and sob, jump and dance over sweet melodies in the background was indeed a show worthy of watching. And when I came to know that it was being run by a single woman, I couldn’t help but to go and praise her efforts. “Quite an amazing talent you got there, Mrs. Williams!” I exclaimed with admiration. “Thank you, Constable! I learnt it from my husband,” she said. “Where is he? He must be a brilliant mind in town. I’d love to meet such a person!” “He indeed was brilliant. He died a year ago,” she sighed, her eyes suddenly becoming wet. “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is this boy his son?” I asked, pointing at a young boy, too absorbed in thoughts to notice at a stranger around him. “Oh Yes. Come Carlos! Greet the constable!” The young boy looked at me, his eyes empty and expressionless, turned his back and went into the house. The woman, ashamed at her son's behavior, apologized in a sad tone, "he was all right a year ago, before

     

(Inspired by a true event) Imagine having nothing but a mirror- a mirror in which you see all the rays of happiness, a probable end to your pain. Then imagine- it gets tarnished and broken... Momin mashed his father's silvery hair, playing with and loving him as he fell asleep tiringly on his shoulders. Shakir held him tightly. He kissed the parched lips of his son. Once they used to be rosy. He caressed his bald head and inflamed eyes, warming his cheeks with blood-coloured tears. It can happen. When your only child gets to suffer from a cancer malady, the pain speaks through your face. But there is something more painful than having a dying child- The inability to at least save him from dying... Where would he be getting the money from? To treat his only son- where even the two times meal is a question. Seeing his starved wife Nooran blowing through the clay stove, he had asked himself. He never complained of his miseries. He always thanked and hoped for the good lif

They say it feels cold when surrounded by the spirits of those who have passed away Gone and maybe forgotten A warning was given to her Before she walked through those doors Queasy and unsettling it will be at first sight But it will get better with the passage of time, of course And true to those words Rising from the pit of her stomach was the feeling of dread As she approached the dissection table With her hair tied up and scalpel in hand For a second, she disassociated herself from the chatter in the background Placing the scalpel down on the table, she tilted her head to the right Subconsciously staring at the face Of the body that lay as still as any inanimate object on a table Absorbing in every detail about his face The faint creases around his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead and his graying mustache She began to question his existence And with every fleeting second, her mind was plagued with queries Who is – or was this man?  

Standing alone on the face of Earth, Though failing in its desperate search, The suffering humanity on the globe We seriously need the Shelter of Hope The bleeding harmony and the wounded peace Departing happiness and love's breeze Tyranny shoving them off the slope All these need the shelter of hope The hope of an egalitarian society The hope of not being stabbed by the mighty A hope to have a shinning future And live to be a ravishing venture Approach it like an antelope Or trod along the thread of hope But reach early to the hope's stop As WE need the shelter of hope - Momina Nasir (Class of 2020)

It was my orientation day. I had a mixture of excitement and hesitation for university life. Our seniors took all of us through the different floors of FJ. When we were about to pass through marbles of DH, they asked to recite some kalimas. They scared us by saying, "Ssshhh koi hai". We were very excited, especially me, as I had heard many things about the first entry in DH. We had heard that on the first day in DH, many students became unconscious with fear. When I first stepped in, a wave of fear passed through my backbone too. I felt a chill- Maybe it was coldness that I had perceived at the low temperature or maybe, as they said, it was due to some special power of ghosts that I had heard about. Many students took selfies with the cadaver and l felt very pathetic about this act. I also took one picture, not with the dead body but in DH, to feel like a doctor. Then a day came when we had to practise OSPE, with all of us snatching different parts of the body. When we we

That man, old, effeminate with wizened skin, shrivelled enough, with his cane as his succour, tottering to cross the road got hit by my car. This almost skipped a beat in my heart and then a bang on my car window and I regained my senses! I came out of my car and found him, fully daubed in blood, eyes half closed, mumbling something unclear. He was immediately transported to the hospital. Those ambulance sirens, beeping machines, his highly audible respiratory sounds and his blood on my hands. . . continuously punched my soul asking myself: What did I do! But, the matter of perturbation was his identity. He had no identifying credentials or address with him except a single unusual tag tied to his left arm. Who was he? Where did he live? Doctors kept on saying, "The patient is critical. Call his family." Even the police were left clueless. His deteriorating condition and his constant murmur of "Don't do anything to me, unless he comes" made us more worrie

We had the stage of upper limb two days ago and everyone knows that nobody is in the mood to study the new region just two days after a stage. Studies get postponed until the doomsday of substage arrives. So, being perfectly obedient students, we entered the dissection hall and pretended to examine the specimen of lower limb lying in front us, demanding our attention. I really tried hard to focus on what my intelligent friend was telling about the iliac tract but my attention was further disturbed by the ring of my phone, signalling a free WiFi network there. The forever loving and reliable Punjab WiFi appeared on the open WiFi network list and I clicked it to connect without even having a thought that the iliac tract might do me any good in the future. What's better than a free WiFi network when you have seven songs and a movie to download? And so, I engaged myself with my phone. Just then, our beloved B.R appeared with the most charming message ever, "Dr. Aamra is asking all

Today I was busy; sorry for not giving you time. I know you wait for me; search for my words to be uttered and thoughts to be expressed and the shelter of hope keeps you awake that I will come and talk to you. It's not my presence which is with you. It's the sensation that is with you. "Manzir! Hey you idiot! Your letter is there."  Holding the letter with shivering hands, hope glittered in his eyes. He was dancing with ecstasy. His inmate were glaring at him, jealous of his treasure. But Manzir wasn't bothered. He was happy with the little ray of hope. Kissing the letter as it was sacred and worthy to be bowed down to. With dribbling saliva and shaking body he was the king in his own. Another letter with another day revealing the mysteries on him, we all are human beings, we all make some sort of icon and then worship it with all love and respect. Some people have these idols in the form of other human beings, some make money as their sculptu