Category Archives: Asia

Adam Bobrow, the Voice of Table Tennis

Adam Bobrow, the Voice of Table Tennis*

By Viraj Ajgaonkar, age 12, grade 8, Mumbai, India.

Adam Bobrow sketch by Viraj Ajgaonkar.

I am an emerging professional table tennis player, and I do my best to actively compete at Mumbai’s city level table tennis tournaments. There are multiple players whom I greatly adore and I always try to imbibe their techniques that help me to improve my game.

But there’s this guy who is quite unique, and he has created a meritorious place for himself as an official table tennis commentator in the UTT and WTT tournaments. When he was a professional player, he was popular for his signature snake serves and hitting the ball across the table.

Yes, you guessed it right. He is our very own the “Voice of table tennis,” Mr. Adam Bobrow!

He is also a successful YouTuber wherein he battles out professional players—from China’s Ma Long and Fan Zhendong to France’s Lebrun brothers or Brazil’s Hugo Calderano, right up to India’s Sharath Kamal or even USA’s Kanak Zha.

His humorous style of talking in his typical American accent, his colourful t-shirts and shorts, and his strong command over the language makes him very unique. He is truly fun-loving and seems to enjoy traveling to diverse places. For a recent Doha tournament, he traveled light—with just one backpack!

He has had played a pivotal role in spreading the passion for table tennis (ping pong) by challenging even the enthusiastic non-players of various age groups across the world through the solid platform of PingPod.

You will notice that he is a keen observer when you see him play against professional players in the challenge games. He tries to study their strengths and other technical aspects of backhand/ forehand strokes, chop, block, etc. He then effectively blends it especially in his English commentary. He often gives nicknames to many players—like Xuperman to Xu Xin or The Golden Girl to Manika Batra.

I’d like to take an opportunity through this article to invite you, Mr. Bobrow, to our city of Mumbai at Shivaji Park Gymkhana and Park Club. Mr. Bobrow, do come and challenge me and my other senior buddies, and let’s have a blast over here to create some unforgettable moments!                     

         By Viraj Ajgaonkar, Age 12, Grade 8, Bombay Scottish School, Mumbai, India.

* Table Tennis is known as Ping Pong in many countries of the world.

Battle on the Board

Battle on the Board

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, Karnataka, India.

Why did the ancient kings of India even bother to invent a game like chess? I mean, take Babur*, Akbar, or any other king for that matter; they seem to have spent their whole life in mortal combat, so why also have a war on the board? If I were one of those ancient rulers, I would have banned chess in my kingdom. As chess was a game from ancient Indian history, everyone here in India seems to play the game. Everyone just wants to be the next world champion, unlike me, who is forced to play the game so I can follow my real dreams.

But then, why was I sitting at a chessboard waiting for the Karnataka Chess Championship to start? And, why was Karnataka State Champion Sindhuri Patil sitting exactly opposite to me?

Yes, my dear reader, I, Elaine Elizabeth Jinto (with No FIDE** Rating), was about to play with one of the greatest chess players of India. Now you will be like, “Whoa, hang on, wasn’t she saying that chess was a useless game ten seconds ago?” Yes, I was saying that, but I need a FIDE rating to get into ISRO’s space camp. I was on the Top Board, the spot coveted by all chess players. But I didn’t want to be there. It was just because of FIDE’s weird pairing mechanisms. The game was available live on Lichess.org, and as I looked around, I saw the spectators sitting outside the tournament hall, everyone looking at their cellphones. I felt even more nervous, so I took a deep breath and imagined myself at the Space Camp. That did not help me, though. It made me more desperate to play well!

I wondered what the spectators were thinking. Were they hoping for an interesting match worth watching? Or were they judging the little girl sitting opposite the champion, nervously twiddling the pieces around? Or were they sympathizing with the girl who had to play a very tough match for no particular reason?

As we waited for the match to start, I took a good look at my opponent. With the T-shirt she wore when she last represented India, hair in a thick, tight braid, glasses, a nose ring, and a very, very serious, slightly mocking expression on her face, she was the scariest opponent I had ever played. Or maybe it was the difference between our FIDE ratings that scared me. Or both. I don’t know.

So, there I was, sitting in the tournament hall, about to play for the first time with a digital board and clock. An A/C and a reclining chair were provided for my comfort. But far from being comfortable, I was shaking nervously and was already thinking of ways to resign without appearing too cowardly. I kept pressing the buttons on the timer absentmindedly until Sindhuri told me to stop changing the time controls!

The bell sounded, and the match started. Sindhuri made the first move, and I could taste the aggression in the air. Playing safe, I opted for a defensive move. I mean, a move that wouldn’t lead to an immediate loss. She glared at me, and her pieces charged towards mine. Within seconds, the enemy had broken through the castle walls and annexed the treasury. With two men dead on the field, I was forced to retreat. Sindhuri ordered more pieces out, and in that calm bit (the only calm bit in the whole war—too bad it was short-lived), I attempted to reconstruct the castle walls. This resulted in the sad death of my beloved elephant and knight; may God bless their souls.

I felt dozens of eyes on me as piece after piece was either captured or trapped where I couldn’t use it. I took a deep breath and tried to tell myself that the gleaming gold cup, displayed on the stage, wasn’t my ultimate goal. It didn’t work, though. As I chewed my lip, trying to think of at least one move that would prevent the impending destruction, I realized that even though I found chess boring, I wanted to win. Losing was bad. And even though I pretended not to care, I did. My thoughts raced: Should I just save the knight? Should I castle to stop getting checkmated? Or could I just resign? Losing track of everything, I tried to save my last man on the field, and the king was trapped. “Checkmate,” Sindhuri yelled triumphantly.

The bell sounded, and the match ended. So, there you are, my dear reader, a brief description of the destruction of my poor kingdom and the victory of a WFM against an ordinary fourteen-year-old. I left the tournament hall clutching my score sheet with tears in my eyes, feeling that chess was more useless than ever. Anyway, before I leave to sob in peace, I must answer my question in the beginning. The answer came to me as I took one last look at my destroyed kingdom. The ancient kings likely wanted to practice their battle strategy.

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, Karnataka, India. She has been published in Skipping Stones multiple times.

Editor’s Note:
* Babur is known as the founder of the Mughal Empire in India. Akbar was the third in line of Mughal emperors (who died in Oct. 1605 CE) and his son, Jahangir, followed as the next emperor.
**
FIDE stands for Fédération Internationale des Échecs (in the French language) meaning the International Chess Federation.
NPR (National Public Radio, USA) reported on June 08, 2025 that the game of chess is very popular in India; and that there are even online chess schools to train serious chess players in the country. Currently, there are 85 Chess Grandmasters in India. In 2024, at the World Chess Championship in Singapore, 18-year-old Gukesh Dommaraju, from Tamil Nadu, India became the youngest-ever world champion.

The Girl who Saved the American Pilot

The Girl who Saved the American Pilot

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York.

 

On February 11, 1941, Ah Ying watched a parachute float down from the sky. It draped the roof and the side of a small building in their village of Shatin, in the outskirts of Hong Kong.

The adults of the village were frightened and ran off. Ah Ying was nervous too, but she was more curious than frightened. She walked closer and saw a White pilot. She was relieved the pilot was not a Japanese. The Japanese had occupied Hong Kong and she was used to seeing them strutting around, sometimes on horseback.

His leg was hurt. He was limping. Could she trust him?

The pilot showed a Chinese flag sewn on the inside of his jacket. Ah Ying breathed a sigh of relief.

It was all right. He was not an enemy. He was working with the Chinese against the Japanese invaders. She must hide him from the Japanese soldiers.

Ah Ying led the pilot from the village to the cow pastures on a small path. As they climbed the steep path, he could hardly follow her with his hurt leg and a burned arm. They went up a steep path, Ah Ying pulling him by the good right hand.

There was no way of avoiding a Japanese sentry post below. They hurried as fast as they could. But the Japanese spotted them.

Crack! Wheeeee! Crack! Two Japanese soldiers fired shots and others were running toward them. They raced up a hill and down the other side. The pilot could not follow fast enough and Ah Ying lost sight of him. The Japanese soldiers were quite a distance away when she reached the top of a hill and raced down the other side. She looked back once and saw the pilot half hidden by a boulder surrounded by scrawny weeds.

For the next few hours, until the sun set, Ah Ying dared not look for the pilot. The Japanese soldiers were still searching for him on the hillside. She had to help him somehow. Her parents were against her going back to help.

“The Japanese is our enemy, not the pilot. If he’s caught, the Japanese will treat him cruelly,” she said to her parents, who knew too well the cruelty of the soldiers.  

As Ah Ying searched the hillside, she sang a folk song to let the pilot know she was looking for him. He emerged from behind the boulder. She led him through bushes and grass to a tall shrubbery on another hillside. She pulled the shrubbery aside and shoved the pilot down a foot or two onto a straw floor in a hole about eight feet in diameter.

Ah Ying turned on a flashlight. The hole was underground. It must have been used as an oven for burning charcoal. The past fire had baked the walls into hardness and sealed off dampness. She pounded two nails into the rock at the entrance and hung a blanket to block the light from inside the cave.

The next morning, Ah Ying brought food. It was plain rice with pickled cabbage. She watched him scoop them into his mouth hungrily with the chopsticks.
 The pilot wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand and pointed to his chest to introduced himself, “Donald Kerr.”

Ah Ying introduced herself he same way. She motioned with her palm that he should stay there and left.

It was too dangerous to visit the pilot in daytime. The next night, Ah Ying brought hard boiled eggs, boiled sweet potatoes, and a thermos of hot water. She pointed toward the outside and brought in an old man dressed in dark clothes and western hat.

Peering at the pilot through thick glasses, the old man said, “Good morning, sir. I am happy to know you. I am Y.T.”

“My name is Donald Kerr. I’m glad we can talk in English”

The children did not understand what the two men discussed in English. When the discussion was over, Ah Ying left with Y.T.

During the three days that Kerr hid in the cave, Ah Ying supplied him with food. On the fourth day, she brought along a young Chinese woman.

“Friend, friend,” the woman whispered, while removing the bushes and crawled in.

“My name is Miss Li,” she said. “I speak some English. Someone will come for you in a few days.”

She left with Ah Ying.      

Several nights later, Y.T., the woman, and Ah Ying arrived with more food.

“Eat fast. We go to another place,” he said.

They hiked in silence up a long slope. At the top of the hill, water shimmered in the distance.

“Now you go with Ah Ying,” Y.T. said and disappeared with Miss Li into the darkness.

They walked and walked, up and down hills, on large paths and tiny trails. It was rough going. There were rocky patches and narrow gullies.

At the bottom of a hill was a town with dim lights. Ah Ying left him on the hill to sleep among the weeds, with his rolled-up coat for a pillow.

The weather was sunny the next day. After dark, Ah Ying came back to the waiting pilot with a note in English, “I bring you home now.”

They traveled silently into another valley and reached a long Chinese house. A wooden door opened a little to let them in. A room was full of people, young and old men and Miss Li.

“Who are all these people?’ Kerr asked.

“Guerillas,” Miss Li said. “We’ll keep you safe. The Japanese are only a few miles away. Sleep here until we are ready to leave.”      

Around midnight, Miss Li woke the pilot sleeping on a bamboo bed. “We take you to China by boat.”

Miss Li and Ah Ying shook hands with the pilot.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Kerr said.

The pilot was taken to his base in Guilin, China. Back home in Shatin, Ah Ying never forgot the pilot and her courageous story became proud lore of her family.  

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

Christiano Ronaldo, the Great Soccer Player

About the Pixel Sketch of Christiano Ronaldo

Football (called soccer, in America) is one of my favorite sports; I am very passionate about it. I play soccer with my school buddies during our school break time, although I don’t play it on a professional basis.

All football players have their own unique styles and techniques of playing. Amongst them, Christiano Ronaldo, popularly known as CR7, is a legendary player from Lisbon, Portugal who started his career with FC Sporting, then MUN and many others. At present he’s with Al Nassr.

He is an iconic figure to me, especially when it comes to his bicycle kick, his headers, and his remarkable vertical leap which I think nobody has surpassed. He has come a long way from being a poverty-stricken boy to the most successful and elegant player in the football history.

I adore him mostly for his sheer faith in his physique and fitness (which is outstanding), and the respect that he gives to his fellow players. Yes, he doesn’t even promote commercials of carbonated drinks; he says they are harmful for health!

The deep affection that he has for his mother is clearly seen when he said that his mother is his refuge, and that he’ll take care of her until his last breath! I remember one occasion when he failed to convert a penalty into a goal but later succeeded in making a goal for his team in the same Euro Cup match. He apologized to his fans and his mom, and later, he silenced the crowd that was supporting his opponent team through his gesture (a finger over his mouth).

More than anything, his signature style of ‘Suiiiiiiiiiiiiii……..’ will always be remembered by all football fans like me. He is indeed a true inspiration for all youngsters. He has repeatedly excelled with his dedication, hard work and mental toughness.

So Mr. CR7, wherever you are, this is a form of respect that I would like to pay you through my very first attempt of drawing a pixel sketch of yours on a graph paper! (Do look at it from different angles to get the best glimpse).

By Viraj Ajgaonkar, Grade 7, Bombay Scottish School, Mumbai, India.

American Born Taiwanese

American Born Taiwanese

By Alyssa Huang, age 15, freshman, California

I have two identities, as reflected in my name. My first name originates from the West and contains Greek, English, and Irish roots. It means “rational thinker” and “prospering flower.” By contrast, my last name comes from the Far East. It means “yellow” in Mandarin—an imperial color that symbolizes beauty and balance. When pronounced in Mandarin, my last name flows off the tongue, like a gentle breeze blowing over green meadows in warm sunlight. However, in America, its symbolism and beauty become completely lost. The Phonetic English pronunciation of my last name, “Hawaaaang”, steam rolls over its naturally melodious tone and sounds like a rusty bell, jarring and dissonant.

Crunch. Textured rocks smash across the Earth’s pavement. Every second graders’ hands enthusiastically create “skin colored paints” from chocolate brown and cream-colored rocks. All but mine. I squint and scrutinize the creek bed, searching desperately for tan-yellow rocks that match my skin color. None exist, so I settle on a cocoa-colored rock and forcefully grind it into paint to fulfill the mandatory assignment: a self portrait made using “rock paint.” Later that afternoon, classmates bustle around the classroom taping up their masterpieces. I find myself encircled by a perfectly-matching array of smiling, white-faced portraits. After struggling to find a space on the wall, I hide my solemn-faced, dark-skinned image in the corner. That summer, I avoid the sun, duck behind shadows, and slather on thick white sunscreen to protect my delicate, thin skin. But my complexion remains yellow and tanned. Nothing changes.

For two years, I coexist with my school classmates as a foreigner. When fourth grade finally ends, I feel relieved and ready for my anticipated summer vacation— visiting my grandparents in Washington DC. “Nai Nai!” I shout as I run into Grandma’s warm, outstretched arms. As she envelopes me in her unconditional love, a calm peace washes over my small frame. I tilt my head back to admire Nai Nai’s dark brown, almond-shaped eyes. They appear kind and gentle, strong and wise. I notice my own reflection in her eyes, sigh deeply, and entwine my fingers with Nai Nai’s, creating a seamless blend of golden-brown. Later that day, Nai Nai ushers me to visit her friends. “Let me introduce you to my Garden Group,” she says. We approach an elderly circle of Taiwanese ladies who peer at me curiously and ask, “Ni shi shei?” (Who are you?)  Nai Nai responds, “Wo de sun nu.” (My granddaughter). I survey the wise elders, who share my ancestry and heritage, and feel emboldened. Having spent the year learning Mandarin as my World Language, I prepare to show off. ”Knee howe, woe jiow Huwang Leeshawn,” I enunciate slowly, trying to capture the correct tones. The women’s happy, squinting eyes grow big and round. “Ta bu jiang guo yu?” (She doesn’t speak Mandarin?), Nai Nai rescues me and responds in fluent Mandarin, “Ta shi mei guo shen de.” (She is American-born). The women nod politely, but look away to conceal their disappointment. To them, I am an American foreigner. Not Taiwanese enough.

In the fall of sixth grade, Social Emotional Learning class begins to address the previously taboo topics of race and ethnicity. At my table, two Minority students describe hateful words and years of feeling like outcasts. I empathize with their pain and begin sharing my own story, but they cut me off. “You don’t know anything about racism!” they exclaim. A statement, not a question. “You’re Asian, so you’ve never experienced discrimination in your life!” My jaw drops, but no words emerge. I feel so paralyzed that I cannot muster a response. “Asian racism doesn’t exist,” they announce, then walk away, leaving me isolated yet again. Later that afternoon, I greet a new Asian classmate before entering my advisory. She complains about her “Asian Tiger Mother’s tough expectations.” “My mom can be tough, too,” I comment, trying to empathize. The Asian classmate suddenly steps away from me. “What do you mean? You’re not….” she hesitates before pursing her lips. “I’m not what?” I ask. “Well,” she stammers, “You’re not really…. Never mind, you don’t get it.” We stand side-by-side in awkward silence. My classmate never completes her sentence aloud, but her facial expression is clairvoyant, for I have encountered this scenario before. My classmate speaks Mandarin at home, whereas I speak English. In her eyes, I am a fake Asian, or a “Twinkie”—someone who is yellow (Asian) on the outside but intrinsically white (American) on the inside. I pull my hoodie over my head and walk towards the carpool circle.

Eighth grade ends, and summer finally arrives. For the first time since COVID, I attend summer camp—a week-long Taiwanese cultural camp called Taiwanese American Next Generation (TANG). While unpacking my clothes in my dormitory room, I hear a hollow knock at the wooden entryway. The door swings open, and my assigned roommate steps into our shared space. My eyes widen because it feels like I am staring at a mirror. Like me, she dons an NBA athletic T-shirt and Nike basketball sliders ; a crooked ponytail keeps her long, black hair away from her sun-tanned face. “I’m Audrey,” she announces, then offers me a fist pump. For the next half an hour, my New Jersey-born “ABC” roommate and I speak in excited tones, sharing stories about our families as we walk towards the camp’s opening ceremony. Once at the auditorium, a speaker begins addressing all two hundred campers in Mandarin. I glance sideways at Audrey and notice her head tilt in a confused manner. Creased lines appear on both our golden-skinned foreheads. “Do you understand this?” she giggles, “Because I don’t!”

Immediately, I smile. “Me neither,” I reply.

—Alyssa Huang, age 15, freshman, California. She adds: “My name is Alyssa… I am a Taiwanese-American.

“California is typically thought of as a melting pot of cultures, but I grew up in an overwhelming homogeneous Caucasian neighborhood. When asked about my nationality, well-meaning neighbors have shockingly confused Taiwan with Thailand, or insisted that Taiwan is the same thing as China (The People’s Republic of China). (But, it’s not). 

“As a child, I felt embarrassed about my ethnicity and dark colored skin. It was a huge relief to me when middle school arrived, and new Asian students enrolled in my sixth grade classroom. However, those new students were fluent in Mandarin, and I found myself being teased for choosing to take Mandarin as my “foreign language.” 

“The first time I ever felt truly accepted was at Taiwanese American Next Generation (TANG). TANG is a week-long, multi-generational, Taiwanese cultural camp that I attend with my brother, cousins, parents, and grandparents. We engage in fun Taiwanese games, listen to Taiwanese speakers like Arthur Chu (an eleven-time Jeopardy! winner), and learn about Taiwanese culture. At TANG, we share an appreciation for Taiwanese food and also a deep value of family, relationships, and community. TANG openly welcomes non-Taiwanese (my co-campers include Indian, Haitian, European, and Korean-Americans). I love that Taiwanese culture is warm, welcoming, and inclusive.

“Nowadays, I confidently bring Taiwanese pineapple cakes to social events and gladly compare cultures with my European, Latino, Indian, and Persian friends. I recognize that building an inclusive community requires honesty, insight, and sharing. It’s important for me to listen to my peers, but also contribute my part. I’m finally able to share about myself and my background—because I’m finally proud of my Taiwanese-American heritage.”

The Birth of the First Human

The Birth of the First Human

By Diponkar Chanda, originally from Bangladesh, Canada.

“While the story is not based on any specific folktale or myth from Bangladesh, it is inspired by the cultural storytelling style I grew up with—where themes of transformation, nature, and divine connection are often present. It is an original piece, drawn from imagination and shaped by a sense of spiritual curiosity.”

Long, long ago, trees of every kind embraced the soil, animals wandered freely through the wild, countless birds flew across the sky, and endless varieties of fish swam in the oceans. Insects crawled, flies glided—everything was alive and moving.
But one thing was missing.
There were no humans—nowhere in the world.

Yet, there were shadows. Shadows of many shapes, colors, and sizes. Small ones, tall ones, and those in between. They came in uncountable forms—silent, formless, and dreamless. Though they moved, they had no desires. Though they existed, they felt nothing.

But among them was one curious shadow.
He longed for more.

One day, he rose into the sky and reached the gates of heaven. There, he stood before God.
“What is it you seek?” God asked.
“I want to feel the world,” the shadow replied. “I want to be alive.”

God raised a glowing hand.

“I want to see,” said the shadow.
So God gave him eyes.

“I want to hear.”
God gave him ears.

“I want to taste.”
God gave him a tongue.

“I want to smell.”
God gave him a nose.

“I want to touch.”
And so God gave him skin—and with it, arms and legs—so he could walk and hold, run and rest.

In that moment, the shadow became the first human—alive with five senses and the gift of wonder.

With this miraculous transformation, the Earth itself stirred with change.
From that first human, more humans came—walking in sunlight and dreaming under moonlight.
And the world was never the same again.

—Diponkar Chanda is an emerging writer based in Toronto, Canada. Originally from Bangladesh, he writes stories and poetry that bridge cultures, languages, and imagination. English is not his first language, and he brings the rhythm and depth of his native Bengali into his storytelling. This is his first submission to a North American children’s publication.

Climate Concert

Climate Concert

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, Bengaluru, India.

we had had a scorching summer
and every AC in the house-
hold was on all the time
but it wasn’t hard for us
like it was for the farmers
who longed for rain, for crops
that he had sowed in summer.
at last it was, finally, June
and we gathered on the balcony
hoping to see nature’s finest performance
raindrop musicians, thunder-clapping audience
spotlighted by lightning, the aroma rising
from the loamy soil of Earth.

My little brother was most eager
to see rain falling, to do
what the rest of us have done
to race through the puddles, to
make paper boats and sail them
to run barefoot in the water, that
icy tingle shocking his little legs
to taste those cool, clean drops
and to drink steaming hot chai*
and to eat bhajia** at the end
but it did not rain, like
it was supposed to, and he
grew despondent, sad, waiting for rain
each day, his eyes searching for
those welcome clouds, to bring rain
to this parched, peppery, dry earth.

And finally, it did, though not
at the time dictated by nature
and we did not let him go out
he asked us why, and we
told him about climate change and
fossil fuel, pollution and everything else
that was happening these days to
Nature, and he grew angry, and
blamed the older generation, for
being greedy, plundering loot from nature
leave behind nothing for his generation
and asked us what stories he
would tell his grandchildren. Of technology?

*Chai is Indian spiced tea, made especially by boiling the tea leaves with milk, sugar, and cardamom, etc.
**bhajia is a type of fritter originating in the Indian subcontinent. It is made from spicy hot vegetables, commonly onion, and has several variants.
We often enjoy these during the monsoons.

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, grade 9, Bengaluru, India. She adds: “I am originally from the State of Kerala, but I was born and raised in Bengaluru, Karnataka. I can speak Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, and Kannada, along with English. I started writing in 3rd grade, beginning with a poem about a playground. I serve as the Editor-in-chief of our school magazine. I understand the impact writing has when it comes to spreading the right messages.
“I love writing and reading about everyday things that I can relate to. I generally do not follow a strict form in my poems, because I get more room for creativity… Through my poems and prose, I like to give voices to those silent and mundane events that play a huge role in our everyday lives.”

Nimbu Pani, Homemade Lemonade

Nimbu Pani, A Cupful of Summer

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India.

How to make a cupful of summer
Recipe for Nimbu Pani—homemade lemonade

Step 1
Sunshine squeeze
Get two lovely lemons, the
cheery colour of sunshine
and of everyday joy, and
squeeze the lovely tang
into your cupful of summer.

Step 2
Sweet memories
Summer won’t be summer
without galore memories made.
Add plenty of sugar crystals, so
each sweet moment may last forever,
preserved in your cupful of summer

Step 3
Sun’s hot!
The days are rather long now
with scorching, afternoons
to rival the sun’s hot temper
add a smidgen of spice, salt, and mint
make your cupful of summer exciting

Step 4
Serve summer
Pour water in, and stir well, let everything
blend in well together, remember without it
your summer will be plain water
days dripping like water drops, monotonously
but now you have (nimbu pani), a cupful of summer

Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India. She adds: “I am originally from the Indian state of Kerala, but I was born and raised in Bengaluru, Karnataka, and I am going to 9th grade next year. I can speak Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, and Kannada, along with English. I started writing in 3rd grade, beginning with a poem about a playground… My poems are forthcoming in StoneSoup magazine, and I was a blogger and website committee member there. Additionally, I have received a few honorable mentions for my pieces. I was the editor in charge of the school magazine last year, and I have won prizes at the GetLit Poetry Fest and Spin a Yarn contest.

“Nimbu Pani—A Cupful of Summer” is about homemade lemonade, a beverage everyone enjoys during hot Indian summers. Hot summer afternoons are spent lazing on the balcony, sipping lemonade, and reading books. Nimbu pani is made with spices, salt, sugar, and mint.

“I love writing and reading about everyday things that I can relate to. I generally do not follow a strict form in my poems, because I get more room for creativity… Through my poems and prose, I like to give voices to those silent and mundane events that play a huge role in our everyday lives… I understand the impact writing has when it comes to spreading the right messages.”

Editor’s Note:
In India, English words are generally written using British spellings; colour rather than color (as used in America), for example.
In Hindi language, nimbu is lemon and pani is water
.

Holi: Chaotic Colours

Holi: Chaotic Colours*

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India.

the scorching sun, burns out
all the bitter feelings as we
gather at the small maidan,**
at the end of our
busy street, a maidan which
is dusty, dirty, dry just
like how we feel after,
the chaotic year we had

the oldest clothes in each
household are donned today by
all, showcasing the chaotic year
that has just gone by

then we drench each other
with fresh water, washing away
all the pain, worries, grief
and sorrow, that has stuck
to us like the burrs
In the grass in our
little maidan, washing away the
last, chaotic year we had

then we grin, feeling much
better and get our Holi,
powdered colors and throw it
at each other and after
we are done with our
simple game, our clothes are
a riot of colour, and we
Are ready for the chaotic
year we will be having.

Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India. She adds: “I am originally from the Indian state of Kerala, but I was born and raised in Bengaluru, Karnataka, and I am going to 9th grade next year. I can speak Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, and Kannada, along with English. I started writing in 3rd grade, beginning with a poem about a playground… I serve as the Editor-in-chief of our school magazine… I understand the impact writing has when it comes to spreading the right messages.

“…my poem is about the Holi festival in India. It is one of my favorite festivals, and it is a time when friends and foes enjoy splashing color and water on each other. It is a time of joy and new beginnings. I love playing Holi with my friends and family and eating pani puri at the end of the day. The poem is 29 lines long and has a challenging restraint. Each line has exactly 5 words.

“I love writing and reading about everyday things that I can relate to. I generally do not follow a strict form in my poems, because I get more room for creativity… Through my poems and prose, I like to give voices to those silent and mundane events that play a huge role in our everyday lives… I am so happy I am getting a chance to share them with the rest of the world.”

Editor’s Notes:
The festival of Holi celebrates the triumph of good over evil and it marks the arrival of spring and the end of winter in India. This year, it was celebrated on March 12th and 13th.
* In India, English words are generally written using British spellings; colour in place of color (in America), for example.
** Maidan: an open space in a city or neighborhood, usually it’s a bare or grassy ground, and it is used for sports, games or large gatherings.

A Simple Act of Kindness

A Simple Act of Kindness

By Maya and Arjun Govindaraj, both aged 17, Chennai, India.

 

Our dad grew up in Chennai, India. He has always told us stories about how he struggled to reach great heights. When we were leaving the children’s home after serving dinner, we will never forget the way he looked at those kids with tears in his eyes and said in Tamil, the local language, “Study hard and you can be very successful someday.”

India is the second most populated country in the world with some 158 million children below the age of six. There are 30 million orphaned and abandoned children and according to figures published by SERUDS*, and the numbers have increased since 2020. Majority of these children are girls because they are considered a ‘burden’ in their communities. Less than 1% of the abandoned children are in childcare institutions, 91% of which are run by non-government organizations. Many end up living on the streets, begging for food, or are forced into child labor.

Our interest in community service started in Pre-K when we packed shoe boxes during Christmas, to send to kids in developing countries. Our parents always encouraged us to help people in need and took us to volunteer during school holidays. We moved to Chennai from Houston, Texas in January 2023 so my mom could care for her elderly parents, and during our time here, we have witnessed firsthand the harsh realities of poverty.

Our school involves us in many service activities that teach us about environmental and social issues and the value of collaboration, social awareness, respect, and empathy. We were able to interact with our host community through the Discovery Program and volunteer through the Seva (service) Program. Although we come from different backgrounds, teaching the local underprivileged children, and playing with them after school we developed a bond with them and realized how happy they were to spend time with us. All children need is unconditional love, opportunities to play and learn, and a sense of belonging.

Seeing the amount of poverty that’s around us, and learning about the challenges these kids face in accessing a healthy meal and a good education inspired us to do something to show them that we do care. So, we bought backpacks, filled them with school supplies and gave them to 20 orphaned children along with evening snacks. We also served dinner to 60 children in a children’s home.

What we did were simple acts of kindness, but like Mother Teresa (the famous Nobel Peace Prize winning nun who lived and worked in and around Kolkata, India) had said, “We know only too well that what we are doing is nothing more than a drop in the ocean. But if the drop were not there, the ocean would be missing something.” To see the kids living alone without the love of parents and companionship of siblings is heartbreaking. Spending time with them we came to realize the privileges we take for granted and how fortunate we are to have a loving and caring family that meets all our needs.

The joy reflected in their eyes on receiving a simple backpack and the smile on seeing a small cup of ice cream made our hearts swell with pride, and although they have nothing, they were kind enough to offer us in return the power of their collective prayers as thanks.

We will be heading back to Houston, Texas soon, but what we have learned and experienced in the past two years in Chennai, will forever be etched in our minds, and we hope to continue to visit these children and share with them what we can.

As tech savvy Gen Z’s, it is our duty to use the power of social media to tell the stories of these children and to initiate global dialogues around the issues they face so we can find them the resources to face challenges and bounce back from adversity to fulfill their dreams of a better tomorrow.

* https://serudsindia.org/orphans-the-forgotten-children-of-india/ (From Sai Educational Rural & Urban Development Society, SERUDS) https://serudsindia.org 

—Maya and Arjun Govindaraj are Indian American siblings, both aged 17, and from Texas. They are currently studying at the American International School in Chennai, Tamil Nadu in South India.