An Article, "Health Is More Important Than Wealth", by Arundhati Udhari. 

Health Is More Important Than Wealth.

I have always heard people saying, “Health is more important than wealth.” I believed those words, but I never truly understood their meaning.

I understood them only after seeing people close to me struggle with serious health problems and losing people I loved.

I am writing this article to share what I have learned from these experiences. I do not want anyone to go through the struggles my family has faced—not even someone I consider my enemy.

I lost my brother who suffered from hydrocephalus. I also saw another brother fight systemic lupus. These experiences taught me that health is something we often take for granted until it is suddenly taken away from us.

Recently, my mama's son (my  maternal cousin) developed a fever. None of us could have imagined that something that seemed so ordinary would turn into such a painful experience. During his treatment, my family faced situations that left us deeply disturbed and with many questions about the care and decisions made during his treatment.

We could not bring him back home alive.

For my mama and mami, it was an unimaginable loss. They went to the hospital with hope, believing they would return home with their son. Instead, they had to face a loss that no parent should ever have to experience.

That experience taught me an important lesson:

In matters of health, we must be alert and informed.

We should respect doctors and trust medical professionals, but we should also have the courage to ask questions.

What is happening?

Why is this test needed?

What treatment is being given?

What are the risks?

What does the medical report say?

If we do not understand something, we should ask again. If the situation requires it, we should not hesitate to seek a second medical opinion.

Being informed does not mean disrespecting doctors. It means being responsible for ourselves and for the people we love.

During a medical emergency, families are often scared and confused. That is why someone needs to stay calm, observe carefully, keep medical records and understand what is happening.

Keep your reports. Keep prescriptions. Know the medicines being given. Ask questions. Understand the diagnosis and treatment as much as possible.

Be alert. Be strong. And have the courage to ask.

Another important lesson I learned is the importance of health insurance.

When a serious illness or emergency occurs, the emotional burden is already enormous. On top of that, medical expenses can place a huge financial burden on a family.

Health insurance cannot prevent illness, and it cannot undo a loss. But having appropriate insurance can help a family manage the financial pressure of medical treatment.

We often think about protecting our homes, vehicles and other possessions. We should also think about protecting our health and our family's financial security.

People should understand their insurance policy before an emergency happens—what it covers, what it does not cover, waiting periods, exclusions, network hospitals and how claims work.

Health is not something we should value only after losing it.

My family has experienced pain that I wish nobody else has to experience.

I cannot change what happened. I cannot bring my brothers back.

But I can share what their lives and their struggles have taught me.

Take your health seriously.

Do not ignore concerning symptoms.

Seek proper medical care.

Ask questions.

Stay informed.

Support your family during difficult medical situations.

And prepare financially for the possibility of a health emergency.

Because when everything else is taken away, we realise that the greatest wealth we ever had was our health—and the people we loved.

Let us learn to value it before life teaches us its value through loss.

 "A Soul in Search of Freedom", A Poem from Heart to the Page, by Syeda Habeebunnisa from B.Sc. FNZC

A SOUL IN SEARCH OF FREEDOM. 

She stands at the edge of her own life,

Desperate to map a world

where she is forbidden to tread.

Seeking a world full of adventure,

she longs for a life where she is free,

where she can spread her wings

and choose her own path.

To rule the world,

to travel into the unknown,

fierce and bold—

she yearns for a beautiful day,

a life where her soul is independent

and loved by all.

Yet, she needs permission for everything.

She carries the scars

left by those she once loved,

and still dreams of a life

with no boundaries,

no restrictions,

no chains.

But the cruel world ties her down

in the shackles of tradition.

And here goes another soul,

fighting for her freedom,

fighting to become

the woman she was always meant to be.

A literary fiction by B.Laxmi Prasanna B.Sc (MSDS), IIIrd year:

Her heart sinked deeper, heavy with something she couldn't put her finger on. Whatever it was, she had to sort it out or they will kick her out, deem her as unworthy.

Looking up at the sound of footsteps with his hair flying in the cold wind up north, he smiled at her. 

His skin as pale as the mountain caps but his eyes black as they swallowed her every breath. The dread in the pit of her stomach escalated, the fidgeting of her fingers halted. 

Ants climbed the uneven land carrying crumbs of food. The distant sound of river, shuffling of soldiers, ready to move her duty to guard and he would leave as he if never was. 

Noch wanted to say so many things, tell him about her, listen to him, but as the sun rose on upon them, the end of night and the end of their shared laugh so loud, it may have echoed the mountains, cut throat practices which didn't last as short lived as them. 

She couldn't muster up the courage to say anything becuase what if what they had shared was fleeting? So, she stood there as he smiled at her turning back, moving away, erasing everything. 

Tears fell. Finally, a broken sob, an analogue to her own broken heart which they shared as he smiled through his own tears, holding his head high in the cold of everything that existed here. But his heart, it stayed with her, filled with her. 

"What Really Matters", a poem penned by Gorak Jayanti, from B. Com III C.

WHAT REALLY MATTERS

Not the rush of clocks or crowded days,

Not titles worn in borrowed praise,

Not the shine of things we own—

These fade like words in sand alone.

What really matters is a gentle heart,

The courage to choose light over dark,

The hands that help without a show,

The quiet love we choose to grow.

It’s time well spent with those who care,

Shared laughter rising in open air,

A listening ear, a truthful word,

The grace to forgive when we’ve been hurt.

It’s finding peace in who you are,

Not chasing every distant star,

Knowing enough is truly enough,

Even when the road is steep and rough.

In the end, when all is said,

What warms the soul, what lifts the head,

Is love we gave and love we found—

That’s what really matters, all around.

"Fighting for freedom", A free verse poem by Sayed Habeeunnisa from FNZC.

She stands at the edge of her own life,

Desperate to map a world she is forbidden to touch.

Seeking a world full of adventure,

She strives for a life where she has freedom.

To rule the world, to travel into the unknown,

Fierce and bold, she yearns for a beautiful day.

A soul who is independent and loved by all,

Yet she needs permission for everything.

She holds on to the scars

Given by her loved ones.

She dreams of a life with no restrictions.

But the cruel world ties her up

In the shackles of tradition,

And here goes another soul,

Fighting for her freedom. 

A psychological crime-horror short story by J. Sharanya from BSc BTCFS, II year

The army quarters were usually quiet, their lanes lined with trimmed hedges and identical houses. Life there followed a rhythm: children playing in the evening, guards patrolling the gates, colony events on weekends. So, when a new family moved in, everyone noticed.

A man, his wife, and their twin daughters.

Across the street lived Mrs. Sharma. She was among the first to feel thrilled about their arrival. A new family meant fresh energy, new bonds. She baked sweets, carried them over, and knocked on their door with a wide smile.

The wife had opened the door. Pale, reserved, her lips barely curved in return. The girls peeked from behind her, clutching a glass bottle filled with something red.

“They must be shy,” Mrs. Sharma had reassured herself.

She kept trying. Inviting them to colony functions. Sending her children to befriend the twins. But the family remained distant, almost… unbothered.

Something about them was off.

The twins never went to school. Instead, they played endlessly in their courtyard, always with that bottle filled with red liquid. Mrs. Sharma once spotted them pouring some of it on the soil, giggling. She assumed it was just paint.

One afternoon, she found the wife buying vegetables. “Your girls never go to school?” she asked kindly.

The wife froze. “They are homeschooled,” she whispered quickly, then left without even buying a single vegetable. Her eyes darted around, nervous, as if terrified of someone watching.

Mrs. Sharma felt a chill but brushed it aside.

Weeks turned into months. Gradually, she stopped caring.

Until one night.

The colony was shaken awake by guards shouting. A thief had broken into one of the houses. Residents rushed out with sticks and torches, chasing until they cornered the man.

But instead of resisting, the thief begged them. “Call the police! Please… call them!”

People were baffled. A thief asking for the police?

When the officers arrived and tried to arrest him, he blurted out:

“I went into that house… and saw them. Dead. Three of them. Rotting.”

The crowd gasped. The police, skeptical, still forced their way into the family’s house.

The smell hit them first. A thick, rotting stench.

Upstairs, in a locked bedroom, they found three decomposed bodies. A woman and two little girls.

The colony stood in horror. They had seen that woman. They had seen those children. How could they have been dead all along?

The police arrested the thief, charging him with murder. But the autopsy told another story.

The bodies dated back three months.

No strangulation. No forced trauma. No poison in the blood.

But the urine told the truth: extremely high levels of paracetamol metabolites. A silent overdose. Enough to shut down their livers and kill them slowly, invisibly.

The investigation grew darker.

When questioned, Mrs. Sharma insisted she had seen the wife watering plants just that morning. She had seen the twins playing in the courtyard with their red bottle. She even pointed across the street.

But when the police looked, the house was silent. Empty.

Her husband sighed, embarrassed. “My wife isn’t well,” he explained. “She imagines things. Please don’t trouble her further.” He pressed medicine into her hand, guided her gently to bed.

The police left uncertain. Something about his calmness didn’t sit right.

Days later, deeper checks revealed the truth.

Mrs. Sharma wasn’t truly Mrs. Sharma. She had been the maid in that very house months ago. The man she now lived with wasn’t her husband. He was the real husband of the dead woman across the street.

And the maid—Mrs. Sharma—had seen everything.

She had watched, paralyzed, as he crushed tablets and dissolved them into drinks. Watched his wife and daughters consume them, one by one, unaware. She had stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, paralyzed, as the three of them slowly succumbed.

He had silenced her with threats. Dragged her across the street. Forced her into the role of his wife.

Her mind had shattered under the weight of what she had witnessed. She replayed it endlessly. The wife watering plants. The twins laughing with their red-stained bottle. Not ghosts. Not hallucinations. Memories her trauma refused to bury.

When the truth came out, the colony never felt safe again.

The man was dragged away, screaming, his mask ripped off. The maid sat silently on the balcony, whispering to herself, eyes locked on the empty courtyard.

Across the street, the house stood sealed. Yet to her, the twins were still there—giggling, playing with their bottle. And in the fading light, the liquid inside didn’t look like paint anymore.

Reimagining Ulysses: What If the Protagonist Were a Woman? By Manognya Varkoor, Krithika Sudhal from BSc FNBC II YEAR 

If the protagonist of Ulysses were a woman, the poem would be very different. In the original poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses travels across the world in search of knowledge, new cultures, and exciting adventures. However, during that period, women did not enjoy the same freedom as men because society imposed many restrictions on them.

A woman who left her home to travel would have been criticized for abandoning her family. Her character would have been questioned, and she might have been labelled irresponsible. Unlike Ulysses, she would have had to fight not only the challenges of travel but also the expectations of a patriarchal society.

If she still managed to travel, the poem would focus on both her adventures and the obstacles she overcame. Her experiences would be expressed with greater compassion, resilience, and hope. She would celebrate freedom while encouraging other women to dream beyond the limits set by society.

Although she might have faced severe criticism in her own time, future generations would remember her as a courageous woman who challenged social norms and broke patriarchal barriers. Her journey would become a powerful symbol of determination, equality, and women's empowerment.