A Confectionery

Man’s Search For Meaning is Viktor Frankl’s voyage to find hope even in the darkest of times, and even in the most vulnerable human states. He does not let himself be beaten by the atrocities taking place around him, but rather derives from these experiences lessons of survival, suffering, and love. Born on 26th March 1905 to a Jewish family, Frankl was interested in  psychology from a very young age. He was deported to a Nazi ghetto in 1942, and he spent around 3 years in different camps before being liberated from Dachau in 1945. His specialization in psychology and psychiatry proved to be helpful during his time as a prisoner in the Nazi camps, as he was often assigned the responsibility of medical and psychiatric care. It was through this experience too, that he laid the foundation for “Logotherapy”, or Therapy for the Soul. The Holocaust, or Shoah, was the state-sponsored persecution and genocide of around six million Jews and certain minority groups during the Second Worl...

Alice Walker’s story 'The Colour Purple" strolls through paths of love, violence, and struggle of her personal life as her central character Celie walks down a similar road. This essay is structured to look at the striking resemblance of Alice's experiences to that of Celie’s. The book is set in rural Georgia in the early twentieth century, and Walker allows us to experience through Celie all that she observed and experienced as a black woman in those times. Born into a poor family, farming was the main activity in Walker’s town and slavery and oppression made their presence well felt. All around her, she heard the black vernacular, which later became Celie’s language of communication with the readers. Celie’s story is also set in a very similar setting, where the lives of her people are plagued by slavery and oppression. A spirited kid in her childhood, Alice lost much of her enthusiasm after the fateful incident where her brother accidentally shot her in the eye. De...

When Radha and Sita together flared up the fire of a thousand morning suns, you rushed ahead like a hurricane wind veiling their glory in your clouds of doom “protecting” the world from our radiance. But When the young girl wrote letters to her Sakhi, letters, brimming with crimson rage and spurned desires you frowned, you muttered, you fussed. But her words, like stardust danced on in the midnight between your abject darkness, and our laboured dawn. You shoved us into the dungeons of your ancient minds, cold-walled, dark, desperate dungeons. Closets, as they’re called. The walls reeked of your displeasure, there was loathing in the air, and the lights, the lights had shunned us long ago. We had lived quiet, half-lives in the dingy corners of this world, bereft, desolated, abandoned. Led to believe that the loneliness was thrust upon us by the Gods. The same Gods which ask you to love, and give the same Gods who created us with just as much magic...