the association 2013

the
association
15
I believe in the power of words, marvel at the magic created
and in the emotions painted with words. In this section you
will read works by talented writers; young and not so young
nerves turn
to pride during
assam trip
by Aanya Das
MY RECENT visit to
Guwahati, Assam, India was
a lot more exciting than I anticipated
it to be.
As I entered the symposia
for my mother’s (Dr Kavita
Das) charity, Nevida Healthcare,
about to give the introductory
speech, I distinctly
remember being a bundle of
nerves.
However, after being introduced
to four of the wonderful
speakers and guests, Dr
Dipesh Bhagabati, Dr Neelakshi
Mahanda, Dr Chandana
Sharma and Dr Annada
Charan Bhagabati, all
nerves dissipated and I was
extremely interested to hear
about something I honestly
did not know much about,
dementia.
I was definitely not
disappointed.
The speakers were innovative,
and each gave an inside
view into the mindset of an
old person with this illness.
The interaction between the
audience of trainee nurses
and others and the speaker
was inspiring to watch, as
was the passion each lecturer
spoke with. After an
exhausting but exhilarating
day of introducing and
listening to each speaker
and writing out certificates,
the symposia was over, but
not after a few interviews for
the speakers by the local
news.
The experience of watching
my mother’s charity grow
was inspiring, and I hope
that I can continue to help
the charitable work in relation
to key knowledge of
mental health, physical
health and well-being
issues in older people.
the rose-la rose
In a field, a rose stands empty,
Drenched with dew and tears,
From everyone who has cried into its claret
petals,
It is stained with love, yet remorse.
Often, people would admire the rose,
They stroked its purple streaks,
And gazed into its pollinated centre,
With red, tear-stained eyes.
Frequently, I would seek company with the
rose,
Inhaling its sweet fragrance,
And drifting away to my own distant world,
It was my portal.
In my thoughts, the rose is huge,
Surrounded by other colourful flowers,
It was my dream garden;
I smiled whenever I entered it.
As I bumped back down to reality,
I traced a smile because it was still there,
The rose was my friend-my companion,
But it was slowly withering.
Its once soft petals turned black and crispy,
Shrinking until they were no larger than a
baby’s thumbnail,
And horrible, thorny weeds,
Sealed the rose like
a coffin.
by
Rengoni
Bhuyan