Classes I & II Admission Notice 2026-27
Nursery Admission Payment & Registraion Form for classes I & II
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01
19thJan,2026
Annual Examination Date ...
02
22thAug,2024
PRE-PRIMARY HALF YEARLY ...
03
13thAug,2024
HALF YEARLY EXAM DATE SH...
04
27thJan,2024
12TH CLASS BOARD EXAM DA...
05
27thJan,2024
10TH CLASS BOARD EXAM DA...
06
22thAug,2023
HALF YEARLY EXAM DATE SH...
07
19thAug,2023
HALF YEARLY EXAM DATE SH...
08
03thJul,2023
Periodic Test(PT-1 & PT...
The Sisters of Charity of Saints Bartolomea Capitanio and Vincenza Gerosa dedicate themselves to the service of the youth, the sick, and the needy, engaging themselves to be a sign of God's love among people in conformity with the charism of the Institute.
This Institute from the beginning has developed a profound consciousness that education of the youth is a vital component of the charism of its foundress St. Bartolomea Capitanio who held the youth "very dear to her heart" and committed herself whole-heartedly to their personal growth and development so that they would become agents of change for a just society.
It was subtle—a faint sound like a twig underfoot, or the last note of a piano string. The hen’s hairline fracture widened, a silvery mouth yawning across the ceramic. A shard loosened and fell, catching moonlight as if it had trapped a sliver of sky. The sound should have been domestic and small, but in that house the smallest noises were auguries.
In the end, the final hen was less an ending than a hinge. It cracked because it needed to open, because there was something small and true inside that wanted to breathe. Families are like that: imperfect vessels, sometimes chipped, often patched, but always capable of keeping one another warm when the wind comes.
They found the polaroid, and with it came the recipe for a pie folded into the margin of an old receipt, and a crumpled map that led to a mailbox with no name. The map had been drawn by a hand that trembled but did not waver, the kind of hand that plants seeds and tells lies only when necessary.
He woke on a breath like a bell. The world reassembled itself around him in patient increments: the ceiling, the curtains, the soft silhouette of the cat. He didn’t know how long he had slept—minutes or decades—but the attic felt different. Imperceptibly, the angles had softened; the dust motes had rearranged into constellations that told small, true stories. Eli sat up and smiled with the weary kindness of someone who had finally figured out how to put the kettle on.
He had come for a weekend and stayed for an unnamable reason. Family visits were supposed to end with hugs and casserole recipes; this one had ended with a quiet bunk in the house that belonged to memories no one else wanted. His breath kept time with the old house’s pipes. Every so often the floorboards would remind him of their history and sigh.
The final hen remained, now permanently scarred, its crack a new line of beauty. Family lore altered itself around it like a river changing course: the story would be told at birthdays and funerals, each telling adding a layer. Some would say it was bad luck averted; others would insist it was an omen of endings. The truth was quieter. The crack revealed an archive: small, human objects that proved people had loved and laughed and misplaced their lives in ways that could be retrieved again.
Later, when Mara told the story to her nephew, she would add flourishes: the cat that spoke, the hen that cracked like a truth, the cousin who woke as if from a long voyage. Truth and fiction braided until it was impossible to tell which thread had come first. The story kept them warm.
In a conflict between the heart and the brain follow your heart.