Descriptive Essays (10 Samples) for ICSE / ISC

In descriptive compositions/essays you basically have be create a "word image" using sensory details like sounds, smell, sights, touch and taste, transporting the reader to a place or moment​. Using the 'right word' and making good use of literary devices like personification, simile, metaphor etc. hold the key too. If you haven't already, review the rules and structure of a description composition first, then go through this list of sample essays.

Essay 1: A Busy Railway Platform

The Theatre of Arrivals

A railway platform is India's truest democracy—a chaotic, sweaty, magnificent collision of lives. Standing at Platform 3 of Mumbai Central at 7 AM, I was just a spectator in this theatre of constant motion, where every second brought new drama.

The sharp whistle of the incoming Rajdhani Express cut through the morning mist, instantly waking up the waiting crowd. Porters in faded red shirts appeared like magic, their experienced eyes judging luggage weight and passenger desperation. They moved with surprising grace despite impossible loads—three suitcases, two bags, and a birdcage balanced on a turbaned head. The announcer's robotic voice echoed overhead, destroying station names into metallic nonsense, drowned by the hiss of brakes and the screech of metal on metal.

The air was an assault on the senses—diesel smoke mixed with the sweetness of tea brewing in aluminum kettles, while the sharp smell of pickle from a vendor's cart fought for attention. A child cried loudly, his voice absorbed into the general noise. Businessmen in wrinkled suits held briefcases like shields, while a group of college students laughed too loudly, their backpacks covered with band stickers. Near the bookstall, an elderly couple stood frozen, holding hands, their silence like an island in the storm.

The train doors opened, releasing a flood of people. Bodies pushed forward and backward at the same time in a dance perfected by necessity. For thirty seconds, the platform reached its peak—shouts of "Side please!", the rattle of luggage trolleys, a woman's scarf escaping into the wind, a man running with one shoe on. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the train left. The platform exhaled. Vendors settled back into their rhythms. The theatre waited for its next act.

Essay 2: A Stormy Night

When the Sky Broke

Essay 3: A Village Fair

The Carnival of Simple Joys

The fair arrived in our village like an annual miracle, transforming the dusty ground into a galaxy of lights and laughter. By evening, what had been empty land that morning was now a rainbow of colors, sounds, and smells that pulled you in like a magnet.

The entrance was guarded by balloon sellers, their huge bunches of inflated balloons bobbing like strange, colorful clouds. Inside, the Ferris wheel ruled the skyline, its skeleton of rusted metal wrapped in strings of fairy lights that blinked in random patterns. The wheel groaned as it turned, carrying screaming children and nervous adults in creaky iron baskets that swung with alarming energy.

Food stalls lined the edges, each one a burst of sensations. Hot oil sizzled in massive pans, frying jalebis into orange spirals that dripped syrup. The tangy smell of chaat competed with the sweet cloud of cotton candy being spun into pink clouds on paper cones. A kulfi vendor rang his brass bell rhythmically, while the pav bhaji stall sent up clouds of butter-heavy steam that caught the light like delicious fog.

The game stalls were theatres of hope and disappointment. Men threw rings at bottles, their faces determined, their aim terrible. Children shot air guns at tin ducks that refused to fall despite direct hits. The stall owners called out in practiced sing-song: "Try your luck! Everyone's a winner!" The lie was so cheerful, no one minded.

As midnight approached, the fair didn't dim but transformed. Adults left, children took over. The music grew louder, the lights brighter, as if the fair knew it had only one night to burn before packing into trucks and disappearing until next year.

Essay 4: A Hospital Emergency Room

Midnight at Mercy General

Essay 5: Early Morning in a Park

The Quiet Hour

Before the city wakes, the park belongs to a secret club—those who know that the best hour is the one most people sleep through. At 5:30 AM, the park is less a place than a promise: of peace, of routine, of discipline in a messy world.

The sky is neither night nor day but something in between—a gradient of deep blue fading to pale orange at the horizon. The air tastes clean, untouched by the day's pollution. Dew clings to grass blades, turning the ground into a carpet of tiny diamonds that soak through shoes. Somewhere, a rooster crows, though this is the city, and roosters are illegal. No one enforces this rule at dawn.

The walkers move in ritual patterns. The elderly women in colorful tracksuits do their rounds—three laps exactly, always clockwise, chatting in a mix of Hindi and gossip. The serious runners don't acknowledge anyone, their faces set in concentration, earbuds sealed, tracking kilometers and calories on wrist devices. The yoga people have claimed the gazebo, their bodies bending into shapes that look both relaxing and painful.

By the children's swings, a man practices tai chi, his movements underwater-slow, his face peaceful. The tea-seller arrives on his bicycle at exactly 6 AM, his arrival triggering an automatic response—walkers move toward him like pilgrims to a shrine. He pours steaming sweet tea from one metal cup to another, creating a foamy waterfall. The first sip is divine.

As the sun rises over the apartment buildings, the spell breaks. School buses honk on the nearby road. The joggers check their watches and sprint toward exits. The park begins its transformation back into the city's property. But for those who witnessed it, the quiet hour remains—a daily secret, a brief sanctuary.

Essay 6: A Busy City Street at Night

Neon Dreams

Essay 7: A Crowded Marketplace

The Bazaar's Heartbeat

Essay 8: A Deserted Beach at Dawn

Where the World Begins

The beach before sunrise belongs to those seeking something—peace, inspiration, or simply a moment before the world demands their attention. At 5 AM, the sand is cool and firm, unmarked by footprints, a blank canvas rewritten daily by tide and wind.

The ocean is a breathing thing, each wave a long exhale. The sound is rhythmic, hypnotic—white noise in the best sense. The water itself is dark, nearly black in the pre-dawn light, merging smoothly with the sky at the horizon. It's impossible to tell where ocean ends and sky begins. The division is more feeling than fact.

Seagulls arrive first, their cries sharp against the soft wash of waves. They strut along the waterline with the confidence of landlords inspecting property. A crab scuttles sideways, its shell shining, disappearing into a hole as my shadow falls over it. Shells scatter the sand—whole ones are rare treasures. Most are fragments, beautiful in their brokenness.

The sun doesn't rise; it seeps. The sky transitions from black to gray to purple to that particular shade of orange that exists nowhere else. The moment the sun's edge breaks the horizon, everything changes. Color returns—the ocean shifts from black to green to blue. The sand goes from gray to gold. It's as if someone turns up the brightness on reality itself.

A fisherman wades into the shallows, his net folded over one shoulder. He doesn't acknowledge me. His is a working relationship with the sea, not a romantic one. To him, the sunrise marks the beginning of work, not a photo opportunity. I respect this, keeping my distance.

As the sun climbs, the spell breaks. Joggers appear. A family sets up camp with umbrellas and coolers. The beach transforms into public property. But for those thirty minutes between darkness and day, it was a temple, and I was alone, worshipping at the altar of dawn.

Essay 9: A Visit to a Zoo

Cages and Questions

Essay 10: The Aftermath of Heavy Rain

The Deluge's Gift

The rain stopped at 3 AM, leaving behind a city transformed into a group of islands. By morning, the neighborhood was a network of lakes connected by narrow pathways where the brave attempted passage.

Our street had become a canal. Water—brown, murky, and questionable—reached mid-calf depth at its deepest point. Objects floated past like a strange parade: a child's pink slipper, a crushed juice carton, pages from a waterlogged notebook, their blue ink bleeding into meaningless patterns. Someone's entire potted plant, pot and all, drifted past my gate as if seeking new residence downstream.

The smell was complex—that lovely post-rain earth scent battling with open drainage, wet garbage, and something organic rotting. Drains, overwhelmed by volume, had given up entirely. Manhole covers had lifted, creating whirlpools that looked almost beautiful until you remembered what swirled beneath.

Life, however, adapted with Indian cleverness. Auto-rickshaws charged triple fare and ferried passengers through knee-deep floods, their drivers navigating by memory since street markings had vanished. Schoolchildren, their uniforms rolled to absurd heights, waded in giggling groups, treating disaster as unexpected holiday. A vegetable vendor stationed himself on a raised platform, conducting business as usual, his cauliflowers floating in plastic tubs.

By noon, patches of pavement emerged, creating a map of slightly-less-flooded and impossibly-flooded zones. The sun, now out in full force, turned the water into a massive mirror, beautiful and blinding. Steam rose from the road. Within hours, puddles shrank to ponds, ponds to patches.

By evening, only damp patches and debris remained. Municipal workers swept mud into piles. The city resumed its default programming—chaotic, loud, moving. The flood was already becoming a story, something to exaggerate over tea. But the stains on walls marked the water's high point, a reminder that nature's patience with concrete has limits.