Picture Composition (10 Samples) for ICSE

In Picture Composition, you are required to interpret an image and weave a story AROUND it​, not just describing what's seen in the image. The picture is a prompt, not the subject. So, you can write a descriptive, narrative or a short story using the picture as a suggestion. You you haven't already, please go through the rules and guidelines for a picture composition before you go through this list of sample essays.

Essay 1: Picture - A child sitting alone on a park bench while other children play in the background

The New Boy

The playground was full of colors and laughter, but for Raju, it was a canvas of loneliness. He sat on the peeling green bench, clutching his worn schoolbag, watching other children play cricket with an ease he envied.

It was his third day at the new school. His father's transfer from their small village to this Bangalore suburb had uprooted everything familiar. The children here spoke English easily, wore branded shoes, and had inside jokes Raju couldn't understand. He spoke Kannada with a rural accent. His shoes were hand-me-downs from his cousin.

Yesterday, he'd tried joining a group playing football. "We have enough players," a boy named Arjun had said dismissively, not even looking at him. The rejection had hurt, but Raju had nodded and walked away, pretending it didn't matter.

Now he sat, pretending to read his textbook, but actually watching the cricket match. The bowler was talented but lacked control. The batsman was aggressive but couldn't defend. Raju knew cricket—in his village, he'd been the best player, leading his school to district championships. But here, his skills were invisible because his confidence was shattered.

The ball rolled toward him. It stopped near his feet. Everyone paused, waiting.

"Throw it back!" someone yelled impatiently.

Raju stood. His hands knew what to do even if his heart didn't. He picked up the ball and threw—not a casual toss, but a perfect, powerful throw that flew through the air and landed precisely in the wicketkeeper's gloves.

Silence. Then the bowler—the same Arjun who'd rejected him—jogged over. "That was a great throw. Where'd you learn that?"

"My village. I played for my school team."

Arjun's expression shifted from dismissive to interested. "We need a good fielder. Want to play?"

Raju's heart raced. "Yes."

As he dropped his bag and ran onto the field, the bench behind him—that symbol of loneliness—faded into the background. He'd found his language in this strange new place, and it wasn't English or Kannada. It was cricket. And on that field, surrounded by boys who moments ago were strangers, Raju smiled. For the first time in three days, he felt like he belonged.

Essay 2: Picture - An old woman feeding pigeons in a city square

Mrs. D'Souza's Companions

Essay 3: Picture - A traffic policeman helping a stray dog cross a busy street

Duty Beyond the Handbook

Essay 4: Picture - A flooded street with people wading through water carrying belongings

When the City Drowns

The rain had finally stopped at 5 AM, but the damage was complete. Residency Road had transformed from a commercial street into a murky canal. Water reached waist-height, carrying garbage, plastic bottles, and broken dreams through its slow current.

Prakash stood at his shop's entrance—or rather, where the entrance had been before water swallowed the steps. Inside, his carefully stocked electronics store was ruined. Televisions, laptops, mobile phones—all underwater, all destroyed. Three years of savings, two loans, one shop. Now just water and loss.

Around him, the neighborhood waded through the flood carrying whatever they'd salvaged. An elderly man held a framed photograph above his head—his wedding portrait, probably. A young woman carried her daughter on her shoulders, the child crying, clutching a soggy teddy bear. A shopkeeper pushed a wooden cart with his remaining stock—thankfully, he sold plastic buckets, which floated.

This wasn't Prakash's first flood. It was the third in five years. Each time, the government promised "permanent solutions"—better drainage, flood barriers, early warning systems. Each time, nothing changed. The city's infrastructure, designed for two million people, now struggled with eight million. Every monsoon, the poorest neighborhoods paid the price while wealthy areas remained dry.

A hand touched Prakash's shoulder. His neighbor, Venkatesh, stood beside him, equally soaked. "Lost everything?"

Prakash nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Me too. The bakery's finished." Venkatesh's bakery had been his grandfather's, passed down through three generations.

They stood in silence, two men watching their livelihoods float away.

Then Venkatesh said something unexpected: "We'll rebuild. We always do."

Prakash wanted to argue—with what money? What hope? But looking around at his neighbors, still wading, still salvaging, still moving forward despite water and despair, he recognized something: resilience isn't optimism. It's the stubborn refusal to surrender even when logic says you should.

A municipal truck arrived, workers beginning to pump water. It would take days to drain. Weeks to clean. Months to rebuild.

But rebuild they would. Because what choice did they have? This was home. This was livelihood. This was life—messy, unfair, frequently underwater, but still theirs.

Prakash stepped into the water, wading toward his shop. Time to start salvaging. Time to start over. Again.

Essay 5: Picture - A student sleeping on a pile of books in a library

The Breaking Point

Essay 6: Picture - A crowded bus with passengers hanging from the doors

The 7:45 Express

The 7:45 AM bus from Whitefield to Majestic wasn't transport—it was a daily test of human endurance and physics. How many bodies could fit in space designed for fifty? The answer, discovered daily, was approximately ninety-five.

Raj clung to the door railing, half his body inside the bus, half hanging outside, wind whipping his shirt. His feet barely touched the footboard. One wrong move, one sharp turn, and he'd be on the road. This was routine.

Inside, passengers were compressed like sardines. A woman held her child above the crowd, the boy's legs dangling. Office workers pressed against each other in unwanted closeness. Someone's briefcase dug into Raj's ribs. The smell was spectacular—sweat, cheap perfume, and yesterday's sambar.

This was the price of affordable living. Raj earned ₹18,000 monthly as a data entry operator. City center rent was ₹15,000. So he lived in Whitefield, where rent was ₹7,000, and commuted ninety minutes each way in this mobile torture chamber.

The bus lurched. Raj's grip slipped. For a terrifying second, he dangled by one hand, legs flailing. Hands grabbed him—a fellow hanger-on, eyes wide. "Careful, boss!"

"Thanks," Raj gasped, regaining his grip.

This was the unspoken code: everyone looked out for everyone, because nobody else would. The government certainly didn't. Politicians promised "better public transport" every election. Reality delivered overcrowded buses with broken windows and meaningless schedules.

A girl next to him, also hanging from the door, caught his eye. College student, probably. She smiled grimly—the smile of shared suffering. "First time?" she asked.

"Four years," Raj replied.

"Five for me. Engineering student. Can't afford hostel."

They didn't exchange names. In the 7:45 express, you were comrades, not individuals. Today's fellow sufferer might be tomorrow's stranger.

The bus screeched to a halt at Tin Factory. Half the passengers surged off, creating brief breathing room. Raj actually got inside the bus, standing on the footboard but no longer airborne. Progress.

Fifteen more stops to Majestic. Forty-five more minutes of compression, heat, and existential questions about life choices.

But Raj would make it. He always did. And tomorrow, he'd be back at the same stop, fighting for the same space, hanging from the same door. Because this was Bangalore. This was survival. This was the daily grind that ground dreams into endurance.

The privileged had cars. The poor had overcrowded buses. And somewhere in between were people like Raj—not poor enough for sympathy, not rich enough for comfort, just hanging on. Literally.

Essay 7: Picture - A family having a picnic with dark storm clouds gathering overhead

The Last Happy Day

Essay 8: Picture - A winning team lifting a trophy with one teammate in a wheelchair

The Captain's Decision

The trophy was massive, silver, engraved with "Inter-School Basketball Championship 2025." Fifteen hands lifted it—fourteen standing, one seated in a wheelchair. The photograph captured pure joy: teenagers screaming, tears streaming, unity radiating.

That photograph went viral. "Inclusive team celebrates victory," the headlines read. But they didn't know the real story. I was there. I was the captain. And the decision to include Arjun had almost cost us everything.

Arjun's accident happened in August—motorcycle collision, shattered spine, paralysis from the waist down. He'd been our point guard, our strategist, our soul. Losing him devastated the team emotionally and practically. Championship was in December. Four months to rebuild without our best player.

The easy decision: Replace him. Move on. Basketball is for the able-bodied.

But Arjun had called me from the hospital. "I want to stay with the team. Please. Even if I can't play, let me coach from the sidelines."

I brought it to the team. The vote was close: 8-7 in favor. Some argued his presence would be "distracting," "depressing." Others said loyalty mattered more than comfort.

Arjun became our assistant coach. From his wheelchair, he analyzed opponents, spotted weaknesses, called strategies. His basketball IQ was unchanged. Only his legs had failed.

But before the championship game, he asked something impossible: "Put me in for the last thirty seconds if we're winning."

"Arjun, you can't—"

"I can pass. I can shoot if I'm close enough. Please. I need to be on that court one last time."

We discussed it. Regulations said nothing about wheelchairs. Technically legal. Practically insane. We were predicted to win by 5 points. Any mistake could cost the championship.

The final game was brutal. With forty seconds left, we led 68-63. Coach looked at me, the captain. "Your call."

I called timeout. "Put Arjun in."

The crowd went silent. The referee confirmed it was legal. Arjun rolled onto the court, face determined, eyes wet.

The other team, sensing weakness, pressed hard. But Arjun intercepted a pass—his reflexes were intact—and fired to me. I scored. 70-63.

Final buzzer. We'd won.

But more importantly, Arjun had played. Not charity playing—real, competitive basketball from a wheelchair. And we'd trusted him enough to risk everything for thirty seconds of his dignity.

As we lifted the trophy together, Arjun whispered, "Thank you."

We didn't just win a championship. We proved something bigger: teams are built on loyalty, not just ability. And sometimes the hardest victories aren't against opponents. They're against the voices saying, "It's too risky. Play it safe. Leave him behind."

We didn't leave him behind. We lifted the trophy together. All fifteen of us. And that made it worth more than silver ever could.

Essay 9: Picture - A vegetable vendor sitting alone in an empty market late evening

The Unsold Tomatoes

Essay 10: Picture - An elderly man reading a newspaper on a bench with his walking stick beside him

The Daily Ritual

Every morning at 8 AM sharp, Mr. Krishnan appeared at the park bench with his walking stick, newspaper, and thermos of coffee. He was as much a fixture as the bench itself—eighty-three years old, retired school principal, widower for seven years.

Young joggers passed him, earbuds in, barely noticing. Mothers with strollers gave polite nods. But nobody stopped. Nobody talked. Nobody asked why an elderly man spent three hours daily reading yesterday's newspaper on a public bench.

I only learned his story because my dog, an unruly golden retriever named Golu, escaped his leash and crashed into Mr. Krishnan's coffee, spilling it everywhere.

"I'm so sorry!" I rushed over, mortified, expecting anger. Instead, Mr. Krishnan laughed—a surprisingly young sound from an old body.

"No harm done. Dogs don't respect hierarchies or newspapers. Refreshing, really."

I helped clean up. Golu, shameless, licked Mr. Krishnan's face. The old man scratched behind Golu's ears with expert familiarity. "I had a dog once. Golden retriever, actually. Named Hero."

"What happened to Hero?"

"He lived eighteen years. Died the same month as my wife. Double loss." He said it matter-of-factly, but pain flickered in his eyes.

I sat down, uninvited but sensing he wouldn't mind. "Why do you come here every day?"

"Structure," he said simply. "When you're my age, nobody needs you anymore. Children are busy, grandchildren have screens. You're not dead, but you're not necessary either. That's dangerous—makes you think about stepping in front of trains."

The casual darkness startled me.

"So I created structure," he continued. "Wake up, exercise, come here, read newspaper, watch people, go home for lunch, nap, evening walk, dinner, sleep. Repeat. Every day, same routine. Sounds boring, but it's survival."

"Don't you get lonely?"

"Terribly. But loneliness is part of aging. The trick is not letting it swallow you." He gestured at the park. "Here, I'm surrounded by life. Children playing, couples arguing, dogs running. I'm not participating, but I'm witnessing. That's enough."

We talked for an hour. His wife had been a teacher too. They'd met at a training seminar in 1965. Married forty-nine years. No major dramas, just steady partnership. "Not a Bollywood romance," he said. "Better. We were teammates."

When I left, I promised to return. And I did. Every Sunday, Golu and I visited Mr. Krishnan's bench. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we sat in comfortable silence.

He taught me things: that aging isn't failure, loneliness isn't unique, and structure isn't rigidity—it's lifeline. That newspapers are less about news than ritual. That benches are less about sitting than about having somewhere to be.

Three months ago, Mr. Krishnan's bench was empty. It stayed empty. I asked the park security guard.

"The old gentleman? Passed away last week. Heart attack, peaceful, at home."

The bench feels different now. I still sit there sometimes with Golu, honoring Mr. Krishnan's ritual. And I hope, when I'm eighty-three, someone's dog knocks over my coffee too. Because accidental conversations with strangers sometimes become the most important friendships. And everyone deserves company on their bench.