Cube of shiny fake leather
Deceptive in its very dullness
October heat
Oppressive, sultry weather
Beating down upon
All those who stand
By the bus stop.
School children with neatly oiled hair
Grumpy woman,
Bindi squeezed by frown lines
Men wearing funny bell bottoms
At least a decade behind fashion.
The bus is late
It’s not unexpected
But the briefcase still sits
Menacingly on the bus stop bench.
I imagine it carries
Files and papers
Official-looking files
And neatly stacked paper.
I stifle the scenes
That pound
At my protective mental barrier
But they manage to seep through
The fissures of conjecture .
And I can see —
Gimlets of ruby-red blood
Glistening against
Dreary gray pavement
Empty eyes turned towards the sky
Shards of water bottle
Nauseating, overwhelming odour
Of detonated death.
And piercing cries
Rending the world of the bus stop apart.
Again I see
The shiny black briefcase
Seated upon the bus stop bench
With no one sparing it A second glance.
Malvika Parthasarathy, Class XI (Arts), Sophia High School, Bangalore.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
WANDERLUST - In the glow of a Greek sunset
Mykonos, a lovely Greek island, is known for its cats. At every street corner, the felines peered brazenly at us. They preened and strutted like they were at a Vogue fashion shoot!
After a ferry ride that lasted six long, painfully pukey hours, we reached the quaint Greek island of Mykonos.
Far removed from the magnificent rubble and stately touristiness of Athens, Mykonos — with its quiet loveliness — has the power to soothe even the grumpiest of seasick nerves!
At first sight, Mykonos looks so brilliantly, pristinely white that you could almost mistake it for a scene out of a toothpaste commercial. All the houses, including the hotel my grandparents and I stayed in, were painted white, with blue doors and windows.
Our first evening in Mykonos was awfully gusty, making me cling to my sweater to prevent it from being blown away!
The first morning of our visit began with a walk around the city centre of the island.
‘Little Venice’, with its narrow, cobbled streets that twisted and turned in the most delightfully deceptive way, was the perfect place for our relaxed meandering. Shops selling magnets, chic scarves, memorabilia, shell jewellery and eccentric art lined the paths, besides the ubiquitous ice-cream shops. This labyrinth of white houses, shops and restaurants is easy to get lost in. Sometimes, even the locals can’t find their way out!
We also stumbled across the famous Mykonos pelicans. The two pelicans are the tubbiest, laziest, most well-fed and easily the cutest tourist attractions in the whole of Greece. With soft, pale pink feathers, round, indolent eyes and long, yellow beaks, they happily posed for our cameras. Then, when we least expected it, one of them opened her beak wide, yawned contemptuously, and walked off huffily like a diva!
The windmills in Mykonos are wonderfully rustic and surrounded by tiny gardens with low, wooden gates.Silhouetted against the pretty blue sky and overlooking the myriad hues of the Mediterranean, they stood like serene sentinels. Mykonos is also known for its cats. At every street corner, felines peered brazenly at us with adorably solemn eyes. They preened and strutted for us like they were at a Vogue fashion shoot, displaying their handsome coats and furry ruffles with regal poise.
The island is speckled with small churches as abundantly as olives in a Greek salad! Sometimes, we’d follow paths emerging from nowhere only to end up at the door of a beautiful church.
The beaches were empty, given the windy weather, but we were treated to some splendid views. The local food deserves a special mention. Being vegetarian, we didn’t know what to expect, but were happily surprised to find that Greek cuisine has many vegetarian options to choose from. Things that I normally wouldn’t touch, like tomatoes, mushrooms and bread, were wolfed down eagerly when they arrived in disguise as delicious fried tomatoes, creamy risotto, and crisp olive oil-encrusted bread!
The people of Mykonos are very friendly, with most preparing for the tourist season, by repainting their already sparkling white shops and restaurants! Olive oil soap smells great besides being deliciously smooth. Soon, we left for Santorini, but not before bathing in the glow of another uniquely Greek sunset.
Malvika Parthasarathy
After a ferry ride that lasted six long, painfully pukey hours, we reached the quaint Greek island of Mykonos.
Far removed from the magnificent rubble and stately touristiness of Athens, Mykonos — with its quiet loveliness — has the power to soothe even the grumpiest of seasick nerves!
At first sight, Mykonos looks so brilliantly, pristinely white that you could almost mistake it for a scene out of a toothpaste commercial. All the houses, including the hotel my grandparents and I stayed in, were painted white, with blue doors and windows.
Our first evening in Mykonos was awfully gusty, making me cling to my sweater to prevent it from being blown away!
The first morning of our visit began with a walk around the city centre of the island.
‘Little Venice’, with its narrow, cobbled streets that twisted and turned in the most delightfully deceptive way, was the perfect place for our relaxed meandering. Shops selling magnets, chic scarves, memorabilia, shell jewellery and eccentric art lined the paths, besides the ubiquitous ice-cream shops. This labyrinth of white houses, shops and restaurants is easy to get lost in. Sometimes, even the locals can’t find their way out!
We also stumbled across the famous Mykonos pelicans. The two pelicans are the tubbiest, laziest, most well-fed and easily the cutest tourist attractions in the whole of Greece. With soft, pale pink feathers, round, indolent eyes and long, yellow beaks, they happily posed for our cameras. Then, when we least expected it, one of them opened her beak wide, yawned contemptuously, and walked off huffily like a diva!
The windmills in Mykonos are wonderfully rustic and surrounded by tiny gardens with low, wooden gates.Silhouetted against the pretty blue sky and overlooking the myriad hues of the Mediterranean, they stood like serene sentinels. Mykonos is also known for its cats. At every street corner, felines peered brazenly at us with adorably solemn eyes. They preened and strutted for us like they were at a Vogue fashion shoot, displaying their handsome coats and furry ruffles with regal poise.
The island is speckled with small churches as abundantly as olives in a Greek salad! Sometimes, we’d follow paths emerging from nowhere only to end up at the door of a beautiful church.
The beaches were empty, given the windy weather, but we were treated to some splendid views. The local food deserves a special mention. Being vegetarian, we didn’t know what to expect, but were happily surprised to find that Greek cuisine has many vegetarian options to choose from. Things that I normally wouldn’t touch, like tomatoes, mushrooms and bread, were wolfed down eagerly when they arrived in disguise as delicious fried tomatoes, creamy risotto, and crisp olive oil-encrusted bread!
The people of Mykonos are very friendly, with most preparing for the tourist season, by repainting their already sparkling white shops and restaurants! Olive oil soap smells great besides being deliciously smooth. Soon, we left for Santorini, but not before bathing in the glow of another uniquely Greek sunset.
Malvika Parthasarathy
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Traveller
I don’t know where I’m heading
Uncertainty clogs my mind
Haven’t looked up The Lonely Planet
Didn’t plan beforehand
I’m tired and rather ravenous
Giant vultures overhead
Maybe I’m exaggerating
But I can swear they look well-fed!
Flopping down to rest
I almost drown in the scorching sand
Drained of hope and bathed in dust
I look on dazedly as Colour creeps across
The cosmic canvas
The heavens are fiery with brilliance
Eccentric artist’s palette
Her cheeks are blushing furiously
In hues of gold, mauve and scarlet
Stick my fingers out
Try to touch her flushing radiance
The heavens beckon, the skies ablaze
It’s a picture postcard moment
Silhouetted against orange glory
The sun’s snoozing in the firmament
No longer in a quandary
Purpose illumines my eyes
I sling my bagpack over the shoulder
Can’t hear the vulture’s cries
Drawn towards that ethereal smoulder
Onwards will I go Happy, and blissfully content
I walk with the sky guiding my steps
For if someone asks me where I’m heading
I’ll say, ‘Towards the sunset!’
Malvika Parthasarathy
Uncertainty clogs my mind
Haven’t looked up The Lonely Planet
Didn’t plan beforehand
I’m tired and rather ravenous
Giant vultures overhead
Maybe I’m exaggerating
But I can swear they look well-fed!
Flopping down to rest
I almost drown in the scorching sand
Drained of hope and bathed in dust
I look on dazedly as Colour creeps across
The cosmic canvas
The heavens are fiery with brilliance
Eccentric artist’s palette
Her cheeks are blushing furiously
In hues of gold, mauve and scarlet
Stick my fingers out
Try to touch her flushing radiance
The heavens beckon, the skies ablaze
It’s a picture postcard moment
Silhouetted against orange glory
The sun’s snoozing in the firmament
No longer in a quandary
Purpose illumines my eyes
I sling my bagpack over the shoulder
Can’t hear the vulture’s cries
Drawn towards that ethereal smoulder
Onwards will I go Happy, and blissfully content
I walk with the sky guiding my steps
For if someone asks me where I’m heading
I’ll say, ‘Towards the sunset!’
Malvika Parthasarathy
Ode to Chemistry
Bewildering hodgepodge of equations
Concocted in a hurry
Speckled with pesky formulae
I’m in an awful quandary!
Bewitching blue of Copper sulphate
Wizard’s own heady brew
That Chemistry [ugh] could produce such marvels
Was too good to be true!
But when I tried to conjure up
That shade of awesome azure
I broke a test tube, burnt my fingers
And wiped an acidic tear
Organic chemistry
I’m confused – how could it be otherwise
With so many H’s and C’s?
There’s nothing to do but weep and cry
And write bad poetry!
All the sulphates and nitrates
A most insipid melange
Play havoc with my muddled brain
Aqueous or fused
Who really cares? I for one
Am utterly and bitterly bemused
I hope I’ll be able to remember
The difference between
Iron II and Iron III
For it’s the day of my Chem exam
And I’m rather jittery
So in honour of this miserable occasion
I’ve composed
An ode to Chemistry.
By Malvika Parthasarathy
Concocted in a hurry
Speckled with pesky formulae
I’m in an awful quandary!
Bewitching blue of Copper sulphate
Wizard’s own heady brew
That Chemistry [ugh] could produce such marvels
Was too good to be true!
But when I tried to conjure up
That shade of awesome azure
I broke a test tube, burnt my fingers
And wiped an acidic tear
Organic chemistry
I’m confused – how could it be otherwise
With so many H’s and C’s?
There’s nothing to do but weep and cry
And write bad poetry!
All the sulphates and nitrates
A most insipid melange
Play havoc with my muddled brain
Aqueous or fused
Who really cares? I for one
Am utterly and bitterly bemused
I hope I’ll be able to remember
The difference between
Iron II and Iron III
For it’s the day of my Chem exam
And I’m rather jittery
So in honour of this miserable occasion
I’ve composed
An ode to Chemistry.
By Malvika Parthasarathy
Friday, January 7, 2011
When Tiger Was King - book review
Edited and Compiled by Ruskin Bond
Publisher: Rupa
Price: Rs.95
‘When The Tiger was King’, edited and compiled by Ruskin Bond, has an alluring cover page.
The orange backdrop accentuates the charcoal stripes and contours of the regal feline, while solemn eyes peer hauntingly at you.
Unfortunately, the rest of the book is not nearly as enchanting.The foreword is written with warmth, in which the author’s admiration for the fiery tiger is evident, and the ‘Tiger facts’ and ‘Tiger Talk’ sections are engrossing.
The first story in the collection, ‘When Grandfather Tickled A Tiger’, by Ruskin Bond, is simply delightful, peppered with flecks of delicious humour.
‘Gond Tiger Fable of Singbaba’, ‘The Tiger of Chao Cheng’; folk tales from India and China speak of the noble majesty and honour of the tiger.
‘The Tiger in the Tunnel’, again by Ruskin Bond, is a poignant, stirring story that returns to reverberate in your soul long after you finish reading it. ‘The Life of A Tiger’, by S Eardly Wilmot, is a true, nevertheless dreary tale that does not manage to hold your attention for long.
‘Man Eater’, ‘Man Eater of Botta Singaurum’, ‘Sandy Beresford’s Tigerhunt’, by Frank Buck with Edward Anthony, Henry Astbury Leveson and Charles A Kincaid, feel out of place, since they seem to glorify the pastime of capturing and killing tigers, which left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. A sort of reverence and awe is attached to the poaching, which is clearly not what this collection should be aiming at.
‘The Langra Tigress’, by Hugh Allen, speaks of the relationship between the forest, its inhabitants, and man. It would have been quite enjoyable if not for the fact that is stretches on and on seamlessly.
The icing on the not so very delectable cake, is ‘Where’s the Tiger?’ by Surendra Monanty and is narrated by the tiger himself, whose sardonic wit and wry observations will both touch and astonish you.
This anthology tries to put together stories about the splendidly feral feline whose numbers are dwindling at an alarming rate. Some of the stories, like ‘When Grandfather Tickled A Tiger’ and ‘Where’s the Tiger?’ work beautifully, while some of the not so riveting tales make the book a monotonous, yawn-inducing read.
This collection disappointed me.
Pick up this book only if you are a die-hard Ruskin Bond fan. This collecting will raise your hopes, only to dash them to the ground and perhaps lift them again, until you are left bouncing like my favourite tiger Tigger, all the way through the hundred acre wood.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Publisher: Rupa
Price: Rs.95
‘When The Tiger was King’, edited and compiled by Ruskin Bond, has an alluring cover page.
The orange backdrop accentuates the charcoal stripes and contours of the regal feline, while solemn eyes peer hauntingly at you.
Unfortunately, the rest of the book is not nearly as enchanting.The foreword is written with warmth, in which the author’s admiration for the fiery tiger is evident, and the ‘Tiger facts’ and ‘Tiger Talk’ sections are engrossing.
The first story in the collection, ‘When Grandfather Tickled A Tiger’, by Ruskin Bond, is simply delightful, peppered with flecks of delicious humour.
‘Gond Tiger Fable of Singbaba’, ‘The Tiger of Chao Cheng’; folk tales from India and China speak of the noble majesty and honour of the tiger.
‘The Tiger in the Tunnel’, again by Ruskin Bond, is a poignant, stirring story that returns to reverberate in your soul long after you finish reading it. ‘The Life of A Tiger’, by S Eardly Wilmot, is a true, nevertheless dreary tale that does not manage to hold your attention for long.
‘Man Eater’, ‘Man Eater of Botta Singaurum’, ‘Sandy Beresford’s Tigerhunt’, by Frank Buck with Edward Anthony, Henry Astbury Leveson and Charles A Kincaid, feel out of place, since they seem to glorify the pastime of capturing and killing tigers, which left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. A sort of reverence and awe is attached to the poaching, which is clearly not what this collection should be aiming at.
‘The Langra Tigress’, by Hugh Allen, speaks of the relationship between the forest, its inhabitants, and man. It would have been quite enjoyable if not for the fact that is stretches on and on seamlessly.
The icing on the not so very delectable cake, is ‘Where’s the Tiger?’ by Surendra Monanty and is narrated by the tiger himself, whose sardonic wit and wry observations will both touch and astonish you.
This anthology tries to put together stories about the splendidly feral feline whose numbers are dwindling at an alarming rate. Some of the stories, like ‘When Grandfather Tickled A Tiger’ and ‘Where’s the Tiger?’ work beautifully, while some of the not so riveting tales make the book a monotonous, yawn-inducing read.
This collection disappointed me.
Pick up this book only if you are a die-hard Ruskin Bond fan. This collecting will raise your hopes, only to dash them to the ground and perhaps lift them again, until you are left bouncing like my favourite tiger Tigger, all the way through the hundred acre wood.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Atisa and his Flying Machine - Review
'Atisa and his Flying Machine', by Anu Kumar, is the story of an intrepid boy Atisa, who with his wonderfully aerodynamic machine, escorts Hiuen Tsang the scholar, from Central Asia to the Buddhist centres of learning in India.
Atisa and his Flying Machine
Author: Anu Kumar
Publisher: Puffin
Price: Rs.175
Remember Hiuen Tsang, the Chinese monk who visited India centuries ago? If History is not your strong point, and all the people, places and events of the past are in a colourful, mocking blur, then we sail in the same boat.
‘Atisa and his Flying Machine’, by Anu Kumar, is the story of an intrepid boy Atisa, who with his wonderfully aerodynamic machine, escorts Hiuen Tsang the scholar, from Central Asia to the Buddhist centres of learning in India. Atisa possesses weirdly useful gadgets like the umbrella shaped sound catcher, and the lantern that dons different colours with changes in the weather.
But peril looms ahead, for there is a deadly assassin on their trail who will stop at nothing to vanquish Hiuen Tsang. Will Atisa, Hiuen Tsang and his acolytes overcome the adversity that threatens to destroy their quest, or will the sniper manage to ruin their journey?
The best part of this book is that you get to savour history at an upfront and personal level, albeit with some extra tadka!
Until then, I’d always thought of Hiuen Tsang as a vague, scholarly, stick figure cloaked in much too loose robes. Now, he is endowed with a rather endearing personality. Taxila, Bamiyan, Kannauj, Nalanda, Badami, earlier inconspicuous pinpricks on the Asian landscape, now seem like magnificent centres of art and learning tucked away in the archives of time.
In the beginning, I was confused; not having read the previous books in the series, but after the first few pages, the sheer ingenuity of the tale had me hooked. The detailed descriptions of the prevailing weather had me feeling a little impatient initially though.
This slender volume, spangled with enticingly enchanting illustrations, will ensnare you with its warm humour, rich locales, well sketched out characters and most of all, with its enjoyably imaginative plot. Don’t miss it!
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Atisa and his Flying Machine
Author: Anu Kumar
Publisher: Puffin
Price: Rs.175
Remember Hiuen Tsang, the Chinese monk who visited India centuries ago? If History is not your strong point, and all the people, places and events of the past are in a colourful, mocking blur, then we sail in the same boat.
‘Atisa and his Flying Machine’, by Anu Kumar, is the story of an intrepid boy Atisa, who with his wonderfully aerodynamic machine, escorts Hiuen Tsang the scholar, from Central Asia to the Buddhist centres of learning in India. Atisa possesses weirdly useful gadgets like the umbrella shaped sound catcher, and the lantern that dons different colours with changes in the weather.
But peril looms ahead, for there is a deadly assassin on their trail who will stop at nothing to vanquish Hiuen Tsang. Will Atisa, Hiuen Tsang and his acolytes overcome the adversity that threatens to destroy their quest, or will the sniper manage to ruin their journey?
The best part of this book is that you get to savour history at an upfront and personal level, albeit with some extra tadka!
Until then, I’d always thought of Hiuen Tsang as a vague, scholarly, stick figure cloaked in much too loose robes. Now, he is endowed with a rather endearing personality. Taxila, Bamiyan, Kannauj, Nalanda, Badami, earlier inconspicuous pinpricks on the Asian landscape, now seem like magnificent centres of art and learning tucked away in the archives of time.
In the beginning, I was confused; not having read the previous books in the series, but after the first few pages, the sheer ingenuity of the tale had me hooked. The detailed descriptions of the prevailing weather had me feeling a little impatient initially though.
This slender volume, spangled with enticingly enchanting illustrations, will ensnare you with its warm humour, rich locales, well sketched out characters and most of all, with its enjoyably imaginative plot. Don’t miss it!
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Thursday, December 9, 2010
SWIRLING HAPPINESS
The world’s got a
Lilt in her step
Spring in her flight
Revelling in
Intoxicatingly frisky delight.
Nature’s frost bitten fingers
Tickle her spine
She smiles a bit, giggles awhile
Proceeds to guffaw with glee sublime.
The world’s
Paddling in the pool
Of garrulous grins
A whimsical tippler, a fool
Misery and Pain,
Passers-by quite strange
Ephemeral as evening rain.
All worries, stark sorrows
Flung carelessly
Into swirling chasms of happiness
Sucked into the vortex
Of giddy gladness
They flounder uselessly.
Moisten your lips
With the nectar of mirth
The world’s glugging unabashedly
In doubt or despair
Laugh uproariously
Or do you fancy a tranquil beam?
The world’s waltzing with joy
All smiles and laughs
Frolicking fantastically
In dizzy abandon
She pirouettes and whirls
The dance of ecstasy.
Malvika Parthasarathy
Cluny Convent High School
Lilt in her step
Spring in her flight
Revelling in
Intoxicatingly frisky delight.
Nature’s frost bitten fingers
Tickle her spine
She smiles a bit, giggles awhile
Proceeds to guffaw with glee sublime.
The world’s
Paddling in the pool
Of garrulous grins
A whimsical tippler, a fool
Misery and Pain,
Passers-by quite strange
Ephemeral as evening rain.
All worries, stark sorrows
Flung carelessly
Into swirling chasms of happiness
Sucked into the vortex
Of giddy gladness
They flounder uselessly.
Moisten your lips
With the nectar of mirth
The world’s glugging unabashedly
In doubt or despair
Laugh uproariously
Or do you fancy a tranquil beam?
The world’s waltzing with joy
All smiles and laughs
Frolicking fantastically
In dizzy abandon
She pirouettes and whirls
The dance of ecstasy.
Malvika Parthasarathy
Cluny Convent High School
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