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
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Review of "The Fang of Summoning"
A roller coaster ride - The Fang of Summoning’ by Giti Chandra is not your typical magical story.
It is an exhilarating roller-coaster ride [ I know, this does sound clichéd, but there’s no better way to describe it], initially gathering momentum so subtly that you barely notice it, and then plunging you headfirst into a fantastically concocted fantasy that will have you gasping for breath. Hurtling between 21st century Gurgaon and the frozen mountainside of 11th century Iceland, it follows the struggle between six children and the terrifyingly sinister Edasich, or hyena.
The eye on the cover page is startlingly similar to that of the one on the cover page of Brisingr [third in the Eragon series], but is nevertheless alluring. It makes you think of bewitchment and breathtaking battles, which is what ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is about.
Amidst the blazing conflagration of the Aurora Borealis, or The Northern Lights, Vasuki, a powerful, dragon-like being leaves crystals of immeasurable enchantment or Starstones with three different guardians. Two of these guardians are lost in time.
A thousand years later, in Gurgaon, India, six cousins begin to acquire certain powers. Not your regular Superman- Wonder woman stuff, but abilities that shimmer with out of this world awesomeness. Akshat and Adit, the eighteen year old twins, can communicate with each other mentally, and can make copies of themselves; thousands of living , sentient, thinking copies of themselves.
Thirteen year old Amar can [yes, literally] play metal out of his iPod with his dextrous fingers and well timed crescendos. Ananya, his nine year old sister, can make anyone do anything she orders them to do. Two and a half year old Noor can make the pictures that she scrawls with her crayons come alive. And Tarini’s got something that the Adversary desperately wants. These gifts will ultimately lead to an epoch making battle that will determine their destines, and ours.
The third guardian, Mr. Harish Chandra, is the grandfather of the superpower possessing cousins, and trains them for the final battle that is to come. Will the children, with Vasuki’s help, triumph over Edasich, or will Edasich and his army of ‘ferals’ [untamed, hyena-like beasts] destroy the world as we know it ?
The author skilfully combines astronomy, flecks of humour, Old Norse legends, and ancient Indian mythology.
The story is crammed with tangibly real characters like quiet, wise Mrs. Chandra as well as some completely wacko ones, like Hsima, the ‘tooth fairy’ who is a charismatic, witty, buoy of a man.
The book starts off sluggishly, but after the first few chapters the tale seems to whizz past you at a breathtaking pace. Once you get past the first few overly descriptive pages, you will find the book simply unputdownable.
The book feels sort of like a jigsaw puzzle, with all the pieces fitting in snugly only at the end. Until the last chapter, you have no clue about what exactly is going on, [the parents and the uncle of the kids strike a chord with the reader since they are similarly baffled by the strange happenings] but the story is nevertheless gripping.
The book is categorized as ‘young adult fiction’, but can be enjoyed by an older audience as well.
It’s excellent that Indian authors are being encouraged to explore genres like fantasy. ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is a tale that knits together vivid descriptions, skilfully sequenced battles, and mind-boggling twists and turns.
Don’t miss it!
Price : Rs.250
Publisher: Hachette
Author : Giti Chandra
Fiction
It is an exhilarating roller-coaster ride [ I know, this does sound clichéd, but there’s no better way to describe it], initially gathering momentum so subtly that you barely notice it, and then plunging you headfirst into a fantastically concocted fantasy that will have you gasping for breath. Hurtling between 21st century Gurgaon and the frozen mountainside of 11th century Iceland, it follows the struggle between six children and the terrifyingly sinister Edasich, or hyena.
The eye on the cover page is startlingly similar to that of the one on the cover page of Brisingr [third in the Eragon series], but is nevertheless alluring. It makes you think of bewitchment and breathtaking battles, which is what ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is about.
Amidst the blazing conflagration of the Aurora Borealis, or The Northern Lights, Vasuki, a powerful, dragon-like being leaves crystals of immeasurable enchantment or Starstones with three different guardians. Two of these guardians are lost in time.
A thousand years later, in Gurgaon, India, six cousins begin to acquire certain powers. Not your regular Superman- Wonder woman stuff, but abilities that shimmer with out of this world awesomeness. Akshat and Adit, the eighteen year old twins, can communicate with each other mentally, and can make copies of themselves; thousands of living , sentient, thinking copies of themselves.
Thirteen year old Amar can [yes, literally] play metal out of his iPod with his dextrous fingers and well timed crescendos. Ananya, his nine year old sister, can make anyone do anything she orders them to do. Two and a half year old Noor can make the pictures that she scrawls with her crayons come alive. And Tarini’s got something that the Adversary desperately wants. These gifts will ultimately lead to an epoch making battle that will determine their destines, and ours.
The third guardian, Mr. Harish Chandra, is the grandfather of the superpower possessing cousins, and trains them for the final battle that is to come. Will the children, with Vasuki’s help, triumph over Edasich, or will Edasich and his army of ‘ferals’ [untamed, hyena-like beasts] destroy the world as we know it ?
The author skilfully combines astronomy, flecks of humour, Old Norse legends, and ancient Indian mythology.
The story is crammed with tangibly real characters like quiet, wise Mrs. Chandra as well as some completely wacko ones, like Hsima, the ‘tooth fairy’ who is a charismatic, witty, buoy of a man.
The book starts off sluggishly, but after the first few chapters the tale seems to whizz past you at a breathtaking pace. Once you get past the first few overly descriptive pages, you will find the book simply unputdownable.
The book feels sort of like a jigsaw puzzle, with all the pieces fitting in snugly only at the end. Until the last chapter, you have no clue about what exactly is going on, [the parents and the uncle of the kids strike a chord with the reader since they are similarly baffled by the strange happenings] but the story is nevertheless gripping.
The book is categorized as ‘young adult fiction’, but can be enjoyed by an older audience as well.
It’s excellent that Indian authors are being encouraged to explore genres like fantasy. ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is a tale that knits together vivid descriptions, skilfully sequenced battles, and mind-boggling twists and turns.
Don’t miss it!
Price : Rs.250
Publisher: Hachette
Author : Giti Chandra
Fiction
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Writer’s Magic!
Pick up the dusty book on the shelf
Give it a thorough rub
Don't throw it a cursory glance
That would be the silliest snub
Open it, and you never know,
What treasures may tumble out !
Inspiration Inexplicable tingle
Running down my spine
Oozes into creaky fingers
Infusing them with life
Sinews just can't stop quivering
Writhing in ecstasy
Harried, frantic hunting
For a paintbrush, biro ,lipstick
Anything that can write !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Give it a thorough rub
Don't throw it a cursory glance
That would be the silliest snub
Open it, and you never know,
What treasures may tumble out !
Inspiration Inexplicable tingle
Running down my spine
Oozes into creaky fingers
Infusing them with life
Sinews just can't stop quivering
Writhing in ecstasy
Harried, frantic hunting
For a paintbrush, biro ,lipstick
Anything that can write !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
The Wink that came out of the muddy drain
There was a rat
Who could inspire terror
Notorious miscreant
With gleaming teeth and inky brows
Prancing jauntily across the hall
Pilfered treasure between clenched jaws
Thick lashing tail; quite a pretty petunia pink
She was quite covetous of it
Or so I think.
Found her one day on the table
Nestling snugly amidst the fruit
Kissing passionately an apple most crimson
Tail wrapped around her healthy loot
Rodent eyes shut in ecstasy.
Thwack !
I kung-fu chopped with a broom
But she was much too swift,
Light and sure.
She scampered away to her hiding place
Underneath the revoltingly musty drain
Olympian running an epoch- making race
Whack !
I leaped at her in vain
But it was much too late
She had bested me again
But not before I could see
The jubilant wink she flung at me !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Who could inspire terror
Notorious miscreant
With gleaming teeth and inky brows
Prancing jauntily across the hall
Pilfered treasure between clenched jaws
Thick lashing tail; quite a pretty petunia pink
She was quite covetous of it
Or so I think.
Found her one day on the table
Nestling snugly amidst the fruit
Kissing passionately an apple most crimson
Tail wrapped around her healthy loot
Rodent eyes shut in ecstasy.
Thwack !
I kung-fu chopped with a broom
But she was much too swift,
Light and sure.
She scampered away to her hiding place
Underneath the revoltingly musty drain
Olympian running an epoch- making race
Whack !
I leaped at her in vain
But it was much too late
She had bested me again
But not before I could see
The jubilant wink she flung at me !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Seekers of Solace
Hold your breath The world is still
Only the winds deign to whisper.
The echoes of quiet solemness
Reverberating gently
In the hallowed halls of the soul;
The only flicker of movement.
The merry simper of the stars
Obliterated by the mist of darkness
No longer embracing
Those anxious Seekers of Solace
Turned away gloomily disheartened.
The trees swish in hushed silence
Stealthily swapping the secrets of the past
The moon bathes in luminous tranquility
She revels in the eve.
Wrapped snugly in a cloak of serenity
Houses by the musty kerb
Savour the gentle solitude
While their inhabitants
Slumber fitfully.
The chronicler of Midnight’s murmurs
Quill quivering in the quietness
Swathed by the overwhelming stillness
Is lost in the inexorable peace
The silence of the witching hour
Powerful, resonant and true.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Only the winds deign to whisper.
The echoes of quiet solemness
Reverberating gently
In the hallowed halls of the soul;
The only flicker of movement.
The merry simper of the stars
Obliterated by the mist of darkness
No longer embracing
Those anxious Seekers of Solace
Turned away gloomily disheartened.
The trees swish in hushed silence
Stealthily swapping the secrets of the past
The moon bathes in luminous tranquility
She revels in the eve.
Wrapped snugly in a cloak of serenity
Houses by the musty kerb
Savour the gentle solitude
While their inhabitants
Slumber fitfully.
The chronicler of Midnight’s murmurs
Quill quivering in the quietness
Swathed by the overwhelming stillness
Is lost in the inexorable peace
The silence of the witching hour
Powerful, resonant and true.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Thursday, November 18, 2010
When days poured into night...
Malvika Parthasarthy, Cluny Convent School
I am ancient. The respect I command among my fellow Mumbaikars is unparalleled, and people speak in almost reverential whispers when they utter my name.
My birth took place years ago, when the blueprints of the Taj were merely ideas drifting about in somebody’s head. It is and was my only refuge- I know no
other home and don’t intend to shift my premises anytime soon.
The Taj is a timeless monument that has withstood the test of time- still standing complacently in its majestic grandeur, overlooking the unfathomable blue waters of the Arabian Sea.
People usually find me within the compound, basking in the scorching, relentless warmth of the Mumbai sun.
For eternity and a day, time seemed to pass indefinitely – seconds gushing into minutes and day pouring into night.
But one night, time seemed to stand still as I witnessed one of the most heinous and brutal attacks of evil forces on our county.
The twenty-sixth of November, 2008, otherwise an ordinary, uneventful day was rendered indelible in the annals of Mumbai’s, nay, in the nation’s history, by the attack of malevolent forces on our world.
At about nine thirty in the night, two men armed with rifles entered the Taj, India’s most prominent symbol of hospitality and opulence.
The masked men began to fire at the guests with precision, sending scream after scream piercing through the quietness of the night.
A bullet grazed my shoulder, but bullets do not hurt me as much as pickaxes do.
There was blood everywhere, and dead bodies lay together in a mangled mess. The men began to throw baseball-shaped wedges at my home, and its wings caught fire upon impact.
Somewhere, a window shattered, sending shards of sharp-edged glass flying everywhere.
Bright orange flames licked the Presidency Suite merrily, contrasting sharply with the murky blue of the night sky.
More indiscriminate firing, more explosions, more deaths, more screams.
By then the media had arrived, bringing with it swarms of reporters, photographers, and amateur journalists, while the smell of death hung in the air.
Bombs and grenades continued to explode, killing hundreds of men, women and children of all nationalities.
In the morning, a few men in helicopters arrived, and I understood that they constituted the rescue party.
A few flecks of fear and doubt clouded their eyes initially, and their hands shook precariously as they held the guns that could cause cold, searing grief, and also save hundreds.
Then the Taj loomed over them, a furious feral beast burning with the blazing, almost insolent resplendence of the flames that danced around it with callous nonchalance. Their eyes then began to burn with rage; smouldering white-hot rage that burned brighter than the flames consuming the Taj, and the smatterings of terror that had hitherto obscured their eyes disappeared.
Survivors of last night’s attack were rescued.
The media continued to photograph the Taj which was still burning a bright orange.
Inside, more gun shots, more explosions, and more deaths.
After two days, the firing ceased, and I knew that we had won. All the men with rifles, except one, were dead. A year has now passed.
The Taj had reopened recently, and it is more magnificent than ever, like a phoenix emerging from the ashes.
I still bear scars of last years attack. Sometimes it seems almost surreal – a hazy memory lost in the archives of my reminiscences, while at other times, every image, every explosion seems to be etched into my mind; distinct, painful and terrifying.
But a sense of pride washes over me as I recall the fearlessness of the NSG commandos and the staff who had shed their own blood so that others might live.
Hundreds of people were massacred and they cannot be brought back to life.
Candle light marches and video tributes cannot obliterate the pain .Or the shroud-like fear that hangs bleakly in the air.
The scars will take a long time to heal, but life continues as it did two years ago.
I am a victim and a survivor.
I am the old peepal tree in the Taj parking lot.
I am ancient. The respect I command among my fellow Mumbaikars is unparalleled, and people speak in almost reverential whispers when they utter my name.
My birth took place years ago, when the blueprints of the Taj were merely ideas drifting about in somebody’s head. It is and was my only refuge- I know no
other home and don’t intend to shift my premises anytime soon.
The Taj is a timeless monument that has withstood the test of time- still standing complacently in its majestic grandeur, overlooking the unfathomable blue waters of the Arabian Sea.
People usually find me within the compound, basking in the scorching, relentless warmth of the Mumbai sun.
For eternity and a day, time seemed to pass indefinitely – seconds gushing into minutes and day pouring into night.
But one night, time seemed to stand still as I witnessed one of the most heinous and brutal attacks of evil forces on our county.
The twenty-sixth of November, 2008, otherwise an ordinary, uneventful day was rendered indelible in the annals of Mumbai’s, nay, in the nation’s history, by the attack of malevolent forces on our world.
At about nine thirty in the night, two men armed with rifles entered the Taj, India’s most prominent symbol of hospitality and opulence.
The masked men began to fire at the guests with precision, sending scream after scream piercing through the quietness of the night.
A bullet grazed my shoulder, but bullets do not hurt me as much as pickaxes do.
There was blood everywhere, and dead bodies lay together in a mangled mess. The men began to throw baseball-shaped wedges at my home, and its wings caught fire upon impact.
Somewhere, a window shattered, sending shards of sharp-edged glass flying everywhere.
Bright orange flames licked the Presidency Suite merrily, contrasting sharply with the murky blue of the night sky.
More indiscriminate firing, more explosions, more deaths, more screams.
By then the media had arrived, bringing with it swarms of reporters, photographers, and amateur journalists, while the smell of death hung in the air.
Bombs and grenades continued to explode, killing hundreds of men, women and children of all nationalities.
In the morning, a few men in helicopters arrived, and I understood that they constituted the rescue party.
A few flecks of fear and doubt clouded their eyes initially, and their hands shook precariously as they held the guns that could cause cold, searing grief, and also save hundreds.
Then the Taj loomed over them, a furious feral beast burning with the blazing, almost insolent resplendence of the flames that danced around it with callous nonchalance. Their eyes then began to burn with rage; smouldering white-hot rage that burned brighter than the flames consuming the Taj, and the smatterings of terror that had hitherto obscured their eyes disappeared.
Survivors of last night’s attack were rescued.
The media continued to photograph the Taj which was still burning a bright orange.
Inside, more gun shots, more explosions, and more deaths.
After two days, the firing ceased, and I knew that we had won. All the men with rifles, except one, were dead. A year has now passed.
The Taj had reopened recently, and it is more magnificent than ever, like a phoenix emerging from the ashes.
I still bear scars of last years attack. Sometimes it seems almost surreal – a hazy memory lost in the archives of my reminiscences, while at other times, every image, every explosion seems to be etched into my mind; distinct, painful and terrifying.
But a sense of pride washes over me as I recall the fearlessness of the NSG commandos and the staff who had shed their own blood so that others might live.
Hundreds of people were massacred and they cannot be brought back to life.
Candle light marches and video tributes cannot obliterate the pain .Or the shroud-like fear that hangs bleakly in the air.
The scars will take a long time to heal, but life continues as it did two years ago.
I am a victim and a survivor.
I am the old peepal tree in the Taj parking lot.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Dreams are knit of hope
The graceful pirouette of a feather
Swirling, whirling, curtsying
As it rode blithely
On the whimsical wings of the wind,
Seemed to speak
Inexplicably and gently
Of the sweet serenity of a dream.
Dreams that are knit of hope
Woven dextrously with longing and desire
Bathed in the most vibrant hues
Of an enchantingly eclectic palette
Sometimes impossibly surreal
Other times attainably alluring.
Dreams that take us on a voyage
Breathtakingly ethereal glimpses
Of worlds unfamiliar, unexplored
Jostling for space
With the more genuine
Tangible, just out of reach.
Dreams that one can just slip into
Flitting through the thin, mist-like veil
That separates the mundanely humdrum
From the world of make believe
Riding jauntily on the winds of imagination
Frolicking friskily with the fantastic
Dreams that can ensnare
With malevolent magic, sinister and beguiling
If you overstay your visit
You will forever be trapped
Just like the naive feather
Tossed about by the winds
Caught is a warped hallucination
Forever swirling, twirling, whirling
Dancing the delusional dance of dreams.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Swirling, whirling, curtsying
As it rode blithely
On the whimsical wings of the wind,
Seemed to speak
Inexplicably and gently
Of the sweet serenity of a dream.
Dreams that are knit of hope
Woven dextrously with longing and desire
Bathed in the most vibrant hues
Of an enchantingly eclectic palette
Sometimes impossibly surreal
Other times attainably alluring.
Dreams that take us on a voyage
Breathtakingly ethereal glimpses
Of worlds unfamiliar, unexplored
Jostling for space
With the more genuine
Tangible, just out of reach.
Dreams that one can just slip into
Flitting through the thin, mist-like veil
That separates the mundanely humdrum
From the world of make believe
Riding jauntily on the winds of imagination
Frolicking friskily with the fantastic
Dreams that can ensnare
With malevolent magic, sinister and beguiling
If you overstay your visit
You will forever be trapped
Just like the naive feather
Tossed about by the winds
Caught is a warped hallucination
Forever swirling, twirling, whirling
Dancing the delusional dance of dreams.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Friday, October 22, 2010
You would cut us up for mere beauty?
She peered inquisitively through the bars of the cage. The next moment, she regretted it.
A scalding stab of fear seared through her soul with fervent intensity, and revulsion shot down her throat so swiftly that she almost gagged. What she had seen was a reminder of her own inexorable fate; an inexplicably terrible destiny to which she was inextricably bound.
The enclosure she shared with the dozen others of her kind reeked of vomit and faeces. The hands that reached into the cage never cleaned; they occasionally threw food callously into a bowl, but mostly, they would grab their next victim.
She’d never met her family, but would sometimes weave intricate imaginary pictures of them in her mind. No doubt they had met, or would shortly meet, the same agonizing end as all those born in the prison.
Loneliness permeated every crevice of the cage, draining its inhabitants of every emotion except the omnipresent dread, and wrenching them from hope and love. Making friends was next to useless. Nobody knew who would be chosen next by those malevolent hands.
One day, they chose her. Fingers gloved in plastic seized her, digging into her flesh ruthlessly and clutching her writhing, struggling form tightly.
Smouldering, poisonous black fluid was poured into her eyes, and she screamed in pain; blazing, all consuming pain that threatened to destroy her very existence. She kicked as hard as she could, but they wouldn’t let her go. Those hands gripped her unyieldingly as more fluid dripped into her eyes. This time it was so tremendously unbearable that she executed a sort of flying leap. A white-hot spasm of pain ran swiftly through her leg. It was broken. The hands still held the bone while she dangled precariously from it, terror ripping her heart mercilessly into shreds.
It wasn’t over yet. Fluid trickled steadily into her eyes and those hands held her as firmly as ever, turning a deaf ear to those cries. Her vision blurred with each venomous drop, and then suddenly, all was black.
But the sting continued to ravage her; and she wished feverishly that somebody would put her out of her suffering.
She was then thrown, alone and sightless; throbbing with overwhelming distress, and blazing with piercing despair, into another prison. She still lives, those wounds of misery and desolation coupled with her blindness and loneliness slowly but surely, snuffing her life out.
A few months later, a young woman runs a brush dipped in mascara along her lashes, and smiles in satisfaction at the mirror.
Her lashes are thick, dark and voluminous. That is all that matters. After all, what is the life of a rabbit worth?
Every year, thousands and thousands of innocent animals [ rabbits, mice, even dogs and cats] are mutilated, blinded and killed in laboratories where companies selling cosmetics perform horrifying and cruel experiments to test their products, despite the availability of more effective, cruel-free alternatives. Play a role in stopping this heinous and barbaric practice by boycotting the cosmetics marketed by these companies. For a complete list of companies that test on animals, visit the Peta website.
We can change the world around us by making wiser, kinder choices .Spread the message. Remember, millions of helpless creatures are counting on you in hope of a better tomorrow.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
A scalding stab of fear seared through her soul with fervent intensity, and revulsion shot down her throat so swiftly that she almost gagged. What she had seen was a reminder of her own inexorable fate; an inexplicably terrible destiny to which she was inextricably bound.
The enclosure she shared with the dozen others of her kind reeked of vomit and faeces. The hands that reached into the cage never cleaned; they occasionally threw food callously into a bowl, but mostly, they would grab their next victim.
She’d never met her family, but would sometimes weave intricate imaginary pictures of them in her mind. No doubt they had met, or would shortly meet, the same agonizing end as all those born in the prison.
Loneliness permeated every crevice of the cage, draining its inhabitants of every emotion except the omnipresent dread, and wrenching them from hope and love. Making friends was next to useless. Nobody knew who would be chosen next by those malevolent hands.
One day, they chose her. Fingers gloved in plastic seized her, digging into her flesh ruthlessly and clutching her writhing, struggling form tightly.
Smouldering, poisonous black fluid was poured into her eyes, and she screamed in pain; blazing, all consuming pain that threatened to destroy her very existence. She kicked as hard as she could, but they wouldn’t let her go. Those hands gripped her unyieldingly as more fluid dripped into her eyes. This time it was so tremendously unbearable that she executed a sort of flying leap. A white-hot spasm of pain ran swiftly through her leg. It was broken. The hands still held the bone while she dangled precariously from it, terror ripping her heart mercilessly into shreds.
It wasn’t over yet. Fluid trickled steadily into her eyes and those hands held her as firmly as ever, turning a deaf ear to those cries. Her vision blurred with each venomous drop, and then suddenly, all was black.
But the sting continued to ravage her; and she wished feverishly that somebody would put her out of her suffering.
She was then thrown, alone and sightless; throbbing with overwhelming distress, and blazing with piercing despair, into another prison. She still lives, those wounds of misery and desolation coupled with her blindness and loneliness slowly but surely, snuffing her life out.
A few months later, a young woman runs a brush dipped in mascara along her lashes, and smiles in satisfaction at the mirror.
Her lashes are thick, dark and voluminous. That is all that matters. After all, what is the life of a rabbit worth?
Every year, thousands and thousands of innocent animals [ rabbits, mice, even dogs and cats] are mutilated, blinded and killed in laboratories where companies selling cosmetics perform horrifying and cruel experiments to test their products, despite the availability of more effective, cruel-free alternatives. Play a role in stopping this heinous and barbaric practice by boycotting the cosmetics marketed by these companies. For a complete list of companies that test on animals, visit the Peta website.
We can change the world around us by making wiser, kinder choices .Spread the message. Remember, millions of helpless creatures are counting on you in hope of a better tomorrow.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Friday, October 15, 2010
Dreamy Safety-pin windows ! (Inspiration from the movie - Beautiful Mind)
Pins,
Polished with morbid malevolence
Sharpened with whets of wickedness
Prick with painful precision
First with callous apathy
Then with a mocking indulgence
Thrusting her
Firmly and resolutely
Into the murky echelons of despondency.
Pricking ceaselessly at her soul
With gritty determination
Unearthing those awful sores
Of inexplicable misery and dejection
Mercilessly mauling all bringers of hope
They jab on.
Even if she couldn’t heal
Those pin-pricked sores
Those sores flecked with evil intent,
Garnished with sinful slyness,
All was not quite so inexorable
For she could leap
With stealth and agility
Through the window
To worlds lying far beyond our own.
Worlds woven; intricately, exquisitely
With exotic imaginings
Bewitched into being
With enchanting lies
Into whose refuge she could flee
To escape those painful pricks
An ethereal wall of deception
Reinforced with tantalizing dreams
Shielding her from those pin induced twinges
Still attacking her with rhythmic regularity
More than you ever would know.
But she is safe for now
Amidst a labyrinth of lies
Lost in the mist of myriad worlds
The faint flicker of a smile plays upon her face.
Malvika Parthasarthy, Cluny Convent School
Polished with morbid malevolence
Sharpened with whets of wickedness
Prick with painful precision
First with callous apathy
Then with a mocking indulgence
Thrusting her
Firmly and resolutely
Into the murky echelons of despondency.
Pricking ceaselessly at her soul
With gritty determination
Unearthing those awful sores
Of inexplicable misery and dejection
Mercilessly mauling all bringers of hope
They jab on.
Even if she couldn’t heal
Those pin-pricked sores
Those sores flecked with evil intent,
Garnished with sinful slyness,
All was not quite so inexorable
For she could leap
With stealth and agility
Through the window
To worlds lying far beyond our own.
Worlds woven; intricately, exquisitely
With exotic imaginings
Bewitched into being
With enchanting lies
Into whose refuge she could flee
To escape those painful pricks
An ethereal wall of deception
Reinforced with tantalizing dreams
Shielding her from those pin induced twinges
Still attacking her with rhythmic regularity
More than you ever would know.
But she is safe for now
Amidst a labyrinth of lies
Lost in the mist of myriad worlds
The faint flicker of a smile plays upon her face.
Malvika Parthasarthy, Cluny Convent School
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The PURR of ENCHANTMENT!
I met a cat
She had the loveliest fur
Spangled with streaks of enchantment
And possessing the most enticing purr
Eyes illumined with flecks of blue
Emanating an ethereal light,.
Unfathomably knowing and true
Love, brimming over with torrid intensity
Welled up inside me
Wiping out all traces of despondency
Had never been very fond of cats
But she was different
Who could resist that wet, tiny nose
That shimmered with nascent dew?
Or those eyes; tranquil oceans of insatiable hope?
Or that almost musical mew?
I wanted to give her a home
The diminutive bundle of fur and bewitchment
Couldn’t leave her there, all alone
That porcelain-doll fragility
Those soft, endearing cries
Reverberating with entrancing serenity
Picked the kitten up, held her my arms
Stroking that magic-flecked fleece
The gentle purring, the contented mews
Resonating like the rustle of restless leaves
As I shut my eyes in blissful oblivion.
I put her down, gave her a nudge
Pushed her away, couldn’t take her home
She was already owned by, or rather owned
Somebody else, never to be my own
It’s been weeks since the day
I first fell in love
With that feline of tantalizing unattainability
Now tucked away somewhere
In the archives of time
Drowned in the sea of daily humdrumness
Resurfacing with dwindling regularity
But she'll stay with me forever
The most imploring pair of eyes
Those bewitchingly beguiling waters of blue
That glimmered gleefully
With the thousand and one hues of the summer sky
Etched into my soul.
Malvika Parthasarthi, Cluny Convent School
She had the loveliest fur
Spangled with streaks of enchantment
And possessing the most enticing purr
Eyes illumined with flecks of blue
Emanating an ethereal light,.
Unfathomably knowing and true
Love, brimming over with torrid intensity
Welled up inside me
Wiping out all traces of despondency
Had never been very fond of cats
But she was different
Who could resist that wet, tiny nose
That shimmered with nascent dew?
Or those eyes; tranquil oceans of insatiable hope?
Or that almost musical mew?
I wanted to give her a home
The diminutive bundle of fur and bewitchment
Couldn’t leave her there, all alone
That porcelain-doll fragility
Those soft, endearing cries
Reverberating with entrancing serenity
Picked the kitten up, held her my arms
Stroking that magic-flecked fleece
The gentle purring, the contented mews
Resonating like the rustle of restless leaves
As I shut my eyes in blissful oblivion.
I put her down, gave her a nudge
Pushed her away, couldn’t take her home
She was already owned by, or rather owned
Somebody else, never to be my own
It’s been weeks since the day
I first fell in love
With that feline of tantalizing unattainability
Now tucked away somewhere
In the archives of time
Drowned in the sea of daily humdrumness
Resurfacing with dwindling regularity
But she'll stay with me forever
The most imploring pair of eyes
Those bewitchingly beguiling waters of blue
That glimmered gleefully
With the thousand and one hues of the summer sky
Etched into my soul.
Malvika Parthasarthi, Cluny Convent School
Friday, October 1, 2010
The life and tender times of DEWEY!
‘Dewey’ is a witty, tender, true account of the life and times of Dewey Readmore Books, the library cat of Spencer, Iowa.
Crammed clumsily into the book drop box on a frost-bitten morning, this handsome gold-dusted kitten, then emaciated and tiny, was found and rescued by the author of this book and director of the library, Vicki Myron.
The library decided to adopt Dewey, little realizing that this decision would so profoundly impact the lives of the denizens of Spencer that this kitten would go on to become a symbol of hope, togetherness and love.
The cover page is enchanting. A cat possessing eyes flecked with smatterings of the loveliest hues of jade, cloaked in robust fur gleaming with orange magic, peers almost regally into the camera, and you know that this is no ordinary feline.
Plodding through the farm crisis of the 1980’s with a sense of purposelessness, the citizens of Spencer, a farming town in Iowa, had nearly lost their zest for survival. The closely knit community that had seen its members through thick and thin was slowly, but surely disintegrating. The library was nothing more than a warehouse where books were kept, that it, until the arrival of Dewey. People from all over Iowa begin to flock to the Spencer library to visit the Dew, and soon the library turns into a centre for integration, attracting old and young alike. Watching the oh so fascinating typewriter clicking away resolutely, or hitching a ride on the book cart, this tomcat had plenty to do at the library, not to mention his main duty of making each visitor feel appreciated and loved. The colossal library, with its tall shelves, comfy couches and thousands and thousands of books, was Dewey’s home for eighteen years.
This is a touching true story of a very special, loving cat, who not only captivated Spencer with purrs, leaps and rubs, but who also went on to change the world around him, one lap at a time.
Vicki Myron’s life underwent a metamorphosis; not a sudden or jerky one, but one inspired and sculpted out of the love, companionship and support of an inimitable and intelligent animal.
This adorable, yet knowing cat was written about in several articles published in newspapers all over the world, was featured in TV shows and movies, had people driving hundreds of miles to meet him, and attained worldwide fame and recognition, but remained an extraordinary cat. Not because he did extraordinary things, but because he was extraordinary.
In this book, the author describes the inexplicably intricate, yet simple bond she shared with Dewey beautifully, and the straightforward language further enhances the charm of the book. The silken corn-stalks of Iowa shimmer vibrantly, and the vivid descriptions of the rural Midwest are quaint.
Teetering precariously towards the all too predictable poignant conclusion, you never quite get there, because you realize that this story will never have an ending. This golden-orange cat continues to live in the hearts of all those whose lives have been touched by his warmth. Read ‘Dewey’ to smile, sob and grin. Read it to be amused, enthralled and touched.
You will fall in love with this tomcat’s endearing antics, his affectionate, amiable heart, his swashbuckling, happy-go-lucky attitude, and most of all, with the Dew himself.
Malvika, Cluny Convent High School
Crammed clumsily into the book drop box on a frost-bitten morning, this handsome gold-dusted kitten, then emaciated and tiny, was found and rescued by the author of this book and director of the library, Vicki Myron.
The library decided to adopt Dewey, little realizing that this decision would so profoundly impact the lives of the denizens of Spencer that this kitten would go on to become a symbol of hope, togetherness and love.
The cover page is enchanting. A cat possessing eyes flecked with smatterings of the loveliest hues of jade, cloaked in robust fur gleaming with orange magic, peers almost regally into the camera, and you know that this is no ordinary feline.
Plodding through the farm crisis of the 1980’s with a sense of purposelessness, the citizens of Spencer, a farming town in Iowa, had nearly lost their zest for survival. The closely knit community that had seen its members through thick and thin was slowly, but surely disintegrating. The library was nothing more than a warehouse where books were kept, that it, until the arrival of Dewey. People from all over Iowa begin to flock to the Spencer library to visit the Dew, and soon the library turns into a centre for integration, attracting old and young alike. Watching the oh so fascinating typewriter clicking away resolutely, or hitching a ride on the book cart, this tomcat had plenty to do at the library, not to mention his main duty of making each visitor feel appreciated and loved. The colossal library, with its tall shelves, comfy couches and thousands and thousands of books, was Dewey’s home for eighteen years.
This is a touching true story of a very special, loving cat, who not only captivated Spencer with purrs, leaps and rubs, but who also went on to change the world around him, one lap at a time.
Vicki Myron’s life underwent a metamorphosis; not a sudden or jerky one, but one inspired and sculpted out of the love, companionship and support of an inimitable and intelligent animal.
This adorable, yet knowing cat was written about in several articles published in newspapers all over the world, was featured in TV shows and movies, had people driving hundreds of miles to meet him, and attained worldwide fame and recognition, but remained an extraordinary cat. Not because he did extraordinary things, but because he was extraordinary.
In this book, the author describes the inexplicably intricate, yet simple bond she shared with Dewey beautifully, and the straightforward language further enhances the charm of the book. The silken corn-stalks of Iowa shimmer vibrantly, and the vivid descriptions of the rural Midwest are quaint.
Teetering precariously towards the all too predictable poignant conclusion, you never quite get there, because you realize that this story will never have an ending. This golden-orange cat continues to live in the hearts of all those whose lives have been touched by his warmth. Read ‘Dewey’ to smile, sob and grin. Read it to be amused, enthralled and touched.
You will fall in love with this tomcat’s endearing antics, his affectionate, amiable heart, his swashbuckling, happy-go-lucky attitude, and most of all, with the Dew himself.
Malvika, Cluny Convent High School
Friday, September 17, 2010
Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage
Elephant Enchanted!
The moist, mud-spattered backs of the eighty elephants at the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage, Sri Lanka, glimmered with gleeful gaiety as they frolicked friskily in the shallow waters of the Maha Oya River.
Squirting jets of water into each other’s eyes with thick, hose-pipe trunks, or slathering themselves with the wet sand that caked the banks of the river, these lovably colossal creatures had trumpeted their way into our hearts.
The Pinnewala orphanage for elephants, situated halfway between Colombo and Kandy, was established in 1975 to protect and nurse elephant foundlings. On a recent visit to Sri Lanka, we decided to visit this haven.
The gnarled, pot-holed road that lead to Pinnewala had us quivering with nauseous discomfort, but the lusciously verdant cloak that draped the countryside managed to mitigate its cons.
Stepping out of the by now claustrophobia inducing car, we were assailed by the rather overpowering aroma of elephant poo. Following the trail of fresh droppings, we walked a couple of hundred metres to the river. The path to the river was flanked by quaint souvenir stalls that sold all sorts of ethnic memorabilia.
On reaching the Maha Oya River, the delicious smell of elephant mingled with the delicate aroma of the surrounding vegetation infused the air with its rustic charm. An outdoor cafe, frothing over with excited tourists, overlooked the bathing site . Besides serving cups of hot chocolate with a distinctive Sri Lankan flavour, it also treated us to an excellent view of the elephants.
With furrows etched deeply into their foreheads and eyes sparkling with wit, most elephants seemed content to slosh about lazily in the water, impervious to the love-struck stares of the visitors. Some others scrubbed the backs of their ears with gritty purposefulness, scouring the creases permeating their countenance with determined zeal.
A couple of elephants rolled about in the sludge along the banks of the river and then lay contentedly to bask in the cheerful heat of the sun. Two mahouts patrolled the bathing site, sure-footed and nimble. The elephants seemed to be a part of one large family, wrestling playfully with strong trunks and then making offers of amnesty by proffering bunches of foliage to one othe
After two hours of uninterrupted bathing, they walked in a procession along the river, flapping their ears and drenching the unsuspecting onlookers with refreshing splashes. As I ran my fingers along the woozy haired forehead of a little one, still wet with the recent dip, feelings of affection and protectiveness towards this intelligent, comical creature engulfed me with torrid intensity.
We still had an hour to go before the babies were fed, so we looked around the store selling elephant dung paper. As the name suggests, elephant dung paper is made from poo. An adult elephant consumes about 180kg of leaves and grass per day.
They drop dung around sixteen times a day. The dung is boiled with margosa, which acts as a disinfectant, and the pulp is then put through various processes to finally make paper. This paper is an environmentally sound alternative to regular paper. It also helps in the conservation of these adorably magnificent creatures whose numbers are fast dwindling.
Raja, a blind tusker stood by himself, feasting on leaves of fresh tamarind and coconut. Two exquisite tusks, the cause of his sightlessness, lent him a majestic, almost regal air. He had been shot in both eyes by poachers who were in the quest of those much coveted front teeth.
He was happy at Pinnewala, and did not seem to mind the hordes of tourists who disturbed him with the constant click-clicking of their cameras. We then trudged through the Sri Lankan slush to the stalls where the baby elephants were housed, splattering our clothes with traces of muck.
The sight of the little ones intertwining trunks and swaying to and fro on stubby, uncoordinated legs seemed to wash away all the grime and wobbliness of the journey.
They were being bottle-fed by their handlers, and milk dripped furtively down their chins [or whatever elephants call chins!]. We got to feed them as well, and encountered unexpected strength as their mouths hung hungrily onto the bottles. Feeding them gave us a feeling of inexplicable contentment, and we knew that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
Pinnewala had bewitched us with its cheerful, swashbuckling denizens and the lush beauty surrounding it, and as we said goodbye to its mud and magic flecked premises, we knew that we would be back soon, real soon.
Malvika
Cluny Convent School
The moist, mud-spattered backs of the eighty elephants at the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage, Sri Lanka, glimmered with gleeful gaiety as they frolicked friskily in the shallow waters of the Maha Oya River.
Squirting jets of water into each other’s eyes with thick, hose-pipe trunks, or slathering themselves with the wet sand that caked the banks of the river, these lovably colossal creatures had trumpeted their way into our hearts.
The Pinnewala orphanage for elephants, situated halfway between Colombo and Kandy, was established in 1975 to protect and nurse elephant foundlings. On a recent visit to Sri Lanka, we decided to visit this haven.
The gnarled, pot-holed road that lead to Pinnewala had us quivering with nauseous discomfort, but the lusciously verdant cloak that draped the countryside managed to mitigate its cons.
Stepping out of the by now claustrophobia inducing car, we were assailed by the rather overpowering aroma of elephant poo. Following the trail of fresh droppings, we walked a couple of hundred metres to the river. The path to the river was flanked by quaint souvenir stalls that sold all sorts of ethnic memorabilia.
On reaching the Maha Oya River, the delicious smell of elephant mingled with the delicate aroma of the surrounding vegetation infused the air with its rustic charm. An outdoor cafe, frothing over with excited tourists, overlooked the bathing site . Besides serving cups of hot chocolate with a distinctive Sri Lankan flavour, it also treated us to an excellent view of the elephants.
With furrows etched deeply into their foreheads and eyes sparkling with wit, most elephants seemed content to slosh about lazily in the water, impervious to the love-struck stares of the visitors. Some others scrubbed the backs of their ears with gritty purposefulness, scouring the creases permeating their countenance with determined zeal.
A couple of elephants rolled about in the sludge along the banks of the river and then lay contentedly to bask in the cheerful heat of the sun. Two mahouts patrolled the bathing site, sure-footed and nimble. The elephants seemed to be a part of one large family, wrestling playfully with strong trunks and then making offers of amnesty by proffering bunches of foliage to one othe
After two hours of uninterrupted bathing, they walked in a procession along the river, flapping their ears and drenching the unsuspecting onlookers with refreshing splashes. As I ran my fingers along the woozy haired forehead of a little one, still wet with the recent dip, feelings of affection and protectiveness towards this intelligent, comical creature engulfed me with torrid intensity.
We still had an hour to go before the babies were fed, so we looked around the store selling elephant dung paper. As the name suggests, elephant dung paper is made from poo. An adult elephant consumes about 180kg of leaves and grass per day.
They drop dung around sixteen times a day. The dung is boiled with margosa, which acts as a disinfectant, and the pulp is then put through various processes to finally make paper. This paper is an environmentally sound alternative to regular paper. It also helps in the conservation of these adorably magnificent creatures whose numbers are fast dwindling.
Raja, a blind tusker stood by himself, feasting on leaves of fresh tamarind and coconut. Two exquisite tusks, the cause of his sightlessness, lent him a majestic, almost regal air. He had been shot in both eyes by poachers who were in the quest of those much coveted front teeth.
He was happy at Pinnewala, and did not seem to mind the hordes of tourists who disturbed him with the constant click-clicking of their cameras. We then trudged through the Sri Lankan slush to the stalls where the baby elephants were housed, splattering our clothes with traces of muck.
The sight of the little ones intertwining trunks and swaying to and fro on stubby, uncoordinated legs seemed to wash away all the grime and wobbliness of the journey.
They were being bottle-fed by their handlers, and milk dripped furtively down their chins [or whatever elephants call chins!]. We got to feed them as well, and encountered unexpected strength as their mouths hung hungrily onto the bottles. Feeding them gave us a feeling of inexplicable contentment, and we knew that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
Pinnewala had bewitched us with its cheerful, swashbuckling denizens and the lush beauty surrounding it, and as we said goodbye to its mud and magic flecked premises, we knew that we would be back soon, real soon.
Malvika
Cluny Convent School
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The flowers whispered enticingly to the man who......
The man who couldn’t speak or hear
Stood alone by the pot-holed road
That slithered up the mountains
Twisting, writhing, meandering its way
Round the regal cloak of jade
Snug in a tattered shawl
A cap barely concealing
The grey wisps that garnished his pate
Creases etched into his countenance
Unfathomably deep ravines
Round his chocolate eyes
He stood amidst a cluster of flowers
Flowers flecked with fairy dust
Shimering, bewitching shards of enchantment
Dancing frivolously upon velvet petals
That glimmered with ethereal gorgeousness
The air around him seemed to sing
In celebration of the beauty he saw
With those curiously crinkled eyes.
The flowers whispered enticingly
In a language neither of us could fathom
Murmurs sparked with magic mist
And smattered with frisky delight
Intoxicatingly ecstatic
Tempestuously wild.
The frayed shawl did not matter
The loneliness rather trifling
For the music of the flowers
Had seared through the silence
That had gnawed grittily at his soul
Reverberating, resonating
Through his hitherto dormant ears
With flamboyant mirth
Drunk with splendour
Mugged by inquisitiveness
His grotesquely gnarled fingers
Trembling, quivering
Closed in [pitifully hesitant]
On an unsuspecting flower
And he yanked.
The ocean of beauty
That had swathed his recuperating essence
No longer sang in feral glee
The spell that had entranced him
With a gift of giddy happiness
Broke with a painful snap
A single flower plucked from
The carpet of red and white
Withering with wretched anger
Burning with baleful betrayal
Thrust him
Firmly and angrily
Into the resounding loneliness
And all was quiet once more.
Malvika, Cluny Convent School
Stood alone by the pot-holed road
That slithered up the mountains
Twisting, writhing, meandering its way
Round the regal cloak of jade
Snug in a tattered shawl
A cap barely concealing
The grey wisps that garnished his pate
Creases etched into his countenance
Unfathomably deep ravines
Round his chocolate eyes
He stood amidst a cluster of flowers
Flowers flecked with fairy dust
Shimering, bewitching shards of enchantment
Dancing frivolously upon velvet petals
That glimmered with ethereal gorgeousness
The air around him seemed to sing
In celebration of the beauty he saw
With those curiously crinkled eyes.
The flowers whispered enticingly
In a language neither of us could fathom
Murmurs sparked with magic mist
And smattered with frisky delight
Intoxicatingly ecstatic
Tempestuously wild.
The frayed shawl did not matter
The loneliness rather trifling
For the music of the flowers
Had seared through the silence
That had gnawed grittily at his soul
Reverberating, resonating
Through his hitherto dormant ears
With flamboyant mirth
Drunk with splendour
Mugged by inquisitiveness
His grotesquely gnarled fingers
Trembling, quivering
Closed in [pitifully hesitant]
On an unsuspecting flower
And he yanked.
The ocean of beauty
That had swathed his recuperating essence
No longer sang in feral glee
The spell that had entranced him
With a gift of giddy happiness
Broke with a painful snap
A single flower plucked from
The carpet of red and white
Withering with wretched anger
Burning with baleful betrayal
Thrust him
Firmly and angrily
Into the resounding loneliness
And all was quiet once more.
Malvika, Cluny Convent School
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Roald Dahl's "Skin" review
BOOK BAG OF Terrifying Tales
‘Skin’, by Roald Dahl promises to thrill, enchant and electrify with its astonishing absurdity and dextrously woven twists and turns that will force you simper wryly, squeal delightedly, and grimace in revulsion, all at once.
This collection of eleven of some of Roald Dahl’s best stories provides a rather unexpected transition from his children’s stories to his tales of lies and deception. Peppered with sardonic humour, an underlying layer of gloom permeates the pages, adding to the overall onion-like effect of the book.
Skin, the first story in this collection, is a bizarre tale of a seemingly ordinary old man with a masterpiece tattooed onto his back. Suspense hangs over this story tantalizingly, preventing you from putting the book down.
Lamb to the Slaughter and Dip in the Pool are some of the other tales in this collection that make this book simply unputdownable.
By the time you’re done with a story, the next one grips you with unyielding fingers.
Crammed with brilliant inventions, shocking motives and startling ideas, these tales linger long after you’re done reading.
The Sound Machine, which is about a device that can hear plants, is unusual but gripping.
Galloping Foxley, which is about a seasoned traveller having to put up with an intruder in his carriage, only to realise that the stranger is not as unfamiliar as he seems, is coated with Dahl-esque wit and garnished with juicy jibes at society and schools. The Champion of The World, An African Story and My Lady Love My Dove are rather disturbing and not for the faint hearted.
The Surgeon is a straightforward story quite free from Dahl’s characteristic cynicism, but the quaint descriptions of rural England add to its charm.
The Wish, revolving around a child’s desire to cross the snake-infested, coal smattered carpet, sets your pulse racing despite its simple plot. The author’s uncanny ability to capture the protagonist’s emotions keeps you glued to the pages right from the very beginning.
Beware of the Dog, infused with military terms and with the Second World War in the backdrop, would make for a rather heavy read if not for the few moments that hint subtly at flecks of humour.
These stories possess a curious multi-layered quality and can be viewed from different angles each time they are read. Unlike most stories where once the beans are spilt, they no longer spark interest; these fantastically concocted tales can be read over and over.
This collection is rather difficult to sum up, maybe because each story is so completely different from the rest, but all manage to enchant, disgust, mystify and excite.
This book is sure to have you gasping for more!
Puffin Price: Rs. 250
pages 212
- Malvika, Cluny Convent School
‘Skin’, by Roald Dahl promises to thrill, enchant and electrify with its astonishing absurdity and dextrously woven twists and turns that will force you simper wryly, squeal delightedly, and grimace in revulsion, all at once.
This collection of eleven of some of Roald Dahl’s best stories provides a rather unexpected transition from his children’s stories to his tales of lies and deception. Peppered with sardonic humour, an underlying layer of gloom permeates the pages, adding to the overall onion-like effect of the book.
Skin, the first story in this collection, is a bizarre tale of a seemingly ordinary old man with a masterpiece tattooed onto his back. Suspense hangs over this story tantalizingly, preventing you from putting the book down.
Lamb to the Slaughter and Dip in the Pool are some of the other tales in this collection that make this book simply unputdownable.
By the time you’re done with a story, the next one grips you with unyielding fingers.
Crammed with brilliant inventions, shocking motives and startling ideas, these tales linger long after you’re done reading.
The Sound Machine, which is about a device that can hear plants, is unusual but gripping.
Galloping Foxley, which is about a seasoned traveller having to put up with an intruder in his carriage, only to realise that the stranger is not as unfamiliar as he seems, is coated with Dahl-esque wit and garnished with juicy jibes at society and schools. The Champion of The World, An African Story and My Lady Love My Dove are rather disturbing and not for the faint hearted.
The Surgeon is a straightforward story quite free from Dahl’s characteristic cynicism, but the quaint descriptions of rural England add to its charm.
The Wish, revolving around a child’s desire to cross the snake-infested, coal smattered carpet, sets your pulse racing despite its simple plot. The author’s uncanny ability to capture the protagonist’s emotions keeps you glued to the pages right from the very beginning.
Beware of the Dog, infused with military terms and with the Second World War in the backdrop, would make for a rather heavy read if not for the few moments that hint subtly at flecks of humour.
These stories possess a curious multi-layered quality and can be viewed from different angles each time they are read. Unlike most stories where once the beans are spilt, they no longer spark interest; these fantastically concocted tales can be read over and over.
This collection is rather difficult to sum up, maybe because each story is so completely different from the rest, but all manage to enchant, disgust, mystify and excite.
This book is sure to have you gasping for more!
Puffin Price: Rs. 250
pages 212
- Malvika, Cluny Convent School
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Rain glitters magic sparks
When I am alone
The stark dreariness of reality seems to gnaw at me
Like a teething puppy chewing a rubber ball
Indulgently at first, but with an increasing intensity
That thrusts me into the lowest depths of despondency
Then the rain, at first merely a casual acquaintance
Turns into an intimate confidant
As it enchants me with its bewitching frivolity
Luring me out of this oh so humdrum world
And into a mesmerising distortion of reality
The engaging pitter-patter, the delicious smell of fresh mud
And the wet, wet raindrops that run down the nose
Lull me into a trance from which I would rather not wake
Though I am conscious of a restless tug
That seems to draw me back to reality
It’s so much easier
To lose yourself in the other world
Bathed in hues of sepia and Technicolor
Asphalt glimmers – A black, angry river
In whose perilous waters vehicles thrash
Struggling valiantly against being engulfed
In its livid intensity.
The leaves that sway rhythmically
To the feral music of the rain
Induce me to revel
To revel in its tumultuous glee
The gloom that had visited me so often
Is banished from the other world
But it slinks intently along its faint boundaries
Diabolic and wily
Ready to spring upon me
With the agility of a wildcat
Once I step [however cautiously]
Into the glum precincts of reality
The rain has an almost regal air about her
Altogether very suave and posh
Pulsating sparks of magic dance within her
That can bewitch, spellbind, entrance
When the swirling nebula begin to gather
Her enticing whispers barely heard
I know she’s come for me
To lead me to the other world
Where I could live
For all eternity.
The stark dreariness of reality seems to gnaw at me
Like a teething puppy chewing a rubber ball
Indulgently at first, but with an increasing intensity
That thrusts me into the lowest depths of despondency
Then the rain, at first merely a casual acquaintance
Turns into an intimate confidant
As it enchants me with its bewitching frivolity
Luring me out of this oh so humdrum world
And into a mesmerising distortion of reality
The engaging pitter-patter, the delicious smell of fresh mud
And the wet, wet raindrops that run down the nose
Lull me into a trance from which I would rather not wake
Though I am conscious of a restless tug
That seems to draw me back to reality
It’s so much easier
To lose yourself in the other world
Bathed in hues of sepia and Technicolor
Asphalt glimmers – A black, angry river
In whose perilous waters vehicles thrash
Struggling valiantly against being engulfed
In its livid intensity.
The leaves that sway rhythmically
To the feral music of the rain
Induce me to revel
To revel in its tumultuous glee
The gloom that had visited me so often
Is banished from the other world
But it slinks intently along its faint boundaries
Diabolic and wily
Ready to spring upon me
With the agility of a wildcat
Once I step [however cautiously]
Into the glum precincts of reality
The rain has an almost regal air about her
Altogether very suave and posh
Pulsating sparks of magic dance within her
That can bewitch, spellbind, entrance
When the swirling nebula begin to gather
Her enticing whispers barely heard
I know she’s come for me
To lead me to the other world
Where I could live
For all eternity.
The Happiness Canine
His black, shimmering nose prods me gently
And his eyes;
tranquil waters of insatiable hope
Look up imploringly into mine
His tail wags beseechingly
Gently at first, but with an increasing intensity
That accomplishes in a single motion
More than a volley of barks could have.
Car keys jingle, the swish of a leash is heard
And he erupts jubilantly; A ball of explosive fur
Emitting triumphant yips punctuating each sentence
With gritty zeal and enthusiasm.
He’s essentially got the heart of an adventurer
A heart that yearns
To explore the obscure
To discover the indefinite
To scour the world for possibilities
Possibilities that often lie veiled by disbelief
Not in his world, but in ours.
He thrusts his head out from the window resolutely
With an air of complacent enjoyment
As our car whizzes past the world in general
For this is his world,
Pink, slobbering tongue dangling precariously from mouth
And spaniel ears temporarily elevated by the lusty winds
His eyes illumined by an almost fervent gleam
As he floats in a bubble of complete detachment.
When his paws aren’t on the armrest,
And his snout on the drearier side of the window,
He rests his muzzle against the car floor
To revel in its soothingly rhythmic motion
And eyes shut in silent contemplation.
His eyes reflect a thousand worlds
Each world diverse and rare
Happiness permeates the creases lining his countenance
He’s got a slightly inebriated look
With a silly canine grin pasted on his face
He’s an explorer, a swashbuckler, a seeker
He’s the quintessential seafarer
Lost to the world
How easily he slips into blissful oblivion
With a trip in the family car
And his eyes;
tranquil waters of insatiable hope
Look up imploringly into mine
His tail wags beseechingly
Gently at first, but with an increasing intensity
That accomplishes in a single motion
More than a volley of barks could have.
Car keys jingle, the swish of a leash is heard
And he erupts jubilantly; A ball of explosive fur
Emitting triumphant yips punctuating each sentence
With gritty zeal and enthusiasm.
He’s essentially got the heart of an adventurer
A heart that yearns
To explore the obscure
To discover the indefinite
To scour the world for possibilities
Possibilities that often lie veiled by disbelief
Not in his world, but in ours.
He thrusts his head out from the window resolutely
With an air of complacent enjoyment
As our car whizzes past the world in general
For this is his world,
Pink, slobbering tongue dangling precariously from mouth
And spaniel ears temporarily elevated by the lusty winds
His eyes illumined by an almost fervent gleam
As he floats in a bubble of complete detachment.
When his paws aren’t on the armrest,
And his snout on the drearier side of the window,
He rests his muzzle against the car floor
To revel in its soothingly rhythmic motion
And eyes shut in silent contemplation.
His eyes reflect a thousand worlds
Each world diverse and rare
Happiness permeates the creases lining his countenance
He’s got a slightly inebriated look
With a silly canine grin pasted on his face
He’s an explorer, a swashbuckler, a seeker
He’s the quintessential seafarer
Lost to the world
How easily he slips into blissful oblivion
With a trip in the family car
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A tapestry of windows
Words that urge us to simply let go To let go of our mundanely humdrum existence And to lose ourselves in a different world To forget those boundaries separating reality from fiction
Windows to worlds that lie far beyond our own,
Woven dextrously like a tapestry
Whose threads enmesh myriad marvels
With pens that run on enchanted ink
Each far-faraway tantalizingly unattainable
But beckoning,
Beckoning to me always.
Words that urge us to simply let go
To let go of our mundanely humdrum existence
And to lose ourselves in a different world
To forget those boundaries separating reality from fiction
That hang bleakly, like mist in the air.
Poems that paint pictures in your mind
In hues of sepia and Technicolor
Awakening feelings that had hitherto lain latent,
Lost in the ebb and flow of emotions
Until words; words sprinkled with poetic passion
And garnished with flecks of magic
Begin to lay siege to your thoughts
And induce you to believe
To believe in the power of verse.
Words that egg you on
To peer at the shrewd tabby next door
To check if she isn’t really McGonagall in disguise
Or to ascertain, in the privacy of your bedroom
Whether with a complacent snap of your fingers
You could summon a djinni
To take you to the Wayless Woods
Where the fire-elves and water-nymphs dance,
Or to the deserts of Arabia
Where the winds,
Saturated with the coarse harshness of the dust-smattered land
Skim fleetingly and impartially across our headscarves
While camels snort crossly in the distance.
Books that are thresholds to bliss
Beguilingly bewitching,
diabolic and wily
Wrenching you away from the stark dreariness of truth
And thrusting you into a world that will never be your own
Snaring you with their bewitching lies
Knit intricately from the choicest of gobbledygook.
They will imprison you within the confines of their tales
Until you are left to wander the labyrinth of exotic imaginings
All by yourself.
Malvika
Cluny Convent school
Windows to worlds that lie far beyond our own,
Woven dextrously like a tapestry
Whose threads enmesh myriad marvels
With pens that run on enchanted ink
Each far-faraway tantalizingly unattainable
But beckoning,
Beckoning to me always.
Words that urge us to simply let go
To let go of our mundanely humdrum existence
And to lose ourselves in a different world
To forget those boundaries separating reality from fiction
That hang bleakly, like mist in the air.
Poems that paint pictures in your mind
In hues of sepia and Technicolor
Awakening feelings that had hitherto lain latent,
Lost in the ebb and flow of emotions
Until words; words sprinkled with poetic passion
And garnished with flecks of magic
Begin to lay siege to your thoughts
And induce you to believe
To believe in the power of verse.
Words that egg you on
To peer at the shrewd tabby next door
To check if she isn’t really McGonagall in disguise
Or to ascertain, in the privacy of your bedroom
Whether with a complacent snap of your fingers
You could summon a djinni
To take you to the Wayless Woods
Where the fire-elves and water-nymphs dance,
Or to the deserts of Arabia
Where the winds,
Saturated with the coarse harshness of the dust-smattered land
Skim fleetingly and impartially across our headscarves
While camels snort crossly in the distance.
Books that are thresholds to bliss
Beguilingly bewitching,
diabolic and wily
Wrenching you away from the stark dreariness of truth
And thrusting you into a world that will never be your own
Snaring you with their bewitching lies
Knit intricately from the choicest of gobbledygook.
They will imprison you within the confines of their tales
Until you are left to wander the labyrinth of exotic imaginings
All by yourself.
Malvika
Cluny Convent school
Monday, May 31, 2010
The banyan tree
Twisting, writhing, slithering out of view
The bough meandered purposefully
Playing hide and seek with the cloudless sky
Obscured by an inquisitive primate
As she crouched on a fragile-looking branch
Her delicate, expressive face tense with anticipation
And wide brown eyes lost in the furrows of her forehead
Her long, flexible tail began to quiver
While the rest of her body lay still.
Then she began to swing;
Her powerful arms swinging her sinewy body
From one elusive bough to another,
Almost effortlessly.
The bough continues upward-
Branching into millions, or so it seems,
Each ending in a microscopic point,
Tastefully garnished with dark, open leaves.
A bird, a lowly baby pigeon,
Dyed with tints of blue and grey,
Peers furtively from his perch,
As his mummy eggs him on,
To unfurl his nascent wings.
He surveys the world around him;
The sky is vast, crisp, overly frigid,
And he decides he's not quite ready to fly.
Ants scurry purposefully in single file
Along the contours of the ancient, knobbly birthplace of the bough;
Their movements robot-like, mechanical and resolute.
Our lives pass within the blink of an eye
Quick flashes of light in the archives of time
But the bough lives for an eternity, forever and ever
Twisting, turning, meandering and coiling
Through the yawning depths of time.
The bough meandered purposefully
Playing hide and seek with the cloudless sky
Obscured by an inquisitive primate
As she crouched on a fragile-looking branch
Her delicate, expressive face tense with anticipation
And wide brown eyes lost in the furrows of her forehead
Her long, flexible tail began to quiver
While the rest of her body lay still.
Then she began to swing;
Her powerful arms swinging her sinewy body
From one elusive bough to another,
Almost effortlessly.
The bough continues upward-
Branching into millions, or so it seems,
Each ending in a microscopic point,
Tastefully garnished with dark, open leaves.
A bird, a lowly baby pigeon,
Dyed with tints of blue and grey,
Peers furtively from his perch,
As his mummy eggs him on,
To unfurl his nascent wings.
He surveys the world around him;
The sky is vast, crisp, overly frigid,
And he decides he's not quite ready to fly.
Ants scurry purposefully in single file
Along the contours of the ancient, knobbly birthplace of the bough;
Their movements robot-like, mechanical and resolute.
Our lives pass within the blink of an eye
Quick flashes of light in the archives of time
But the bough lives for an eternity, forever and ever
Twisting, turning, meandering and coiling
Through the yawning depths of time.
The puppy that hadn't known what winter was
The puppy who hadn’t known what winter was!
Malvika,Cluny Convent,High School
The dead puppy lay on the pavement
A black, shiny patch against an ashen background
Flies buzzed purposefully around its tranquil, almost wise countenance
Never mind how repulsive the passers-by found
The uncombed, mangy mongrel with its face half-buried in the coarse, sun-drenched sand.
Vermin had eaten through the glossy, dishevelled fur that had shimmered uncertainly
In the blazing, almost insolent resplendence of the sun.
For the puppy hadn’t known what winter was.
Had human hands ever run their fingers over its thin, noble face?
And if they had, where were those hands now?
The puppy had once pranced jauntily across the street
With a pilfered Marie biscuit clenched tightly between its jaws,
Narrowly missing being mown down by the sputtering Tongas, whirring autos,
Humming scooters and the ever moving, intricate maze of pedestrians.
The children from the school, who had fed him with their left over lunches and had carried him in their soft hands,
Unmindful of his flea – ridden fur and wet, slobbering tongue –
Where were they now?
Where they the same as those who now threw disgusted, scornful glances at his perfectly still, lifeless form?
Or were they the ones who pretended not to notice the dark, static cadaver that lay on the footpath?
His dry, crusty nose peeked out furtively from beneath the piles of rubble,
Crimson scars tore through his skin, exposing long strips of rotting flesh.
I said good-bye to the abandoned, long- forgotten puppy whom life had thrown away
Like a toddler discarding a toy that he had finished playing with
I swore that I wouldn’t forget him, and his image remained vivid and fresh in my mind for weeks afterward
Now all I can remember about him is that he had odd ears – one droopy and the other pointy
My memories of him are tucked away in an obscure corner of the archives of my reminiscences
I can’t say that I’ve done better than the others who have forgotten him,
Except perhaps I held on for a little longer that they did
Just a little longer.
Malvika,Cluny Convent,High School
The dead puppy lay on the pavement
A black, shiny patch against an ashen background
Flies buzzed purposefully around its tranquil, almost wise countenance
Never mind how repulsive the passers-by found
The uncombed, mangy mongrel with its face half-buried in the coarse, sun-drenched sand.
Vermin had eaten through the glossy, dishevelled fur that had shimmered uncertainly
In the blazing, almost insolent resplendence of the sun.
For the puppy hadn’t known what winter was.
Had human hands ever run their fingers over its thin, noble face?
And if they had, where were those hands now?
The puppy had once pranced jauntily across the street
With a pilfered Marie biscuit clenched tightly between its jaws,
Narrowly missing being mown down by the sputtering Tongas, whirring autos,
Humming scooters and the ever moving, intricate maze of pedestrians.
The children from the school, who had fed him with their left over lunches and had carried him in their soft hands,
Unmindful of his flea – ridden fur and wet, slobbering tongue –
Where were they now?
Where they the same as those who now threw disgusted, scornful glances at his perfectly still, lifeless form?
Or were they the ones who pretended not to notice the dark, static cadaver that lay on the footpath?
His dry, crusty nose peeked out furtively from beneath the piles of rubble,
Crimson scars tore through his skin, exposing long strips of rotting flesh.
I said good-bye to the abandoned, long- forgotten puppy whom life had thrown away
Like a toddler discarding a toy that he had finished playing with
I swore that I wouldn’t forget him, and his image remained vivid and fresh in my mind for weeks afterward
Now all I can remember about him is that he had odd ears – one droopy and the other pointy
My memories of him are tucked away in an obscure corner of the archives of my reminiscences
I can’t say that I’ve done better than the others who have forgotten him,
Except perhaps I held on for a little longer that they did
Just a little longer.
The sky turned on the lights
The sky turned on the lights....
She had been poised and self-assured until she was on stage, staring and being stared at by a multitude of bored and restless students.And that was when the first trickle of nervousness began to seep into the stream that had until then filled her with reckless, undaunted fearlessness.
Darkness began its surreptitious exit from the almost-morning sky, as the sky turned on the lights and slipped off the covers one by one, painting itself with multi-hued streaks.
She stared unseeingly at the glow in the dark stars that were stuck to the ceiling, whose faint outlines seemed to merge with the creamy white ceiling, giving the impression of bright green polka dots against a white background.
The events of the previous day seemed to have imprisoned her mind, try as she could to free herself from the shackles of those memories which had clasped themselves tightly around her, forcing her to think only of them.
So she lay in bed, unable to shake off those images that had etched themselves into her memory, allowing them to flood her mind.
The well rehearsed speech that she had prepared, the constant checking of the draft so as to not miss anything, the extra time she had taken to polish her usually dust-flecked shoes until they had shone, and the vibrant, gurgling stream of happiness that had gushed through her merrily, untouched by fear or nervousness, were memories that stood out vividly amongst other jumbled images.
She had been poised and self-assured until she was on stage, staring and being stared at by a multitude of bored and restless students.
And that was when the first trickle of nervousness began to seep into the stream that had until then filled her with reckless, undaunted fearlessness.
She tried not to show how nervous she was, and had smiled brightly; pretending to exude confidence .She began her speech.
It went on quite well until she could suddenly feel hundred of eyes and ears fixed on her.
She faltered.
That was enough to titillate the audience.
She suddenly didn’t know what to say .She repeated a line from her speech over and over, trying to think of what to say next, and the audience, who were by now jeering at her openly, began to repeat what she was saying in unison with her, not realizing that they were hurting her, making her wish that she could disappear.
She tried to speak, but no words would leave her mouth. She left the stage; her head throbbing with shame and the mocking sniggers and whispers of the audience playing themselves in loop.
he cried. People told her how sorry they were for her and that she mustn’t cry, because crying wouldn’t make things any better, but she knew that they did not understand. She despised herself for even wanting to give a speech, for being nervous when she wasn’t supposed to, for being so vulnerable to the sniggers of the audience, for crying in front of so many people
And there she was now, the tears of her mortification wetting her cheeks yet again as she lay in bed, staring at the morning sky from the window near her bed.
The sky was no longer streaked with crimson and purple. Wispy clouds floated nonchalantly in the crisp blue sky and the sun, partially obscured by a particularly large cloud nevertheless shone brightly and exuberantly, flooding the world with its radiance.
She spent a few moments thinking of how horrid and humiliated she felt.
The loud, unexpected honking of a car, probably a Ford, was what brought her back to Earth.
A few moments ago, darkness had covered the world, but had gradually given way to a new morning. The darkness had moved on to another part of the world, just like she would have to move on.
What had happened to her yesterday would forever remain a part of her, but they were a part of the past and couldn’t control her. She would just have to let go of those dreadful memories.
After a few more moments of rare introspection , she decided to let go of the past , to let go of those memories that she had until now been unable to shake off, and she got out of bed, ready to begin another new, eventful day.
Malvika Parthasarathy
Cluny Convent High School
She had been poised and self-assured until she was on stage, staring and being stared at by a multitude of bored and restless students.And that was when the first trickle of nervousness began to seep into the stream that had until then filled her with reckless, undaunted fearlessness.
Darkness began its surreptitious exit from the almost-morning sky, as the sky turned on the lights and slipped off the covers one by one, painting itself with multi-hued streaks.
She stared unseeingly at the glow in the dark stars that were stuck to the ceiling, whose faint outlines seemed to merge with the creamy white ceiling, giving the impression of bright green polka dots against a white background.
The events of the previous day seemed to have imprisoned her mind, try as she could to free herself from the shackles of those memories which had clasped themselves tightly around her, forcing her to think only of them.
So she lay in bed, unable to shake off those images that had etched themselves into her memory, allowing them to flood her mind.
The well rehearsed speech that she had prepared, the constant checking of the draft so as to not miss anything, the extra time she had taken to polish her usually dust-flecked shoes until they had shone, and the vibrant, gurgling stream of happiness that had gushed through her merrily, untouched by fear or nervousness, were memories that stood out vividly amongst other jumbled images.
She had been poised and self-assured until she was on stage, staring and being stared at by a multitude of bored and restless students.
And that was when the first trickle of nervousness began to seep into the stream that had until then filled her with reckless, undaunted fearlessness.
She tried not to show how nervous she was, and had smiled brightly; pretending to exude confidence .She began her speech.
It went on quite well until she could suddenly feel hundred of eyes and ears fixed on her.
She faltered.
That was enough to titillate the audience.
She suddenly didn’t know what to say .She repeated a line from her speech over and over, trying to think of what to say next, and the audience, who were by now jeering at her openly, began to repeat what she was saying in unison with her, not realizing that they were hurting her, making her wish that she could disappear.
She tried to speak, but no words would leave her mouth. She left the stage; her head throbbing with shame and the mocking sniggers and whispers of the audience playing themselves in loop.
he cried. People told her how sorry they were for her and that she mustn’t cry, because crying wouldn’t make things any better, but she knew that they did not understand. She despised herself for even wanting to give a speech, for being nervous when she wasn’t supposed to, for being so vulnerable to the sniggers of the audience, for crying in front of so many people
And there she was now, the tears of her mortification wetting her cheeks yet again as she lay in bed, staring at the morning sky from the window near her bed.
The sky was no longer streaked with crimson and purple. Wispy clouds floated nonchalantly in the crisp blue sky and the sun, partially obscured by a particularly large cloud nevertheless shone brightly and exuberantly, flooding the world with its radiance.
She spent a few moments thinking of how horrid and humiliated she felt.
The loud, unexpected honking of a car, probably a Ford, was what brought her back to Earth.
A few moments ago, darkness had covered the world, but had gradually given way to a new morning. The darkness had moved on to another part of the world, just like she would have to move on.
What had happened to her yesterday would forever remain a part of her, but they were a part of the past and couldn’t control her. She would just have to let go of those dreadful memories.
After a few more moments of rare introspection , she decided to let go of the past , to let go of those memories that she had until now been unable to shake off, and she got out of bed, ready to begin another new, eventful day.
Malvika Parthasarathy
Cluny Convent High School
Witches
Malvika's article that appeared in Deccan HeraldI've seen witches with lace-edged gloves and lice-infested wigs,
With frayed tempers and hideously grotesque skin,
Their saliva a nice, periwinkle blue.
Notorious for turning children into mice,
Luring silly kindergarteners with creamy, delicious slabs of chocolate,
These are the kind you'd do well to avoid.
Although a valiant boy-turned mouse and his spunky granny from Norway,
Have nearly driven this particular species into extinction.
Witches with skin the colour of nascent snow-
Their lips luscious, red and sly;
Diabolic, scheming and wily,
They have no use for spells or potions.
Ensnaring you with their bewitching songs,
In a language neither of us could fathom -
With words that are sometimes like the rustle of restless leaves
And then roar over the forest,
Like a deep, angry, clap of thunder.
I've seen witches soaring across the frigid mountains of the north,
Lightly skimming across undernourished trees with their billowing cloaks,
Their broomsticks swift, light and sure.
Seldom have they deigned to converse with anything remotely human,
Instead preferring to glide into the twinkling abyss of the sky.
Their skin unblemished by the swiftly passing waves of time,
They live for an eternity and a day, delving into the unchronicled enigmas of the night.
Witches with twisted backs and furrowed skin,
Scattered in trios across the wilderness of the Scottish countryside,
With thick, gristly beards and evil, crackling grins,
Summoning powerful, translucent spirits to do their bidding
Prophesying fame, misery, greatness and ruin,
Pay no heed to what they say,
Their speech is hypocritical, like a double- edged sword,
With two diverse meanings enmeshed in a word.
I've know witches of the more civilized kind;
They have their own government, as inefficient as ours.
Using wands of holly, oak and sometimes even the hair of a unicorn,
To unleash spells that can transfigure a pin-cushion into a porcupine,
But which require precision, timing and training,
At a school where children of uncanny ability are taught,
Like the girl with the bushy brown hair and the boy with the paper thin scar,
From our world and from theirs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)