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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
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.
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