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
Thursday, November 25, 2010
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
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