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