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
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
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