The world’s got a
Lilt in her step
Spring in her flight
Revelling in
Intoxicatingly frisky delight.
Nature’s frost bitten fingers
Tickle her spine
She smiles a bit, giggles awhile
Proceeds to guffaw with glee sublime.
The world’s
Paddling in the pool
Of garrulous grins
A whimsical tippler, a fool
Misery and Pain,
Passers-by quite strange
Ephemeral as evening rain.
All worries, stark sorrows
Flung carelessly
Into swirling chasms of happiness
Sucked into the vortex
Of giddy gladness
They flounder uselessly.
Moisten your lips
With the nectar of mirth
The world’s glugging unabashedly
In doubt or despair
Laugh uproariously
Or do you fancy a tranquil beam?
The world’s waltzing with joy
All smiles and laughs
Frolicking fantastically
In dizzy abandon
She pirouettes and whirls
The dance of ecstasy.
Malvika Parthasarathy
Cluny Convent High School
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Review of "The Fang of Summoning"
A roller coaster ride - The Fang of Summoning’ by Giti Chandra is not your typical magical story.
It is an exhilarating roller-coaster ride [ I know, this does sound clichéd, but there’s no better way to describe it], initially gathering momentum so subtly that you barely notice it, and then plunging you headfirst into a fantastically concocted fantasy that will have you gasping for breath. Hurtling between 21st century Gurgaon and the frozen mountainside of 11th century Iceland, it follows the struggle between six children and the terrifyingly sinister Edasich, or hyena.
The eye on the cover page is startlingly similar to that of the one on the cover page of Brisingr [third in the Eragon series], but is nevertheless alluring. It makes you think of bewitchment and breathtaking battles, which is what ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is about.
Amidst the blazing conflagration of the Aurora Borealis, or The Northern Lights, Vasuki, a powerful, dragon-like being leaves crystals of immeasurable enchantment or Starstones with three different guardians. Two of these guardians are lost in time.
A thousand years later, in Gurgaon, India, six cousins begin to acquire certain powers. Not your regular Superman- Wonder woman stuff, but abilities that shimmer with out of this world awesomeness. Akshat and Adit, the eighteen year old twins, can communicate with each other mentally, and can make copies of themselves; thousands of living , sentient, thinking copies of themselves.
Thirteen year old Amar can [yes, literally] play metal out of his iPod with his dextrous fingers and well timed crescendos. Ananya, his nine year old sister, can make anyone do anything she orders them to do. Two and a half year old Noor can make the pictures that she scrawls with her crayons come alive. And Tarini’s got something that the Adversary desperately wants. These gifts will ultimately lead to an epoch making battle that will determine their destines, and ours.
The third guardian, Mr. Harish Chandra, is the grandfather of the superpower possessing cousins, and trains them for the final battle that is to come. Will the children, with Vasuki’s help, triumph over Edasich, or will Edasich and his army of ‘ferals’ [untamed, hyena-like beasts] destroy the world as we know it ?
The author skilfully combines astronomy, flecks of humour, Old Norse legends, and ancient Indian mythology.
The story is crammed with tangibly real characters like quiet, wise Mrs. Chandra as well as some completely wacko ones, like Hsima, the ‘tooth fairy’ who is a charismatic, witty, buoy of a man.
The book starts off sluggishly, but after the first few chapters the tale seems to whizz past you at a breathtaking pace. Once you get past the first few overly descriptive pages, you will find the book simply unputdownable.
The book feels sort of like a jigsaw puzzle, with all the pieces fitting in snugly only at the end. Until the last chapter, you have no clue about what exactly is going on, [the parents and the uncle of the kids strike a chord with the reader since they are similarly baffled by the strange happenings] but the story is nevertheless gripping.
The book is categorized as ‘young adult fiction’, but can be enjoyed by an older audience as well.
It’s excellent that Indian authors are being encouraged to explore genres like fantasy. ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is a tale that knits together vivid descriptions, skilfully sequenced battles, and mind-boggling twists and turns.
Don’t miss it!
Price : Rs.250
Publisher: Hachette
Author : Giti Chandra
Fiction
It is an exhilarating roller-coaster ride [ I know, this does sound clichéd, but there’s no better way to describe it], initially gathering momentum so subtly that you barely notice it, and then plunging you headfirst into a fantastically concocted fantasy that will have you gasping for breath. Hurtling between 21st century Gurgaon and the frozen mountainside of 11th century Iceland, it follows the struggle between six children and the terrifyingly sinister Edasich, or hyena.
The eye on the cover page is startlingly similar to that of the one on the cover page of Brisingr [third in the Eragon series], but is nevertheless alluring. It makes you think of bewitchment and breathtaking battles, which is what ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is about.
Amidst the blazing conflagration of the Aurora Borealis, or The Northern Lights, Vasuki, a powerful, dragon-like being leaves crystals of immeasurable enchantment or Starstones with three different guardians. Two of these guardians are lost in time.
A thousand years later, in Gurgaon, India, six cousins begin to acquire certain powers. Not your regular Superman- Wonder woman stuff, but abilities that shimmer with out of this world awesomeness. Akshat and Adit, the eighteen year old twins, can communicate with each other mentally, and can make copies of themselves; thousands of living , sentient, thinking copies of themselves.
Thirteen year old Amar can [yes, literally] play metal out of his iPod with his dextrous fingers and well timed crescendos. Ananya, his nine year old sister, can make anyone do anything she orders them to do. Two and a half year old Noor can make the pictures that she scrawls with her crayons come alive. And Tarini’s got something that the Adversary desperately wants. These gifts will ultimately lead to an epoch making battle that will determine their destines, and ours.
The third guardian, Mr. Harish Chandra, is the grandfather of the superpower possessing cousins, and trains them for the final battle that is to come. Will the children, with Vasuki’s help, triumph over Edasich, or will Edasich and his army of ‘ferals’ [untamed, hyena-like beasts] destroy the world as we know it ?
The author skilfully combines astronomy, flecks of humour, Old Norse legends, and ancient Indian mythology.
The story is crammed with tangibly real characters like quiet, wise Mrs. Chandra as well as some completely wacko ones, like Hsima, the ‘tooth fairy’ who is a charismatic, witty, buoy of a man.
The book starts off sluggishly, but after the first few chapters the tale seems to whizz past you at a breathtaking pace. Once you get past the first few overly descriptive pages, you will find the book simply unputdownable.
The book feels sort of like a jigsaw puzzle, with all the pieces fitting in snugly only at the end. Until the last chapter, you have no clue about what exactly is going on, [the parents and the uncle of the kids strike a chord with the reader since they are similarly baffled by the strange happenings] but the story is nevertheless gripping.
The book is categorized as ‘young adult fiction’, but can be enjoyed by an older audience as well.
It’s excellent that Indian authors are being encouraged to explore genres like fantasy. ‘The Fang of Summoning’ is a tale that knits together vivid descriptions, skilfully sequenced battles, and mind-boggling twists and turns.
Don’t miss it!
Price : Rs.250
Publisher: Hachette
Author : Giti Chandra
Fiction
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Writer’s Magic!
Pick up the dusty book on the shelf
Give it a thorough rub
Don't throw it a cursory glance
That would be the silliest snub
Open it, and you never know,
What treasures may tumble out !
Inspiration Inexplicable tingle
Running down my spine
Oozes into creaky fingers
Infusing them with life
Sinews just can't stop quivering
Writhing in ecstasy
Harried, frantic hunting
For a paintbrush, biro ,lipstick
Anything that can write !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Give it a thorough rub
Don't throw it a cursory glance
That would be the silliest snub
Open it, and you never know,
What treasures may tumble out !
Inspiration Inexplicable tingle
Running down my spine
Oozes into creaky fingers
Infusing them with life
Sinews just can't stop quivering
Writhing in ecstasy
Harried, frantic hunting
For a paintbrush, biro ,lipstick
Anything that can write !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
The Wink that came out of the muddy drain
There was a rat
Who could inspire terror
Notorious miscreant
With gleaming teeth and inky brows
Prancing jauntily across the hall
Pilfered treasure between clenched jaws
Thick lashing tail; quite a pretty petunia pink
She was quite covetous of it
Or so I think.
Found her one day on the table
Nestling snugly amidst the fruit
Kissing passionately an apple most crimson
Tail wrapped around her healthy loot
Rodent eyes shut in ecstasy.
Thwack !
I kung-fu chopped with a broom
But she was much too swift,
Light and sure.
She scampered away to her hiding place
Underneath the revoltingly musty drain
Olympian running an epoch- making race
Whack !
I leaped at her in vain
But it was much too late
She had bested me again
But not before I could see
The jubilant wink she flung at me !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Who could inspire terror
Notorious miscreant
With gleaming teeth and inky brows
Prancing jauntily across the hall
Pilfered treasure between clenched jaws
Thick lashing tail; quite a pretty petunia pink
She was quite covetous of it
Or so I think.
Found her one day on the table
Nestling snugly amidst the fruit
Kissing passionately an apple most crimson
Tail wrapped around her healthy loot
Rodent eyes shut in ecstasy.
Thwack !
I kung-fu chopped with a broom
But she was much too swift,
Light and sure.
She scampered away to her hiding place
Underneath the revoltingly musty drain
Olympian running an epoch- making race
Whack !
I leaped at her in vain
But it was much too late
She had bested me again
But not before I could see
The jubilant wink she flung at me !
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Seekers of Solace
Hold your breath The world is still
Only the winds deign to whisper.
The echoes of quiet solemness
Reverberating gently
In the hallowed halls of the soul;
The only flicker of movement.
The merry simper of the stars
Obliterated by the mist of darkness
No longer embracing
Those anxious Seekers of Solace
Turned away gloomily disheartened.
The trees swish in hushed silence
Stealthily swapping the secrets of the past
The moon bathes in luminous tranquility
She revels in the eve.
Wrapped snugly in a cloak of serenity
Houses by the musty kerb
Savour the gentle solitude
While their inhabitants
Slumber fitfully.
The chronicler of Midnight’s murmurs
Quill quivering in the quietness
Swathed by the overwhelming stillness
Is lost in the inexorable peace
The silence of the witching hour
Powerful, resonant and true.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Only the winds deign to whisper.
The echoes of quiet solemness
Reverberating gently
In the hallowed halls of the soul;
The only flicker of movement.
The merry simper of the stars
Obliterated by the mist of darkness
No longer embracing
Those anxious Seekers of Solace
Turned away gloomily disheartened.
The trees swish in hushed silence
Stealthily swapping the secrets of the past
The moon bathes in luminous tranquility
She revels in the eve.
Wrapped snugly in a cloak of serenity
Houses by the musty kerb
Savour the gentle solitude
While their inhabitants
Slumber fitfully.
The chronicler of Midnight’s murmurs
Quill quivering in the quietness
Swathed by the overwhelming stillness
Is lost in the inexorable peace
The silence of the witching hour
Powerful, resonant and true.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Thursday, November 18, 2010
When days poured into night...
Malvika Parthasarthy, Cluny Convent School
I am ancient. The respect I command among my fellow Mumbaikars is unparalleled, and people speak in almost reverential whispers when they utter my name.
My birth took place years ago, when the blueprints of the Taj were merely ideas drifting about in somebody’s head. It is and was my only refuge- I know no
other home and don’t intend to shift my premises anytime soon.
The Taj is a timeless monument that has withstood the test of time- still standing complacently in its majestic grandeur, overlooking the unfathomable blue waters of the Arabian Sea.
People usually find me within the compound, basking in the scorching, relentless warmth of the Mumbai sun.
For eternity and a day, time seemed to pass indefinitely – seconds gushing into minutes and day pouring into night.
But one night, time seemed to stand still as I witnessed one of the most heinous and brutal attacks of evil forces on our county.
The twenty-sixth of November, 2008, otherwise an ordinary, uneventful day was rendered indelible in the annals of Mumbai’s, nay, in the nation’s history, by the attack of malevolent forces on our world.
At about nine thirty in the night, two men armed with rifles entered the Taj, India’s most prominent symbol of hospitality and opulence.
The masked men began to fire at the guests with precision, sending scream after scream piercing through the quietness of the night.
A bullet grazed my shoulder, but bullets do not hurt me as much as pickaxes do.
There was blood everywhere, and dead bodies lay together in a mangled mess. The men began to throw baseball-shaped wedges at my home, and its wings caught fire upon impact.
Somewhere, a window shattered, sending shards of sharp-edged glass flying everywhere.
Bright orange flames licked the Presidency Suite merrily, contrasting sharply with the murky blue of the night sky.
More indiscriminate firing, more explosions, more deaths, more screams.
By then the media had arrived, bringing with it swarms of reporters, photographers, and amateur journalists, while the smell of death hung in the air.
Bombs and grenades continued to explode, killing hundreds of men, women and children of all nationalities.
In the morning, a few men in helicopters arrived, and I understood that they constituted the rescue party.
A few flecks of fear and doubt clouded their eyes initially, and their hands shook precariously as they held the guns that could cause cold, searing grief, and also save hundreds.
Then the Taj loomed over them, a furious feral beast burning with the blazing, almost insolent resplendence of the flames that danced around it with callous nonchalance. Their eyes then began to burn with rage; smouldering white-hot rage that burned brighter than the flames consuming the Taj, and the smatterings of terror that had hitherto obscured their eyes disappeared.
Survivors of last night’s attack were rescued.
The media continued to photograph the Taj which was still burning a bright orange.
Inside, more gun shots, more explosions, and more deaths.
After two days, the firing ceased, and I knew that we had won. All the men with rifles, except one, were dead. A year has now passed.
The Taj had reopened recently, and it is more magnificent than ever, like a phoenix emerging from the ashes.
I still bear scars of last years attack. Sometimes it seems almost surreal – a hazy memory lost in the archives of my reminiscences, while at other times, every image, every explosion seems to be etched into my mind; distinct, painful and terrifying.
But a sense of pride washes over me as I recall the fearlessness of the NSG commandos and the staff who had shed their own blood so that others might live.
Hundreds of people were massacred and they cannot be brought back to life.
Candle light marches and video tributes cannot obliterate the pain .Or the shroud-like fear that hangs bleakly in the air.
The scars will take a long time to heal, but life continues as it did two years ago.
I am a victim and a survivor.
I am the old peepal tree in the Taj parking lot.
I am ancient. The respect I command among my fellow Mumbaikars is unparalleled, and people speak in almost reverential whispers when they utter my name.
My birth took place years ago, when the blueprints of the Taj were merely ideas drifting about in somebody’s head. It is and was my only refuge- I know no
other home and don’t intend to shift my premises anytime soon.
The Taj is a timeless monument that has withstood the test of time- still standing complacently in its majestic grandeur, overlooking the unfathomable blue waters of the Arabian Sea.
People usually find me within the compound, basking in the scorching, relentless warmth of the Mumbai sun.
For eternity and a day, time seemed to pass indefinitely – seconds gushing into minutes and day pouring into night.
But one night, time seemed to stand still as I witnessed one of the most heinous and brutal attacks of evil forces on our county.
The twenty-sixth of November, 2008, otherwise an ordinary, uneventful day was rendered indelible in the annals of Mumbai’s, nay, in the nation’s history, by the attack of malevolent forces on our world.
At about nine thirty in the night, two men armed with rifles entered the Taj, India’s most prominent symbol of hospitality and opulence.
The masked men began to fire at the guests with precision, sending scream after scream piercing through the quietness of the night.
A bullet grazed my shoulder, but bullets do not hurt me as much as pickaxes do.
There was blood everywhere, and dead bodies lay together in a mangled mess. The men began to throw baseball-shaped wedges at my home, and its wings caught fire upon impact.
Somewhere, a window shattered, sending shards of sharp-edged glass flying everywhere.
Bright orange flames licked the Presidency Suite merrily, contrasting sharply with the murky blue of the night sky.
More indiscriminate firing, more explosions, more deaths, more screams.
By then the media had arrived, bringing with it swarms of reporters, photographers, and amateur journalists, while the smell of death hung in the air.
Bombs and grenades continued to explode, killing hundreds of men, women and children of all nationalities.
In the morning, a few men in helicopters arrived, and I understood that they constituted the rescue party.
A few flecks of fear and doubt clouded their eyes initially, and their hands shook precariously as they held the guns that could cause cold, searing grief, and also save hundreds.
Then the Taj loomed over them, a furious feral beast burning with the blazing, almost insolent resplendence of the flames that danced around it with callous nonchalance. Their eyes then began to burn with rage; smouldering white-hot rage that burned brighter than the flames consuming the Taj, and the smatterings of terror that had hitherto obscured their eyes disappeared.
Survivors of last night’s attack were rescued.
The media continued to photograph the Taj which was still burning a bright orange.
Inside, more gun shots, more explosions, and more deaths.
After two days, the firing ceased, and I knew that we had won. All the men with rifles, except one, were dead. A year has now passed.
The Taj had reopened recently, and it is more magnificent than ever, like a phoenix emerging from the ashes.
I still bear scars of last years attack. Sometimes it seems almost surreal – a hazy memory lost in the archives of my reminiscences, while at other times, every image, every explosion seems to be etched into my mind; distinct, painful and terrifying.
But a sense of pride washes over me as I recall the fearlessness of the NSG commandos and the staff who had shed their own blood so that others might live.
Hundreds of people were massacred and they cannot be brought back to life.
Candle light marches and video tributes cannot obliterate the pain .Or the shroud-like fear that hangs bleakly in the air.
The scars will take a long time to heal, but life continues as it did two years ago.
I am a victim and a survivor.
I am the old peepal tree in the Taj parking lot.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Dreams are knit of hope
The graceful pirouette of a feather
Swirling, whirling, curtsying
As it rode blithely
On the whimsical wings of the wind,
Seemed to speak
Inexplicably and gently
Of the sweet serenity of a dream.
Dreams that are knit of hope
Woven dextrously with longing and desire
Bathed in the most vibrant hues
Of an enchantingly eclectic palette
Sometimes impossibly surreal
Other times attainably alluring.
Dreams that take us on a voyage
Breathtakingly ethereal glimpses
Of worlds unfamiliar, unexplored
Jostling for space
With the more genuine
Tangible, just out of reach.
Dreams that one can just slip into
Flitting through the thin, mist-like veil
That separates the mundanely humdrum
From the world of make believe
Riding jauntily on the winds of imagination
Frolicking friskily with the fantastic
Dreams that can ensnare
With malevolent magic, sinister and beguiling
If you overstay your visit
You will forever be trapped
Just like the naive feather
Tossed about by the winds
Caught is a warped hallucination
Forever swirling, twirling, whirling
Dancing the delusional dance of dreams.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
Swirling, whirling, curtsying
As it rode blithely
On the whimsical wings of the wind,
Seemed to speak
Inexplicably and gently
Of the sweet serenity of a dream.
Dreams that are knit of hope
Woven dextrously with longing and desire
Bathed in the most vibrant hues
Of an enchantingly eclectic palette
Sometimes impossibly surreal
Other times attainably alluring.
Dreams that take us on a voyage
Breathtakingly ethereal glimpses
Of worlds unfamiliar, unexplored
Jostling for space
With the more genuine
Tangible, just out of reach.
Dreams that one can just slip into
Flitting through the thin, mist-like veil
That separates the mundanely humdrum
From the world of make believe
Riding jauntily on the winds of imagination
Frolicking friskily with the fantastic
Dreams that can ensnare
With malevolent magic, sinister and beguiling
If you overstay your visit
You will forever be trapped
Just like the naive feather
Tossed about by the winds
Caught is a warped hallucination
Forever swirling, twirling, whirling
Dancing the delusional dance of dreams.
Malvika Parthasarthy
Cluny Convent School
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