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 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

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

Rain glitters magic sparks

When I am alone
The stark dreariness of reality seems to gnaw at me
Like a teething puppy chewing a rubber ball
Indulgently at first, but with an increasing intensity

That thrusts me into the lowest depths of despondency
Then the rain, at first merely a casual acquaintance
Turns into an intimate confidant
As it enchants me with its bewitching frivolity

Luring me out of this oh so humdrum world
And into a mesmerising distortion of reality
The engaging pitter-patter, the delicious smell of fresh mud
And the wet, wet raindrops that run down the nose

Lull me into a trance from which I would rather not wake
Though I am conscious of a restless tug
That seems to draw me back to reality
It’s so much easier
To lose yourself in the other world

Bathed in hues of sepia and Technicolor
Asphalt glimmers – A black, angry river
In whose perilous waters vehicles thrash
Struggling valiantly against being engulfed
In its livid intensity.

The leaves that sway rhythmically
To the feral music of the rain
Induce me to revel
To revel in its tumultuous glee
The gloom that had visited me so often
Is banished from the other world

But it slinks intently along its faint boundaries
Diabolic and wily
Ready to spring upon me
With the agility of a wildcat
Once I step [however cautiously]

Into the glum precincts of reality
The rain has an almost regal air about her
Altogether very suave and posh
Pulsating sparks of magic dance within her
That can bewitch, spellbind, entrance

When the swirling nebula begin to gather
Her enticing whispers barely heard
I know she’s come for me
To lead me to the other world
Where I could live
For all eternity.

The Happiness Canine

His black, shimmering nose prods me gently
And his eyes;
tranquil waters of insatiable hope
Look up imploringly into mine

His tail wags beseechingly
Gently at first, but with an increasing intensity
That accomplishes in a single motion
More than a volley of barks could have.

Car keys jingle, the swish of a leash is heard
And he erupts jubilantly; A ball of explosive fur
Emitting triumphant yips punctuating each sentence
With gritty zeal and enthusiasm.

He’s essentially got the heart of an adventurer
A heart that yearns
To explore the obscure
To discover the indefinite

To scour the world for possibilities
Possibilities that often lie veiled by disbelief
Not in his world, but in ours.

He thrusts his head out from the window resolutely
With an air of complacent enjoyment
As our car whizzes past the world in general
For this is his world,

Pink, slobbering tongue dangling precariously from mouth
And spaniel ears temporarily elevated by the lusty winds
His eyes illumined by an almost fervent gleam
As he floats in a bubble of complete detachment.

When his paws aren’t on the armrest,
And his snout on the drearier side of the window,
He rests his muzzle against the car floor
To revel in its soothingly rhythmic motion
And eyes shut in silent contemplation.

His eyes reflect a thousand worlds
Each world diverse and rare
Happiness permeates the creases lining his countenance
He’s got a slightly inebriated look

With a silly canine grin pasted on his face
He’s an explorer, a swashbuckler, a seeker
He’s the quintessential seafarer
Lost to the world
How easily he slips into blissful oblivion
With a trip in the family car

A tapestry of windows

Words that urge us to simply let go To let go of our mundanely humdrum existence And to lose ourselves in a different world To forget those boundaries separating reality from fiction

Windows to worlds that lie far beyond our own,
Woven dextrously like a tapestry
Whose threads enmesh myriad marvels
With pens that run on enchanted ink
Each far-faraway tantalizingly unattainable
But beckoning,
Beckoning to me always.
Words that urge us to simply let go
To let go of our mundanely humdrum existence
And to lose ourselves in a different world
To forget those boundaries separating reality from fiction
That hang bleakly, like mist in the air.
Poems that paint pictures in your mind
In hues of sepia and Technicolor
Awakening feelings that had hitherto lain latent,
Lost in the ebb and flow of emotions
Until words; words sprinkled with poetic passion
And garnished with flecks of magic
Begin to lay siege to your thoughts
And induce you to believe
To believe in the power of verse.
Words that egg you on
To peer at the shrewd tabby next door
To check if she isn’t really McGonagall in disguise
Or to ascertain, in the privacy of your bedroom
Whether with a complacent snap of your fingers
You could summon a djinni
To take you to the Wayless Woods
Where the fire-elves and water-nymphs dance,
Or to the deserts of Arabia
Where the winds,
Saturated with the coarse harshness of the dust-smattered land
Skim fleetingly and impartially across our headscarves
While camels snort crossly in the distance.
Books that are thresholds to bliss
Beguilingly bewitching,
diabolic and wily
Wrenching you away from the stark dreariness of truth
And thrusting you into a world that will never be your own
Snaring you with their bewitching lies
Knit intricately from the choicest of gobbledygook.
They will imprison you within the confines of their tales
Until you are left to wander the labyrinth of exotic imaginings
All by yourself.

Malvika
Cluny Convent school

The banyan tree

Twisting, writhing, slithering out of view
The bough meandered purposefully
Playing hide and seek with the cloudless sky
Obscured by an inquisitive primate

As she crouched on a fragile-looking branch
Her delicate, expressive face tense with anticipation
And wide brown eyes lost in the furrows of her forehead
Her long, flexible tail began to quiver

While the rest of her body lay still.
Then she began to swing;
Her powerful arms swinging her sinewy body
From one elusive bough to another,

Almost effortlessly.
The bough continues upward-
Branching into millions, or so it seems,
Each ending in a microscopic point,

Tastefully garnished with dark, open leaves.
A bird, a lowly baby pigeon,
Dyed with tints of blue and grey,
Peers furtively from his perch,

As his mummy eggs him on,
To unfurl his nascent wings.
He surveys the world around him;
The sky is vast, crisp, overly frigid,

And he decides he's not quite ready to fly.
Ants scurry purposefully in single file
Along the contours of the ancient, knobbly birthplace of the bough;
Their movements robot-like, mechanical and resolute.

Our lives pass within the blink of an eye
Quick flashes of light in the archives of time
But the bough lives for an eternity, forever and ever
Twisting, turning, meandering and coiling
Through the yawning depths of time.