Dear Diary

Hello.

I know it's been a while since we spoke
I have been too busy, you understand, I hope
Twenty years it's been I know
Time has passed just so

Climbed on a train that took me fast
Many a times, I didn't think I would last
Through a stranger's eyes I now reflect
On good and bad times now suspect

The tracks laid on firm ground
Steadied the spiral downward bound
Intense and petty
Sailboats on a jetty

Chugged on steam, diesel and coal
You see there was no goal
Sepia tinted is my gaze
Mired, tired, hired is this haze

Thank what may be
Recieve like a baby
Bless the countless million grains
That came your way like mist with the rains

You say dont you, dont you
Stop whining and learn to mew
What ennui is this
That ignores the bliss

Of gifts recieved without a list
Can someone please give me a gist?
I suppress the despondence
With this my correspondence

Stealthy fingers move into my skull
Cold, calm, composed, they try and cull
The helplessness brought on by thinking
There is no point in mindless sinking

I will now, stop and begin the count
Get off the misery I'm trying to mount
Sinuously weave, wrap and sow
Into this feild that's life I know

Youthful dreams

When I was younger, I had this mission in life, besides marrying the man I loved, I wanted to be a Lawyer, that too.. a criminal defense lawyer for juveniles. I had these grand plans of being the saviour of the misguided youth who would be tortured by the establishment for petty misdemeanours and be condemned to a life of crime.
I wanted to be the 'champion of the oppressed' and a guiding light to show them the right path. I used to be very interested in drug addiction, its causes and its effects. Had a few friends who were addicts and I would lament about the way they would waste away. The times that they would indulge in petty crime to satisfy their addiction and the severe punishment meted to them was painful.
Anyways, the convent school that I had studied in for 14 years didn't want me at any cost to obtain my degree from its hallowed portals. They figured that 14 years of torture at my hands was too much for any mortal to bear, even to those wedded to the Lord.
Natural progression of events led me to join the LLB programme. For the first two years we crammed up all the subjects that are normally offered in a three year degree course. The third year had only law subjects, the Indian Constitution, Law of Torts, Criminal Law, Law of Contracts, The Indian Penal Code... In these years, I developed this crazy liking for John Grisham and his books. I loved them. I thought Pelican Brief was brilliant along with The Firm.
The romance with law though waned even before I completed my studies.. I guess some of it had to do with us learning 'logical fallacy' as a subject.
:) We were taught how to logically state an untruth, or rather the language employed to do so. We learned in case studies that justice hasn't much to do with anything as much as the skill of a prosecutor or defence counsel, the precedence set by similar cases and the comprehending capacities of the judge.
John Grisham's quote comes to mind:- 'When you were in law school you had some noble idea what a lawyer should be. A champion of individual rights; a defender of the constitution; a guardian of the oppressed; an advocate of your client's principles. Then after you practice for six months you realise you are nothing but hired guns. Mouthpieces for sale to the highest bidder, available to anybody, any crook, any sleazebag with enough maoney to pay your outrageous fees. Nothing shocks you. It's supposed to be an honorable profession but you'll meet so many crooked lawyers you'll want to quit and find an honest job. And yeah, you'll get cynical. And it's sad. really.'
Not that I ever got there.. from where I could use this and say, I know exactly how this feels.. but this stayed with me and whenever I think of this profession I cant help but remember this.
And I do hope that there are those who stayed the way they began, that their youthful dream did not resign itself to the commonplace.

Who am I?

It's a question that we may have asked ourselves time and again and at different phases in life and have arrived at different answers.. Who is the real me? What do I want from life? What is it that will make me happy?

I do not think it's only the young who go through this self searching. I'm on the brink of forty and can tell you that I go through this as I have done while younger, and at varied stages have had diverse thoughts, emotions and personas that I have created and mulled over.

As a young bride, when we lived in the estate.. I didn't have much to do and would read, read and then read some more. My father in law had a great collection of old Reader's Digest magazines and I believe I have read each cover to cover.

Whenever I came across interesting lines, I would write them down. Here is one, " Young people searching for their real self must learn that the real self is not something one finds as much as it is something one makes; and it is one's daily actions that shape the inner personality far more permanently than any amount of introspection or intellection" - Sydney Harris.

Have thought very deeply about this and maybe in certain ways have tried to imbibe this into my life by doing somewhat the same, which I figured would help me shape who I want to become.

It could very well be true that instead of spending hours on trying to figure out who we are, and while doing so getting depressed as the answer never comes; I know.. been there and done that, we can instead focus on the who I want to be. It can at times be a very self destructive phase especially when you dont have any answers forthcoming. Oftentimes, this introspection comes after a loss, of peace of a relationship, of self confidence.. very rarely do we pause for a while and think these thoughts while happy.

The after shocks of an unpleasant or unhappy incident is most times a reflective phase. While in this state.. if we can think that what I'm looking for isn't something I can find as much as I can create.. well.. it may have far reaching consequences.

There have been times when I have gone into the' Who am I' state and cowered in self pity and whimpered with regret.
There have been times when I have delved into my being and searched for me and have come up with, 'Hey I like you'.
There have been a gazillion times when I have sunk into this me and emerged with.. ' Some freak lives here'.

Of late though.. I like who I meet on my journey into the self. If maturity has taught me anything, it is this... I'm rarely helpless, If I really want something.. I can have it.. If I can Plan it.. I can achieve it... and I'm a pretty sorted dude (I'm more dude than babe.. or say my dude friends).. and the person I meet on my longgg solitary walks is someone I have learned to love.

And that believe me... is comforting. Self acceptance.. above all!

More than words... Song by 'Extreme'

Saying I love you
Is not the words I want to hear from you
It's not that I want you
Not to say, but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
'Cause I'd already know
What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying I love you

Song Writers: NUNO BETTANCOURT, GARY CHERONE

What's with me.. why am I quoting so much.. have I lost my ability to be original?

This blog is for my husband.. He believes that the words dont matter as much as the feelings do, that words can be but a mouthing of an empty premise but love really is in the little things that we do for each other.

I love this song and every time we have a karaoke session at home, I have to belt this one out, much to the disgust of my family :D

Are words necessary? If God is in the little things, then as couples, every little thing we do for each other should have far greater value and significance than what we actually render to it. It's the Ghar Ki Murghi Dal Barabar syndrome I guess.

We do not really need grand gestures, just small little actions and a keenly developed sense of appreciation for all the good things that come our way.

But me... I lurvvv the words... the cuddlin... the TLC. Like we call our children who loved affectionate gestures as 'Pet Worms'. Ah ha... that's me! I'm a pet worm too..........

The Thornbirds

“There is a legend about a bird which sings only once in it's life, more beautifully than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves it's nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales it's breast on the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale.
One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the legend.”
The Thornbird pays it's life for that one song, driven to the thorn with no knowledge of the dying to come. But we, when we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand.... and still, we do it... still we do it"
― Colleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds

I love the book and this particular quote. I have read and re read and ruminated over.. dissected, devoured and absorbed it. Had I, good mammaries, I would remember and quote at will.. but I don't so I won't.

Is it true then, that the best is only bought at the cost of great pain? In that case, if I want the best, of life, of love, of all things joyful.. should it be that it has to go through this initiation of fire.. this christening through pain and baptism of agony?

Interesting thought, isn't it. I'd like to look at it positively. If we do believe that there is an awesome reason why we have the trials and tribulations that we do. That there is a sense in all the suffering. That all of this angst is a precursor to something wonderful, don't you think that it would be a lovely formula we can apply to skim through whatever comes our way.
Stoicism is the catch word I would think.

The last line of the quote is special too.. 'But we, when we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand.... and still, we do it... still we do it'...

How wonderfully positive this affirmation of life, forbearance and fortitude. If we can then take all of our negatives, turn them around, make them heroic, pat ourselves on the back for the strength that prods weary feet, then we can say, still we do it.

It may be an ego trip and quite in vain.. but there is enough to be sad about and I for one, simpleton Mel would rather take this route.. take every thorn. whimper and die and then die again.. all for that superlative song...

( Suddenly I feel like a drama queen)

Distracted by too much happiness...

My blogs are normally dark, bordering on melancholy and sad. I have hitherto believed that I can write only when disturbed, but today, I want to celebrate the sheer joy of being alive, of being able to breathe without any aches and pains and for the blessing of contentment.
How joyful and exciting to be actually distracted by too much happiness.. Happiness of course being a relative term, I'd prefer to say contentment but this phrase is heavily borrowed, so I will keep it in the original.
Most times we dissect our sorrows and all that ails us, we are depressed at a loss be it of a physical nature or of our mental peace and dwell on the why.. why me, most importantly.
While content, we take it for granted. Almost as if we were born with it expressly stamped on our bottoms 'to be happy all the time'. I guess I'm talking much about me and the way I percieve things. Have been happy in my sadness for too long that I must have forgotten the merits of contentment.
For today, this moment, everything is alright in my world. My mind is chilled out, my body isn't groaning and peace reigns in me.

Happiness is a fleeting butterfly they say
Chase after it and you will find it's tough play
Give me then contentment I pray
A heart that no sadness can slay

And when despair does come knocking
Which, knowing me.. aint too shocking
Let me embrace the peace in sorrow
And cheerfully make it part of morrow

So will you please shut up...

Silence they say is a virtue, besides it being golden (blah!) and those who maintain a dignified silence reign supreme.
I was very smartly told yesterday that Abraham Lincoln said, "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt".

Hmmmn.. If one goes by inference alone, that would mean yours' truly has a runaway mouth and is a fool. And to be honest, I do! I have the classic Foot in the Mouth disease.

And it's getting worse, I can sense that. Motor mouth is going all a flashing, ablaze and bringing in its wake a trail of nonsense behind. I'm wondering now, is this is a disease? Is it genetic? Is it acquired? And most importantly, Is it curable?

God help me and all those I interact with if it aint.

Have decided, I will be a woman of few words from now - till when, I cannot promise, but will try. Will make a conscious effort to zip the gob. High time I guess, have noticed that Alder is turning out to be like his mater. Every time I go to his school, the teachers seem to know everything there is to know except the color of my underwear (phew!) well... I hope!

But seriously, I will measure, weigh and carefully construct my sentences henceforth...

And God Bless me and my grand scheme!

But you love me Daddy...

Just got off the phone with my parents. I talk to them about twice a week, Friday being my turn to call them.
No matter how old we grow or how far we live, our parents remain the ties that bind, the roots that hold and the relationships that make us.
It tugs at my heart strings when Dad says... aaa Meltaaa or sometimes... Meleeetaaa.
I'm a parent of 2 teenagers, but when I hear Dad's loving voice say Meltaa, I melt.
God grant me the strength to keep my parents with me when they need it most.
I call mum, Ammi or sometimes Mother India, just to hassle her. :D
It's so easy to get her goat.. N I'm horrid!! My children keep berating me at the way I talk to mum.
That woman though is the Wind Beneath my Wings. My greatest and biggest fan. She's the ONLY person in the world who I can say to as it occurs in my head without the edits.
The days spent with her, singing Jim Reeves songs, Carpenters, Abba, BoneyM are all magic. Her favorite songs, Send me the Pillow that you Dream on, Mother of Mine, Que Sera Sera, Tie a Yellow Ribbon round the Old Oak Tree, Knock Three Times are all my fav too now.
How wonderful it is to have the strength of these wonderful spirits.
We are in so many ways replicas of our parents temperaments and character. Though we may not like that too much.
I wish to imbibe the best of both of them and hope my children will one day say, 'Yeah she was kinda weird but cool'.
Amen.

Of hypersonic moods

And No, it's not a condom ad.

I'm wondering, what you call people whose moods change faster than you can say Geronimo..

It's fashionable to talk depth, quality over quantity, of knowledge and reasoning, character and endurance. Our mothers were most content to talk bout the new saree shop in town, the latest gossip on love marriages and divorce and the current price of onions (though mine would talk politics that bored everyone to death except an eccentric uncle) and about their immediate neighbors.( I likes!)

We women have come a long way since and it hasn't really been that long you know. Now its blase' to talk like a 'behenji' and so you will find the twenties, thrities and forties somethings talking Paolo Coelho, The Secret, Desperate Housewives, Sex in the City....(wannabe :P )
blah!

There is this stress that the modern, educated, real woman possess qualities that not only make her a playmate ( Hugh Hefner likes!) also someone who can play Scrabble decently and lose of course, but not too badly. She should be well groomed and definitely be able to make 'intelligent' conversation, not of the kandha batata variety.

Basically, the shift from traditional homemaker/welfare worker to modern woman with 'depth'.

Is it true that when you are deep and have an intelligent thought process that you are able to rally, fend, deflect and skillfully disassemble minor irritants that come your way... you see, because you are 'deep', you are above, beyond and elevated from the mundane, commonplace and unnecessary?

I guess I'm kandha batata variety.

When it isn't enough that you are a poet

I'm not good at tributes -

Am posting a poem that I love, that has touched me deeply.. a poem of genius.. for the heart that remained lonely... no matter what.
Of brilliance left to wane and of the many many stories yet untold, this is for FM.

This is FM.

I make sounds that are not my sounds,
gestures that are not my gestures,
speak words that are not my own.

Sometimes I pretend we are both
someone else, two someones with
more beauty and sweeter breath and
less story.

Mostly I must pretend he is someone
who sees me as me,
not as some fantasy he likes to
pretend I am,
just as I am pretending him;
pretending us.

I dont know; maybe this is
what I am, maybe this is the
man I love or am destined to
love. And maybe when I purr at
him that I love him, I am me,
and I am a loving woman, loving a
reflection of myself, loving myself.

At times I want to melt into me,
the me that is beyond this body
and this brain that thinks too
much, beyond this drowning and
this drama.

In this animal act we re enact
I can at times dissolve into a
pool of me, here and not here,
play acting that what I want is
this silly friction and pounding
when all I really want is
the bliss and the peace of me
reflected in the other who thinks
he loves someone who thinks she
is me.

I am old but not that old,
I am young but not that young
I guess I am as fragile and
innocent as a ravished child.

What do I want?
I want him to be the "the one",
but what is it that would make
him "the one" or "the one", him.
And why cannot our relationship be
infused with so much tenderness as
to be terribly, terribly serious, a
profound meditation and a repasting
all in one.

But I hold on to him and
sigh with relief, relax into shudders
of comfort at long last,
relax into the arms and of this
wanting for our relationship
to be deep, but its really just
about eating and copulating
like my latest career move or
which movie should we get
tomorrow night.

But how deep do I want my
relationship to get? I guess that would
depend on what deep relationship means
Do I have to know his pain
of youthful dreams destroyed or
deferred, his guilt?

Does he have to know
the vibrant vacillation of my confusion?
His memories, my inhibitions,
his stark existence, my approvals,

Do I have to know? Does he
have to bear it?

Why, oh why is a relationship to
me more significant, or more
desirable, or more adventurous,or less fun, or more intimate, or
more erotic than any other?

.........And why is erotic a bad word?

And so I learn.. everyday

It's amazing, life is really. Just when you think you may have seen it all, experienced it, risen with it, fallen and been beaten... life turns around to tell you that, 'you ain't learned anything yet'.

If I could rewind and return
repress and reassemble
re group and re align
I would....

The confidences
the laughter
the simple joy in being
the unaffected wonder...

People are just being themselves, the world rarely revolves around us does it. I would love to believe that we are so attuned to the people around us that we absorb energies, get rejuvenated by a warm spirit, bogged down by a troubled soul. Not as a philanthropic gesture or a self praising egoistic trip but rather as being true to what we really are, caring warm souls.

'Soul' - have been told that use the word so much that I should now say 'sole'.

Befitting really 'cos Sole is what this really is.

Sole is the wanderer
who seeks to play the role
Of that immense wonder
he believes is yonder

Lone and all alone
the path to atone
Acts of faith and trust
so easily gone to rust

What lies ahead is a false mirage
of broken cars in a rundown garage
Search in another for your own soul
And all you find that its but Sole

Synonyms for wretched - deplorable, execrable, miserable, woeful

Looked up Google for synonyms of wretched, that's a good word for the current mood. But didn't like the synonyms, I would not explain it in those words precisely.

Am I menopausal yet, these mood swings are unpredictable and dark. N to be fair to menopausing, I've been this way forever - aint the hormones, I've got the blues in my blood.

Hehehe... like that blue blooded has a different twist now huh!

As always, when blue.. ( say blue aloud... the endless possibility of the last vowel is beautiful)I turn inward, reflect, mull over, sink into, decimate, disseminate and fall into myself that soaks in and embalms in the churning.

Attribute it to Ayn Rand. Howard Roark is everyone's ideal and quintessential hero. I'm living Dominique. Can't shake her. I loved the anger, pain, rage, misery and the helplessness.

Have taken refuge under her skin right now.

That should explain why I'm sinking. Had I a Roark to fight for, would very much have done the same thing.

We fight for that which we love, we fight hard against losing that which we love and fight hardest to desensitise ourselves from the pain that is brought on by too much loving.

To the point that you distance yourself from that which is your life blood......

Mine's blue.

Amanda is 16

16 years ago, at 12:25 p.m., Amanda my daughter made a grand and premature entry into the world, she was born in 7 months and three weeks and scared the beejeesus out of us.

In 16 years of motherhood, I have been elated, elevated, ecstatic, irritated, buggered and battered. Makes you mortal, vulnerable and defenceless while keeping you at the top of the world.

Amanda is an old soul.. she tears me apart with her silences and when she does laugh and live uninhibitedly, she makes this life worth a zillion times than it really is.

My greatest teacher... is my daughter and thank what heavens may be for that!

So, Mumma.. who reads your blogs anyways

Was the question my daughter asked me yesterday. I fibbed through my teeth ( Anjali would say, "aiyyo Melli with teeth like those, even an elephant can get through!) and said, 'oh.. lot's of people do'. You should have seen the look of pure disbelief on her face.

Got me thinking though. Do I write for others or myself? The truth lies somewhere in between I guess. But oh yes.. I do look for comments ( quite desperately at times) and do want to know what the opinion on what I write and how I write is....

Yours truly!!!

The Anna agitation

There's part of me that finds the idea of engaging in dramatic activity to make my point quite exciting and yet there is the rational that despises it.

When the idea of the lokpal bill surfaced, it seemed as refreshing as rain on parched earth, cos' that's what we want isn't it?

An ideal state sans corruption. Even if we are activists of corruption in the first place with many of what we do, surmounting to corruption and bribery in some form or the other. From the cop who catches you on the phone while driving, to the children's school teacher. Bribe coated in sugar and spice and everything nice.

Have read so much on the Lokpal bill now and while its a terrific idea... the who and what is the big Q.

Somehow.. dont think too much of the Anna either and without respect... you cannot sustain a movement, an agitation or even a thought.

Anti-corruption needs to be an attitude, a way of life and a part of our conscience. If that is understood and accepted, Lokpal will be a as natural as breathing.

Har Ek friend Zaroori Hota Hai

Love the advert by Airtel.

We need all kinds of friends dont we? Even those who tear you apart into smithereens.. The primary purpose of friendship is to heal anothers and one's own soul and to be that person who is natural without artifice.

The comfort of being with a friend is like waking in the morning, lookin your worst, bad breath n all... n feelin like a queen..

The pillars that hold this fragile soul are friends who laugh away my tears.

And I wait.. to be blown to smithereens...

Exist!

Its been a year almost that I havent blogged. I guess thats the lazy me.. A lot has happened in the 12 months gone by. I have lived a few lifetimes.. born a few times, died many other..
While the angst is still present, its mellowed and restrained.. is it the passing of time that erodes away and eats into the disquiet or am I older.. and therefore wiser?
I will not make claims on the latter.

From the recesses of my mind
I cough up and dreg
a now forgotten pain
Or so I delude myself

If it has manifested
Serrated and seared
festered and fetid
It's alive

I lie to myself
that it doesnt exist
while all the while
it keeps me alive