BEFUDDLED

In war and wedlock

My grandma and pa got married at noon with the big hot sun as their witness they joined hands in holy matrimony and later had a lunch reception and danced to soft music on 16^th may 1942. it would have been just a normal, uneventful, run of the mill shaadi if not for that darned war. World war II, when allies got to battle with the axis, the British east India company were governing India and bombs were destroying entire cities. And then there was my grandparents falling in love and creating the D’Mello family as I know it. Two young kids, 3 generations back proving that in the midst of fear and hatred, hot blooded violence and bloodshed there could be god honest love and hopeful dreams of starting a family.

I m sure they dreamed of a family dinner party, with lights and a live band, a grand feast and lots of giddy dancing but they settled for a quiet day time celebration because during times of war the shoulders are tense and attitudes are somber and the night was especially grave. Any sign of lights or any noise was an invitation for trouble. The enemy as they were seen, millions of people unknown to the barrels of the guns they were staring into.

In the darkness they sat wondering what dawn would bring, news of peace or more business for the local undertaker. It was a small town in old Bombay and one with simple people that day at Gloria church. Simple in their thinking , simple in their living and in simply knowing what life is made for.

                              Yolande D’Mello

Lessons in modern etiquette – part I , section A

“Goodness gracias me, you are quite the square old boy…” Yes, we’re way past the polite days of standing up for a lady or powdering one’s nose.

Gone are the times when a gentleman opened doors for his lady – today we’re liberated and that has opened more doors for women all over the world. With equal rights to vote, work and live it gave way to the feminist movement so today bills are spilt and complements too. We might ask ourselves have we perhaps lost the little things? The niceties where a man would takes your coat, offers you his seat in the bus or tips his hat in acknowledgment. Instead, we now fight for the stree-seat in the bus and have just given up wearing coats and hats.

Our perceptions have been altered a lot too, rugged is now cool but an unshaven chin would have been shameful not too long ago( I can see the pitchforks and rotten tomatoes already). Guys with ponytails and piercings no longer just fit gangsters ad hoodlums (they probably wear Armani anyway). Tattoos and body art as it’s frequently called by new age revolutionaries are a mode of self-expression.

Honestly I cant say much has changed with the way women are perceived other than the odd exception who manages to do a ‘rail roko’ dead in your tracks by her pure awesomeness like a kiran bedi, sania mirza, arundhati roy, shakuntala devi and Aung San Suu Kyi. The traditional woman though would wear a corset and brutally bend her ribs to give that elegant look for an evening out with breathtaking grace( ironically she would be the one fainting) and giddy with fun(or is that the internal bleeding?).Corsets are merely torture tools of the past, nowadays women simply starve themselves inventing new levels of skinnyness namely the new and improved size zero.

Language has been the most widely variable factor though. Its managed to take a 180 degree turn to all that was the spoken good. Vocabulary is the biggest word most people can manage to pronounce. Abusing is no longer a matter of bad upbringing its more about expression and not being a f**** pansy a** m****** f**** of course.

In conclusion, socially acceptable behavior is hard to keep track of today especially when your unsure if a crumpled shirt is a sign of tardiness or the latest fashion trend and there you are fashion faux pas with your crease free clothing.

John denver sang annie’s song in the drawing room. She was in one of those dreamy moods again and he was listening to this song for the fourth time this week. With Jane it was like living with the music video girl, she reflected her mood with music. If she was listening to Richard marx she was usually in one of those hopeless romantic moods and Derrick Pane would most likely wake up very happy, if she was listening to the bellamy brothers then he got custard for dessert,if she had managed to find the metallica cd then she was angry and he stayed clear of her for the rest of the day, if jim reeves she was probably swaying and singing along and if he heard cher that meant she was feeling fabulous. Music meant so much to their lives and he liked to believe that music need them as much. For instance was a love song still a love song if there weren’t couples waltzing on the dance floor. With jane and the many moment of silence he thought about these things a lot. She said very little and he listened hard to perhaps hear her heart beat faster when he held her hand. He tried getting her to talk about herself as he had learnt in his managerial career it was the simplest thing to do. We all love talking about ourselves, what we are like and who we think we are…but with her you just had to wait and see. She was in no hurry to be your best friend or write a book about you favourite mid-day snack, she did however ask the important questions we never remembered to ask. Like she would wake him up in the morning and him if he was happy. It through him off the first few times but then he realized that he had never thought about it before. Happiness always seemed like something he was working towards and though he considered himself quite adequately content he didn’t want to live the entirety of his life like that. She was a poet in every sense of the word. And her poetry was exactly like her – it was misleading initially but that was only because you judged it from your perspective and what you’ve been taught to be good and true, it seemed to talk in riddles, hiding behind complicated words that meant simple things and lastly it was a very seemingly indulgent sort of poetry where the rhyme rules the verse. How could words say so many underlying things you ask well she did it with a single look ,that look that said you will always be chasing her and even when you’ve had her she’s never fully given herself to you. It made her almost perfect to him. And almost had to be good enough for now. She sat on the floor and smiled when she saw him. He walked over and kissed her on the lips that tasted of grapes and reminded him of the summer. He was the guy who worked weekends and holidays and said things like , it’s a dirty job but someone has to do it. He recalled the last real vacation he took eight years ago, she took one everyday in her head. He envied her but then again she lived down town in a hole she called home and he liked his luxuries. She got up and went to the kitchen to pour him a drink. He drank rum and she sipped red. They sat in the balcony and she played with his curls, he sat and watched her quietly getting drunk and dozy. He asked her what day it was and she turned her head to feel the wind on her neck, randomly talking about moving to the countryside. He’d nod but he was really already as far away from the city as he wanted to be. Far enough to not notice the honking of expensive cars always in a hurry and close enough to make the 7.20 morning train. They ate spaghetti and he emptied the bottle of old monk spilling some on the yellow table cloth. She knew he was intoxicated and she knew how to handle him. She passed him a napkin and he made about tidying up only to spill some more from his glass. They smoked two cigarettes each and shared the third in the living room then headed to bed. He took off his shoes and tucked his socks in them, then he unbuttoned her sweater. She told him that she loved him more than anything in the world and he closed his eyes. She took of the rest of her clothes and he looked her in the eyes, they looked dazed but then again he was the one who was drunk. He kissed her. Morning sounds woke them up and he stalled under the covers, with her cuddled up wearing old bed sheets next to him. He wore his suit and changed his shirt to a fresh one from his previous visit. He kissed her on the cheek before leaving and lingered to smell her hair early in the morning. She would be asleep till he reached work and then she would miss him. But not for too long. She drank her coffee with hit of heroin and wrote sonnets to that warm ,fuzzy feeling inside. She’d forgotten Christmas but she remembered her next hit just fine. It was still dark and the radio hummed ‘silent night’…all has come ,all is right…                       Yolande D’Mello

my first atttempt at song writing

Colour me

Ch:Colour me pink

Colour me white

Whatever you do

Colour me bright

My heart’s an open canvas

Your love a rainbow brush

Draw me a pale white rose

Our love will make it blush

A glimmer to the grime

A sparkle to a stain

Pretty is a state of mind

Purple covers up the pain

Yellow isn’t always happy

Love isn’t only red

Also wine, anger and bloodstains

Violet’s for royalty,and for the dead

Splash some green in my garden

Wash me when I m blue

Shaded droplets of red petals

Colour me and I’ll colour you too

A summer day boasted of clear skies and blooming foliage at every corner of little casa De Mel on St Peter’s street. The trees were lush , the flowers fragrant and the air sprinkled with a quiet , pleasant contentment. It was the kind of day when you could feel happy doing anything or even nothing at all. I sat by the window and thought out aloud to my mum doing the laundry in the basement, “How the leaves never sit quite evenly on the branches! A dogs tail is never completely straight! All these little errors, they only add to the beauty of nature.” Proudly I thought to myself about that little wrinkle on my nose, that beautiful little wrinkle.

My Sudden Obsession With News

News may sound like a very official almost boring phenomenon to most people.it did to me too till I became a student of the mass media in the true sense, now it sounds boring and scary. The news seems like something you need to know, though some choose to be oblivious to it. Its like going to the dentist, its not something you do for kicks its something you do so your teeth don’t fall out, though some people are oblivious. But normal folk who satisfy their addictions with beverages like tea and coffee fulfill their need for knowledge on an everyday basis with a cup of the morning newspaper with a side of breakfast. Marslow describes it as an individuals journey towards self-actualization, you and me think of it as a way to know if ther’s a bandh or not.

For so many of us news is a ‘time-pass’ for spending those hours in that train crowded with uninteresting people or that uneventful trip to the loo. Hundreds of people on that 8.15 local but no one with a personality, uncomfortable bus seats that don’t let you get your 40 winks, the new radio station isn’t playing your favourite song. All reasons to catch up with the world. Read about the earthquake in Indonesia, the robot potty in Japan, the 3 year old uni-cyclist in the US , the actress who sued for breaking her nail… all these big stories fill up the space in our heads that aren’t full of our own worries.

Then there are those who follow the daily news so that they may avoid boredom in the future. The news allows us with topics of conversation and witty repartee. All those moments when you would have to sit in awkward silence or actually speak your mind are intelligently avoided by an enthusiastic discussion about the UK parliament elections. All the nuisances of life are expressed in angry discourse about the current state of politics in our country. True sometimes these debates spill out into the streets in the from of violence and break-down of administration but whats that compared to a wonderful minutes of enthralling conversation.

Many times you cant help but watch the news. How they manage to make a celebrity wedding 100 miles and 10 million dollars away seem so relevant I never understand but I always find myself wondering if the lengha really was embroidered by Belgian nuns. The sensational manner in which an army brigade rescued the little boy who fell into a hole and emerged a superstar. The murder that remained unsolved but kept you fascinated by its gory details for the whole week. Farmer’s commit suicide, guilty Babu’s get re-elected, tourist’s get raped and ratings keep going higher.

Another characteristic of the news is that it makes you feel incredibly important. To know all the facts – the 386 victims, flight number 567B, the 6748^th pothole to be repaired,15 park avenue…If you don’t know the details you just lost the impromptu I.Q test. These critical intricacies somehow gain importance though these persons may be completely unaware that their daughter quit school to be a bartender or the sweet neighbour boy sells crack in his spare time or his industrious wife is chronically depressed. Its what separates us from the hobo on the street who doesn’t even know which party drew a majority at the last state polls but knows exactly who has spare change.

Our obsession with news may see different reasons behind it but they all keep the 24 hour news agency in business delivering breaking news reports every moment day and night right after the headlines!