Picking up the prosody again!

For me, the English language has never been just that. 

It's been a friend, a lover, a daughter and a mother. 

A friend to dry my tears of self pity, when I pour those out as poetry. 

A lover- since the time I was about six years old and wrote my first poem about an imaginary dog, the language encases me in it's sophisticated velvet shell, spilling out in the choicest words (yes, sometimes people had to check a dictionary to see what I meant) which make me so proud as they leave my lips. 

A daughter- as I carefully tend to my darling collection of books- dusting and blowing off those fine cobwebs which cover those well loved titles like some filigreed jewellery. 

A mother- guidebooks- how to live books- The Secret- who I would turn to for help in dark times.

And now, after a series of qualifications in Advertising, Sales, Multimedia, Business Administration culminating in a PG diploma in Communication from the country's finest school, I've decided to take the plunge into the wordy ocean of a Master's degree in English Literature. 

Needless to add, I'm loving each page of each text, especially Poetry which is my personal favourite! 

'... I dreamt of Manderley again.'

I first read Daphne dú Maurier's Rebecca (originally published in 1939) when I was in the seventh standard, egged on by my grandmum, who firmly believed that educating a girl in the English Classics was an experience in itself. At that time, I could little grasp the finer nuances and just thought of it as another ghost story. I re-read it in standard twelve and appreciated the language, the descriptions and promptly fell in love with Manderley. Post that, I must've read it at least 5 more times- each time being romanced by the suave Max deWinter and modelling my own knight after him...

Yesterday I chanced upon the 1997 television adaptation of the book and by far- it was the best adaptation I've ever seen. It brought alive the whole book. I loved Charles Dance as Max deWinter again and hated Diana Riggs as Mrs Danvers.

The place, the people- Mrs Van Hopper (Faye Dunaway in a brilliant tailormade performance as the eccentric society lady) Frith/ Crawley/ Beatrice- even Favell- came as waves of sweet remembrance- so well cast and so well played. 

It was a treat, indeed!

Time is a newborn baby

Yes.

Today I was sorting out R's old clothes- newborn ones. And I realised just how tiny she was, when she was born. She was the perfect weight- 2.995 kg - but oh so delicate. One of the earliest pics of Day 1 show a blue swaddled bald doll with piercing dark eyes, looking straight into me as I hold her and talk to her. That was really something. Much as I may enjoy R's growing up now, looking back at those couple of days when we were formally introduced to each other in the real world- were the best of my life. There was so much excitement and tension!

A newborn baby gallops through weeks, months and years.

Time is a newborn baby.

Pass-port

Today we went with an unusually hyper R to get her passport made.. Yes, yes, a foreign vacation is on the anvil. Oh man! What a tedious task. A long wait, an even more cranky R- for how long could I keep her occupied with W (her nemesis) or the Aunty with the boy (who fell down innumerable times on the smooth floor)... She wanted to zoom across the floor and into her father's arms- having missed him sorely the day before. So she devised a game of running around the metallic seats and plopping down on the floor- stopping only when I offered her some 'cake' (brownie) for her effort. The lone shop inside the waiting area is helpfully stocked with pastries of all kinds- lest the consumer experience near-death levels of hypoglycaemia while waiting so long!

I think the whole passport issue-system is a complete waste of time. Especially for mothers with infants and toddlers (there were quite a few)- it takes a long wait to get to each of the four counters even when all documents are in place. I actually expected LoML to get the printed passport in hand after all this Herculean effort- to be told that it will be couriered home God-knows-when.

That's why such a system breeds corruption of agents. If it was shorter and crisper- in tune with the changing times and consumer- it would be so much easier. 

Thomas Friedman may be correct in stating the flatness but what happens if people are hellbent on creating mountains of 'processes'?

This old man's house

Now R has this habit of watching the iPad while having milk. It's a bad habit I cultivated because she wouldn't take to formula and now it's stuck. 

One of the many things she likes watching are television commercials- lots of them- not surprising coz her lineage is from a communications background- but I guess it's more to do with the fact that they're short and snappy and have a new world of characters.

Her current favourite are the Vodafone old man series, where the trespassing boy gets a gift - and later plays carrom with the old guy. Now R's paediatrician bears an uncanny resemblance to this old man- prompting me to compare him with the clearly unfavoured character in R's little brain. But I love this man. Look what a wonderful house he stays in- it even has a garage of it's own- houses that I've lived in all my life- well, majority of my life and that's how dwellings should be- with a garden, a garage, an attic, a storeroom... Part of me feels cheated as I stay in a small apartment. 

This house looks so warm and comfortable. The door is polished a dark brown, the clock in the verandah- God knows the last time I sat in a verandah must have been in the porch of a hotel- looks so old and you can spy an antique radio in the background- so beautiful... 

Blue Beads

R is generally very cranky towards meal-times. At the risk of sounding like a useless mother, I sometimes cannot quite fathom what she wants. More so with my choice of food for her- if I make egg, she asks for sooji. If I make moong dal, she'll ask for rice. If I make.. Well, you get the drift.

During these amazing meal times- lasting well into an hour, I have to find new things/ toys/ products to distract her. She likes kitchen utensils, books, clothes, electronic gadgets but most of all- my jewellery- the large chunky beaded necklaces and earrings being her favourite. Oh and also handheld mirrors and compact mirrors! 

The other day, I was surprised to find her with my drawer open, diligently shuffling through the myriad contents of a potentially dangerous assorted items- basket and finding the glittery I Love NY compact mirror her Aunt had gotten on her last trip..  Girls!

You, yourself?

Last week, R had to get the last of the PCV vaccines. So we took the usual evening appointment and walked into a room full of waiting people. R was at her boisterous best. Screaming, running, laughing- she did it all. Even made up a little game of running between LoML and me across the room with fits of giggles. Which prompted the mom of a rather sad looking nine month old to strike up a conversation with me.

'Is she always like this- so hyper?'

(my maternal instincts so proud) 'Yep'

'How old is she? 1 year?'

'Yep- 15 months' (notice the lack of interest in my tone)

'At home also she's like this? You must have a very clean home!' (laughs)

'Yes!' (I actually DO have a spotless home. I pay my staff to keep it that way)

'You're here for vaccination?'

'Yes. PCV' 

'Oh- he's got a tiny lump where he got his injection- he's 9 months old. Didn't let me massage him. Who massages her? You?'

'Yes, I do'

'You, yourself?'

'Yes, I me myself. Since birth.'

'Really?'

By this time the friendly assistant had shouted R's name so I quickly gathered my stuff and baby.  What did she mean? You, yourself? Just because I was wearing a pair of jeans with a decent t-shirt and had bright red toe nailpolish didn't mean I couldn't massage my baby, did it?  I guess it was the nailpolish.