Melancholy is a word I learnt in High School, when we were being taught Midsummer Night's Dream. Sophisticated English teachers (who wore big red bindis, starched off-white saris, and were divorced) pointed out that Shakespearean imagery of winds and their sorcery was used, often, to depict moods. One of these moods being melancholy.
I graduated from the stage of cordiality with Melancholy, to that of familiarity in college, as I began to realise that PMS wasn't entirely a concoction of Oprah Winfrey and Agony Aunt columns of rave-n-rant feminists. When all my nonchalance gathered up, scraped- scrounged-piggie-bank-broken, could not put up a good enough fight for the onslaught engineered by Hormone army. And melancholy is the Lovechild of this cruel Hormonal onslaught upon my otherwise, ahem, Footloose and Fancifree self.
I am convinced PMS days can't be described better in any other term, in any other language, than the Shakespeare-favourite word Melancholy. In Hindi, it will probably be called Udaasi, but that fits only Greek Tragedy Queens, or Mala Sinha (from the 1950s) in a white sari. Can't think of an exact Bong word for it, but even if it strikes me, I'm sure it won't match the accuracy of Melancholy.
So last night, I experienced Melancholy (Vista version), where a book and good music and rains seem to gang up on you. Like school-bullies. And every third sentence in the book seems to resonate your Melancholy. And you confide in the spider web at the edges of the ceiling.