It is not so if one is participating in a seminar or attending a lecture after which there is a question and answer session; in both cases one listens, absorbs, responds unless, of course, one is just in that forum for whiling away time, or for career-climbing reasons, the podium of high-visibility. Or worse, present solely for the after conference wine `n’ cheese gathering. However, otherwise it appears we are so self-obsessed with our own lives, that given the chance, one could go on till the wee hours of the morning whining about how one, despite being remarkably brilliant, persevering had gotten the short end of the stick or gushing over how through sheer hard work, and by wasting no time, to the extent of avoiding bathroom-breaks, one had created an empire, with an annual turnover of X amount of millions.
All well and fine, to talk about oneself, with a near maniacal obsession to detail, but has anyone paused to think, while narrating the “gripping account” of one’s life’s tales, travails that the “kind listener” may want to get in a word or two of one’s own?! In the early part of March, of each year, there is a reunion supper of sorts. And since I am going quite public, this reunion is one from my care-free student days and since this time, as well as for all times to come, have firmly decided not to attend any such get-togethers, even if a bullet was put to my head, I breathe easy.
I shall set my breakfast-table for lunch, sitting in content silence, while having an egg-salad sandwich, followed by a bowlful of vanilla ice cream with mashed fresh strawberries smushed over it. Guests?! Yes, only those who talk and listen, listen and talk… Snapshot number 1: A classmate, had at long last, divorced her dominating husband, the man who never let her come up for air, who had taken away her voice. One, is genuinely glad for her, and relieved that despite being on the wrong side of 40, she had managed to find a job, that things, finally, were looking up for her…But truly penning one’s life’s memoirs, announcing that once it was in book form, it would fly off the shelves, and besides being rich, the world would come alive to her story?! Now, do we not all have our mundane, yawning stories that would send anyone to sleep in a blink?! The divorcée, however, thinks not, and continues with her saga effortlessly, endlessly. Try talking about one’s own marriage, which after the Silver Jubilee had reached a plateau, with buttoned-up communication, mostly conducted on WhatsApp, and the lady decides it is time to head for the buffet or check on her WhatsApps, she, having during, the “conversation” switched off the mobile data of her phone. Scenario number 2: Another batch-mate, looking remarkably relaxed, fixatedly goes on and on, intellectually dwelling over his problems, probably dreaming up new ones, all the while keeping the listener captive by refilling the hostage’s wine glass and in host-mode crooning, he was only, “refreshing the glass”. And here, do not even think of opening one’s mouth to tell the gentleman that one‘s life was not a walk in the park, but one just had to get on with it. The mouth is only for sipping, rather gulping wine, till one like a bare-faced liar bearing bone-dry eyes can, with a continuous nod of the head, sympathise with his ongoing plight.
Before going on to Clippage number 3, must say that all, however, is not lost. Go for a wedding and there will be happy air-kissing, back-thumping exchanges (depending on your gender) and then there is high-decibel chatter, of the talking-over-each-other genre, which is lost in mid- air…the air thick with French, Turkish, Chinese, Italian fare, not to leave out our own home-grown khaana…Ever heard of Mirchi Halwa?! And what about those hors d’oeuvres—mini tacos, pint-sized pita pieces topped with hummus rolling off the food carousel; grub to be gobbled away, liquor to be guzzled, with bulgy greed. The dance floor, where there is all-encompassing room for the bhangra, hip-hopping and jigging away with even two left feet. And, then, we say, we are living in divisive times?! Not called the Great Indian Wedding without good reason. And since this is not a one-to-one huddle, one can let down one’s hair and party.
Screenshot number 3: Yet, another class-fellow, cannot stop playing the clucking Mum. Both her kids, were at Harvard or was it Princeton (quite irrelevant, so cannot fathom, why I am scratching my head over it!) on scholarships where she had not to pay a dime. And this, despite the fact that her money-bags husband—not going by the rock-sized solitaire rings adorning her fingers—had magnanimously given her the choice of being gifted a yacht or jet for her birthday. Try informing her that one, too, was a mother and one’s own daughter, nowhere near the league of her offsprings, but was aspiring to be a photographer. Unconcealed indifference. Perhaps, what would have grabbed her attention is, if one had announced that daughter-dearest, “was aspiring to be ordinary”. Clear disinterest, since usually speaking, when there is an interruption of this brand of yakety-yak, the chatterer’s eyes start wandering, settling nowhere in particular, or then suddenly the monologue-deliverer has to rush to the washroom.
I have quite run out of space, but before putting this pen down must add, whoever would have imagined Prince Harry making a living by going on a Talkathon?! Flying down to Miami, with wife, Meghan, at his side, to deliver a big-dollar speech at J.P.Morgans; would anyone be good enough to throw light why bankers would want to know how his mental health had suffered after mother, Princess Diana’s death?! Going on a speech-spree on his life as a Royal, the hardships of Dukedom. Encashing on his nobility, and then claiming he had cut the Imperial purse-strings, becoming economically independent. Speaking of which, time to stop talking!
Dr Renée Ranchan writes on socio-psychological issues, quasi-political matters and concerns that touch us all.