People Series--I

It is people who make life interesting and exciting. They continue to intrigue and interest us

Being a proclaimed believer in God—an unalloyed creationist, much ridiculed by the intellectuals who brag they had an arboreal past, a cerebral present and an uncertain future—I am often thrilled at both the individuality and plurality of mankind.

No two men are the same. Never.

My father and his nine brothers were as different as chalk and cheese. My mother and her three sisters are as different as pudding and payasam.

My identical twin friends—who look mirror-images of each other—are different in their own ways. Their likes and dislikes are different.

So, men are different.

And, that keeps us going—watching them, observing them, being one of them.

I often feel at sea in a party, but I love being there. Not for the booze. Not for the noise. Not definitely for the glamour and pomp.

Parties give me an excellent opportunity to watch life. It is a perfect slice.

I curl up in one corner like a daft. No friends to review the good old days. No aunts and uncles to discuss future and no buddies to guffaw with.

I sit in a corner, and watch the fun—I mean the people. I realise how conscious that aunty is of her sari with shimmering works of pearls and of that lonely sleek white-gold chain with a dazzling yet simple diamond pendent that often plunges its head into her creamy cleavage.

I see how that girl preens, bearing the full lusty weight of a hundred eyes on her pretty face and shapely bosom. She knows, and she is thrilled inside—there is a festival of fireworks in her heart—but she won’t show it. She wears an expression of boredom, like the sage-like brunch-time ocean.

And, that boy, who has Salman Khan’s shoulders and John Abraham’s everything. He’s got a few buttons off to show the glimpse of his fatless, façade of a youthful chest.

And, that makes the uncle next to him desperately clutch at the double measure of Black Dog that thaws a hillock of ice cubes. Of late, uncle is not impressed by his own appearance. The hair falls thick and fast, denuding the scalp, helping spotlights reflect in no time. The belly is shamelessly out. He feels like strangling the young, smart guy who strides up to his wife and says, ‘Hi aunty, you look stunning!’

‘Bastard!’

Uncle goes for a bottoms-up, and asks the counter boy with spiked hair for another double shot.

I sit nonchalant, munching a chicken drumstick, listening to Avial belting out another of their Malayalam hits, watching the specimens of life parading before me.

But of all people, I dread the bores more than poisonous snakes or barking dogs.

These men are in many guises. They can be your mother’s beloved brother; your boss with a notion of changing the world; your neighbour; your grandfather’s childhood friend. The list goes on.

I often feel the only species that God regrets making are the bores who don’t get the umpteen hints you drop.

Once they begin, they won’t stop unless you fall dead, and that too only after they are sure that you have no sign of life left in you.

They are brilliant and have a very high IQ, but they won’t read your body language which clearly says you are bored to the core. They will not see you looking out through the window behind them at insignificant heads bobbing beyond the wall.

They think you are their ear-pierced bonded slaves who have no right to utter a word of protest as they go on haranguing—giving lectures on good governance to office ethics to punctuality to etiquettes to gardening to good old days of values and virtues to how bad you are in your life and how they can help you become effective and smart in life.

They are like these little snakes in video games, which gain in power and vigour after eating each fruit—they gain more strength by talking, and more talking.

Nothing is more discouraging and disturbing like a button-holing bore (it’s not my phrase, but I don’t remember whose it is). Button-holing bores are the worst. They are as close to you as the button-holes in your shirt. Nothing is closer to you than these people, but they bore you to death, leave you bleeding, and suck every ounce of joy in life. They leave you disillusioned, frustrated, angry and often sad.

Mussolini and Hitler pale in comparison. Osama Bin Laden and Mullah Omar put down their guns at their sight and run for cover, eschewing their bloody missions. Buddha might lose the proverbial composure.

Nothing can save you from these bores but God. You seek divine protection and grace to survive another session. And, you pray that they will understand the joys of brevity.

Oh, brevity, the soul of wit!

But there are also people who just don’t speak anything, no matter how many dragging hours you spend with them. They consider every word from their mouth precious stones.

You often feel like saying: “Oh, say something you dumb!” But they won’t budge or move their whistle.

Who says silence is golden? Having someone who bores you by talking nothing is only second to the button-holing bores in terms of lethality.

One of my colleagues with The Gulf Today in Sharjah used to tell me about his brother-in-law who spoke only a few words in a day. He used to keep money for his wife at a particular place in the cupboard. His wife would pick it up from there without asking anything.

Intrigued, I asked why he was so angry. “It’s not that he is angry with any of us, he is like that.”

I would have torn him up like a piece of paper if he was my brother-in-law as much as I would have run for my dear life at the sight of a button-holing bore.

As I walk out of the party late in the night, it is raining. And, I am sure someone must be observing me as a perfect example of men who come to parties, sit through like a mug and walk out like a fool!

(First published in yentha.com)