I was sitting on the john when a previous-day conversation
with a ‘close’ relative whizzed past my mind. She asked me a question, more
specifically, about my daughter. In the soul-nourishing solitude provided by
the washroom, I had an epiphany. I figured it wasn’t so much of an answer my
dear relative was seeking, rather her question was a small, razor-sharp
incision, meant to slight, bruise, and maim with one deft stroke of the tongue.
And as is with epiphanies, they really do make you wake up and smell the
coffee, the nauseating smell of the morning business notwithstanding. So, as I
ran past all my previous talks with her, a pattern as clear as daylight began
to emerge.
I have, after much wracking of the my shrivelled brain,
successfully classified my dear relative’s queries into a few broad categories.
We’ll leave the specific nomenclature for tomorrow for that shall be a new day,
and I only have so many grey cells. Loosely bunched, most of her questions are
weapons of self (read my) destruction. Carefully worded and casually tossed,
these questions are meant to successfully annihilate any vestige of self-esteem
that I may have. Although stealthily lobbed like a grenade in the middle of the
conversation, this question has a delayed reaction. No huge, mind-numbing
bombardment, these questions are small bursts of fire resulting in shrapnel
injuries in the form of mocks and taunts on my non-existent career, expanding
girth etc, enough to ensure a lifetime of PTSD. “Are you
planning to work?” Innocent bystanders like my husband who wouldn’t know
sarcasm if it tap-danced on his head, are none the wiser. But it is me, the
target whose radars can pick up the silent echoes this ostensible concern
leaves in its wake. “Are you planning to
work………..ever…ever…ever…ever????” My career or whatever is left of it, due
to reasons beyond my control, sputters to life, jerks, and dies depending on
where we are on the Indian subcontinent. Naturally, for the Trojan horse that
my dear relative is, my job is my most vulnerable feature and therefore, the
perfect target.
Er..I may have forgotten to mention my other ‘vulnerable’
feature, the ever-conspicuous, experiencing-a-boom-like-no-economy-ever – my
waistline. With little or no investment, my waistline yields amazing results
that even my four-year-old rates credit-worthy. Not wanting to waste her cache
of precious artillery on my waistline, my dear relative resorts to taking
pot-shots, a cheap yet effective way of reducing her target to rubble. (Still
talking about my self-esteem, I shall kiss her hand in gratefulness everyday if
her firepower were to reduce my vast waistline to ashes.) “What size kurta shall I buy for you – large or extra-large?”
That’s Sophie’s choice right there…
For the lack of something succinct and appropriate, I have
termed the other set of questions that my dear relative often comes up with as
“You ain’t nothing but a hound dog”. Elvis Presley may have flippantly been
referring to someone, but my dear relative’s queries are titled so only because
of the awe they evoke in me. I truly marvel at the insidious, Sherlock
Holmes-way my dear relative’s mind works. Yes, active minds wonder…and wonder
they a lot. My dear relative is often struck by an insatiable hunger for
knowledge – extremely pertinent knowledge as to the current status of affection
between my husband and I. “What did you get
for your wedding anniversary?” – has been an annual refrain for the past 10
years. When we were engaged to be married, the hound dog often sniffed around
my husband’s phone looking for incriminating messages between two individuals going
to be locked in holy matrimony. ‘How long
are your parents visiting you for?’
Morning sunlight charged my brain cells enough for me to know
that the ‘hound dog’ inquiries pop up
when the inquirer is feeling peckish or snappy. Topics are subject to the
intensity of hurt and slight desired as well as my dear relative’s level of
belligerence on any given day. “What were
the symptoms of your miscarriage? I feel like it might be a good thing for me
to know now that I am expecting.” Tact died a slow and painful death
somewhere.
Then there are the ‘Did
you knows?’ In fact, the ‘did you
know’ is an irksome by-product of the knowledge acquired by the ‘hound dog’. The gyani feels a compelling desire to share knowledge and information
of her own life with me. Ever so often, when I get caught under the wisdom tree
(read the phone), I am showered with invaluable bits of banal, boring and the
most mundane details of my dear relative’s life. ‘Did you know we went to the supermarket today?’ ‘Did you know that we
bought a car/house?’ ‘Did you know we went for a cruise?’ ‘Did you know my
daughter sneeze-pooped today?’ ‘Did you know we bought a temple for our house?
Just in case, me with my limited comprehension should find it difficult to
visualize an Indian family’s milk errand in a foreign land, pictures are
promptly supplied on Whatsapp. ‘Did you
know…’
Till now, I have stoically maintained a no-first use moratorium
on similar verbal weaponry. But hey, this looks like war to me, or in the very
least a mini-battle for ego supremacy. Shock
and Awe may not be a bad battle strategy after all.
