If questions could kill..

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.