You can tell if people care about you from the way they congratulate you on your engagement. The initial reaction is very important. It could vary from just an open jaw with a “really?”, to a Miss-India like hands-on-clamped-mouth expression—in my opinion, they are both highly offensive. I mean, is it bloody so surprising that I got engaged? It could also be a high-pitched “whaaat”, which makes you doubt if the person is aurally disabled. (Or makes you anxious that you could soon be.) One of my (now ex) suitors kept repeating “that’s great news” for about 5 whole minutes. I was not sure how to respond to that. Because it looked like he was more thrilled by the news than I was. He realized after we hung up that he hadn’t congratulated me or asked me anything about the “lucky boy” at all, and called me back again to do just that. Aah, love.
And then you have the genuine happy reactions. “I am so happy for you.” Of course this one also depends on who is saying it. But fairly authentic most of the times.
“Finally”. I will explain why I like this one. If a girl says it, it means she is jealous, because at some point some guy (in all probability one she likes) has definitely asked her if “that girl she talks to” (me, ofcourse) is single. If a boy says it, it means he has been wondering why such a girl (again, me, ofcourse) was still single. Either way, love it.
And my absolute favourite—“Are you happy?”. Very few people will ask you this very simple question. And for those who do, never doubt their intentions. Because they do not take for granted that you are happy. And very few people in your life will do that.
Then the usual questions follow after you have broken the news.
Who is the lucky boy? I always feel underlying sarcasm associated with the “lucky”. Call me skeptical. But honestly, why can’t people just ask normally--Who’s the guy? As a society, we are fascinated with adjectives. For us, it is the invisible but mandatory blank preceding the noun. So “who’s the guy” becomes:
Who’s the lucky guy? (Seriously, how the hell does anyone know if he’s lucky? And Just as yet? I don’t know myself.)
Who’s the poor guy? (For one, this is plain insulting. This is sincerely not a topic a girl will appreciate jokes on. And mostly this will be used by a male. So it’s chauvinistic too.)
Who’s the young man? (This could be a serious faux pas. What if the girl (not me, ofcourse) is marrying a Sean Connery contemporary?)
Who’s your would-be? (Would-be what?? Partner, room-mate, boss…the possibilities are endless. And although the question is clear enough with the context, I still object to the sheer ambiguity.)
I hate breaking this news to relatives. I am immediately inundated with a barrage of queries pertaining to the essential (to them, ofcourse) vital stats of the chosen one. Finesse and subtlety for a toss.
How much does he earn? (For heaven’s sakes, how could it possibly make a difference to you? And I mean, come on…am I actually expected to answer that with a number??? Of all the absurd things people assume….)
How many brothers/sisters does he have? Where are they currently? (I understand human beings are inherently curious. But there is a thin line between being curious and trying to pull off as a page 3 reporter. Unfortunately, for these people that line might as well be a dot.)
How was the engagement? (A perfectly legitimate question. If only it is not followed by a disturbing look over, scouting for valuables acquired at the said occasion.)
Strangely, I seem to belong to a minority of people who do not like sharing extreme details about these things. Most people, I have seen are almost too eager to share what they wore, what they received, who attended, what the food consisted of, where the makeup was done….Believe me, people can talk. I fail to understand the motivation, if there is one. There must be, I guess. Why else would people be so determined to sketch a three-dimensional version of intensely personal stuff?The only time I think, when people (all kinds, shapes, personalities, sizes, characters) are always genuinely happy for you, is when you open the sweets, or take out your credit card to foot the bill of a (forced, always—because seriously, why would you spend money if you are about to get married??) treat. It is suddenly a joyous occasion, and this time the good wishes are truly heart-felt. Go figure.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thank God its Friday!
Friday 10:30 am: I am testing the same functionality for the dozenth time. Courtesy Sourface. It is beyond me how people can be so incompetent and get away with it. If it was me, I am sure the universe would have handed out just deserts to me by now. Maybe this guy has really really done something good to someone—cant say what and whom. Long story short, have to test that thing again. No point cribbing. Not like I have a choice about it.
Friday 12:30 pm: Thank God Jonas is in office already. That means an early lunch. Not that I am hungry. Just that lunch with him is immensely uplifting. He is one of those people who never crib—always have a defense argument ready for every bad person. Just one of those rare people who have been blessed with a strangely clean heart. Hard to find today. His only hitch—he never lies. He’s too honest sometimes. But if I need criticism I know where to go. Not that he ever criticizes me (Facebook has established through some freak game that I am as sweet as the cherry…so..well). Just every so often I have this urge to shake him and make him say something bad about someone. I am working on it. Just need time.
Friday 2:30 pm: Testing almost done. And I have an error. Sourface strikes again. Damn . One of these days either I am jumping out the window or pushing Sourface out of it. On second thought, I dont even have the second option. Who will fix the bugs, however screwed up the solutions might be. Whatever. Have to analyse it. Aah! Looks like Sourface has managed yet another escapade. Seems likethere is some inherent issue with the code. (Someone else has written the code obviously. I am trying to figure out how exactly Sourface has contributed to the project—except injecting bugs ofcourse. Realize soon that I have no time to solve that mystery.) I both hate and love dynamic projects. Love them because there is never a dull moment. Hate them because, well….duhh!!
Friday 4:00 pm: I am supposed to support Matthias (who is in Germany) with the testing of the same functionality on the client environment. I don’t mind that I am testing it for the dozenth + 1 time. Its fun. And he is without doubt the nicest, sweetest person I have ever known. Very charming, very helpful, very supportive. And within an hour, we have found an error. Hail Sourface. I report the bug and assign it to someone else. I do not have the courage to assign it to Scarface. And have no more resilience left to analyze it. So I drive home.
Friday 6:00 pm: Hmm….atleast the traffic situation is on my side. I love Fridays. Most people decide to give the office a miss on Fridays. I do not have to shift gears much. Reach home without a scowl.
Friday 7:00 pm: Hard to explain what happens next. I actually decide to analyse the bug I have reported. Maybe I am feeling guilty having assigned it to some poor unsuspecting guy who in all probability had nothing to do with it. I am actually analyzing a self-reported bug on a Friday evening. My social life has reached an all time low. Anyway, soon realize the issue. Post it in the bug comments. But have to wait till Monday for the bug to reach the logical conclusion---state closed. Because no other normal person is logged in to see my comments. Even on the German side, with the 3 hour time difference and all.
Friday 10:00 pm: My favourite show is on. The best part of the day. I go to sleep with a smile now that I have seen the CID team crack some silly case. Hope no one is judging me on my taste in shows. Who cares? I love it, period.
Friday 12:30 pm: Thank God Jonas is in office already. That means an early lunch. Not that I am hungry. Just that lunch with him is immensely uplifting. He is one of those people who never crib—always have a defense argument ready for every bad person. Just one of those rare people who have been blessed with a strangely clean heart. Hard to find today. His only hitch—he never lies. He’s too honest sometimes. But if I need criticism I know where to go. Not that he ever criticizes me (Facebook has established through some freak game that I am as sweet as the cherry…so..well). Just every so often I have this urge to shake him and make him say something bad about someone. I am working on it. Just need time.
Friday 2:30 pm: Testing almost done. And I have an error. Sourface strikes again. Damn . One of these days either I am jumping out the window or pushing Sourface out of it. On second thought, I dont even have the second option. Who will fix the bugs, however screwed up the solutions might be. Whatever. Have to analyse it. Aah! Looks like Sourface has managed yet another escapade. Seems likethere is some inherent issue with the code. (Someone else has written the code obviously. I am trying to figure out how exactly Sourface has contributed to the project—except injecting bugs ofcourse. Realize soon that I have no time to solve that mystery.) I both hate and love dynamic projects. Love them because there is never a dull moment. Hate them because, well….duhh!!
Friday 4:00 pm: I am supposed to support Matthias (who is in Germany) with the testing of the same functionality on the client environment. I don’t mind that I am testing it for the dozenth + 1 time. Its fun. And he is without doubt the nicest, sweetest person I have ever known. Very charming, very helpful, very supportive. And within an hour, we have found an error. Hail Sourface. I report the bug and assign it to someone else. I do not have the courage to assign it to Scarface. And have no more resilience left to analyze it. So I drive home.
Friday 6:00 pm: Hmm….atleast the traffic situation is on my side. I love Fridays. Most people decide to give the office a miss on Fridays. I do not have to shift gears much. Reach home without a scowl.
Friday 7:00 pm: Hard to explain what happens next. I actually decide to analyse the bug I have reported. Maybe I am feeling guilty having assigned it to some poor unsuspecting guy who in all probability had nothing to do with it. I am actually analyzing a self-reported bug on a Friday evening. My social life has reached an all time low. Anyway, soon realize the issue. Post it in the bug comments. But have to wait till Monday for the bug to reach the logical conclusion---state closed. Because no other normal person is logged in to see my comments. Even on the German side, with the 3 hour time difference and all.
Friday 10:00 pm: My favourite show is on. The best part of the day. I go to sleep with a smile now that I have seen the CID team crack some silly case. Hope no one is judging me on my taste in shows. Who cares? I love it, period.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Please Walk Over Me Types (PWOM)
Ever notice the individuals in your workplace, college, class who look always unhappy? Or philosophically speaking, always see their glasses, tumblers, plates either half empty or full of food they do not like? These are the people who have made being sad an art.
These are the type of people who are yet to discover the opposite of the word “yes”. But funnily, do not confuse them with the kinds who want to please everyone all the time. In fact, my guess is half their unhappiness stems from the fact that they know they are doing something wrong with their lives. They just don’t know what.
They invariably end up answering with an affirmative to every job that comes their way, for them no other reply exists. Along the way, obviously, they realize that they have made a mistake. But then, to disentangle themselves from the job, they would have to say “no” again, wouldn’t they? And that is simply not an option. So gloomily they go about doing the chore. And then, nothing in their lives seems to be going right.
Again, with this kind, a question could mean disaster. Normal people world over have to learn to resist the urge to ask questions. It could solve a lot of their problems. But making small talk with these people is an unattainable aspiration. Because every time they open their mouths, it is to share the latest calamity in their lives. And mind you, the definition of a calamity could start as low as losing a lunch-box or missing that darned bus to office. And then be prepared for a detailed report on how important the lunch-box was, or how rude the bus-driver was. You would soon come to know about the person who gifted the lunch-box, most probably with the exact date, time and cost details. Now that I think about it, it is particularly puzzling why it is always these people who get caught in sticky situations. I am fairly certain they see it as some sort of a nature’s conspiracy.
Now once these individuals include you in their esteemed circle of friends, you will start getting calls at odd hours so that they can talk (actually so you can listen) without interruptions. And if you are really unlucky, you will very soon be appointed the agony uncle/aunt.
These people are easily manipulated by anyone with half a brain. I have known such a PWOM lady. Blessed with an exceptionally good heart, she would get upset at the slightest provocation, sometimes even without one. People in her team would use her liberally to get their work done, and would also make sure she did not get credit at all. It was quite sad, actually. But seriously, how can you blame people for taking advantage of a person who has “I am a pushover” written all over in bold, and underlined to boot? If there is one good person who understands the frailties of such a person, there would be a dozen more just waiting to make hay while the sun shines. It does not help that these people are rather hard workers. And also, quick to panic. If you have not tried pacifying an unhappy and hysterical PWOM, you have missed one of the most enriching experiences that life could offer.
Oddly enough, these types of people are excellent listeners. They know what it is like having to deal with a problem, and so they make very good listening boards. But do not expect advice from them. If you just want someone to pay attention to you occasionally, get in touch with one of these. Not surprisingly and quite thankfully, these folks know that sometimes people just want to be heard. They also do not offer advice without explicitly being asked. But this is partially due to the fact that since they do not know how to help themselves, they have no idea how to go about helping others.
Being with these people for too long could seriously hamper your emotional well-being. At the end of every agonizing session with the lady I mentioned above, I used to be virtually depressed. For about 10 minutes after the conversations, I would sincerely doubt all the good in this world. That is, till I began to see the origin of all her problems. Her.
Reassuring these individuals, as you can guess by now, is therefore a mammoth task.
However, once you have been a sounding board for them or sympathized with them in any way possible, they will stand by you no matter what. With a steady loyalty. And they will never ever betray you, not even unintentionally. They will take extra care to ensure that they can help you any which way they can.
At this point, I am wondering if I should write about solutions for dealing with this species. Because, honestly, it just feels good now and then to help them out. Also, if you are having a particularly bad day, sadistically, you would feel rather merry after hearing their set of issues.
But still, if you find yourself at the receiving end of some sob stories rather exclusively and consistently, here’s what you can do. Hear them out once or twice. After all, you do not want to be labeled completely heartless. At the third or fourth call, 5 minutes into the conversation, say that someone is calling out for you and you have to hang up. Alternatively, you could also cut the phone abruptly, or after a series of diminishing (as in pretend the connection is breaking) “hellos”. After a few such calls, the fervor of the PWOM will subside enough to find another eager recipient.
On the other hand, if you genuinely feel bad for the PWOM, and you think that some advice could change his attitude, sit down and make him understand that life is sometimes about replying in the negative and putting your foot down, and not just accepting meekly whatever is handed out to you. Chances are that he knows what part of his inherent nature he needs to change. He just needs to be told by someone. So, go ahead and do the good deed.
These are the type of people who are yet to discover the opposite of the word “yes”. But funnily, do not confuse them with the kinds who want to please everyone all the time. In fact, my guess is half their unhappiness stems from the fact that they know they are doing something wrong with their lives. They just don’t know what.
They invariably end up answering with an affirmative to every job that comes their way, for them no other reply exists. Along the way, obviously, they realize that they have made a mistake. But then, to disentangle themselves from the job, they would have to say “no” again, wouldn’t they? And that is simply not an option. So gloomily they go about doing the chore. And then, nothing in their lives seems to be going right.
Again, with this kind, a question could mean disaster. Normal people world over have to learn to resist the urge to ask questions. It could solve a lot of their problems. But making small talk with these people is an unattainable aspiration. Because every time they open their mouths, it is to share the latest calamity in their lives. And mind you, the definition of a calamity could start as low as losing a lunch-box or missing that darned bus to office. And then be prepared for a detailed report on how important the lunch-box was, or how rude the bus-driver was. You would soon come to know about the person who gifted the lunch-box, most probably with the exact date, time and cost details. Now that I think about it, it is particularly puzzling why it is always these people who get caught in sticky situations. I am fairly certain they see it as some sort of a nature’s conspiracy.
Now once these individuals include you in their esteemed circle of friends, you will start getting calls at odd hours so that they can talk (actually so you can listen) without interruptions. And if you are really unlucky, you will very soon be appointed the agony uncle/aunt.
These people are easily manipulated by anyone with half a brain. I have known such a PWOM lady. Blessed with an exceptionally good heart, she would get upset at the slightest provocation, sometimes even without one. People in her team would use her liberally to get their work done, and would also make sure she did not get credit at all. It was quite sad, actually. But seriously, how can you blame people for taking advantage of a person who has “I am a pushover” written all over in bold, and underlined to boot? If there is one good person who understands the frailties of such a person, there would be a dozen more just waiting to make hay while the sun shines. It does not help that these people are rather hard workers. And also, quick to panic. If you have not tried pacifying an unhappy and hysterical PWOM, you have missed one of the most enriching experiences that life could offer.
Oddly enough, these types of people are excellent listeners. They know what it is like having to deal with a problem, and so they make very good listening boards. But do not expect advice from them. If you just want someone to pay attention to you occasionally, get in touch with one of these. Not surprisingly and quite thankfully, these folks know that sometimes people just want to be heard. They also do not offer advice without explicitly being asked. But this is partially due to the fact that since they do not know how to help themselves, they have no idea how to go about helping others.
Being with these people for too long could seriously hamper your emotional well-being. At the end of every agonizing session with the lady I mentioned above, I used to be virtually depressed. For about 10 minutes after the conversations, I would sincerely doubt all the good in this world. That is, till I began to see the origin of all her problems. Her.
Reassuring these individuals, as you can guess by now, is therefore a mammoth task.
However, once you have been a sounding board for them or sympathized with them in any way possible, they will stand by you no matter what. With a steady loyalty. And they will never ever betray you, not even unintentionally. They will take extra care to ensure that they can help you any which way they can.
At this point, I am wondering if I should write about solutions for dealing with this species. Because, honestly, it just feels good now and then to help them out. Also, if you are having a particularly bad day, sadistically, you would feel rather merry after hearing their set of issues.
But still, if you find yourself at the receiving end of some sob stories rather exclusively and consistently, here’s what you can do. Hear them out once or twice. After all, you do not want to be labeled completely heartless. At the third or fourth call, 5 minutes into the conversation, say that someone is calling out for you and you have to hang up. Alternatively, you could also cut the phone abruptly, or after a series of diminishing (as in pretend the connection is breaking) “hellos”. After a few such calls, the fervor of the PWOM will subside enough to find another eager recipient.
On the other hand, if you genuinely feel bad for the PWOM, and you think that some advice could change his attitude, sit down and make him understand that life is sometimes about replying in the negative and putting your foot down, and not just accepting meekly whatever is handed out to you. Chances are that he knows what part of his inherent nature he needs to change. He just needs to be told by someone. So, go ahead and do the good deed.
The private-life sellers (TPLS)
The press would love such people. Think celebrities who volunteer information about their personal lives without anyone asking for the data. Of course, in real life it’s not celebrities. And the information is being given out in person, not on television or any other media, which has the facility of being shut down or thrown away. And the information could range from the colour of the new carpets in their houses to their honeymoon destinations.
In this case, I am not quite sure what triggers the information sharing sessions. It all starts very casually—all bad things do, don’t they? This type of person would in a seemingly innocent way, drop a casual remark about the renovation in their houses, or an impending wedding. Either too polite to change the topic, or too stupid to see what is coming, you somehow get conned into asking some details about the remark. But again, with reference to the first conversation with this person, how are you supposed to know what kind of person you are talking to. And sometimes, you don’t even ask a question. For example here’s a sample conversation.
TPLS : I had a hectic weekend.
You : Oh, did you have to work?
TPLS : No, I have been going around from travel agent to travel agent.
And here it comes. Because you had to ask.
You : Oh, you are planning a vacation?
TPLS : Not really, I am planning my honeymoon.
Now really, you think, that’s none of my business, is it. And plus, if you are single, you obviously give a damn.
You : Oh, that’s nice. (Notice, no question asked.)
But by now, the TPLS is too excited to notice or in effect care.
TPLS : So I have shortlisted a few destinations.
You : Oh, ok. (So what do you want from me, an approval?)
TPLS : I have been making decisions based on my and my fiance’s preferences.
You : Really? (As if there is any other way.)
TPLS : So I gave all the travel agents my choices and my budget. I also spoke to my bank about the limits on my credit cards.
You : Oh. (Buddy, I will pay you to start your vacation right now.)
TPLS : But they told me that the bookings will have to be done about 2-3 months in advance.
You : Hmm. (By now, you are wondering what it was you said that prompted the soul-baring. But ofcourse, by now it is too late.)
TPLS : So I told them blah blah blah blah blah
You : Oh. (You suddenly have a feeling of impending doom.)
TPLS : blah blah blah blah blah
You : (No sound at all. Just nodding. And thinking of something entirely different.)
Again, the trouble here is that, in the initial conversations with these kind of people, you might feel a bit flattered that someone is sharing such intimate details of their life with you. But you soon find out that yours truly has been handing out information to anyone who makes “hmmm” sounds. Or anyone who blinks.
The amusing thing about human psychology is that, till you know that you are exclusively privy to some knowledge, you cold possibly grin and bear the source. But if you realize you could get that same information from someone else, and in a summarised form, your time suddenly becomes precious.
I have always marveled over the nature of these people. Why would they possibly think that somebody else would be interested in a 3-dimensional version of their lives? And mind you, subtle sarcasm or hints are lost on these people. So no amount of looking at your watch, or dropping a “I have to meet someone in 15 mnts” could curb their enthusiasm. If anything, it just makes them disseminate information at a faster pace.
Being fair to this individual, these are the kind who will give you lot of information or help when you need it; provided they have been through the same experience, ofcourse.
From brochures to contact persons, they know it all. And they will invariably help you to get the best bargains.
There are two kinds of TPLS. The nice ones, who over a period of time have the potential to become good friends and hence can be told to curb their basic (information sharing) instincts. The egoistical ones, who see no point in life if they cannot share their travails and triumphs with an (however reluctant) audience.
So, how do you deal with them?
Avoid—Handling the first category is decidedly simpler. As I said earlier, gradually, you could tell them that your idea of tea-time is not listening to their life-story. With the second type, the only option is avoid. Because, for them, it is difficult to face the fact that everybody might not be interested in their chronicles, however touching they might be.
Change the topic—Again, this might be easier with the first category. They might not even notice that you have changed the subject. Because, for most of the people from this category, they do not realize that they have been talking about something that nowhere involves you. With the second category, friends, there is no way you can change the subject. Even if you do (maybe for like 10 seconds), you will just be nodding again before you know it. However, here’s something I do that always works. Play your mobile ringtone and “pick up” your phone saying it is an urgent call. Then “hold” the “caller” and tell the TPLS that you have to take the call; and walk away to freedom. Very effective, I promise.
Stop asking questions—Absolutely desist from saying anything that might be interpreted as a question in any way.
In this case, I am not quite sure what triggers the information sharing sessions. It all starts very casually—all bad things do, don’t they? This type of person would in a seemingly innocent way, drop a casual remark about the renovation in their houses, or an impending wedding. Either too polite to change the topic, or too stupid to see what is coming, you somehow get conned into asking some details about the remark. But again, with reference to the first conversation with this person, how are you supposed to know what kind of person you are talking to. And sometimes, you don’t even ask a question. For example here’s a sample conversation.
TPLS : I had a hectic weekend.
You : Oh, did you have to work?
TPLS : No, I have been going around from travel agent to travel agent.
And here it comes. Because you had to ask.
You : Oh, you are planning a vacation?
TPLS : Not really, I am planning my honeymoon.
Now really, you think, that’s none of my business, is it. And plus, if you are single, you obviously give a damn.
You : Oh, that’s nice. (Notice, no question asked.)
But by now, the TPLS is too excited to notice or in effect care.
TPLS : So I have shortlisted a few destinations.
You : Oh, ok. (So what do you want from me, an approval?)
TPLS : I have been making decisions based on my and my fiance’s preferences.
You : Really? (As if there is any other way.)
TPLS : So I gave all the travel agents my choices and my budget. I also spoke to my bank about the limits on my credit cards.
You : Oh. (Buddy, I will pay you to start your vacation right now.)
TPLS : But they told me that the bookings will have to be done about 2-3 months in advance.
You : Hmm. (By now, you are wondering what it was you said that prompted the soul-baring. But ofcourse, by now it is too late.)
TPLS : So I told them blah blah blah blah blah
You : Oh. (You suddenly have a feeling of impending doom.)
TPLS : blah blah blah blah blah
You : (No sound at all. Just nodding. And thinking of something entirely different.)
Again, the trouble here is that, in the initial conversations with these kind of people, you might feel a bit flattered that someone is sharing such intimate details of their life with you. But you soon find out that yours truly has been handing out information to anyone who makes “hmmm” sounds. Or anyone who blinks.
The amusing thing about human psychology is that, till you know that you are exclusively privy to some knowledge, you cold possibly grin and bear the source. But if you realize you could get that same information from someone else, and in a summarised form, your time suddenly becomes precious.
I have always marveled over the nature of these people. Why would they possibly think that somebody else would be interested in a 3-dimensional version of their lives? And mind you, subtle sarcasm or hints are lost on these people. So no amount of looking at your watch, or dropping a “I have to meet someone in 15 mnts” could curb their enthusiasm. If anything, it just makes them disseminate information at a faster pace.
Being fair to this individual, these are the kind who will give you lot of information or help when you need it; provided they have been through the same experience, ofcourse.
From brochures to contact persons, they know it all. And they will invariably help you to get the best bargains.
There are two kinds of TPLS. The nice ones, who over a period of time have the potential to become good friends and hence can be told to curb their basic (information sharing) instincts. The egoistical ones, who see no point in life if they cannot share their travails and triumphs with an (however reluctant) audience.
So, how do you deal with them?
Avoid—Handling the first category is decidedly simpler. As I said earlier, gradually, you could tell them that your idea of tea-time is not listening to their life-story. With the second type, the only option is avoid. Because, for them, it is difficult to face the fact that everybody might not be interested in their chronicles, however touching they might be.
Change the topic—Again, this might be easier with the first category. They might not even notice that you have changed the subject. Because, for most of the people from this category, they do not realize that they have been talking about something that nowhere involves you. With the second category, friends, there is no way you can change the subject. Even if you do (maybe for like 10 seconds), you will just be nodding again before you know it. However, here’s something I do that always works. Play your mobile ringtone and “pick up” your phone saying it is an urgent call. Then “hold” the “caller” and tell the TPLS that you have to take the call; and walk away to freedom. Very effective, I promise.
Stop asking questions—Absolutely desist from saying anything that might be interpreted as a question in any way.
The clingers
They start with an odd sms or call here and there. “Friendship is the most important ship; Friends accept each other with their faults (gotcha!)” and some such exquisite hyperbolic nonsense. If you are stupid enough to respond, God be with you. (I will come to the detailed account of the consequences later.) But in all fairness, you just think it is sweet on their part to try and keep in touch or remember you. And if you are the kind to never call anyone without a reason, your guilty mind would keep tickling you till you reply.
Very slowly (so obviously you do not notice it), the odd calls have snowballed. You are now the proud recipient of mushy smses, chat invitations, and frantic “where have you been” calls. I once managed to dodge some calls from a clinger for 2 days (Again, I will come to the how later). The third day I got a message “Where have you been for the past 2 days?”. Ok, now I have been always unable to answer this particular question from a clinger. Do you say “I have been around and still not responding to calls because I did not want to” or do you say “Where do you think goofus, avoiding you !@$#@#$%” by heeding your general sentiment. But of course, being the sweet human being that I am, I responded with the way I knew best. I lied of course. First mistake. Never lie to clingers. Because by the end of the conversation, I was pretty sure my nose had grown atleast a couple of inches. Of course, at times like these you also realize what an amazing imagination you have been gifted with. Because, honestly, once I started, it was hard to stop. I created not just fictitious situations, but also fictitious uncles and cousins.
But ok, so you have managed to pacify him for the moment. (Ok, now the gender bias for the clinger reference is entirely justified, for reasons I refuse to get into. I am not being a sexist, honest.) Now here’s the catch. For the clinger, the friend”ship” has withstood the storm of a minor misunderstanding. Which means that suddenly you are entitled to a detailed description of his weekend trips, work/colleague troubles, family functions---you get the general drift here, don’t you?
And mind you, if it is a weekend narrative, it is not just a “I went there” kind of conversation. It starts with when he got up that fateful day and how the sky appeared from his window. That you do not care is beyond this person’s defunct logic. But to be fair to him, you are not trying too much to stop his verbal assault, are you (read: guilt from the previous unanswered calls)? But according to me, the most amazing part is that, at the end of the very comprehensive description, you have trouble remembering your own name, let alone the exotic place that he went vacationing to.
The clinger, in his every conversation, will put in extra effort to represent himself as the soul of sensitivity. Now that’s extra-ordinarily funny, because, in every conversation that happens between you and his clingy highness, you hardly seem to get a word in. And if you manage to (firstly, congratulations), he will change the topic so fast, he could give pointers to talk show hosts. So, basically, all you are doing is nodding your head to a monologue that, given an option, you could have lived blissfully without. Clingers are such horribly bad listeners, you would be better off with your deaf grandparents. Atleast you know they sincerely cannot help it. Come to think of it, I guess the clingers can’t help it either. Self-centered without knowing it, welcome to clinger-land.
Although, admittedly, in certain (probability being very low) cases, there could be a few advantages in knowing a clinger. Absolutely unintentionally, he would let you know of something that he did wrong. (This character will do very less intentional good for the better of the society.) This could be especially useful in a workplace. From him, you could get a first-hand account of whom not to know, and what not to do, and most importantly, how not to do it. But again, it is up to you to perfect the art of filtering out relevant information from the endless extraneous data that he showers you with.
So now, how do you deal with these types? As improbable as it sounds, there are solutions.
The ruthless one—Tell him in no uncertain terms to stop harassing you. Fast and painless (for you, of course). Now, it is very obvious that this option could make you a, well, an expletive that combines an animal and an opening. But honestly, after such torture, do you even care?
The diplomatic one—Having an imagination always helps, therefore if you don’t, cultivate it. Formulate a personal problem that makes it perfectly reasonable for you to act like a jerk. And then, the high point of this plan. Say you need time to sort out things. I obviously need not mention here that refrain from mentioning any time frame in which you could possibly solve your imaginary crisis. If the clinger asks, resist the urge to say “not till you are alive”. Patience is the key.
The softie one—This one runs the risk of slowly depleting your brains. But if you are, or aspire to be the quintessential nice guy, this one’s for you. So what you do here, is that you do respond to calls, but in monosyllables, hoping that sooner or later, the clinger is going to get bored of being the one doing all the typing (smses, chats etc.).
And a last piece of advice for your general peace of mind: Stop feeling guilty. It’s not your fault you are normal.
Very slowly (so obviously you do not notice it), the odd calls have snowballed. You are now the proud recipient of mushy smses, chat invitations, and frantic “where have you been” calls. I once managed to dodge some calls from a clinger for 2 days (Again, I will come to the how later). The third day I got a message “Where have you been for the past 2 days?”. Ok, now I have been always unable to answer this particular question from a clinger. Do you say “I have been around and still not responding to calls because I did not want to” or do you say “Where do you think goofus, avoiding you !@$#@#$%” by heeding your general sentiment. But of course, being the sweet human being that I am, I responded with the way I knew best. I lied of course. First mistake. Never lie to clingers. Because by the end of the conversation, I was pretty sure my nose had grown atleast a couple of inches. Of course, at times like these you also realize what an amazing imagination you have been gifted with. Because, honestly, once I started, it was hard to stop. I created not just fictitious situations, but also fictitious uncles and cousins.
But ok, so you have managed to pacify him for the moment. (Ok, now the gender bias for the clinger reference is entirely justified, for reasons I refuse to get into. I am not being a sexist, honest.) Now here’s the catch. For the clinger, the friend”ship” has withstood the storm of a minor misunderstanding. Which means that suddenly you are entitled to a detailed description of his weekend trips, work/colleague troubles, family functions---you get the general drift here, don’t you?
And mind you, if it is a weekend narrative, it is not just a “I went there” kind of conversation. It starts with when he got up that fateful day and how the sky appeared from his window. That you do not care is beyond this person’s defunct logic. But to be fair to him, you are not trying too much to stop his verbal assault, are you (read: guilt from the previous unanswered calls)? But according to me, the most amazing part is that, at the end of the very comprehensive description, you have trouble remembering your own name, let alone the exotic place that he went vacationing to.
The clinger, in his every conversation, will put in extra effort to represent himself as the soul of sensitivity. Now that’s extra-ordinarily funny, because, in every conversation that happens between you and his clingy highness, you hardly seem to get a word in. And if you manage to (firstly, congratulations), he will change the topic so fast, he could give pointers to talk show hosts. So, basically, all you are doing is nodding your head to a monologue that, given an option, you could have lived blissfully without. Clingers are such horribly bad listeners, you would be better off with your deaf grandparents. Atleast you know they sincerely cannot help it. Come to think of it, I guess the clingers can’t help it either. Self-centered without knowing it, welcome to clinger-land.
Although, admittedly, in certain (probability being very low) cases, there could be a few advantages in knowing a clinger. Absolutely unintentionally, he would let you know of something that he did wrong. (This character will do very less intentional good for the better of the society.) This could be especially useful in a workplace. From him, you could get a first-hand account of whom not to know, and what not to do, and most importantly, how not to do it. But again, it is up to you to perfect the art of filtering out relevant information from the endless extraneous data that he showers you with.
So now, how do you deal with these types? As improbable as it sounds, there are solutions.
The ruthless one—Tell him in no uncertain terms to stop harassing you. Fast and painless (for you, of course). Now, it is very obvious that this option could make you a, well, an expletive that combines an animal and an opening. But honestly, after such torture, do you even care?
The diplomatic one—Having an imagination always helps, therefore if you don’t, cultivate it. Formulate a personal problem that makes it perfectly reasonable for you to act like a jerk. And then, the high point of this plan. Say you need time to sort out things. I obviously need not mention here that refrain from mentioning any time frame in which you could possibly solve your imaginary crisis. If the clinger asks, resist the urge to say “not till you are alive”. Patience is the key.
The softie one—This one runs the risk of slowly depleting your brains. But if you are, or aspire to be the quintessential nice guy, this one’s for you. So what you do here, is that you do respond to calls, but in monosyllables, hoping that sooner or later, the clinger is going to get bored of being the one doing all the typing (smses, chats etc.).
And a last piece of advice for your general peace of mind: Stop feeling guilty. It’s not your fault you are normal.
Thoughts on a rainy day
“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.” I would like to visit this Spain that Professor Higgins teaches Eliza Doolittle about, where it rains only in the “blasted” plain.
Because Mumbai is a revelation in the monsoon. Anything but in the plains (pun intended). No matter how much you prepare yourself every year before the showers actually start, it will never be enough.
It’s like this. Say one year you get a raincoat/jacket. It will rain so heavily, you will be jealous of everyone who has that obnoxious thing called an umbrella. Next year ofcourse you are (atleast you think you are) wiser. So you buy an umbrella, and begin to flaunt it from the day the Met department shouts “rain”. But then it rains so little till August that you wonder when the rains are actually going to start. You are confused next year. So you make sure you have both at your disposal. But its obvious to you in a few days that the shopping was completely unnecessary, since it seems to rain only when you are inside your office or house or any other darned place that has a hint of a roof. And you are soon wondering what it was you did to make God hate you so much. It’s like buying a shirt or a dress and coming home to discover that it has miraculously shrunk. (Well, either that or you have somehow managed to increase your perimeter in a day.)
A few years back, if someone had told me that a Toyota Quallis could actually submerge in Mumbai rains, I would have personally sent in his application to one of the many asinine comedy shows running on television today. (I am not advertising the Quallis---I don’t even like it---its just—well—a suitably burly example right now.) That was before 26th July 2005. Now if someone tells me this today, I would probably work from home.
Appallingly, the people of this amazing city have become unusually resigned to what we might be subjected to in the monsoon. Strangely, the only mortals that react rather strongly to the rains in this city are the roads—a little drizzle and they become freakishly self-aware. They dent some places, they erupt and disintegrate some places—and some places they just stop existing. But the “spirit of mumbai” (translated—people going to their destinations come heavy rains or whatever else) lives on—and the roads thus die. Not surprisingly then, the ones who suffer most in the monsoons are the poor pedestrians—who not only have no flat surface to walk on, but also have to beware of vehicles speeding.
Coming to the Met department. These guys make me feel I have chosen the wrong career option. In which other job can your livelihood depend on guesses? In no other job can you be so wrong and still get paid—and get publicity too. My mother has a unique take on this. She says the Met department is always accurate—they just print the news reverse. So if they say rain—she travels light—sans rain gear. And to date she has never been wrong. I wonder what they base their predictions on. Really hard to say. But my 8 year old nephew is better at judging if it will rain. But then, again he is also better at using a computer than the entire department put together.
But the best part about rains in this city is how it can turn complete strangers into first-name buddies. In stranded trains and buses, at traffic lights (believe me, that happens), in the crowds and queues at bus/railway stations—the locations and events are countless. One second you are irritated and getting ready to kill every person responsible for the disrupted transport system, and the next second you know the family tree of the lady standing next to you. (I am just being polite here. Family trees would actually also include problems with in-laws, hereditary diseases, diet/fitness plans—you get the drift. You might not always enjoy these monologues, but stuck in rains with nowhere to go—you hardly have a choice.) Not surprisingly then, this season has also been witness to several blossoming romances. (All Bollywood cynics, sorry to burst your reality bubble. These things do happen. The only things that do not happen are the song and dance rain sequences. Hmm. Or maybe they do. We just never get to see them. I would like to think so.) Random (but hopefully cute) strangers offering you umbrellas/seats or even extended arms to jump over that blessed puddle—this is the stuff mushy romance novels are made of. So if only for this reason alone, I am immensely grateful, the rains in Mumbai do not stay mainly in the plains. If they did, I would have nothing much to write about.
Cheers!
Because Mumbai is a revelation in the monsoon. Anything but in the plains (pun intended). No matter how much you prepare yourself every year before the showers actually start, it will never be enough.
It’s like this. Say one year you get a raincoat/jacket. It will rain so heavily, you will be jealous of everyone who has that obnoxious thing called an umbrella. Next year ofcourse you are (atleast you think you are) wiser. So you buy an umbrella, and begin to flaunt it from the day the Met department shouts “rain”. But then it rains so little till August that you wonder when the rains are actually going to start. You are confused next year. So you make sure you have both at your disposal. But its obvious to you in a few days that the shopping was completely unnecessary, since it seems to rain only when you are inside your office or house or any other darned place that has a hint of a roof. And you are soon wondering what it was you did to make God hate you so much. It’s like buying a shirt or a dress and coming home to discover that it has miraculously shrunk. (Well, either that or you have somehow managed to increase your perimeter in a day.)
A few years back, if someone had told me that a Toyota Quallis could actually submerge in Mumbai rains, I would have personally sent in his application to one of the many asinine comedy shows running on television today. (I am not advertising the Quallis---I don’t even like it---its just—well—a suitably burly example right now.) That was before 26th July 2005. Now if someone tells me this today, I would probably work from home.
Appallingly, the people of this amazing city have become unusually resigned to what we might be subjected to in the monsoon. Strangely, the only mortals that react rather strongly to the rains in this city are the roads—a little drizzle and they become freakishly self-aware. They dent some places, they erupt and disintegrate some places—and some places they just stop existing. But the “spirit of mumbai” (translated—people going to their destinations come heavy rains or whatever else) lives on—and the roads thus die. Not surprisingly then, the ones who suffer most in the monsoons are the poor pedestrians—who not only have no flat surface to walk on, but also have to beware of vehicles speeding.
Coming to the Met department. These guys make me feel I have chosen the wrong career option. In which other job can your livelihood depend on guesses? In no other job can you be so wrong and still get paid—and get publicity too. My mother has a unique take on this. She says the Met department is always accurate—they just print the news reverse. So if they say rain—she travels light—sans rain gear. And to date she has never been wrong. I wonder what they base their predictions on. Really hard to say. But my 8 year old nephew is better at judging if it will rain. But then, again he is also better at using a computer than the entire department put together.
But the best part about rains in this city is how it can turn complete strangers into first-name buddies. In stranded trains and buses, at traffic lights (believe me, that happens), in the crowds and queues at bus/railway stations—the locations and events are countless. One second you are irritated and getting ready to kill every person responsible for the disrupted transport system, and the next second you know the family tree of the lady standing next to you. (I am just being polite here. Family trees would actually also include problems with in-laws, hereditary diseases, diet/fitness plans—you get the drift. You might not always enjoy these monologues, but stuck in rains with nowhere to go—you hardly have a choice.) Not surprisingly then, this season has also been witness to several blossoming romances. (All Bollywood cynics, sorry to burst your reality bubble. These things do happen. The only things that do not happen are the song and dance rain sequences. Hmm. Or maybe they do. We just never get to see them. I would like to think so.) Random (but hopefully cute) strangers offering you umbrellas/seats or even extended arms to jump over that blessed puddle—this is the stuff mushy romance novels are made of. So if only for this reason alone, I am immensely grateful, the rains in Mumbai do not stay mainly in the plains. If they did, I would have nothing much to write about.
Cheers!
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