Last summer I visited my extended family in Kolkata. Our visits are always carefully and economically designed and divided among the houses of our numerous relatives, who dot every corner of the city. As a result, the only time I really get to experience the city is while waiting for a taxi outside Howrah station.
Once inside the taxi, we grit our teeth and do it, comb out each and every neglected relative living in Kolkata and try and cement the relationship by letting ourselves be fed to death.
I’m a lowly teenager, still dependent on my parents, so if I have any objection to this I would rather go to the Sunderbans and live in a boathouse; I’m just being unreasonable and insensitive.
One of the must-visit places is an ultra-modern, 40-storeyed, gated community dwelling of my second cousins. My sister-in-law greets us at the door behaving as if she had been waiting for this moment all her life. Hugging my mother, my sister and me; laughing and (almost) crying all at the same time. My cousin, a pompous dad of two boys aged two and nine, starts cracking manly jokes, stroking his French beard, which poorly masks his college-boyish looks.
I start scanning the room for a corner to melt into, only to find that the corner has been taken by someone who has already melted into it. It’s my nine-year-old nephew, the pompous-dad-cousin’s son. He has a tortured expression on his face, similar to that of a caged squirrel. His dad smacks him on the back saying, “Hey come on out of the corner, boy!” He goes on to give a detailed explanation to my dad on how his nine-year old is struggling with an embarrassing case of shyness.
I feel very sorry for the little guy; I understand how suffocated and cramped he must be feeling right now. I comprehend the meaning of such compulsive social interactions from his point of view. Maybe it’s because I have been through the same journey myself.
People often treat me as if I have some kind of disability only because I’m a little shy, a little reserved and a little selective about my friends.
Just because I abhor meaningless small talk and prefer to play the role of an observer, some not-so-close uncle takes it upon himself to lecture me on the value of standingup-for-myself and being bold.
Dear not-so-close-person, who has never taken the pains to know me, I understand that you are absolutely blind to the fact that some people are just not interested to talk to you. Because we have nothing in common? Because you are a sexist and a racist? Because you forced your kids into engineering education? Because you are narrow-minded?
I don’t talk to you but all this still doesn’t change the fact that you have no right to hurt my feelings.
There was a woman in my gym a decade or so older than me, who once said: “You are like a wooden owl.” As usual I said nothing, gave out a weak laugh and continued my push-ups. But somewhere on my way back home, I cried. This was a year ago. More recently I have learnt a new method of replying in two-worded sarcasm which shuts them off for a long while.
All I am trying to say is, do not make it harder than it already is. Everybody, including you, is struggling with something. Let’s help each other and not be such demons.
witchy_suchi@yahoo.com
