Saga of the Motor Mouth... Good Morning to sleep well !

 

Saga of the Motor Mouth!       

-----------Good Morning to sleep well!

I am convinced that there are four kinds of people in this world: the silent ones, who believe that facial expressions, gestures, posture, and minimum use of vocal chord are powerful communication tools. Their interaction is solely in sign language with nod of their heads (either up & down or shaking  side to side )  and  an odd facial expression  like a smile, pout or frawn and uttering  occasional monosyllables like  Oh ! , ooh!  , ha !  Hmm..

 In the second variety are those who talk less,but still contribute significantly in a conversation.

The third type are those who talk precisely what they need to without deviating  from the subject These are the people  who choose their words carefully and on rare occasions  run the risk of being labelled as snobs.

…..and then  there are people , the fourth category  who talk …..a LOT!  The blabber mouths! 

Lets leave the first three  categories at peace and pounce on the wind bags. What actually do they talk about? ANYTHING .You  wait for a pause so you can get a word in, but it never comes. They can somehow continue with  their stream of  verbal diarrhea, without taking a breath. Just make the mistake of starting a conversation with them and you'll  become a victim of their incessant  chatter . Subjects can range from idli-chutnery to neighbour’s wife to politics to AI. The first time you converse with such a person, you'll invariably be awed by depth of his “Knowledge” . Before long  you'll realize the sinister  reality of these windbags. Truth is, they just talk,talk & talk and do little else !  The irritating  part is that they repeat their favourite topics over and over even if no one is interested.

 Basically there are two types of  chatterbox. The first actually work at being entertaining to  grab attention & feed off listeners’ appreciation. Whether they succeed is up to the listener. The second type  is made up of those who fear that if you stop listening, they stop living. If you want to close the conversation and move on , you have to stop it, or get the conversation back on course.

A trick   I have tried to keep chatterbox on leash is by playing dumb, uttering something like  “I like what you’re saying, I fully understand . You’ve got it right.” and such other tricks hoping to coerce  the prattler  to focus.

On the other hand, if the incessant tirade starts becoming more irksome than boring, it may be time to end the dialogue and even friendship.

There are, however, occasions when we ourselves are absolutely at liberty to dominate conversation as much as we wish, and that is when that heart of ours is bursting: If the pet died, son got engaged, just lost a job, won a lottery, got elected to the Legislative Assembly — if it’s a really major occurrence in our life — we too can babble on till we swoon!

Warning:   Such an scene is still nowhere in sight for me. Nothing on the radar yet. Should it unfold  anytime in the future be forewarned. Keep your ear plugs ready & select a secure  lair. I promise, it’s going to resemble a geological cataclysm, no less.

 

       Now, why have I written  this blog..?

         I was  attacked without warning by one such  long lost 'motor-mouth'

 A classmate and friend from 53 years Swaroop had this terrible habit of rambling on and on about: “My son” did this, “my son” did that  ,                “my son” blaah, blaah ,blaah …………….whenever our close group of  six classmates met. Soon we labelled him  “my son” Swaroopa (name changed to protect his“Chastity” * and as years passed he was called  only as “my son”. He  did’nt seem to mind.

Out of the blue he met me last week after some 16 years. Luckily, the six of us were able to have a breakfast meet. After exchanging pleasantries, we gathered that Swaroop had two grandsons now. He talked glowlingly about his elder grandson. Without warning, the hammering began “my grandson”, “my grandson” “my grandson”  he went on relentlessly . Before we dispersed,  five of us glanced at each other . Smiles turned to uncontrolled laughter. “ ‘ my son ’ convey our best wishes to your  ‘grandson ‘ ” we teased.

** Unable to find a suitable word for மானம் , I have used the word  “Chastity”               though it  sounds err… a bit cheesy !

 

When God Closed the Door

 

When God Closed the Door

 

A group of college mates decided that we should spend some time in the lap of unspoilt nature, far away from the city. After some research it was decided to travel to Thekkady in Kerala to make best use of the 5 day college holiday .

Thekkady is a sleepy, picturesque place enveloped in greenery. This quaint little town is best known for its plantation / forest  walks, diverse wildlife, boating safari in the Periyar Tiger Reserve and numerous other trekking routes .A walk through them is sure to provide enjoyable experience.

Selvaraj , one of my classmates suggested that we stay at his Uncle’s spacious village home at Damadipury  (டமாதிபூரி) for  a few days , trek to any number of beautiful locations in the vicinity like Suruli falls, Moothavan patty waterfalls and Rose Grape farms and later travel to Thekkady

What I am now going to write has nothing to do with the chosen destination- Tekkady but happened in that  sleepy little village Damadipury, in the border of Tamil Nadu  & Kerala , way back in the 1970s.    ( I think it was 1973 while I was studying in third year in Engineering)                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Now this Damadipury is a remote, nondescript  three street village with a population of probably less than 1000 which can be reached by taking the only private bus travelling the route from Cumbum town.

Boarding a Tamilnadu bound Bus at 9.00 pm at Mysore, and changing buses about 4 times in the dead of night, our  group arrived at Damadipury at 10.00 am the following day. We were welcomed by Selvaraj’s Uncle  Manoharan & his wife with hot coffee

Manoharan ‘Sir’  ‘ & ‘ aunty’ cautioned us   that   as  ‘City bred Boys’ we would  need a lot of help adjusting to life in Damadipury. They did everything to make our  3-day stay as comfortable as possible. Unfortunately we found that, they couldn’t help us  with one important thing – toilets. Back then nobody in Damadipury felt the need to have toilets in their homes. Yes, NO toilets. The folks there were so immersed in their own style of living that they probably felt that   having a toilet at home was superfluous and an unnecessary waste of space .

            Uncle Sir’s house too didn’t have a toilet. To top it, he lived in the middle street of the village.  Soon we discovered that the location of his house itself would pose peculiar problems.

After initial banter, & introductions,  a few of us asked: “Uncle, Bathroom” ? The fashionable term “Washroom” was not in vogue in those times

“Number one or number two?” He enquired nonchantly.

While some flashed the single finger sign, a couple of others  showed two! Holding their palms  close to their chests in embarrassment

“Those for number 1 Just walk across to the next lane, cross over to the Banana plantation, wait till no one is around or passing by. The best time for this is between  5.00 am &  6.00 am and  2 pm to 4 pm in the afternoon …the siesta time.” Boomed Uncle

“Don’t worry, for number two we have better arrangement.” he guffawed

“The number 2 boys , keep an eight anna ( as 50 paise coins were known then) coin ready. At the end of the street take a left turn.  You will see a ‘coffee Club’ some 200 ft. away which also serves as the private bus stand. They have a  toilet there. You will find a man sitting behind  a table  with a heap of  coins on it. Just give him your eight anna coin and he will permit  you to go inside.”

As an afterthought he warned “  Remember, for eight annas only one entry “!

The trauma of the initial experience in the cess pool palmed off   as toilet played on our minds throughout the day.

During a casual chat with  uncle  , we  asked him hesistantly: “Is ‘coffee Club’   the only place one can go to?”  “Yes … ….No !  there is another option. But I am not sure you city boys can be so courageous.” We just sat there gaping at each other.

He was reading a magazine and without taking his eye off said: “OK then, be ready tomorrow at 5.30  am. ………  and better eat your dinner early.” he ordered

We gathered that we were going to a stream flowing in  the outskirts of the village some 2 Kms away. We were to activate our bowels , wash up in the stream and return back home.

Reaching the stream we found it was heavenly….with thick bushes lining either bank.  Uncle commanded us to choose our respective spots behind appropriate bushes and relieve ourselves. Instantly he too  disappeared , evidently behind  bushes.

. The next few minutes were very peaceful. Birds were chirping ,  nobody in sight.  Just when  we were  about to get up we  heard  women chattering.   The voices grew louder . We found   that they were coming from behind us  &  walking towards us carrying  pots

 We had two choices – stay put as if nothing was happening or  stand up right there  pretending that we were  enjoying watching birds , plants,water and nature.   In the ensuing panic each one opted for a different option. It was now an ‘each to himself’ situation. I chose the first option.

Now the voices were coming from really close. Amidst giggles & laughter  I heard someone scream: “Why doesn’t he get up? Is he asleep ?.”

Scared to death, I held my ground. Now they were probably only 10 meters behind me.

From the corner of my eye, I could see them .  Uncle hadn’t instructed us regarding appropriate behavior in such disconcerting situations. I clenched my fists & continued to sit. I even closed my eyes tight expecting some mental comfort.

 “Do you think he is blind?”  shrieked one woman in typical village accent.

 “May be deaf too” ! Squealed another tauntingly

They passed me and were now walking away fom where I was. . I continued to remain still.

As they were moving away , another woman spat : “Men these days…can’t they get up when they see women coming ? ”

Later my uncle confirmed that Rule Number one of “Bush ‘N  stream”  is “Get up , pull your trousers up & take flight when you see a woman.”

Soon we discovered the reason for the women’s annoyance.But it  was too late. We had already suffered  ignominy.

For the next two  days,  we strictly played by the rule.

It has been fifty years since, but even today my daily Morning prayer includes a silent plea for granting a peaceful , uneventful start every day! Where ever I am.