It's Easier to Lie

-->

There is something utterly comical about being politically correct. It runs counter to my most natural instinct, and I end up feeling inauthentic – and mostly shitty. I want to tell this girl how I actually feel about her headscarf. She asked me, “how do you like it?”. I want to tell her that her curls are too gorgeous to be tamed under a scarf. But then there is a question of choice, freedom and expression. I curb, I think, and I take three seconds to respond and come back with – “Looks great!”

That’s the choice I make – I choose to be ‘correct’, but spurious, instead of ‘incorrect’ and genuine.

Most days I am watching people look at me speak – brown-skinned and in my own copyrighted accent - in what seems to be a mix of confusion and curiosity. I see them opening their mouths to voice a question or an opinion and very quickly stopping themselves before it’s too late. There is too much tip-toeing, and too much walking on stilts with no training.

I am sure political correctness is an acquired skill. There was a time when I was heartlessly honest, without much effort. Ask my little cousin sister after her first dance recital on stage. She must have been six, eager and full of life. I remember how she waited for me to run to her backstage, eyes looking at me as she waited for me to say something highly inspirational or encouraging at the least. I said, “I hope you don’t have any more lined up, that must have been quite embarrassing.” See, I never realised that was rude. Somewhere in between ‘adulting’ and ‘working’, somebody must have told me to use a couple of filters in thoughts and words before blurting.

As a child, I was known (no, notorious) for my sharp tongue. “The son of Saturn, Gulika, sits on your tongue!,” was my paternal grandmother’s favourite admonishment. I remember her as a handsome woman, engrossed in her own understanding of Hinduism – its texts and the epics. One of the many stories she narrated to us at dusk, when my cousins and I sat criss-cross around the wick-lit lamp in our courtyard, was the story of Gulika. “Gulika characterises our ego. One’s sense of self-importance is self-destructive. All our personal achievements and qualities are destroyed by the might of the ego. When Gulika decides to settle down on your tongue, you can have no filter. What you will have are enemies and people who wish you ill.”

Great. I must get rid of this Gulika – I thought as a 9-year-old. Somewhere through the years, my personal Gulika grew with me – turned into a whining pre-teenager and a rebellious teen. Before my twenties, he must have suffered a sudden crash and burn, as it was around the time I got my first job. Today, Gulika seems to be as mythical as the epics my grandmother believed in. Yesterday, I got a phone call from someone who used to be a close friend. She said, “V, have we drifted? Are we not friends anymore?”

“Drifted? We just got busy with lives. You know I love you.” Lies. We have drifted so far that she is not even a speck in the horizon anymore. I don’t love her. But for fear of Gulika re-entering my tongue premises, I lie.

The Female Friendship Puzzle

I tie my hair into a bun a second time. I can’t cover that odd patch of hairlessness on the right side of my head this morning. I have been able to do this job, deftly, since the time covering a bald spot mattered to a teenage mind. These days with my eyes fixed on the TV, even. This morning is different. This morning I feel nervous. I decide to quit this pointless game and spray some dry shampoo, squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to make myself believe that my hair is frizz-free. Through the over-stimulated ride on the three-tyre auto-rickshaw, I cover my nose and mouth in an attempt to filter out the city pollution. I can sense the thumping of my heart on the roof of my throat, as my auto-driver swirls to a stop outside the building where my office is located. I take the first two flights of stairs, determined. I am chanting, “I can get past this. I know I can.”

I walk in through the single glass door of the building. There she sits. First one to work, headphones on, a dull residue of the beats of the song in her ear making a buzzing noise across the floor. I look apprehensively at her unsmiling face. Her eyes are fixed on her computer screen as if in a trance. She knows I am nearby, but she doesn’t move. Her inaction seems aggressive now. Last morning, we were best friends. Today, we are odd enemies? A woman can be another woman’s strongest advocate, but she can also be the most unforgiving adversary. Everything is fierce when it comes to a woman – the love, the hate, the win, the loss, the obsession.

Last night, it was around 9.00 pm when I decided that I wanted to go home. I had been working on documents for 13 hours, with lunch at my desk. My eyes were seeing two shades of black on the screen and my brain was refusing to interpret that into intelligible information. I looked over to my team-lead and apologized for leaving while she worked overtime. We were, after all, fixing her mistakes. She looked bitter. I had hardly opened the door to my home when I heard my phone beep. Three texts from her in succession. I skimmed through for the main theme of the texts – not done … unprofessional … feedback …

I knew what was happening. I responded in my usual impertinent, impetuous tone – the one I am notorious for among friends, switched off my phone and rolled into bed. All night, I processed the nature of the relationship I shared with this woman. Last week, she wanted to go out for drinks – I said yes. She held my hand and asked me in earnest, “Whom do you love more? Sue or me?” I love Sue, An, Srey, and all my girls. They are my strength and my weakness. Why would I love one more than the other? “Of course I love you more,” I lied. She fought for my attention like a lover would, but she was also the one who approved my vacation. It was complicated. It was going to get ugly, this break up.

I sit with my back facing her, our chairs almost grazing each other. My computer is booting up; my email is loading. I see a pop-up email notification and, of course, it is from her. I have to read the subject three times before I understand the depth of the situation.

Resignation. In bold.

Just Another Run

I take my usual route to jog today. No headphones, no cell phone, just the view of the trail running through the colours of summer, green, blue, white, lilac. I love this morning hour. It makes me feel connected with every moving muscle in my body. I can hear the irregular gasping for breath and the rhythmic creaking of the right knee. The first mile is the shortest, easiest. I have happy thoughts during this. My lungs have no difficulty filling up with air, and my calves work effortlessly to look good – I feel great.  I know there will come a point shortly after my second mile, where I have to turn right to get back to my parked car. I anticipate from a distance. I look ahead and see no sign of that turn. Good. I have some more time to let my mind wander. I am thinking of an unrelated melange of things – I am thinking of dancing, of writing, of reading, of kissing, of walking, of talking, of texting, of calling. I am enveloped by too many thoughts and suddenly I am aware that I am running too fast. I feel like a female lead in a TV show – theme music and all. Hair tied in a high ponytail, wearing a sweater despite the heat, and multiple thoughts with an ominous intensity that only she and her viewers can hear. I am looking ahead and I see no sign of this trail turning right. I panic. Did I miss the turn? Surely it isn’t farther down? I sense company. I see a young girl with a dog coming towards me from yonder. What a strange dog – I don’t want to lock eye contact for too long as I recall my old fear of dogs, in some sunken place in my mind. But the dog stops, looks at me and sits down low, as if he is prostrating himself, as if I was his master in some past life. I keep running, my pace is getting faster but the constant cramping on the right side of my abdomen is begging me to slow down. I ignore the begging for a while, until I can’t anymore. So I slow down and wonder what time it is. I don’t want to be a slave to my Apple watch, but I check it anyway. I have been running for 25 minutes. I was too caught up in my thoughts, I missed my turn for sure. I am in the half-second of uncertainty – the half-second where I am not sure if I should keep running straight or turn around. That is when I see her. My friend – I call her Beth - walks on the same route as me but in the counter direction. We cross paths twice, every morning. Beth doesn’t always say hi, though. She is mostly engrossed in her own thoughts. But today I wave at her, literally flailing my arms, short of breath from all the nervous running. She is taken aback and shaken. I let out a desperate, expressive interjection and a whole lot of panting. She stands frozen, staring at me, bewildered yet unamused. I run wildly into her, sweat drops splashing off the trickle down my forehead, and by now I am laughing. I bend over palming my knees, panting, happy. I say, “What a wonderful morning, Beth”. She replies, “It’s Trisha. It is a fine morning now, isn’t it?”

She makes two swift hand movements to brush off my invisible sweat drops from her left shoulder and walks away without looking back. My illusion of a friend called Beth dissolved as I watched her walking down that summer trail.