It's Easier to Lie

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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.