Conversation Hijackers

There’s a new terror threat lurking about these days - conversation hijackers. Anything you talk about, they hijack it and make it their own story. Talk about the blue sky and they tell you how much bluer the sky was when they went to this awesome vacation with their family last week. Talk about your favourite food and they will tell you about their aunt who makes the best food ever and how much superior it is to your sad meal.

Talk about a movie you liked and they will tell you of all the eclectic movies they watched with their uncles and how you should watch such movies. You only have to open your mouth and they grab the cue, turn the spotlight on to themselves, and make their stories bigger (and much longer) than yours. Most times they forget about you and your story.

I bumped into this person at the park the other day. “Good morning,” I said enthusiastically, which is a safe greeting. Much better than “How are you?” or “What’s up?”, which can lead to detailed descriptions about how he was and what’s been really up in his life.

“Yes, isn’t it,” he said brightly. “Why just good, why cannot you say that it is a great morning?” In fact, my morning was so great that I wokeat 5 am and shouted,“I love you world”. The world lookedso pretty from my room. My mother says it’s the best view in the world. He looked at me for applause!I began to feel inadequate; perhaps I did not do enough justice to my morning. Like he did to his.

He continued. “Then I dranka glass of hot water (exactly 73 degrees F else I cannot drink it) and lime (farm fresh) and honey (organic only), and got ready for my morning yoga…I have this amazing yoga instructor”. I know what’s coming next -brushing his teeth (exactly thirteen and a half times each tooth), his ablutions, his exercises, his breathing techniques….everything dripping with awesomeness in comparison to my mediocre life.I cannot handle so much awesomeness and happiness in such detail.

It makes me want to throw up.I tried to salvage my rapidly disappearing good mood. “All else good?”I saidquickly, preliminary to, “see you later”. “Wonderful yaar. I wake up earlythese days. I could never wake up early; I am not a morning person at all. (He looked at me like he had climbed the Everest). All through my school days, my mother had such trouble waking me,”he said. He was bad enough; now why washis mother entering the story? He quickly added.“I had an uncle who would wake up at 4:30 am every day.”

Who is interested in all this nonsense? I was not feeling good anymore. I did not want to hear about the morning practices of his family and extended family. What had been a beautiful public morning for me and the rest of the world had now become a private morning owned fully by my friend and co who seemed to possessall copyrights to good mornings and related stuff.

A deep hatred to mornings stirred inside me. “Come on, smileyaar!” he said,seeing my expression. “It’s such a lovely morning don’t you see?Something wrong?”I wanted to slap him. Yes, everything was wrong you fool. To begin with, I discovered the good morning, not you. He looked sympathetically at me. A some-people-just -can’t-be- happy-whatever-we-dokind of a look. Suddenly I was the villain of the piece, bringing down the happiness average of the world. I think I blacked out after that.

Then there was this other guy who asked me what I was doing while I was working at my article in the coffee shop. “I am writing an article,” I replied. “Wow,” he said. “A writer?” I nodded modestly. He seemed impressed. Maybe he might want to read it I thought. But instead, he embarked on his family’s literary journey. “You know my great grandfather was a great writer too.

They say he used to write long letters with such beautiful handwriting. Some say he would have given Shakespeare a run for his money. Even my school teacher told me I had the makings of a good writer when I won the essay writing competition in second class. I did not take her seriously. And now see, everyone is writing nowadays.”I guess he was talking about me.

“Do you type your article directly into the computer?” he asked.“Yes,” I said.“I write in long hand. All the greatest writers write in long hand. Say, I wrote a few articles. Could you read them?And pass them on to your editor? They will love my style;people get impacted by my writing. I’ll send them to you.”
“Something wrong?” he asked. He probably saw my expression. “Say,what did you say you were doing?”I don’t remember much after that. Maybe I blacked out again.

I am bumping into these sorts a lot these days. I talk about the political situation in Kashmir and they talk about their uncle who went to Srinagar for his honeymoon50 years ago. Someone is admitted to hospital with a serious health problem and they talk about their great suffering with headache and cold last year. Baby food, nuclear physics, romance, divorce, money, aliens, cricket, the Second World War,my name, my parents, you name it and they find a way to connect it to themselves and make themselves (and their families) the central part of that story.

They ask me after a while when there is a gap – why are you so quiet? Before I open my mouth, they sympathise with my quiet ways considerately and return to their (my) story again.If I insist on answering, they get upset and feel bad that I am not listening to their story. So,I listen.To my story told in their words. With different protagonists. That’s standard procedure when someone hijacks your story. Alternately, you could play dead- if you aren’t already.

By: HarimohanParuvu