It's not unusual to listen to tales from the beyond. But then that depends on who tells them and what you consider 'beyond'. So, if the who is Mrs So-and-so, 'beyond' takes the shape of divorces and affairs. I always consider her tales unusual. They never fail to be so. The moment she begins with: "Oh you must know this", know that that is essential information not for you, but for the Tatler or your local Stardust and Filmfare. It also implies she has worked her whole self up and down the street and tied up facts and figures to make it the most fascinating deviation from the truth.
She caught me just outside the Church one Sunday, just after Mass was over.
"Oh you must know this," she began, "that people are so very interested in you."
"I think that's obvious." And it indeed was so: I wore low-waist jeans, never bothered to button up my shirt and - almost always - wore a metal wristband. If all this did not make me rivetting, I wondered what would.
"Oh oh you don't understand."
"Really? I thought you spoke English."
"Well, no," she said empathically before I could complete and then "oh yes I do," she added hastily as she heard me finish my sentence.
"Then?"
"Well it's a peculiar interest."
"Oh I see," I said and then went on to commit one of my worst mistakes: I asked for an explanation.
It was 9:30 in the morning when she commenced. Ten minutes later, the sky grew overcast, winds blew and people hurried home but not Mrs So-and-so. She moved to stand under the parapet, dragged me along and continued decoding 'peculiar interest' for me.
Initially, I hardly paid attention; I did not walk away either. I just stood listlessly. Moreover, I knew the rains would thunder down for a while. So I began to let my ears listen to what she said.
As per her version (and it's a short one I write here), I was looked upon as some curio and dissected at those corner meetings these women often convened in the town bazaar. The whole parish - or so Mrs So-and-so would have me believe - was agog with three versions of my past - all painted in lavish, 256-bit colour. They were so colourful, I half-wished I was half as colourful as they wanted me to be.
"Oh ho ho Mrs So and so," I said when I thought I had heard enough, "I think you have a lot of time on hand to know my past better than I think I do!"
"Well, the thing is you bother to spend too much time..."
"Where I do or don't spend my time is my own business. I don't see how it should become yours."
"I am not making it mine. You seem careless enough to bring it to my notice."
"Perhaps I do. Perhaps I should not. Why do you bother to let it bother you?"
Oh they knew I had an acid tongue, but Mrs So and so had not come a mile close to it before this. And she did not like it. It was so evident: She looked so sour, even pickles could not have bettered the look. I merely smiled. I liked what I saw. Presently, she recovered: she smiled a sickly smile and said that she expected better behaviour. "People," I explained matter-of-factly,"always expect more than what they deserve. It's natural."
Naturally, she went back to her sour face again but I had had enough. The Sun was out and I had a lot to do. So, "Well," I said, after she was silent for a whole minute, "Thank you for all the information. I just do hope you have some better things to tell me next time."
And with that I left her. It took me a minute to cross the gates and the road, but it may have taken Mrs So-and-so more than a day or two to decide whether she was annoyed or amused or plain disgusted at knowing me at all.
She caught me just outside the Church one Sunday, just after Mass was over.
"Oh you must know this," she began, "that people are so very interested in you."
"I think that's obvious." And it indeed was so: I wore low-waist jeans, never bothered to button up my shirt and - almost always - wore a metal wristband. If all this did not make me rivetting, I wondered what would.
"Oh oh you don't understand."
"Really? I thought you spoke English."
"Well, no," she said empathically before I could complete and then "oh yes I do," she added hastily as she heard me finish my sentence.
"Then?"
"Well it's a peculiar interest."
"Oh I see," I said and then went on to commit one of my worst mistakes: I asked for an explanation.
It was 9:30 in the morning when she commenced. Ten minutes later, the sky grew overcast, winds blew and people hurried home but not Mrs So-and-so. She moved to stand under the parapet, dragged me along and continued decoding 'peculiar interest' for me.
Initially, I hardly paid attention; I did not walk away either. I just stood listlessly. Moreover, I knew the rains would thunder down for a while. So I began to let my ears listen to what she said.
As per her version (and it's a short one I write here), I was looked upon as some curio and dissected at those corner meetings these women often convened in the town bazaar. The whole parish - or so Mrs So-and-so would have me believe - was agog with three versions of my past - all painted in lavish, 256-bit colour. They were so colourful, I half-wished I was half as colourful as they wanted me to be.
"Oh ho ho Mrs So and so," I said when I thought I had heard enough, "I think you have a lot of time on hand to know my past better than I think I do!"
"Well, the thing is you bother to spend too much time..."
"Where I do or don't spend my time is my own business. I don't see how it should become yours."
"I am not making it mine. You seem careless enough to bring it to my notice."
"Perhaps I do. Perhaps I should not. Why do you bother to let it bother you?"
Oh they knew I had an acid tongue, but Mrs So and so had not come a mile close to it before this. And she did not like it. It was so evident: She looked so sour, even pickles could not have bettered the look. I merely smiled. I liked what I saw. Presently, she recovered: she smiled a sickly smile and said that she expected better behaviour. "People," I explained matter-of-factly,"always expect more than what they deserve. It's natural."
Naturally, she went back to her sour face again but I had had enough. The Sun was out and I had a lot to do. So, "Well," I said, after she was silent for a whole minute, "Thank you for all the information. I just do hope you have some better things to tell me next time."
And with that I left her. It took me a minute to cross the gates and the road, but it may have taken Mrs So-and-so more than a day or two to decide whether she was annoyed or amused or plain disgusted at knowing me at all.
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