I ran into sadness the other day. As you may or may not know, she is a special woman: Everyone dates her. All have an opinion about her mannerisms. And all willingly dole out what you can expect of her.
I met her as I crossed over the bridge that lured everyone to the Western line. I would have brushed past her had I not remembered that limpid wan smile that she so often threw at me.
"Oh hello!," I said, not knowing what else to say.
She took my hello and dragged onto her tongue and threw it back at me.
"Hello." she said, in a tone so morose, even the word did not want to be associated with it.
"Well, so how has it been?"
"Bad."
"But then that's business for you, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said as if she was about to cry, "but what a bad business this is."
Now bad business was always what she rooted for. She did tell me it did good to her, yanked up her existence to new highs, and she felt fulfilled.
So, that she spoke of bad business in such bad tones came as a surprise to me.
"Why?" I asked, amused.
"Well, I make people unhappy with my behaviour."
"Yes, I agree. Some - even more than the others."
"I know," she said as if she were singing the Requiem at a funeral, "you see I don't do it of my own accord."
"Oh yes totally," I chimed, "never of your own accord."
"I do it because it comes naturally to me."
"Of course - naturally."
"Just as sarcasm comes naturally to you."
I smiled.
"Well, now I want to quit."
My smile ran away.
"You want to quit. You?"
"Yes, you see, I too have a desire to change."
"Change?"
"Yes, you know - quit and flaunt another job. Quite a fad it is, isn't it?"
"I am not quite sure I'll say that."
"Oh yes, it's a way of life for you."
My smile returned only to take offence at this remark and run away.
"Ahh," I said as I decided it best not to respond.
"So," she said, as my silence prodded her to talk, "I want to do something else."
"But what will you do, really? You make people unhappy, you make them cry. You have them all confused. You make them write poems. Some even dedicate films to you."
"Is it?"
"Oh yes, apparently one particular director thinks you to be a diva. All the characters in his movie fall for you and, in turn, they all begin to cry."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. The crying is so much, even the critics begin to cry in disgust! You see you are that good at it."
"You're sure he thinks me to be a diva? You make me look like disgust."
"Well, whatever it is, you're good at what you do. Besides, you are never in need of money." "You thrive on gloom - which I see is in abundance. And you don't even need to buy a house! So, why should you ever think of another job?"
"People blame me for what they go through."
"So you are afraid of responsibility."
"I don't want that responsibility."
"Well, anywhere you go, you will have to take some responsibility."
"How about if I stop working at all?"
"Yes, what about that?"
"Well, I could stop working and people will stop blaming me."
"Then they will not be gloomy and you will have to start to beg of them for some attention."
"They will ignore me is what you are saying?"
"Well, yes."
"I need attention!"
"I know that!"
"I need it night and day and day and night. Or else, my melodrama is all in vain."
"Vain, yes, quite a word - vain!"
"My cries, my sighs, my morose looks will all go down the drain."
"Even that director will stop casting you."
"And so will end my career."
"Exactly! So why do you want to risk it all?"
To that, I was about to add a line or two and seal the effect, but her mind was already made up.
"Well," she said, as her eyes showed signs of a decision, "one has to carry one's cross."
"Well," I said, as my toes inched away from her, "one has to cross bridges too. So I'll cross this one and I'll see you around. Sometime soon."
And as I sprinted away from her - my steps happy and light as they ran down the bridge - I knew I won't be seeing her for a long time to come.
I met her as I crossed over the bridge that lured everyone to the Western line. I would have brushed past her had I not remembered that limpid wan smile that she so often threw at me.
"Oh hello!," I said, not knowing what else to say.
She took my hello and dragged onto her tongue and threw it back at me.
"Hello." she said, in a tone so morose, even the word did not want to be associated with it.
"Well, so how has it been?"
"Bad."
"But then that's business for you, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said as if she was about to cry, "but what a bad business this is."
Now bad business was always what she rooted for. She did tell me it did good to her, yanked up her existence to new highs, and she felt fulfilled.
So, that she spoke of bad business in such bad tones came as a surprise to me.
"Why?" I asked, amused.
"Well, I make people unhappy with my behaviour."
"Yes, I agree. Some - even more than the others."
"I know," she said as if she were singing the Requiem at a funeral, "you see I don't do it of my own accord."
"Oh yes totally," I chimed, "never of your own accord."
"I do it because it comes naturally to me."
"Of course - naturally."
"Just as sarcasm comes naturally to you."
I smiled.
"Well, now I want to quit."
My smile ran away.
"You want to quit. You?"
"Yes, you see, I too have a desire to change."
"Change?"
"Yes, you know - quit and flaunt another job. Quite a fad it is, isn't it?"
"I am not quite sure I'll say that."
"Oh yes, it's a way of life for you."
My smile returned only to take offence at this remark and run away.
"Ahh," I said as I decided it best not to respond.
"So," she said, as my silence prodded her to talk, "I want to do something else."
"But what will you do, really? You make people unhappy, you make them cry. You have them all confused. You make them write poems. Some even dedicate films to you."
"Is it?"
"Oh yes, apparently one particular director thinks you to be a diva. All the characters in his movie fall for you and, in turn, they all begin to cry."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. The crying is so much, even the critics begin to cry in disgust! You see you are that good at it."
"You're sure he thinks me to be a diva? You make me look like disgust."
"Well, whatever it is, you're good at what you do. Besides, you are never in need of money." "You thrive on gloom - which I see is in abundance. And you don't even need to buy a house! So, why should you ever think of another job?"
"People blame me for what they go through."
"So you are afraid of responsibility."
"I don't want that responsibility."
"Well, anywhere you go, you will have to take some responsibility."
"How about if I stop working at all?"
"Yes, what about that?"
"Well, I could stop working and people will stop blaming me."
"Then they will not be gloomy and you will have to start to beg of them for some attention."
"They will ignore me is what you are saying?"
"Well, yes."
"I need attention!"
"I know that!"
"I need it night and day and day and night. Or else, my melodrama is all in vain."
"Vain, yes, quite a word - vain!"
"My cries, my sighs, my morose looks will all go down the drain."
"Even that director will stop casting you."
"And so will end my career."
"Exactly! So why do you want to risk it all?"
To that, I was about to add a line or two and seal the effect, but her mind was already made up.
"Well," she said, as her eyes showed signs of a decision, "one has to carry one's cross."
"Well," I said, as my toes inched away from her, "one has to cross bridges too. So I'll cross this one and I'll see you around. Sometime soon."
And as I sprinted away from her - my steps happy and light as they ran down the bridge - I knew I won't be seeing her for a long time to come.
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