Sohini humorously critiques non-listeners, primarily men, who dominate global conversations, drowning out dissenting voices through erudite monologues that often lack empathy, exclusively for Different Truths.
The non-listeners. The X Chromosomes. Some men, most men. In India. In the World. On Mars.
“Real men don’t listen” was Newton’s intrinsic 5th law of verbal motion. Or so it seemed in Kolkata and in the world over. As a child, it seemed to me that conversations were stereophonic, erudite, extremely intelligent and passionate. One learnt a lot, but if one disagreed or made a mild contradiction, the speakers turned into radioactive isotopes.
Men Always Spoke
Such were the men who always knew, and always spoke, and never stopped to listen. Hyper-intelligent, hyperbolic and hyper ventilating. And the others listened…
There was always an unseen gallery that was being addressed, and we were never spoken to, but rather spoken at.
Mellifluous English phrases, terribly clever aphorisms, witty conjectures and global perspectives. And we listened, and heard and didn’t care.
Monologues Grew
Years rolled by; our inner monologues grew. And I grew cheekier by the day. Soon the hunt for a suitable groom for my cousin began. Extremely comely, with a successful career to boot, the suitable boy was soon found. But he came with a grand income and a grand set of opinions. My cousin insisted that her partner be sensitive to her needs and be a good listener, and to care for her deeply. I advised her to marry our grandmother and got walloped on my cheeks.
My father, a musician, and a very sensitive man was somewhat cut from a similar cloth. Our conversations were as follows – “Vilayat Khan’s Bhairavi dhun sets all hearts alight…”, with me piping in “Maya di (our cook) says that our gas pipe is leaking, and the house may just be on fire”, Baba would stare mindlessly for two seconds and say “Yes, OK. Noted. I am thinking of playing Darbari Kanara at tomorrow’s concert. What do you think?” It was very endearing, funny, vexing and a tad frustrating. If I had announced a sudden teenage pregnancy at that moment, the Raga would still reign supreme!
Soliloquies and Smiles
Such was life, soliloquies and smiles, but Baba was the quieter version. The other X Chromosomes had the innate talent of converting simple tea parties into passionate Parliamentary sessions. It was certainly not about drowning the voice of the Y Chromosome…in fact far from it. It was all about out- talking, outwitting or rather educating a milder mannered person of lower verbosity. There was a very high degree of intelligence quotient and rare insights in the discussions over the labour laws or the reunification of Germany. We loved the West, the Naxalite movement never really came up. The British had left a bit of their DNA with us.
However, the piece de resistance of all conversations any Saturday night was about who sold the right cuts of meat – Gopal Pantha “Gopal the Goat”, as the Hindu butcher had been nicknamed or Hafeez, the Muslim butcher renowned for the best halal meat in town. Heads would roll and one would kill, marry or die, identifying the best Biriyani, Rezala, Chaap and Nihari in town.
The speakers knew their food and handed over culinary supremacy to the Mughals, or what was left of them…courtesy Tipu Sultan and Wajid Ali Shah, some of whose impoverished kith and kin were working as khansamas at Royal, Shiraz or Sabir (iconic Mughlai eateries in Kolkata).
A Lesser Mortal
Meanwhile, my cousin turned down her prospective Mr Right, as his opinions turned out to be bigger than his income and legacy, and his gastronomical passion was sadly lacking…hence deemed a lesser mortal, who didn’t rise to the occasion of a robust Mutton Biriyani and Rezala. The sheer pleasurable act of dipping thick rotis into the Rezala gravy, drizzled with pure ghee, gave him acute performance anxiety…and led to feeble enquiries about any readily available antacids. Surely a portent of other potential marital failings… so Mr Right Honourable, with his pedigree and polish was silenced and dismissed.
Enough said.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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