Agree to Disagree
Copyright, Puneet Gupta, 2013
I find it hard to look at him. I am unable to look him straight into the eyes without looking away every few moments. Its like a blazing brightness of a hot May sun which makes your eyes find it impossible not to dance around. I look at him one moment, intent on meeting his gaze when our eyes meet, but I fail. Again. Why is it so hard, I ask myself. You are an actor, I tell myself. Just pretend, I cajole myself. All in vain. He continues to talk for about ten minutes, and I alternate between looking at my hands, the ceiling, the carpet, the table and my shoes. I am aware of what he is saying. I bring myself to nod at the right times, shooting a flirting gaze occasionally his general direction, lest he should suspect anything. He continues to talk calmly, in a very patronizing and paternal manner. I express my agreement, even ask some leading questions - consolidating my alibi in a stone cast. He does not realize a thing and carries on merrily. He is too eager to say what he has to say. Its been like since I have known him. Although he is just six months older than me, something makes him feel that he has about twenty more years of wisdom in him. I have not bothered to break his myth. It does not matter enough to me. My dealings with him are far and few and I don’t mind suffering through an afternoon of uncomfortable sermons on life and lectures on his vision for a better tomorrow. After all, I have been brought up in a democratic country where freedom of speech is granted to all - and is in fact taken for granted by all. All my friends have an opinion about the city traffic and corruption, elections and football clubs, marriage and money. Then why should I deny my present company the delight of having opinions of his own, on a topic that he believes could change the course of what is to come. Its quite a treat when you are not expected to say much in a conversation. So I just sit there idly, looking at the enlightened one on the other side of the table rattle off one philosophical theory after another. As he ventures into the karmic implications of our actions, I catch the eye of a pigeon which sits silently on the window sill just on the opposite side of the room. Its the perfect cover up for me. I fix my gaze on the pigeon and even dare a mild smile. That is brilliant because he perceives it as my silent approval of his postulation of the cause behind the current crisis. I ignore the misappropriation of my appreciation. I am still intrigued by the pigeon which has now spread its wings as if to soak in the sun. It must be nice, I think, to be away all by yourself. I wish that his words are over.
He hovers over to my side and takes the chair next to me. He fakes a smile, pats me encouragingly on the shoulder and asks me what I think. I simply tell him that it all sounds good. It assures him that I understand his unique perspective and acute insight into the human psyche. I do not correct him. I do not tell him that I barely know what he talked about for the last seventy five minutes. I don’t shrug his hand off from my shoulder. I let him believe that his opinions matter. I do not burst his bubble of self importance. I do not let on that his theory has an aura of nonsense written all over it. I fail to impress my cynical lack of belief in his words. I don’t. Instead, I take his hand and give it a firm shake. He cracks a joke at my expense and erupts into a lopsided, gargle-like laughter. I amuse him by joining in with a tentative giggling. He is satisfied with our discussion in which all the words were his. He leaves and I get back to watching the pigeon. It circles on its feet twice and takes off, leaving behind the confines of the sill into a free sky of limitless opportunities.
I find it hard to look at him. I am unable to look him straight into the eyes without looking away every few moments. Its like a blazing brightness of a hot May sun which makes your eyes find it impossible not to dance around. I look at him one moment, intent on meeting his gaze when our eyes meet, but I fail. Again. Why is it so hard, I ask myself. You are an actor, I tell myself. Just pretend, I cajole myself. All in vain. He continues to talk for about ten minutes, and I alternate between looking at my hands, the ceiling, the carpet, the table and my shoes. I am aware of what he is saying. I bring myself to nod at the right times, shooting a flirting gaze occasionally his general direction, lest he should suspect anything. He continues to talk calmly, in a very patronizing and paternal manner. I express my agreement, even ask some leading questions - consolidating my alibi in a stone cast. He does not realize a thing and carries on merrily. He is too eager to say what he has to say. Its been like since I have known him. Although he is just six months older than me, something makes him feel that he has about twenty more years of wisdom in him. I have not bothered to break his myth. It does not matter enough to me. My dealings with him are far and few and I don’t mind suffering through an afternoon of uncomfortable sermons on life and lectures on his vision for a better tomorrow. After all, I have been brought up in a democratic country where freedom of speech is granted to all - and is in fact taken for granted by all. All my friends have an opinion about the city traffic and corruption, elections and football clubs, marriage and money. Then why should I deny my present company the delight of having opinions of his own, on a topic that he believes could change the course of what is to come. Its quite a treat when you are not expected to say much in a conversation. So I just sit there idly, looking at the enlightened one on the other side of the table rattle off one philosophical theory after another. As he ventures into the karmic implications of our actions, I catch the eye of a pigeon which sits silently on the window sill just on the opposite side of the room. Its the perfect cover up for me. I fix my gaze on the pigeon and even dare a mild smile. That is brilliant because he perceives it as my silent approval of his postulation of the cause behind the current crisis. I ignore the misappropriation of my appreciation. I am still intrigued by the pigeon which has now spread its wings as if to soak in the sun. It must be nice, I think, to be away all by yourself. I wish that his words are over.
He hovers over to my side and takes the chair next to me. He fakes a smile, pats me encouragingly on the shoulder and asks me what I think. I simply tell him that it all sounds good. It assures him that I understand his unique perspective and acute insight into the human psyche. I do not correct him. I do not tell him that I barely know what he talked about for the last seventy five minutes. I don’t shrug his hand off from my shoulder. I let him believe that his opinions matter. I do not burst his bubble of self importance. I do not let on that his theory has an aura of nonsense written all over it. I fail to impress my cynical lack of belief in his words. I don’t. Instead, I take his hand and give it a firm shake. He cracks a joke at my expense and erupts into a lopsided, gargle-like laughter. I amuse him by joining in with a tentative giggling. He is satisfied with our discussion in which all the words were his. He leaves and I get back to watching the pigeon. It circles on its feet twice and takes off, leaving behind the confines of the sill into a free sky of limitless opportunities.
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