Ducking for cover when words fail us
Haven’t we all, at some time or the other, floundered for that perfect but elusive word that plays hide and seek, floats impishly on the outer recesses of the brain, just out of reach, trips infuriatingly on the tongue, literally driving us around the bend?
Haven’t we all faltered suddenly during introductions at a party and cleverly changed the topic to mask the fact that the guest’s name has completely slipped our minds? We smile, avoid eye contact, indulge in small talk while furiously racking our brain, jogging it out of its sloth in the usually futile hope of remembering the recalcitrant name.
My daughter insists I deliberately conjure up the writer’s block, especially when she hysterically calls me from work while writing the school report cards, immediately demanding out of me an apt adjective or phrase which should perfectly describe her student’s progress. On the phone I blank out while she gives rapid, lengthy details of the child’s personality and then expects me to come up with picture perfect words, on the double! Tongue in cheek, she says I make all the efforts for my own articles, none when she wants help and steadfastly refuses to accept my oft inability to come up with an appropriate word instantly.
My father is one person who in spite of constant reminders and checks is unable to remember words or names and has us in splits or many a time ducking our heads in embarrassment at his many faux pas.
A teenaged niece of mine loves to dress up in a saree and as she pirouettes prettily around us all, he will proudly announce, “Here comes our Sushmita Rai.” The family looks at him, foxed and confused. We say, “Do You mean Sushmita Sen or Aishwarya Rai?” Undeterred, he addresses her as Sushmita Rai again when she appears dolled up for an occasion.
Most of the times, we are been able to laugh off his eccentric habit except once, which even today makes us cringe and squirm uncomfortably. At a birthday party many years ago, an obese kid was stuffing himself with noodles and cake while his mother stood, admonishing him. My father, who was passing by, patted the boy reassuringly and said, “It’s alright, he is a repulsive eater!” Before the import of the words could even sink in, we collectively tried to make amends and said, “He means compulsive eater.”
In the confusion, the lady’s frown deepened as she tried to distinguish between the adjectives, both of which were not particularly savoury. Appalled, we made a feeble attempt to defuse the situation. Mom made frenzied efforts to distract the offended lady, while the children humoured and indulged her “little lamb” and I tried to change the topic.
My father continued strolling on nonchalantly, unaware of the brick he had inadvertently dropped. Till today when we tease him, he breezily says, “But I did not mind it.” It is only his septuagenarian status that lets us safely assume he actually wants to say, “I did not mean it.”
MY NIECE LOVES TO WEAR A SAREE AND AS SHE PIROUETTES PRETTILY AROUND US ALL, MY FATHER WILL PROUDLY ANNOUNCE, “HERE COMES OUR SUSHMITA RAI.”