Dheeth on re­peat? Not any more!

Some peo­ple refuse to lis­ten and change their habits de­spite be­ing told haz­aar times. Let’s fix that

Hindustan Times (Patna) - Live - - Leisure - SONAL KALRA Sonal Kalra is a cer­ti­fied dheeth. She keeps say­ing she’s not preachy, but then goes ahead and gives so much gyaan. Tell her if you like it, at sonal.kalra@hin­dus­tan­times.com and face­book. com/son­al­kalra13. Fol­low on Twit­ter@son­al­kalra.

Idon’t know if there’s a med­i­cal name for this dis­ease but I’ve been say­ing the same thing — in a po­lite, preach­ing, en­cour­ag­ing, threat­en­ing, plead­ing tone — to some peo­ple, for their own good, but they JUST DON’T LIS­TEN. The irony is that some of those peo­ple only sug­gested this topic to me. It’s like, ‘why don’t you write on peo­ple like us? Hum toh sud­harenge nahi, maybe you can give some calm­ness tips to your­self and oth­ers, to deal with it. I think mere toh chehre mein hi kahin ‘id­iot’ word chuppa hai.

Any­way, I’m sure, you too have such peo­ple in your life — hus­band, wife, kid, girl­friend, boyfriend, just­friend, brother, sis­ter, col­league, maid — you name it, for whom the fa­thers of Hindi lan­guage coined a beau­ti­ful term – dheeth. Since this is a posh col­umn and I am a so­phis­ti­cated English writer, let’s just act a bit fancy and call dheeth peo­ple DP for now. You see, we all have one, or if we are God’s lucky child, more than one DP around us. They come in all ages, shapes, sizes or gen­ders, and are mer­ci­lessly im­planted in our lives in a way that we have to deal with them ev­ery wak­ing day.

Your DP could be the hus­band who leaves the bath­room floor wet and the toi­let seat up daily, while mine could be a co-worker who turns up late for work ev­ery sin­gle day. Your DP could be a best friend who al­ways for­gets to call up when he’s safely reached home drunk af­ter a party, while mine could be a driver who re­fuses to hold the steer­ing be­cause he has to fold both his hands while pass­ing by each of the 542 tem­ples that are on the way from home to of­fice.

Speak­ing of my driver, he’d qual­ify to be at least a state min­is­ter with in­de­pen­dent charge if there ever was a gov­ern­ment of DP. He’d con­fi­dently turn the car in ev­ery di­rec­tion while be­ing to­tally clue­less about di­rec­tions, but ab­so­lutely refuse to seek di­rec­tions from a by­stander. Till I point a gun on the back of his head and make him stop and ask, that is. Karna padta hai ji, ev­ery DP has their own mode of treat­ment. I’m hop­ing that at least one of the 542 Gods would cure him some­day but if only wishes were horses.

Any­way, be­fore I get too ran­dom and turn into a DP my­self, which, by the way, I al­ready am in sev­eral re­spects, let us look at how to re­tain your Zen (I mean com­plete calm­ness, Ein­stein, not your khata- ara that per­haps even Maruti doesn’t make now), if you have some­one in your life who re­fuses to lis­ten and change his/her habit de­spite be­ing told haz­aar times.


An am­bigu­ous com­mu­ni­ca­tion can never achieve a firm out­come. Most of us lack the abil­ity to say what we want clearly and firmly, with­out beat­ing about the bush or re­peat­ing the same thing so many times that the lis­tener ac­tu­ally gets ir­ri­tated and loses the fo­cus. If you don’t like a habit of some­one close to you, and it’s be­com­ing a con­stant cause of stress, say so in po­lite, but fewer words. And there bet­ter be a call for ac­tion in what you say. I mean sug­gest a so­lu­tion, don’t sim­ply nag or crit­i­cise.


A study by the Na­tional Univer­sity of Tim­bek­too says that the more per­sonal in­sults or taanas you fling at a per­son, the lesser his or her chances of im­prov­ing in life. You will turn a DP into a maha DP if you’ll be sar­cas­tic in­stead of try­ing to make a valid case for why you want some­thing changed. Chad­dha ji’s wife hates the fact that Chad­dha ji leaves the tooth­paste open on the wash basin, daily af­ter brush­ing his teeth.

Ev­ery day at 8am, Mrs Chawla who lives four houses down the street can also hear her say, ‘Aapki mummy ne kuchh sikhaaya nahi aapko?’ Now, I have some ba­sic ob­jec­tions to this. One, it can’t be that Chad­dha ji brushes his teeth ev­ery morn­ing. The deep shade of the colour yel­low de­fies it. Sec­ond, how would it help to drag his poor mother into the tube of tooth­paste ev­ery day. If any­thing, it can take the ar­gu­ment in some other di­rec­tion al­to­gether. Golden rule: Avoid taane, tab hum maane.


Yaar dekho, no mat­ter how con­vinced you may be that you are right in want­ing what­ever you do, there’s al­ways an­other side to it. Al­ways. Be­cause God has made peo­ple to be dif­fer­ent, and they see the world dif­fer­ently. To you, a house is per­fectly kept only when it’s spick and span with every­thing in its place; to your teenager, a room spells at­ti­tude only when it’s messy and un­kempt.

It’s much like what I call a blue-green de­bate. There’s a cer­tain shade of colour which some peo­ple very con­fi­dently call blue, and some oth­ers lay a bet that it is green. Then there’s a third cat­e­gory of ge­niuses who en­ter and con­fuse fur­ther by declar­ing it to be bluish green or green­ish blue. And oh! I’m not even go­ing up to the cat­e­gory of those who ut­ter terms like turquoise, teal, sea-green be­cause I will lock them up in an asy­lum some­day. But the point is, we al­ways see things from our own eyes. For no other rea­son but to keep your blood pres­sure in check, some­times see it through the other per­son’s eyes and make peace with it. You may not get the sat­is­fac­tion of be­ing the win­ner in an ar­gu­ment, but it’ll weed out at least one DP from your life. Trust me, whether it’s Face­book or life, the lesser the stress of DPs, bet­ter the chances of calm­ness.


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