L a s t W o r d

For your weekly dose of every­day hu­mour

WKND - - Y O U R F I L M F I X -

When­ever I watch those Crim­i­nal Mind- type TV shows, they fre­quently speak of look­ing for the ‘ un­sub’, and how he is tall and mid­dle- aged with brown eyes or what­ever. I have never found out what ‘ un­sub’ means or asked any­one in case they think I am back­ward. Ac­tu­ally, I am more of an ‘ Un­seen’ and our tribe, I am told, is quite large and suf­fers from sim­i­lar symp­toms of be­ing in­vis­i­ble to the rest of the world.

We are the peo­ple who sit in restau­rants say­ing “Scoozeme” to the wait­ers as they swan past with nary a glance and then we say, “Over here, please, yes, hello,” and three of them flit past to other ta­bles giv­ing folks like us the miss. Of­ten, they come close enough to grab, then dance away to the grander call­ings of peo­ple they can see.

My fam­ily never stands with me to take a cab. Be­cause the whole rank and file of cab­bies will stop 10 feet be­fore and then eight feet af­ter where I am stand­ing and hap­pily pick up other peo­ple who have just fetched up, while I flail about wav­ing my arms like one of those guys bring­ing his fifth air­craft in to park.

Get to the doc­tors 20 min­utes be­fore your ap­point­ment and, hav­ing stud­ied the poster of the hu­man body re­plete with in­testines and what goes on be­neath the skin, read a mag­a­zine from 2009 and ab­sorbed the framed cer­tifi­cates of the med­i­cal ge­nius you wish to meet, you are now into Hour Two of wait­ing and the nurses sim­ply slither past in silent shoes as they in­vite oth­ers to be saved. It’s like your seat was empty.

Sis­ter, sis­ter, si- sss- tur­rrr… oh well, some day.

Sit on an air­craft and ev­ery­one gets served hot lunchies and munchies and stuff to sip and when it comes to you, the host­ess says, oops, one sec­ond, I’ll just re­fill and she never comes back and, out of the pack of 310 peo­ple on the plane, 309 are crunch­ing and slurp­ing away, while you are ob­serv­ing all th­ese food carts ca­reen­ing about the place and grin­ning to catch the at­ten­tion of the crew zip­ping past you — not that they care be­cause the fact is they can­not spot you.

Unseens will walk into a shop and all the as­sis­tants who gen­er­ally fol­low you around with sticky sus­pi­cion like you were part of The Great Rob­bery gang will sud­denly van­ish to en­gage in loftier pur­suits while you will be left in splen­did iso­la­tion.

Come drive with me to a gas sta­tion and it is dol­lars to dough­nuts that I will con­duct a solo per­for­mance for sev­eral min­utes as at­ten­dants cheer­fully fill up other gas tanks and of­fer ser­vice with a smile, but for us it is a ques­tion of some­one stum­bling upon us and say­ing, didn’t s ee you and t hen dis­ap­pear­ing again.

Ex­actly what hap­pens at par­ties. Three hours into it, d i n n e r a n d d e s u l t o r y con­ver­sa­tion done, some guest will come up and say, heyyy, look who’s here, didn’t see you, just walked in. Ac­tu­ally, no, been here over 150 min­utes, about to leave.

So, where have you been hid­ing? I don’t have to hide, I just don’t get seen.

That’s the has­sle with us types: even when we are ‘ seen’, we are mis­er­able. Like when­ever I see that the two tick marks have turned from grey to blue on my­what­sapp or SMS, I know that my mes­sage has been seen. Then I wait for the an­swer. Noth­ing. Now, I know it has been reg­is­tered, it has been read, it has been di­gested so now I be­gin to worry. Didn’t they like my mes­sage? Have I of­fended some­one? How could they read it and then go into stony si­lence mode?

Maybe t hey don’t l i ke me any­more. Per­haps the sig­nal went off just af­ter they read it... slen­der wrig­gle of hope. What sort of peo­ple read your mes­sage and then not an­swer it, do I send an­other mes­sage or suf­fer in si­lence?

Maybe they haven’t seen who sent it. See, you just can­not win.

[email protected] khalee­j­times. com

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