At the end of the first year of any new situation or a change, I seem to vent out all my frustration on a personal belonging. Is it the impulse and the happening-to-be-around-ness of an object that leads to what follows? Or is it my inability to use sarcasm, a good old slap, or a cab to get out’a the situation?
It's a pattern: the things [three in a span of 10 years] that I detest or am bored of for a while have faced batter. Minor instruments that have lived their lives with me and I’m stuck with after a while, meet their fate at such moments – my first set of spectacles when Lavanya irritated me to the end of my wits; my first cell phone, when I couldn’t stand guilt trip spiels form the ex who gifted the instrument to me, and now my last phone. For a 25 year old, I’ve lived a rich life as far as phones are concerned, a new one each year since the 3rd year of undergrad – after my latest buy, six in all (including one borrowed for a while).
Since a couple of weeks I had been contemplating buying a new piece. But stopping to use the old one hurt – considering Papa got it for me when I first moved to Bombay. A lot of sentimental value was attached. Like the pens he’d gifted. Each one maintained and used with a lot of love and emotion. But the need to change my phone persisted. The tugs of emotion and vanity was beginning to get to me. The silly superstition that the phones I bought myself never stayed with me for long was gluing me to my sleek little brick device beyond imagination – it had begun to hang like a monkey - both literally as well as technically!
not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearingThe mention of a game being the reason for my agitation was unacceptable to quite a few, including he who mentioned it. He’s been following it for as long as I’ve known him and before. And not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing. All of a sudden though, it began to get to me. Why must it occupy so much of one’s psyche that it is put on the same pedestal as classical music or good weather in a conversation?
In recent times, I’ve been less and less fond of cricket and I’ve even met some who’re are crazy about the game yet find it demeaning in its present state. What’s more, the craze seems to pervade all time slots vulgarly – work, recreation, outing, quiet time, sleep, meals … how do you explain its intrusion into other people’s tired end-of-days that look forward to something less obsessive-compulsive? Why can’t it be kept to oneself? Why can’t it be more understated and unspoken?
Perhaps I’m overreacting. Perhaps I’m touchy. Perhaps I’m one of those who don’t know the game so act uppity about it. Or maybe the idea of pursuing this obsession, even though other than pursuing one's profession, like a habit sounds vanilla boring to me.
Whatever the case, March has been a month of angry moments for me. And the chief cause is that wretched Indienne Parasite Le grande. It may be easy for many to dismiss this sudden outburst as uncalled for or laugh off as something of an eccentricity. But really, are the lines between passion and obsession blurring?