It started sometime end of November, and I've run out of patience. I left my work desk, told a colleague that I'm going to give the guy a piece of my mind, and did just that with undertones of diplomacy on the very second day of the New Year. I returned, relieved. This is how 2019 is going to be for me perhaps... I'll be pleased with myself when I can pull it off for the 51 weeks to follow.
A particular middle-aged man had been monopolising the road just outside my office window, bellowing his guts out. He is supposedly talking over a smart phone, and I'm guessing to someone who is definitely stone deaf. Every morning around 10.30ish, he will park his scooter on side-stand, lean on the little thing, his back towards my window, pull out his bigger-than-palm rose gold phone to begin a day of yell-talking. The New Year came, no electric blue lady's scooter, instead a white car arrives. This time he shows off his pot belly (he was dressed in full white as well!) to start a conversation so loud, I couldn't hear myself think.
Let's call him Mr O - comes close to his body shape, at least a perfect fit for his pot belly. He's barely above five feet, but seems to carry his figure with what I'm going to call the 'push-factor' - it's when the backside pushes the front of you - get me? You would have noticed that every person carries themselves differently, of course - otherwise too, it is not very difficult to appreciate this posture. Imagine the pelvis driving the rest of the body parts and you've conjured-up an image of Mr O. Now back to his gun throat - the focus of my ear-drum cum brain waves for over a month.
Initially, I marvelled at his ability to keep such a monotonous tempo - sometimes for 60 minutes straight. Was even entertained by the sentences that the wind carried to the ear, especially remotely coloured words. All Tamil he spoke (may be a good thing I don't know all special words in the language) and I could make out these were personal conversations, nothing business-like about them.
Wait, would it be coming from the power of the pot-shapeliness? Could be, you see! Because, I've been to a few carnatic music concerts during the Chennai Margazhi festival season and the Ghatam sound did reach balcony ears albeit microphone - being a simple, ancient percussion instrument, you can't escape its instinctive metallic pitch. This is exactly how Mr O sounds! Except that there wasn't palm-slapping and fingers hard-tapping against smooth firmness (assuming here - haven't honestly felt-up a pot belly).
If you think this blogpost is funny already, let me tell you - Mr O, his pot-belly and gun throat never left my window in spite of diplomacy-coated piece-of-mind-receiving on January 2nd.
I suppose the improvised lesson for 2019 now is: Speak your mind, and not care two hoots how the other reacts, whether in your favour or not. Pour yourself some hot tea, kick-off your sandals and get the heck back to work!
A particular middle-aged man had been monopolising the road just outside my office window, bellowing his guts out. He is supposedly talking over a smart phone, and I'm guessing to someone who is definitely stone deaf. Every morning around 10.30ish, he will park his scooter on side-stand, lean on the little thing, his back towards my window, pull out his bigger-than-palm rose gold phone to begin a day of yell-talking. The New Year came, no electric blue lady's scooter, instead a white car arrives. This time he shows off his pot belly (he was dressed in full white as well!) to start a conversation so loud, I couldn't hear myself think.
Let's call him Mr O - comes close to his body shape, at least a perfect fit for his pot belly. He's barely above five feet, but seems to carry his figure with what I'm going to call the 'push-factor' - it's when the backside pushes the front of you - get me? You would have noticed that every person carries themselves differently, of course - otherwise too, it is not very difficult to appreciate this posture. Imagine the pelvis driving the rest of the body parts and you've conjured-up an image of Mr O. Now back to his gun throat - the focus of my ear-drum cum brain waves for over a month.Initially, I marvelled at his ability to keep such a monotonous tempo - sometimes for 60 minutes straight. Was even entertained by the sentences that the wind carried to the ear, especially remotely coloured words. All Tamil he spoke (may be a good thing I don't know all special words in the language) and I could make out these were personal conversations, nothing business-like about them.
Wait, would it be coming from the power of the pot-shapeliness? Could be, you see! Because, I've been to a few carnatic music concerts during the Chennai Margazhi festival season and the Ghatam sound did reach balcony ears albeit microphone - being a simple, ancient percussion instrument, you can't escape its instinctive metallic pitch. This is exactly how Mr O sounds! Except that there wasn't palm-slapping and fingers hard-tapping against smooth firmness (assuming here - haven't honestly felt-up a pot belly).
If you think this blogpost is funny already, let me tell you - Mr O, his pot-belly and gun throat never left my window in spite of diplomacy-coated piece-of-mind-receiving on January 2nd.
I suppose the improvised lesson for 2019 now is: Speak your mind, and not care two hoots how the other reacts, whether in your favour or not. Pour yourself some hot tea, kick-off your sandals and get the heck back to work!
Throw a bucket of water on him.
ReplyDeleteThat will stop him gabbing 😂😂
Hahahahaha Could work I suppose! :-D
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