Marveled At The Inconsequence

I am in the mood to write about a matter of no consequence. Do you know that there is a difference between that and the ordinary?

One remembers the ordinary for being a reassuring boredom or a melancholic treat of self-pity or even a flight of fantasy, like meeting with friends or a gossip session or reading novels. Even the searching look of males that nearly strips me naked is ordinary though I am amazed at times that a flick of my hair is enough to trigger the lascivious and a dress of daring décolletage is superfluous. My laughter at lunchtime is definitely ordinary. It is just a trick to stay on top of men with a feint of reduced resistance. They usually associate laughter and friendship with submission and abysmal intellect. But, all that is ordinary. I do it every day (nearly) and it is just for sweet survival. That is not the stuff I want to think about right now.

I want to think about a matter of no consequence. Let me define it as something which needs a bloody effort to be remembered. [In my diary, why can’t I call it bloody though it seems to have troubling connotations with rape and male domination over the centuries?]

I have been in the department for a week. I happen to be the only ‘gal’ around. Even the stuck-ups wallowing in self-importance have noticed my existence. I go to the Canteen with the group and the conversation usually centers round me. It helps to be a social animal – to take in that mixture of false laughter, condescending agreement and uninvited criticism. There are a few in the department who go for lunch separately. They look like misfits. One of them seems ideal as a matter of no consequence.

I had a brief one-to-one meeting with him during my first round of interviews. He had done his homework, probably to look a bit smart. It was quite apparent even then that he likes my company because I am a woman, quite typical, I know. I have talked to him once or twice since I joined. He is hoping to be a friend, at the least, I am sure. [His exuberance or attention reminds me of a manic cousin that I had. That cousin was always excessive in whatever he did – letters, plans for the future, affection, dejection or abuse, anything and everything. It was not at all surprising when he jumped in front of an express train. A manic mess, he was. Ah, I am digressing…]

I suspect that he knows his own limitations. He is not attractive. He does not speak well. He is not charming. He does not even have a smile worth noticing. And the worst part is that he doesn’t seem to have qualities to dislike him either. I can never remember his name. He never introduces himself. I wonder how it is like to be somebody worse than ordinary, someone nearly invisible, a matter of no consequence whatsoever…

Note: This was written long back. A few months after I wrote it, a good friend and colleague happened to read this. She confronted me with, ‘Is this what you think of me?’ ‘Of course not,’ I replied. It is just fiction, my reply and the rest.