Weak one (also, on anger)

I told purelynarcotic, on a whim, that I will try and blog once a week till the end of the year. Seems like a chore, but one might as well try. If nothing, I am a good serial quitter. Also I am whimsical.

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I have this the_amit in office. Yes, the kind who judges women for the fact that they work, and assume that size of the paycheque is inversely proportional to culinary abilities. Also, the kinds who overhear conversations, and later, loudly comment. When I was younger, I would fight, but now I just shut up when the judgment comes about. Zen. Not that it gets any less annoying. Yet, zen.

In any case, this story has been repeated time and again to people, and I thought the only way this story would reach it's sell-out date is if I type it out. So here goes -

Two days after I first joined work (on a Friday), he asked me, subtly, "Weekend pe kya kiya?" (What did you do over the weekend?)

"Umm, nothing much, I had some errands to run," I said, knowing well that pubs I have visited wouldn't make for a good lunch talk.

"Acha," he delivered his punchline, "Hafte ke saare bartan weekend par hi dhulte hain?" (You do your dishes once a week?)

I replied, completely surprising my erstwhile firebrand self, and I guarantee you that my reply was quiet and soft, "We have a clear division of labour in our house. I cook, he cleans."

"Acha," He topped his punchline with the cherry," to matlab bhartiya naari ke koi gun nahin hain aapme" (You don't have any of the virtues of an Indian woman?)

Today the_amit spotted me digging into my packed lunch, which is pretty much a necessity, given I work in the wilderness where I probably have to hunt for food. Either way, he very left a very snide remark - "Yeh kab se hua, chamatkar?" (When did this miracle happen?)

As I said, if I was younger, my now-retracted claws would've been put to good use.

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Which brings us to anger. I have inherited my anger from my mother - clearly ill-fitting genes. All my life, I have seen my mother suffer because of the way she gets angry. Once she does, there rarely is any looking back. Ultimately, she is the one who suffers the most. The object of her anger moves on after a bit, she doesn't. In a way, anger (or hatred, for that matter) bonds us to the object, much like love does.

Anger, like booze, has a tipping point. The point when it gets from alright and happy to nasty and ugly. You know, the xth drink that does the damage? The greed drink? The drinks-before that one don't last and the drinks-after don't matter in the bigger picture.

So the task at hand now, is to keep quiet at the moment when all goes wrong. At that moment, shut up for that leeettle bit.

That skill will need some practice.

Much like blogging once a week.

Wish me luck.