Occupational Hazards of a Blogger

The phrase, "occupational hazard", always reminds me of my father. I have heard him say those words too many times in conversations which invariably ended with the other person laughing. At the time I didn't know what it meant, but I always loved the way he pronounced hazard. "Hazaard". 

The day I  figured  the meaning of both the words , "occupation" and " hazaard" I put the two of them together and began to love the phrase.

I would use it wherever necessary. It was more like an intellectual punch line. Saying it was like asserting my place in the world of high level humor. Mind you, I would say hazard and not hazaard. 

Many years have passed, and now I don't consider it as my most intelligent line. However, it came to my mind,  after a series of disconnected conversations with different males.

The reason I specified that they weren't females is because it is true. When almost 9 or 10 men which includes colleagues, friends, friends of friends, brothers, or the boyfriend make the same remark, you begin to wonder about the insecurities or the need for attention that men have. 

Let me explain the scenario. Whether in office or at home, when one of the concerned males and I are having an intense debate or discussion, and I pause to breathe or just think of my next statement, I find myself hearing the familiar words, " Ok, now don't tell me you will write this in your blog". 

Now the topic of conversation has been forgotten, because I begin to ponder over the guy's statement. Introspection begins. In my attempt to unearth insights and bring forth hilarious observations do I just record what the other says without using my voice or opinion? No I dont. So why do so many people speak to me that way? 

After five such interactions with different people, it struck me that this is the occupational hazard of being a blogger. 

It's probably the reason why I wouldn't befriend a psychologist. Trying to read what he is trying to read about me would drive me insane. After which, my psychologist friend would probably need to visit me professionally.

I'm that person now. I have a blog that few people read and I can express myself well. So now these people see me in a different light. Apparently I have the power to praise or embarass them on a public forum. 

For them this is my disclaimer. My blog is not my weapon. Everything that is said to me will not find its place here. Most importantly everything that they say is not interesting enough for everybody. So stop with the "Ok now go write your blog". 

This is actually what I think. All these boys want to be featured here. They want to be quoted and they want the credit. 

So what if I know someone who had a chicken fly into his face when he was riding a scooter.

Or someone who walked around town wearing only boxers, torn at the place they shouldn't be.

Or someone who has no trace of nails because his OCD won't allow him to get his nails dirty.

Or someone who was not allowed to board  the flight for being too drunk

Or someone who spat in their coworker's hair in the elevator.

No, I won't write about them.

Using siblings

A best friend’s birthday, transported me from my cosy bed to a new lounge or bar or restaurant or whatever they call it now on a weeknight. Now, as many of my irate friends know, I never like to step out of my abode knowing that I have to be at work the next morning. However, last night I’m glad I did.

In Mumbai, seeing a cute guy in person is like spotting the needle in a hay stack or more appropriately catching a shooting star in the smoggy Mumbai sky. Yes, it happened. I saw him. Dressed in a suit, probably arriving at the place straight after work, he had a beer in his hand and enough boyish charm to appeal to the naughty girl in every adult woman.

He was tall, fair and had this bashful look in his eyes, like he was embarrassed with all the compliments he had received up till now. I was definitely not in love, but I had willingly fallen in infatuation. And that’s where it ends for a girl like me. Not having enough confidence to approach him for a conversation I would eventually be condemned to lechery.

That would have been that, if it wasn’t for my brother who made a late entrance to the pub. Two drinks down I began narrating my one sided love story to which he just laughed. Little did we know we were to have a breakthrough in the wingman theory; to be later known as wingling.

We decided to step out for a smoke. While I passively inhaled the fumes, my object of desire stepped out at the same time, to shorten his lifespan as well. Standing beside him, the fragrance from his coat made me remember those days in school where we would have humongous crushes on prefects, the only ones who earned the right to wear a blazer. My brain had evoked the same attraction I had to those students who had more power than the others clad in plain uniforms.

I stood there giggling, as my best friend and brother made expressions similar to those teasing buddies who did the same when you stood next to a crush. And then suddenly, my brother emerged as the greatest wingman there was. Looking at my 1 hour old crush, he asks , “So how come the suits?”.

“We just got here from work actually”, he said casually. He spoke well. Tick mark to that.

“Where do you work?” asked my wingbro.

The conversation had started and it was full of surprises. My suitable boy was Indian, despite his foreign looks and attitude. When I was expecting some exotic name like Kayaan or Anay or Vivaan out comes Vasudev from his pretty mouth. The way he said that ancient name, I took a liking towards it immediately, making a mental note to find out the meaning on Wikipedia.

I watched in amazement as my wingbro set me up for a conversation. He smoothly maneuvered with words to extend the interaction between Vasudev and me. Honestly, I had never been this proud of my brother. It struck me at that point immediately, that a wingbro or a wing sis worked better than any wing man. 

Being of the opposite sex, there will never be any unintentional competition, unless either one is gay. The person of interest isn’t distracted by the same sex wing sibling unless he or she happens to be gay too. Wing siblings or winglings will always act in the best interest of the other sibling. And it would seem harmless, like poor Vasudev never knew that the only reason my brother extended that conversation was so that I could start off my own.

However, while they talked about work and the weather I didn’t say a word of any importance. I could have said a lot but my shyness bound my mouth to a hopeless smile.

When we left the smoking area after three hundred moments of anticipation and excitement and only five words from me, (Hi, nice to meet you) I returned to the seat with that smile spread across my face. Ten seconds later Vasu followed holding a red purse. For that split second, I thought my brother’s move had proved successful to my brother instead. Was Vasu gay? Had my wingling’s plan failed? Little did I know that he was in fact trying to locate me.

I had in my forgetfulness, walked away from my credit cards, cash, id cards and a smart phone kept neatly in my red purse. It was almost like I had denounced all worldly belongings for him. But like the prince with the glass shoe, he came forward to hand them back to me.I thanked him, like he returned my life.

And that was that, actually. Vasu and I were not meant to be. Even though I noticed he enjoyed retro music as much as I did, to have any future with him it would require me to step up to the platform that my wingling had created, and I had happily declined.

It was a chance encounter that I will always cherish. But more than that, it was the discovery of a character that I encourage others to use to their advantage as well. For me this trivial story marked the arrival of the more significant wingling; the best your sibling can be.