In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Talking in Your Sleep.”

Mumbai shows a medley of populations of more or less mixed origin, so bumping into a Southie in an ultra crowded local train is never a rarity. The finest aspect of an indecipherable dialect is, what sounds like a highbrow discussion to others in reality could just be an obscure gibberish chit-chat. High pitched voices like these are inescapable , and being capable of deciphering that directionless tittle-tattle I find no reason to dodge a tad of free entertainment. 😉

Like I mentioned, these conversations oft-times revolve around fruitless scandals about a neighbor or an apparent friend. Once I happened to overhear one such inconsequential but amusing chatter wherein, the woman narrating the event seemed equally surprised while describing the story to the woman who could hardly bat her eyelids while listening to the turn of events in a certain X’s son’s life.

Apparently X’s son used to sneak in his girlfriend and have some pleasure time while no one was around to monitor their activities. This caught his mother’s attention, when she found an unusual strand of dark magenta colored hair in their bedroom. While she was still describing the event repeatedly in every kind of voice grammar supports, and each of the two were summing up their own judgments about every character involved in the plot, exhibiting all the conventional ideas that they have been feeding on since juvenescence in the process. I just couldn’t cease wondering about the actuality of the tale.

How do people extract such melodramatic stories that happen behind closed doors? How could the other woman not doubt the truth behind the tale? from How many pair of ears had this tale been passed? how far might have the story  evolved since?

I couldn’t turn around and correct them, so all I did was hit my elbow hard enough for her to realize that she’s been hit yet not tough enough to hurt her. I know it was childish, but at-least her topic of discussion would drift for a while whispered that tiny voice in my head, as I walked away wearing that fresh smirk proudly. Because believe me when I say, it ain’t fun being a victim to other’s story telling skills. 😛


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s