What’s the Point of Small Talk?

No matter where we go and who we meet, there’s always an icebreaker. It’s meant to dissolve inhibitions, help understand others’ likes and dislikes, and even know if they eat pizza with a fork or hands. Sometimes it goes as far as potential philosophy and Zen practices that could save the world. We use small talk to ease people into a situation and make them feel comfortable. Except, small talk doesn’t work.Small talk is often a way to kill time while we’re waiting for someone else.

We don’t care much about other people. When someone asks in a group, “So where are you from, how are you, how’s work, how’s the wife?” We smile and nod along as if it’s interesting, even though we’re far from interested.

It’s common sense. I don’t care how my colleague spent his weekend. I don’t care that my classmate’s mother made her mittens, or that her pet cat laid six kittens. It doesn’t matter to me that the new kid in school had a meltdown or that the principal fired five maintenance staff because the school had too many.

It’s ok not to care. And it’s ok to accept that. The only reason my colleague is listening to me ramble on about my Irritable Bowel Syndrome is because they’re too polite to ask me to shut up. Or too sleepy to get to work. And it’s understandable, too. It’s not their bowels, so why would they even bother?

We’re a clever species. We read articles every day about why small talk isn’t helping us in the long run or how much time we’re wasting at work chattering at the water cooler. And I’ve seen colleagues get irritable when another person strikes small conversations, whiling away time. Yet, despite knowing how futile small talk is, we still indulge in it.

Sometimes, we don’t even realise we’re doing it. When I was new in town, my cousin took me to a party because she said it’d be a great place to meet people. And I met a couple of girls. After asking their names and where they studied, I stopped talking. They were younger than I and not my type. So I didn’t force conversation. But they determined to help me get around and make more friends because my cousin had asked them to.

And so the session began. They asked me where I studied. Why I chose literature when engineering was the more sensible option, why I didn’t answer when my mother called a minute ago, where I’d love to live, what I’d do if money weren’t an object, etcetera, etcetera. I got bored after the first question, but I answered anyway — in not more than two or three sentences. However, besides my obvious resentment, they kept at it until I left without telling anyone.

And that’s what small talk does. It ruins relationships even before they begin. Sure, some people claim that it diffuses tension and helps people find common ground. But if someone forced me to talk, I’d only get bored. I’d lose respect for them because they waste my time. I’d avoid them in future because small talk makes me disconnect.

Corporate Culture

My cousin rolled her eyes at me over her cup of cold coffee. When she lowered her glass, I saw she had developed a chocolate-cream-covered mustache.

I had just asked her how she liked her new job in the big city. In her first week, she had sent me about a hundred messages, all photos of her new workplace, the free meals, and unlimited candy, and the dorm rooms with their cozy bedspreads. The company even gave away free gadgets to employees.

Yet here she was three months later, the life drained from her eyes. I’d expected her to be more excited to talk about the new startup in the block.

She explained. And when corporate employees confess, it’s not pretty.

She got free food three times a day. And unlimited coffee, snacks, and chocolate (dark, too) anytime she wanted. And if she wanted to blow steam off, she could go next door to the playing area to shoot darts or pocket some carrom coins.

She spent over ten hours at work. She didn’t while away or go for tea breaks across the street. She could have anything she wanted from the pantry. And she could bring it back to her desk, working between bites.

She didn’t have a proper mentor either because most startups don’t believe in micromanagers and hierarchy. And with flexible office timings and unrestricted internet access, the only thing that stopped employees from watching porn all day was the creepy open-office setting. But no one felt bad about scrolling through Facebook because that was a part of a healthy productive day.

At first, she loved her job. With no boss to boss her around, it seemed like paradise. However, a few weeks later, she realised she was going nowhere. The company was doing alright; they had received foreign investments and decided to upgrade the playing area with a badminton court. But despite the fresh startup fever, work had become rather dry.

She thought about work while eating, she talked about work while playing, and worked while she travelled, too, (on the company’s free shuttle services) to and from work. Her colleagues stayed over at the office because they’d work all night, and the office beds seemed more comfortable than the one at home.

But they had the weekends off. So they could feel like they had a life. She knew she had none, though.

Just three months into a job, she wanted out. She couldn’t imagine giving up the benefits, but she knew she wasn’t growing where she was. However, if she made the move, her family wouldn’t understand and pressure her to go back in. She felt stuck, wishing they’d fire her.

As she paused to take another swig of coffee, I smiled at her. The lure of corporate culture. Fancy on the outside, finicky on the inside. I’ve seen a few of them myself.

The Kindling

kindle-vs-books

“Get real,” she said. “No one’s going to spend time reading bulky books in future. Why would they, when we already have audio books and kindle?”

My friend and I were having coffee at a famous fast food chain. We had left the office for lunch but decided to grab a muffin and an espresso instead.

When someone said such a thing, I’d flare back at them without a second thought. But now I held my tongue. My friend made sense, and I hated myself for admitting it. I said nothing, however. My coffee lingered under my tongue sending shots of bitterness through my system.

I love reading physical books. And I’ve admitted more times than I know, that despite the Kindle app’s animation to turn pages, an ebook just doesn’t feel the same way. But I’m reading four or five books now, and all of them are on my mobile. It’s easy because I never know when I’d get the time to read a page or two, and my phone’s just lying there in my pocket.

But I’m also against the digital revolution that’s almost killed paperbacks. It saddens me that leather bounds are now classed as exclusive collector’s items.

Books are books. They’re made up of words that can twist and tug at the deepest of heartstrings, and not antiques held together with age-old rust and dust.

Books are books. They’re living things filled with opinions and teachings. They can weigh in when you’re down, though sometimes even weigh too much when you’re carrying a burden.

Books are books. They are a mark of history written. They’re proof that people lived through them; they behold fingerprints and memories of thousands of enlightened minds who’ve cherished every page, every word, and every curve of the “g”s in them.

Whereas Kindle is cold. It’s a case that displays what it contains, and it contains a new thing every day.

Kindle is just a Kindle. It’s sleek to the touch, fits into your arms, and easy to carry.

Kindle is just a Kindle. It’s got hundreds of voices screaming for your attention, and if you’re ever appalled by the violence in one page, you can always find some zen in another.

The Kindle is just a Kindle. It’s versatile with multiple stories and multiple stands. It will neither weigh in for you nor weigh you down.

Kindle is kindling in the name only. It kindles not one but many emotions, which is good for some but too many for most. Bulky books rekindle spirits. There’s no escape from the secrets within a bound book. You either take all it in or give it all up. There’s no intervention, and there’s no mid-ground.

But even as all these thoughts rushed through my head, I still kept my mouth shut. As much as I hated it, ebooks and Kindles are the new way of reading.

With the rise of 140 characters, facebook-like attention spans, and books you can listen to while watching silent movies, many people think hot chocolate and the sofa near the foggy window is more suitable for the family kitten. My friend was right. In future, not many people would read heavy books. We’d intake lines and lines of words like we inhale air. And like air, most of it wouldn’t even reach our brains. It’s the age of the Kindle and unkindled souls.

What’s the Point of Fireworks?

For once, I’m glad the weekend’s over. For two whole days, fireworks have been cracking and popping outside my window and all I could think of was what’s the point of it all?

It’s funny that people work hard all year and throw away all their bonus cash on rolled up gunpowder that could blow up a finger. It happens too, at least five times every year. And most of the time, it’s more than a finger. Sometimes even entire houses near a fireworks shop go up in flames just because some random guy lit a cigarette. Fireworks are unstable, risky, and they turn cash into ash right in front of your eyes.

As if wasting money weren’t enough, there’s the nuisance of noise and smoke. I kept jumping every now and again — and not because of the plot twist in the book I was reading. One kid’s thrill for roaring rockets and blasted bombs made the two-month-old next door wail all night which in turn kept me up all night. The noise even drowned out the environmentalists who orated ozone overtures on television. Not even an hour of silence.

But there’s another side to fireworks. A side that’s as pathetic as the aftermath that garbage collectors have to deal with.

About three months before the festival season begins, Sivakasi and the rest of fireworks-producing areas rejoices. Fireworks are their livelihood. They’d lock themselves up in a dingy room, stuffing charcoal into sulfur and sickness into children. And with every pack of fireworks they sold, the lights in their houses would burn brighter and their kids would get a better chance at primary education. The lighter our purses become, the heavier their stomachs become. These people feed on fireworks while people in white coats argue for boycotting the poisonous epidemic.

Nevertheless, fireworks aren’t military. There’s no point in pretending they are a necessary evil. We know the destruction fireworks cause, but we also know the families that hinge on them. And that’s the saddest stature of Indian society. A large portion of our people would die if the larger portion doesn’t kill the environment (in a way).

Unless we take a stand. Unless primary school textbooks refine their definition of Sivakasi being synonymous with fireworks. Unless we do more than boycotting fireworks. Unless we find alternative employment opportunities for those who survive in charcoal, we won’t rid ourselves of pointless fires.

A Festival of Darkness

I’m home alone, marvelling Pirates of the Caribbean for the uncountable time. My room mates have left for their hometowns and so have my colleagues and friends.

Today is Diwali or Deepawali, a special Indian holiday. People working away from their hometowns throng home to spend the day with family. Most religions celebrate this day as the day good destroyed the evil in the world.

diwali-fiewworks — Not real bombs. Just fireworks.

Yet it’s ironic that we celebrate the end of all evil by spreading more evil.

We all love spending time with our families, sharing a meal, and smiling at the kids who run around the neighbourhood fighting over candy while parents share a drink. That’s how foreigners see Diwali. It’s a day of joy and sweets and all things nice. There’s no evil in that.

So it would seem.

Diwali is the festival of lights. And the reason: We celebrate the day lighting firecrackers and scaring the crap out of our domestic animals. It’s common for people to have cows and buffalos as pets, along with dogs, cats, and fish. And while I enjoy Jack Sparrow’s adventures in my room, I hear these bigger animals wailing in fear as the fireworks go up a little too close to their feet.

As I shake my head disgusted at parents who let their kids torment animals, my phone lights up with flash news: “Fire in Gujarat’s fireworks shop, over 10 people dead.” Every year, Diwali brings a handful of fire accidents in fireworks shops. And every year people debate whether we should continue selling and manufacturing fireworks because of all the death and destruction. And yet, year after year, people light up their stash of smoky hell, laughing at lights and lolling like maniacs.

There’s more to Diwali than killing lives and scaring animals, though. Fireworks are expensive. And every household with children or light-liking adults spends about $30 in fireworks. Not to mention other expenses like buying sweets and savouries and new clothes for the entire family. These don’t come cheap. Tis the season where employers give employees a Diwali bonus, too.

On the day of Diwali, people wake up early, clean up real good, wear new clothes, have breakfast, and go outdoors to light up fireworks. An hour or two later they’d break for coffee and snacks. Then again, they go back for more fireworks. and in between the festivities, comes other traditions like visiting neighbours and friends to give away snacks, and all-day feasting in cholesterol-full foods. The whole day wanes, and we call this the single biggest festival of the year.

However, like all things Indian, there’s also a counter-culture to this Diwali madness. There are some who don’t throw money away on fireworks or shopping. They don’t spend all day indulging guilt-free on guilt foods, laugh at animals cowering in fear, or trigger heart attacks in patients in a nearby hospital.

These are the ones who see festivals as a chance reconnect with their family without tearing other families apart. We are the misfits, the tradition-less, and the unholy. We call Diwali the festival of darkness because we are the ones who care for the greater good.

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