Social Trivia

It is my constant endeavour to shine in the assembly of the learned.

But sadly, every time I get an opportunity to give the world a glimpse of my gleaming intellect, my foot makes a beeline for my mouth.

In an earnest bid to add some density to the small talk (and big blather) that’s common currency in social gatherings, I have tried building up a repertoire of smart-alec one-liners, besides attempting to brush up my politics and preen my general knowledge.

It may be de rigueur for the ‘Suhel Seths’ of the world, but for a scatterbrain like me, it’s a pretty tall order.

Yes, I’m a self-confessed woolgatherer who experiences only intermittent spells of sanity.

And now, with age tightening its tentacles around my cerebrum, such spells of rationality are becoming even more brief, infrequent and far-flung.

Thankfully, my family members love me unconditionally and think I’m kinda’ al’right (since only my left brain is paralyzed).

They have lovingly conferred on me an undergrad degree in amnesia and a postgrad in Alzheimer’s; they have also learned to live with my foibles and idiosyncrasies.

So my life unspools brinking on functional sanity.

Getting back to social skills, I have always admired party animals who can concurrently hold BOTH their drinks AND an audience.

It beats me how they breezily guzzle gallons of liquor and yet retain their mental acuity and verbal dexterity.

They seem to carry invisible ‘PC (polite conversation) racquets’ to play ping-pong with fellow party animals.

As for me, balancing heavy-duty-conversation with gay-abandon-drinking is a social sudoku I’m still trying to figure out.

A single vodka shot is all it takes to coat my brain with Teflon. After that, nothing sticks.

I love my poison.. both shaken and stirred.

A veg by day, vodka by night kind of a person…that’s me.

My family is pretty sure that if the Alcoholics Society of India were to organize a Vodka’thon, I’d win, hands down.

This is how it goes…

My husband and I are invited to a book launch party.

The invitation, I suspect, is a case of mistaken identity.

Otherwise, why would someone invite ME to an apparently cerebral event?

Unless, of course, the host got carried away by the ‘blogger’ tag in my profile!

A book launch party, let me tell you, is a euphemism for a congregation of brainiacs of varied intellectual hues.

Brandishing their PC racquets, these brain-buddies cerebrate together by throwing intellectual darts at one another while maintaining a MENSA scoreboard.

Book launch invitees and I are two ends of the aptitude spectrum.

We are as disparate as cheese and geese… or Modi and Manmohan… or Amma and Aliya.

Such people are toxic to my self-esteem.

They rub in the fact that I’m a piece of semi-educated flotsam bobbing in a sea of molten intellect. They also aggravate my Alzheimers.

As I and my husband enter the party venue, I run a cautious look all around the hall.

The guests look like a tribe of intellectual predators flashing their infoplaqued gnashers at one another. Just like American politics, every Trump here is a joker.

I’ve already had a nerve-wracking day in office — exchanging officialese with some haughty overseas clients — and am in no mood to swim with the sharks again.

So I tuck away my PC racquet and make a beeline for the bar, hoping to enjoy some uncluttered hours in the companionable arms of my poison.

As I negotiate my way to my destination, I mentally go through the polite conversation template I’ve indigenized for use in ‘hostage’ situations, ie., in case any human obstruction springs up en route.

As if on cue, the first obstruction — a hoity-toity heiress dripping mink and diamonds pops up in front of me, swinging her PC racquet.

Giving me a brilliant plastic smile, she rattles off the names of some ten books written by the host whose book we are supposedly launching today.

Finally, taking a breather, she asks me how I know the author.

I say, I DON’T!

The blunt in my tone is intentional.

My statement is followed by some 10 seconds of eternity.

Apparently cheesed off by my remark, Ms. hoity-toity casts a deep condescending glance that tells me I’ve already been tossed off her intellectual tower of Mensa.

Before she can physically carry out the perceived threat, I move ahead.

Just then, obstruction 2 pats me on my back.

This man is an encyclopedia with human flesh wrapped around it. He eats strategies for breakfast, accounts for lunch, and his opponents’ brains, at events such as this, for dinner.

He is also a globe-girdler who is forever engrossed in animated monologues about his geographical escapades.

A bunch of taxidermied pigeon-nodders surrounds him, desperately waiting for an opportunity to step into his voluble shoes with their own narratives.

I play a quick round of PC ping pong with him and move forward… only to be confronted by obstruction 3, a hi-flying blue-stocking, who is monopolizing a flock of stiff upper lips (but soft underbellies).

She holds the audience in awe with her talent for regurgitating spiritual quotes from a seemingly inexhaustible collection.

Momentarily inspired, and in a lame bid to fuel the PC ping pong, I too try to retrieve one of the recycled quotes I have so assiduously filed away in my memory bank but unfortunately, my Alzheimer’s decides to flare up just then, and I flunk miserably.

Obstruction 4 is a political old hat whose scathingly reactions to every move made by the government can give Arnab Goswami and his coterie a run for their vocal cords.

I give him a sheepish grin and move a few surreptitious inches closer to my destination.

Completing my circuitous journey, I finally hit the bar and thirstily gulp down two jumbo vodkas.

Just then, the hostess meanders in sight and spots me standing alone.

She graciously introduces me to a couple standing next to the bar and after performing the preliminaries leaves us to fend for ourselves.

My poison has already started disintegrating my cognitive skills and my mental mayhem begins.

Donning my best drunk-but-sombre look, I turn towards the couple.

I smile. They smile. We smile.

I cringe. They cringe. We cringe.

Oh god, puh-leeze, no PC ping pong again!!

So Ms. … I turn to the wife, in a feeble attempt at pinging the pong, but realize suddenly that I can’t remember her name for the life of me.

I must have repeated it in my mind at least five times as we were introduced.

I’m hoping her husband will call out for her so that I can get a clue.

No such luck.

I try again… Hellooz … I’m Puja … and that’s Pujari I point towards my husband who is busy exchanging notes with his school stable-mates, blissfully unaware of my mental conundrum and alcopop-induced confidence.

Ya’know, Puja is a 4 letter word. Don’t you dairre confuse it with Pooja.. hch!

Well, Ms PUJA … what do you do? the husband inquires politely.

Good question …( now what was that line I had memorized to use while introducing my profession to MENSA aborigines..?).

Before I can remember it, I find myself using the one I’ve kept strictly for my bum chums:

I’m into advertising… ya know, advertising is the most fun you can have with your PANTS on.

(Hey !! that’s not at all what I wanted to say!).

The asker turn a visible crimson, as the ‘askee’ wonders who put that line, or rather, foot in her mouth!

Sure enough, the couple collects their body bags (and wits) before vanishing into thin air.

Darn, this vodka! It erodes my social finesse.

One innocuous shot of the poison is enough to impair my intellectual faculties and pack off my IPU (Information Processing Unit) to the ICU.

Amidst this cerebral carnage, I vow never to touch the hooch again.

And then another party happens…

And another resolution goes down the drain as I merrily shake a leg to the latest Hindi item number played by the DJ.

What is a party without some hardcore drinking…?

Social skills can go hang themselves!