One of our contributors has been ill and, having nothing intelligent to do, has been amusing himself with analysing well-meaning, but fairly meaningless greetings and phrases that we all use.
The response to the more modern “Wassup?” is “Wassup!”, I’ve been told. Not “petrol prices, taxes, my pressure” or anything else that’s on the rise. An oft-heard precursor to conversation begins with, “How are you?” The immediate and spontaneous response is an equally creative, “How are you?” expressed in the same flat tone, devoid of real concern for one’s well being. In fact, as the old western comics would have us believe, the greeting has been shortened to “How!” in any of the American Indian languages, without the benefit of a question mark at the end either. Neither side bothers to find out how the other person is, though.
Imagine my surprise when, one fine day on Ripon Street, I rallied with the standard opening of “How are you?” expecting nothing else in return. This little old lady stopped me in my tracks with her opening volley, “What to tell you, son? My husband has a fever and my daughter has a cold. Both need to take rest. I am very tired running up and down – we don’t have a lift in our building – so much cooking to be done, and my son is not helping me at all.” There! I asked for it, didn’t I? A real response to the query, ‘how are you?’ It went on for a bit. After some hastily patched up expressions of commiseration, I quickly crossed the street and made sure I crossed the street every time I glimpsed her heading in my direction thereafter.
So, when it came to my turn to be confined to bed with a variety of new viruses, I got to thinking about these and similar conversations. The number of times I was told to “Take Care” – shortened to “tc” on WhatsApp – far exceeds any other advice given to the down and almost out. What does it mean? How do I take care and where do I take it? I wondered if there might be a care depository from where one could pick it up and take it. Or maybe there are Caregivers and Caretakers. However, it’s the thought that counts, I guess. People assume that you are not taking care of your health so they advise you to do so. You’ve already got that advice, along with a prescription, from your doctor who will take care of you if you take care of the bill. Thanks, too, for telling me to “Get well soon!” – I will, just as soon as I finish these meds. ‘Tis the season to be sneezy – so the traditional cold lasts a week or seven days, whichever is sooner. Guitarist Carlos Santana says it best when he greets you with “Hope You’re Feeling Better”.
And there is no greater lie than a snivelling, weak “I’m fine!” at a temperature of 104F. But then no one really wants to hear about your aches, pains, deterioration or multiple trips to the washroom. It’s safer to say you’re fine than expound a litany of symptoms which will unleash a barrage of well-meaning, clueless, home-grown cures including stay warm, stay cool, use ginger/garlic/methi or some exotic herb. I really don’t mind “nothing that a brandy and hot water won’t fix”.
Similar to this, it often confused me, as a school teacher when we exhorted the class to “pay attention”. I would have been floored had I been asked a question like, “How much?” What’s the price of attention? In fact, other one-liners and commands that teachers use a lot include “Keep Quiet” – expressed in a stentorian voice that shatters any semblance of silence anyway. This is only matched by the slamming of a wooden ruler on the desk to encourage – you guessed it – silence! And this is closely contested by the loud “Shhh” which wakes everyone up in the Library.
As an intrepid traveller I would often be greeted with “Safe trip”. How on earth does that depend on me, I wonder? It’s the guy flying the plane that should be told to ‘take care’ of my safety. I’ve always preferred wishes like “Happy journey” especially when it’s by Indian Railways, where such a journey is elusive. At least your well-wishers express hope before you embark. And since parting is such sweet sorrow, the journey following should be happy. I find it most distressing when someone is emigrating to a new country, never to grace your shores again and he says, “See you”. I often feel I should respond, “Look at me now – you’re not likely to see me again.” It took me some time to get used to people in Kolkata leaving with the phrase, “aaschi” (I’m coming). Looks like you’re going, though. I’ve always preferred the Spanish hasta manana – see you tomorrow, which is a promise, or shortened to manana, which is a statement of fact! And I’ve never figured out the Italian “ciao” – or was that an order for Chinese?
Which brings me back to a very loving family doctor of ours who kept insisting that he could not say, “See you soon” because it sounded like drumming up business. Instead he would say, “Let’s meet when you are better”. Which, of course, depended on his medication and my ability to take care!