Last week, we Anglos celebrated one of our biggest feasts, The Feast of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary. A lot of age-old traditions passed down from generation to generation from reciting the rosary in Portuguese to the system of carrying the thocha (carrying these very long candlesticks and crosses called cyrial as a part of a procession), family arriving from all over, a lot of church going (and dressing up to make sure all the people in the church know that you recently made a trip to the Gulf), novenas and prayer services which are quickly followed by what every Anglo household is famous for, parties; filled with booze, food, singing, dancing and what occasion would be complete without the fine ladies of the community zeroing-in on their next unsuspecting target and digging up the details of their up-until-then-rather-boring lives.
gossip
/ˈɡɒsɪp/
Noun
Casual or unconstrained conversation or reports about other people, typically involving details which are not confirmed as true.
Synonyms: rumour(s), scandal; malicious stories, Kaffeeklatsch; (whaaa?), dirt; bitching or in the Anglo context; Shoving.
Gossip a.k.a Shoving (usages include: “Bugger, that bloody old lady shoved for me. Told my mama that I’m ‘following my father’s footsteps’” *implying alcoholism* or “There Aunty, don’t interfere with me, heard?! If you shove for me I’ll shove for you also. That Rosario Uncle no…hmmm…” *implying adultery*) is an Anglo Aunty’s (and the occasional Uncle’s) Kryptonite. They can be the most humane and civilized human beings who live their lives in peace, harmony and love until someone goes:
“There child… did you see what this one’s daughter wore and came for the feast?”
It’s like an instant demonic possession. A transformation from Bruce Banner to the incredibly destructive Hulk. Like a vampire rising out of his coffin at the stroke of midnight. And contrary to the definition, the kind of stuff they dish out where I come from is far from casual. They take it very seriously. After all, it’s a big deal when you can make sure that your Frenemy’s (the woman you’re friends with whom you secretly hate) daughter never finds a nice Anglo boy based on the things you've broadcasted around the island about her. Now that’s some serious business. Whoever said that the pen is mightier than the sword hasn't met an Anglo Aunty and had an experience with her sharp tongue! Jesus! *shivers*
“Ah… I saw that little shit in church…, Could see everything. What she would have done if cow chased her, men?... Why eh? So bloody tight it was, I thought she’ll faint because didn’t have blood supply to her brain. Oh, but don’t forget between whose legs she came from, in that case, brain and all won’t have.”
As the gossip does its rounds in the neighbourhood the story is very tastefully transformed by adding minute and absolutely unbelievable details. You know what I mean; it’s like a game of ‘Chinese Whisper’.
“Jesus, you heard? That one’s daughter wore that dress and came to church no? Sat in the first row for mass, men. Priest could see her underwear it seems. Came down from the altar and slapped her so hard she landed straight in the hospital.”
Oh yes! They can get very creative with their scandalous tales of “this Janice’s daughter ran away with some Malayalee fellow and then came back, he didn’t want her it seems” (no one ran away, she just went on a picnic or something and came back) or “This Michelle is always rolling around in that Peter La’porte’s house” (they imply that she’s sleeping with him. Actually she just went over once to borrow some Vindaloo masala)
Gossip is a matter of opportunity, or for the victim, a matter of sheer bad timing. But I believe that gossip just doesn’t happen to you. You either create it, invite it or associate with people who love it. Trust me, I know.
I was once the topic of interest in every Anglo Aunty’s life and in every gossip circle in Vypeen. I was quite the controversy. The "multiple" boyfriends, the "alcoholism" , the ‘Bangalore fashion’ and the weight gain which was quickly interpreted as "pregnancy". The latest ‘news' around town about me isthat Eric and I ran away and got ‘register married’ which is why our parents are forced to be OK with our relationship. The rationalisation. Wow. Someone please give that Aunty an Emmy for Best Scrip for a Drama Series. That too she made it a point to call up my Mum to confirm if the story was true!
What’s the deal with all this gossip and shoving? I mean, why do we do it? (I say we because at some point or the other we have all indulged in it) Doing it among friends is one thing. We’ve started rumours about ourselves just for kicks. Like this one time that I told everyone that my best friend Eric Hendricks’ (yes, there are two Erics in my life) dad, Maxwell, owns all of the Bharath Petroleum Gas Pumps in Ernakulam. He just happened to be in a picture in the paper of the inauguration of said pump. The next thing we know they’re asking Uncle Maxwell for free petrol.
As much as I hate to admit it, bitching about someone has some weird, or rather, sadistic sense of gratification in thinking that someone else in the community is doing things a lot more stupid or a lot worse than we did.
“I heard, she was kissing that boy on her terrace. Mary D’cruz saw because the light was on! The impertinence!”
*thinks to one’s self*
‘I was smart enough to have a friend keep an eye out for passing uncles and aunties while I made out in a dark lane, kids these days, so stupid!’
What’s worse? They now have Facebook so they can virtually stalk your every move, anytime, anywhere. Forget about posting a picture in your bikini, if you happen to fart accidentally in public while holidaying in Brazil and they’ll know. (And they’ll say you took a dump on the road and landed up in Brazilian prison)
I for one believe that gossiping helps. For example, let’s say there’s this girl who I, to put it nicely, in a mild sort of way, most slightly, HATE. Hearing someone gossip about her and doing so myself helps me vent a bit of the inner vengefulness and makes sure that the next time I see her, I don’t punch her in the bloody face. That and the look on an Aunty’s face when I drop a bomb and say things like: “Oh Aunty… I heard that she’s Lesbian!”
“Lesbian eh? Her Birthday is in March, no? I thought she was Pisces… *someone whispers into her ears*… My Jesus….!!!!!! That eh?!” *mouth open, palms on cheeks*
Priceless.
Also, as women, the need to gossip runs through our blood. I believe it has evolved with us. To pick out the ‘bad eggs’ and give them a metaphorical flogging in public. It makes themlook nicer than the people they oh-so-skillfully decide to bring down. Little do we know that they've done shit when they were younger that could have had them burnt at the stake. (I made a not-so-subtle hint at witchcraft there, more on that in my next post). Gossip ensures a sense of ‘Survival of the Fittest’, after all, who messes with the biggest bitch in town? No one would dare say a word about her or her family for fear of her wrath. Gossip is an art, a talent and an investment. It takes time, persistence, a ridiculously high level of curiosity and the patience to wait patiently till someone slips up. Last but not least, Gossip puts the fear of Jesus Christ our Lord into the younger generation because they’ll hear stories of ‘That Rochelle…’ and ‘This Christina..” and they’ll know better, when it’s their turn, how to be smart and not make-out with the terrace light on and they’ll tread wisely on the eggshells of society.
Women who gossip aren’t like tabloids that do it to sell their papers or magazines and mint the moolah. Oh hell no! You can’t buy these ladies out; if you try they’ll bitch about that too.
“Hmmm… today that Eileen’s daughter came to my house with one dress for me, bought from Bangalore it seems. She thinks I have no money to buy my own bloody dress or what? What is my husband working on the ship for, then?”
My advice to you is simple. You can’t shut their mouths. Tape doesn't work too well. Glue doesn't help much either. I’d recommend a needle and thread but you’ll land up in jail, or worse, in an asylum for that sort of thing. I’ll tell you what I did. Be open. Open as the frickin’ ocean. I drink. I had a lot of boyfriends. I’m a heathen. Blah blah blah. If you've got nothing to hide then they've got nothing to talk about because everyone already knows. If you still can’t beat them, then join them in their debauchery, but remember; if they gossip TO you, then they’ll also gossip ABOUT you. It’s a Vicious Cycle. But the best option; just out-smart the buggers.
P.S: No one bitches about me anymore because they’re afraid I’ll dig up their shit and post it on my blog. Muhahahahaa!!!
