How does it feel to be ignored? Isn’t it more than just a put-down? Making someone feel unwanted or overlooked might be one of the harshest punishments we can inflict on a fellow human being.

Why did this think strike me suddenly? Yesterday—i.e., the day I am writing this, though not posting it—two friends of my younger son came over, just to spend time with us and ask about our well-being. You might find mentions of these two friends in my earlier blogs. Despite an age gap of 30 years, my wife and I treat them as close friends. There’s no topic off-limits when we’re with them. 

One of them has become quite proficient in astrology and picked up Sanskrit impressively fast. The other is a lover of food, music, travel, and good company—a person with a refreshing innocence that shines through every interaction. 

After they left, my wife made a surprising observation about my behavior. She felt that I had spent more time talking to the first friend, leaving the other one out. How could this have happened? I realized that I had been engrossed in discussing my blogs with the first friend, and in doing so, I might have unintentionally excluded the second. But I did notice my wife having an engaging conversation with him, so I assumed he was occupied. 

If I gave my wife the impression that I had ignored him, I was certainly at fault. I quickly sent the second friend a message to apologize. 

This incident triggered memories of other moments when I may have unintentionally neglected someone. 

One such memory stands out vividly: 

There was a four-year-old girl in our colony who was very attached to our family. One evening, as I was walking home after work, feeling a bit tired and distracted, I saw her standing on the other side of the street. Without thinking, I walked on. She came running to me, wrapped her little arms around my legs, and, almost in tears, said, “Mama, I’ve been calling out to you! You ignored me!” I felt awful and immediately apologized to this sweet-hearted little girl, carrying her home to make amends. 

Another memory involves a family wedding we attended. While we were enjoying the event, a cricket match was also underway. A lively little boy, whom we had grown fond of, was with us. In a moment of jest, I made a lighthearted negative remark about one of the cricketers, who happened to be his hero. The boy took it to heart and became upset. From that moment on, he stopped talking to me. I had unknowingly hurt this lovely child. 

Where had I kept my brain—my potato—in the freezer? 

A similar situation happened recently when I sent one of my blogs to a friend of mine. He’s a deeply spiritual and simple man. When he responded, he pointed out a minor factual error. What?! I thought. I had sent the blog hoping for his feedback on the emotions, expressions, and overall presentation—not just a correction of facts. 

This reminded me of a scene from a Tamil movie. The heroine intricately carves a piece of artwork on a single grain of rice and proudly shows it to the hero. Instead of appreciating her effort, the hero casually pops the grain into his mouth and remarks that it tastes old. 

This experience reinforced the idea of role play—again. Not everyone reads or interprets content from the same perspective. An editor has a specific role, an analyst another, and a critic yet another. Each person brings their unique lens, and the ultimate reader forms their own opinion based on personal preferences. Each role has its place, and one should not encroach upon the other’s domain. 

One of my grandsons once told me about a writing assignment his teacher gave. They were asked to write about a particular place, using all their senses—how it felt, smelled, sounded, and looked. That’s how I like to experience what I read: not just as a writer but as a reader, fully immersing myself in the narrative, letting every detail shape the experience. 

Contd. 396. Bricks, Cement, and Mortar