
Brevity was never my strong point. My brother complains that my recounting of an event is so full of tangential digressions that he cannot keep track of the master narrative. My husband grumbles that my garbled garrulity ends up disclosing vital information outside the sanctum sanctorum of the family. My son deletes my e-mails without reading them because they are not written in SMS mode. E-mails, he explains, are not for composing epic sagas, but for tersely exchanging messages about significant developments. I, however, am incorrigible, and cannot get to the punch line of my tales without having delved into their entrails and incorporating peripheral sub-texts.
In verbal and written endeavours, I need time and space to make my point. During social interactions in which I am likely to get heard by a number of people, I am often tempted to embark on a meandering account. To begin with, they listen enthusiastically, but even after realising that my verbose unfoldings will perhaps get more rambling by their indulgence, they do not have the heart to ruthlessly nip them in the bud. One by one, they start walking away on some pretext. Eventually I have no audience left for the spicy treat of my grand finale.
Professionally, I neatly chalk out my teaching schedule for the year, but what I economically plan to cover in one class inevitably takes up three. To justify my gregarious style, could I be blamed for loving to hear the nuanced inflections of my well-modulated voice? I have cultivated with elan the elaboration of an issue till I wring it dry of any potential to inspire.
After this revelation, I hope the Indian Express appreciates the remarkable restraint and stupendous effort I exercise in keeping my articles succinctly within the word limit. I usually write a fractured precis of my 8216;master8217; piece, not presuming to disfigure the trim elegance of the esteemed newspaper. This one, however, is only a thinly disguised appeal for a license to wax more eloquent, hoping to grab some extra elbow space.