In one episode of “Friends”, Rachel, feeling betrayed, asked Monica, “I’m sorry, did my back hurt your knife…?” It was of course, meant to be a sarcastic question at full bite, with excessive fang-baring. She also meant it metaphorically, of course. However, I recently had the ill opportunity of witnessing a similar, albeit ironically, literal event.
After a regular religious rite, at my fashionably popular organization, the juniors were asked to leave. Being junior, fashionistas-in-training, their sense of balance were somewhat not-quite-there, yet. As one of the younger ones stood up, there was a struggle for balance. A sway and a lean, with an effort to gain composition, one of the seniors’ suffered a minute touch of a friction with the aforesaid junior. The point of contact, for unfortunate feather of a collision occurred somewhere between the junior’s temple and the senior hand. Or more specifically, the senior’s diamond encrusted ring.
It was the look on the senior’s face that was rather incredulous. It was a look of disgust whilst frantically stroking the seemingly injured transparent carbon isotope on her finger, in a gesture that was not unlike a parent trying to soothe one’s child. All these, while throwing a toxic look of disgust at the junior. Ay, if looks could kill, the happily nonchalant junior, would have died, suffering from bloody stabs a thousand times or more. However, the junior was too happy to bother about the world just then, since balance one had just been regained in one’s bipod society.
There were several ironies here, of course. The incident occurred right after a religious rite, expounding care, love and respect to fellow humans. The seniors in the organization were supposedly selected for their adoration of the juniors. Yet, I was unfortunate enough to witness an event that proved itself antithetically.
Paraphrasing Rachel, I wanted to release my sarcastically acerbic tongue. “My dear, are you alright?” I would enquire, looking at the junior. Then, in a theatrical tilt that juxtaposes my body against the senior, “I am so sorry that the junior’s head bumped into your hard stone while trying to gain balance.” A dramatic beat later, I shall, with such sycophantic tenderness, ask, “Did the junior’s head hurt your rock/stone/carbon isotope?”
After a regular religious rite, at my fashionably popular organization, the juniors were asked to leave. Being junior, fashionistas-in-training, their sense of balance were somewhat not-quite-there, yet. As one of the younger ones stood up, there was a struggle for balance. A sway and a lean, with an effort to gain composition, one of the seniors’ suffered a minute touch of a friction with the aforesaid junior. The point of contact, for unfortunate feather of a collision occurred somewhere between the junior’s temple and the senior hand. Or more specifically, the senior’s diamond encrusted ring.
It was the look on the senior’s face that was rather incredulous. It was a look of disgust whilst frantically stroking the seemingly injured transparent carbon isotope on her finger, in a gesture that was not unlike a parent trying to soothe one’s child. All these, while throwing a toxic look of disgust at the junior. Ay, if looks could kill, the happily nonchalant junior, would have died, suffering from bloody stabs a thousand times or more. However, the junior was too happy to bother about the world just then, since balance one had just been regained in one’s bipod society.
There were several ironies here, of course. The incident occurred right after a religious rite, expounding care, love and respect to fellow humans. The seniors in the organization were supposedly selected for their adoration of the juniors. Yet, I was unfortunate enough to witness an event that proved itself antithetically.
Paraphrasing Rachel, I wanted to release my sarcastically acerbic tongue. “My dear, are you alright?” I would enquire, looking at the junior. Then, in a theatrical tilt that juxtaposes my body against the senior, “I am so sorry that the junior’s head bumped into your hard stone while trying to gain balance.” A dramatic beat later, I shall, with such sycophantic tenderness, ask, “Did the junior’s head hurt your rock/stone/carbon isotope?”
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