A Pinprick of Conscience

Post-COVID it is the season for CMEs and they seem to have come back with a vengeance. And that means it is high season for YSL suites, Gucci bags, Ralph Lauren footwear, and some snobbish small talk on H-index and D-index. At a recent CME dinner, the Delhi night still had a trace of chill. My suit had emerged from its naphthalene hibernation. I smiled perfunctorily, attempted witty banter, and balanced my crystal of migraine inducing red wine while a waiter approached with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I skewered the grilled prawn delicately with a toothpick, popped it into my mouth and returned to my “conversation.” It was more of an exchange of sweet nothings, except that nothings were in plenty and sweet, in short supply. Doctors are often socially inept creatures. Holding on to a glass of wine and a starter gives them something to do instead of awkwardly gawking about on the fringes of a conversing circle of well-dressed aliens. So, I tend to eat more starters than necessary and then get stranded with tell-tale signs of nervous gluttony. Then I realized that I was stuck with the toothpick. I stood there, wine glass in one hand, stick in the other, hoping that the cold draft would not induce a sneeze or else the half-chewed prawn, still within my buccal, will have a different destiny. Right now, I must localize a place to dispose both my toothpick and my chalice. Finally found a discarded tumbler on the window sill which already had a debris of similar discarded sticks. I added mine and sidled over, to find a queue adding a lot more thrash than the tumbler can hold. I realized my stick dilemma was not so petty when I found even the redoubtable person de gracia straddling the dais grappling with it. Now this was an occasion graced by the Governor, and the little kebabs going around consumed more ATP during mastication than it would deliver once digested, and the guests were left with these little sticks in their hands. They tried to give them back to the lackey, but they smiled, shook their heads, and moved away. The more adept confidently hailed a passing flunkey, picked up a chicken drumstick, and jettisoned the old tooth pick in one smooth move. I didn’t understand that these were not just cocktail sticks. They were little sticks that test your patience and dignity. When one has had one large too many, negotiating food from the trays can be taxing. The ataxic distal upper extremities often miss the center of the target and end up piercing the periphery and the half-hearted morsel decides to fall on the tray/carpet once out of the platter. And there I am with half a galouti teetering on my stick, the other half fallen ungracefully onto the tray while the waiter looks on utterly deadpan, discreetly ignoring my stick ineptitude. What does one do next? (a) Walk away as if nothing has happened. (b) Make an even more imbecile of oneself than what one already is by attempting to pick it up with one’s sharp arsenal.Any air of smug superiority I had felt about being feted and dined instantly vanishes and my ego bubble is deflated. All that glamour is built on a pile of little skewers akin to a house of cards. While the descriptions of the starters might ooze sophistication, all we are left with, in the end, are little pointy sticks. It is the beanpole on which one is hoisted or hung like in “Lord of the Flies.” Defeated, I pick up the starter with my fingers. The waiter remains studiously expressionless. As a man, I am luckier than the ladies. If push comes to shove, and I am unable to locate a waste basket in the arid expanse of a neon lit hotel ballroom, I can unobtrusively stuff the sticks, wrapped in a napkin, into my pocket and escape. As I left the party, I looked back and stacked at the base of every pillar was a mini-forest of abandoned gnawed sticks. It was like gazing at the underbelly of the pomp and splendor— “the scaffolding of reality too nakedly displayed.” Then as the CME season ends and the suits are packed away, we return to our daily schizoid frenzy, until one day I put on those formal blazers, and as I stick my hand into the pocket I get stabbed by a toothpick, a remembrance of parties past. It is like a pinprick of conscience. Financial support and sponsorship Nil. Conflicts of interest There are no conflicts of interest.