No squeak, pipsqueak

“God, your shelves and desk thing is amazing!” exclaims a girl on facebook. No interior designer herself, she leaves this comment on her ex-boyfriend’s profile after seeing all his furniture pictures. He doesn’t snigger. He doesn’t say anything.

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An obituary goes to print late at night with the brand new daughter in law’s name spelt incorrectly. It’s Meenakshi. Not Minakshi. Thank you very much. The family doesn’t say anything.

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A very post-pubescent gentleman on facebook takes shirtless photos of himself, wearing shades, light reflecting off the bathroom mirror in the background, highlighting his cheek that is stricken with red blotchy pimples. There is a whole series of such ugly snaps. All two hundred and eighty on the friend list get the notification, ki profile picture has changed. But not one comment, no one cries Rahul, change it. Nobody says anything.

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Woman tears up her husband’s synopsis of his book. It’s war fiction, now in shreds. The draft is ruined and his effort, irretrievable. There’s no frisky puppy in the drawing room to blame. The wife doesn’t apologise. Nobody says anything.

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They look engaged on facebook, the young couple, but perhaps only because the assumption is such. And the place where the photograph was taken is conducive to the belief. 'Very good, very good, shaadi ho gayi!' It’s the vibe -- his formal attire, her possibly-bridal sari, yellow lighting and their tall, committed body language. She’s pestered to reply, to clear the air, to accept the congratulations, and say something – “no no, it’s not like that, but ha ha, thanks for the kind wishes.” Yes? No. Sometimes it’s the easiest thing to do, this golden silence, pretend goodness, keep shut, and not say anything.