A Huge Talker

A "huge talker" is someone who talks excessively. I had heard about such people many times, but I never encountered one until recently. Then I met him—my new Bhutanese friend in Bangalore (name withheld to protect his lungs, and my sanity). He talks too much. So very much. Grossly, honestly, painfully much. He opens his mouth the moment he wakes up and only closes it when he falls asleep—and even then, I suspect he mumbles in his dreams just to keep the streak alive.

We say a good talker is a good listener. He is not. Not even close. He listens like a fish listens to a lecture on water.

Let me share an incident from his unending stream of words. Once, we walked to buy vegetables at the market. He started talking the moment we left the door and didn't stop until we returned—two hours later. "I was this… that… when I was young… I would like to… my life…" Everything about him. Every single detail. I learned things about his childhood I didn't even know about my own childhood. Many times, I felt ashamed just listening to him—not for him, but for myself, for not running away. I wanted to sprint. "Ya, ya" was all I could manage. That was my entire vocabulary for the afternoon.

The return journey was all about vegetables: their shapes, their textures, what they could be mixed with, the cost per kilo, his personal likes and dislikes (he dislikes bitter gourd with a passion usually reserved for political enemies). Again, "Ya, ya" was all I could say. I think I said "ya" about four hundred times that day. My jaw still hurts.

He talks about his family, his wife, his studies—everything good about himself. Talking about oneself is not always good, I imagine. It doesn't interest others. But knowing oneself internally is important—more important than others, I insist. Still, I should note that he is not an empty vessel. Sometimes he speaks wisdom beyond what life itself could offer. Buried under an avalanche of words, there is occasionally a nugget of gold. You just have to dig. With a shovel. For hours.

Anyway, I am happy that I only have to stay with him for two or three days at a time—not a garrulous future forever. If this were permanent, I would have already applied for a monastery. A silent one.

The opposite of him is perfectly me. I am mostly unspoken. Taciturn. The strong, silent type—if the strong part is optional. I have something like babyish tantrums inside, but I keep them to myself. I listen, and I can listen as much as anyone. But his talks break my nerves. I simply cannot. It reaches my limit, and it begins to sound like a barking dog—or worse, a yapping dog with a megaphone. Now I worry that I might grow tired of listening to anyone in the future. He may have broken my ears permanently.

The climax of all his talking, however, comes from social media—Facebook. Very recently, he opened an account. And now he talks through that too. He comments on every post. Every photo. He sends hundreds of friend requests to strangers and chats with unknown people online. I squeak with a peal of loud laughter every time he messages unknown girls. And surprisingly—shockingly, even—he sometimes gets replies. He becomes good friends with them. That is how this seemingly insane person satisfies his talking desire when I refuse to give a damn about his words. He has found an infinite audience. God help them all.

Communication is complete when the listener can decode and encode messages. The exchange of information is effective only when it is worthwhile and appreciated. That, I believe, is understandable. But when one person talks and the other just says "ya, ya" four hundred times, I am not sure communication is happening. I think that is called survival.