Life’s little eccentricities

“A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.”

If that’s the benchmark, then we’re not just civilized—we’re practically saints in lab coats. We don’t just tolerate eccentricities; we give them Wi-Fi, offer them tea, and occasionally nominate them for housing society committees. We discuss them, celebrate them, poke fun at them, and most importantly, never show them the door. At worst, we assign them nicknames. At best, we write essays about them (like this one).

This epiphany struck me one evening while I was reading a P.G. Wodehouse novel—which, as we all know, is less a book and more a mildly intoxicated stroll through the English countryside of human quirks. Wodehouse characters are a parade of endearing lunacy: one steals pigs (as one does), another pretends to be a psychiatrist (presumably for the free therapy), and my personal favourite—someone who paints moustaches on statues because, well, “they look more distinguished that way.” And you know what? They never feel absurd. They feel like that one uncle we all have who insists on adding raisins to everything—including biryani.

And this isn’t just a Wodehouse-exclusive phenomenon. If you’ve watched Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain (or if you're too cool, just "Amélie"), you’ll recall that everyone in that Parisian pocket of whimsy has their own signature tick. One collects torn-up photos from photobooths, another is convinced he’s terminally ill unless proven otherwise, someone else loathes the phrase “fruits of thy womb” with religious zeal, and there's even a bubble-wrap enthusiast conducting amateur espionage. Oh, and let’s not forget the emotionally-invested cat who eavesdrops on bedtime stories—clearly the most sophisticated in the bunch.

So no, eccentricity isn’t madness—it’s art. It’s identity. It's possibly a coping mechanism in disguise wearing a feather boa. In fact, I’d argue it’s not even all that "eccentric" anymore. It’s just... Tuesday.

Geniuses and aristocrats are often called eccentric, mostly because they just don’t care what the rest of us think—and perhaps because they can afford not to. But make no mistake, eccentricity is no elitist privilege. It cuts across ages, income brackets, and genders like a butter knife through slightly melted cheesecake.

I’ve been generously blessed with an entire ecosystem of eccentric souls around me. So much so, that I sometimes wonder—do I attract them? Am I the eccentric magnet? Either way, thank heavens for them. They’re the spice rack of my life, and without them, things would taste rather bland.I keep telling them: everyone’s given a little spark of madness—don't let it go out. These obsessive hobbies, these strange little fixations, they’re not just quirks. They’re lifelines. They make people more human, more lovable… and often, excellent dinner-table material.

Take, for instance, my ex-colleague. His life revolved around three things: dogs, desserts, and Indian classical music. It never occurred to him that those interests had nothing to do with each other, or anything else, really. At parties, he’d alternate between singing sad patriotic songs and discussing pudding recipes—unless he was mid-conversation with his dogs (who, frankly, seemed more responsive than some people I know).

Then there was a friend who compulsively bought books—and then compulsively didn’t read them. My mother rearranges the fridge racks like it’s a competitive sport. My secretary beams his brightest smile precisely when being scolded. A colleague cannot start a sentence without saying, “No, no—yes, yes… okay, okay.” And a female colleague has turned losing her belongings in my room into a kind of full-time hobby.

My husband knew someone in college who simply couldn’t respond to a question unless he first repeated it. You ask, “What’s your name?” He’d say, “What’s my name? Oh yes—Ramesh.” It was like having a live echo.

But my favorite category of eccentrics? Professors. Glorious, irreplaceable professors. One would bargain on everything—rickshaw fares, socks, even brinjals—always "on principle." He usually ended up paying more than the asking price, but hey, principles are priceless.

Once, a very senior bureaucrat told us that most people in the service are “I-specialists”—they can’t stop talking about themselves. Everyone laughed. Then he spent 45 minutes explaining, “But I am not like that. I always... I never... I think… I feel…” The irony was so dense, it needed a fork and knife.

And Kolkata! That beautiful, eccentric city. There I met an accountant who was also a practicing tantric. Another had a PhD in Latin so he could read Paradise Lost in the original (because why not?). One boss rolled his own cigarettes to save money, and another genuinely believed he was a reincarnated German soldier from WWII.

But the award for most creative use of time goes to my ex-boss, who edited my drafts by changing certain words with their synonyms. Every. Single. Time. After five or six rounds of this, the final version usually had my original word restored. The boss would then look at it with the satisfaction of a man who just invented the wheel. Again.

In the Mussoorie academy, we had a professor who began every economics lecture with: “Suppose this guy has 100 Pepsi bottles...” Another one’s favorite adjective was “atrocious.” Everything was atrocious—food, policies, sometimes even the weather.And then there's a senior in my husband’s office who often begins with, “I don’t like to blow my own trumpet” followed immediately by “I’m an artist by nature.” This is usually followed by a story that clearly suggests he’s been playing both trumpet and harmonium in full volume.

Of course, I’m no saint either. I’m told I have my own “quirks.” My cousin once called me a “bathing freak” because I used to bathe four to five times a day in summer. My husband claims I’m a control freak, and my mother insists I go into a cleaning frenzy whenever I see too much clutter. So yes, the keyword here is “freak.” But if society still accepts me with my hygiene hobbies and bin-clearing tendencies, then I think it’s safe to say we are a civilized society.

On the matter of genetics, I agree with Queen Elizabeth: “In my family, as in all the best families, there are eccentricities.” Ours has its share of impetuous youngsters, delightfully senile elders, and, of course, the ever-popular family disagreements.

My granduncle, age ninety-two, gives appointments to everyone. The maid. The milkman. The postman. Me. He has a weekly phone call with me that must end with a Santa-Banta joke. It’s non-negotiable.My aunts passionately watch weepy soap operas, discuss them with the gravity of war strategy, and then dismiss them as "silly nonsense"—until the next episode.The younger generation, I’m happy to report, is holding the family banner high. My elder sister visits malls only to reject everything. She gives every store a fair chance—then walks out, judging their collections with royal disdain.

My brother-in-law hates curd but loves dahi vada. He can’t stand mangoes but downs mango drinks like nectar. And his elder brother—my dear husband—swears that potatoes cut in round shapes taste entirely different from fries. (He’s yet to convince the potatoes.)Sometimes these habits irritate me. But if everyone behaved the same, what a monochrome mess life would be.

Because in the end, if you spend all your time trying to be like everybody else, you lose your chance of discovering something delightfully different—like a perfectly sane person who prefers their statues with moustaches.