Perception and Reality

It was supposed to be just another conversation—pleasant, ordinary, and brief. But that day it was all except ordinary.

“So, how are you holding up at work?”

“Fine,” I said. And knowing the extent to which I dislike a response that simple in conversations, I added, “It’s fine, because I try not to let the stress—and occasional dramas—get to me.”

He smiled, but it was noticeably and unusually weak. I also noted a somewhat tired look in his eyes. But I knew I was in no position to ask any questions beyond the ordinary. We were not equals, and that’s in many ways other than our obvious age difference. And I had no intention to abuse the privilege he’d given.

“How’s work and your family, sir?”

“Fine,” he said. While keeping his gaze fixed on me, he tried to mimic what I’d earlier said: “And that’s only because I try not to let the stress—and occasional dramas—get to me.” It sounded quite funny. That was the only time he laughed. I did, too.

Then came the question that defined this conversation. “Do you sometimes envy me?” He was looking at me; he wanted an answer.

Here was a man who had a life I still dream of: a wife and three lovely kids. He had influence, no matter how small. Not forgetting his position where he worked, which many would kill for.

“Sir, the word envy is just what I have a problem with,” I said.

“Okay. Let me ask same question in another way: Would you like to have the kind of my life?”

“Yes.”

He smiled again. And it had all the markings of the one before it. But this time, he was shaking his head—like you probably would when you disapprove of something.

“You can say that because of what you think my life is. In reality, it may be far from what you think,” he said. After a faint chuckle, he added, “It is far from what you think. . . . Be careful what you wish for.”