Suspicion

Maybe it’s something about me. Something that people find difficult to trust. Or maybe the reasons I give just aren’t good enough. Or maybe, we have just forgotten how to trust. Maybe paranoia is something that has been bred into us.

I have always been curious. As a child I had loads of questions about things and people around me. I wanted to know what people did, I wanted to know how things worked, and I have found, with time, that curiosity has served me well. This constant urge to know more has meant that I do know more than most people who surround me. I know more about things I use, about things I see, more about almost anything I am interested in, which would be a lot of things. But it seems curiosity has become a crime.

So many people I know, don’t want to answer questions. They don’t want to answer questions about what they do, they don’t want to answer questions about things they know, and, what is more, I am treated with suspicion when I ask questions. Simple questions. Harmless questions. Questions whose answers I couldn’t use to hurt anyone.

Only a few months back, I had a strong urge to know how the business of organizing shows works. I know a guitarist from a rock band in Calcutta, and I talked for hours on the phone with him, finding out about how contracts are written, how they handle payments, how they make sure that they’re not cheated by show organizers. I’ve got to say, he was rather nice about the whole thing. He was patient, answered every question, made sure I understood, and that’s the way it’s always been; the way I think it should be. I mean I’m not asking for classified information, right?

But, it seems, that’s not the way things work anymore.

More and more people, I find, are reluctant to answer questions, and what is more, they want to know why I ask such questions. Curiosity, it seems, is not a good enough reason anymore. Quite recently, I asked someone about the volume of work they do on an average day. I did not ask them how much money they make, which is an objectionable question; just how many so-and-so do you do per day. The person went on a complete paranoid trip for the next thirty minutes. Why was I asking this question? I must have some ulterior motive. What was I going to do with the information I got? I don’t get it. I’m not in his department, I’m not his boss, I don’t affect him professionally in any way whatsoever, and this was harmless information. How could it possibly hurt to tell me? And it didn’t stop at that. When, in answer to his questions, I told him that I was just curious, he called me a liar, to my face. “We’re both mature adults”, he said, “and we both know you’re not asking these questions just out of curiosity”.

So since when did being a mature adult and being pathologically suspicious become the same thing?