The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas

Writing can be quite unpredictable. When I start to write something, for example, I’m not always sure of how it might turn out to be. Sometimes, I’ll start on an idea that I believe might be a serious no-nonsense critique of  mismanaged traffic system in Bangalore city, and halfway through the article, I’ll find out I just wrote about why pillion riders should learn to double check their low rider jeans before they bend forward on their bikes. (Twice in a lifetime is more than what I should be subjected to these ‘half-moons’, really. So back off, destiny; I’m over quota)

And sometimes, it can work the other way too. As of this particular sentence, I’m still not sure how this article’s gonna build up. So, in the spirit of taking no chances, I’m gonna start things up with a joke. I remember this one from Readers Digest.

In the heart of Africa, a guy suffering from severe headache goes to the local witchdoctor. After listening to the symptoms, the witchdoctor is quick with his prescription “You must drink the Buhua potion.”

“What is that?”

“Take one fresh ox’s tongue, rooster’s head, bat wings, dried guano, two crushed beetles, cat spit and blood from a young calf. Mix them thoroughly with cow’s urine, and have it three times a day.”

“Ugh? is this the only way?”

“Yes. Make sure you grind everything to a pulp. Oh, and one more thing.”

“God. What else?”

“Along with the potion, take one of these aspirin tablets as well.”

Ha ha. Get it? The buhua potion is just a… The aspirin! That’s what does the trick. It’s… well, ok. Never mind. Let’s get back to the article.

Regular, or semi-regular readers might remember that the regular Hamish is almost two times the man he was a few years ago, speaking purely in terms of tonnage. I’m not one to brag, but this amazing feat was achieved by a careful and strict regimen of pizzas, fried rice, chicken kebabs, biriyanis, ham and eggs, burgers, potato chips, milkshakes, chocolate, sweets, doughnuts, french fries, butter cookies, peanut butter, cake, aerated soft drinks and 14 varieties of cheese. This unprecedented growth rate went on for quite some time, and instead of congratulations/ green jealous looks from the spectators, all I got was advice. Over the years, I have probably heard all kinds of advice to cut myself down to size, but around 90% of those can be traced down to two golden rules.

1. Diet control

2. Exercise control

Sometimes it’s one. Sometimes the other, and sometimes, it’s a combination of the two. I’m always open to suggestions, but these two run counter to my core competencies and principles. Diet control? A hard core foodie who eats like it’s a personal mission from God can hardly be expected to start living on grass and herbs. Exercise control? if you were to ask some close friend of mine to list out the most striking feature of Hamish Joy, laze would be on top of the list. Garfield could take lessons from me.

But a lifestyle change seemed to be advocated from all fronts, and eventually, I accepted  that I may not appreciate a lifetime of being mistaken for the Goodyear blimp.

Artist's impression of how Hamish would look like in 5 years

So I tried to listen in a bit more carefully to the various advices I continued to receive… I started making a list

• “I know this fabulous diet you need to try out”
• “Change your life. Wake up at five, and walk around for just half an hour. You’re going to feel so relaxed.”
• “Drink two glasses of water before every meal. That’s gonna curb your appetite”
• “Never use elevators. Use the stairs.”
• “Avoid oily foods. No french fries. No fried chicken. No fried anything.”
• “Walk to your office everyday.”
• “Try a fruit only diet for two months. That ought to work wonders. What? No. You can’t deep fry an apple”
• “Pray to Jesus. He’ll make all the fat go away.”

Even as I made the list, I could see that every one of them conformed to the two classifications I’ve already written down. Well, except the last one. Exorcising my fat away was a very novel suggestion. I was tempted to pour on some holy water, read parables and scream ‘The power of Christ compels you‘ straight at my stomach, but I couldn’t possibly go through that without laughing, and the power of Christ is only compelling if you act serious about it.

I tried my hand at applying the two golden rules to myself. On day one, I walked an hour. I munched on carrots and cucumbers, telling myself “Aah… Ziz eez good.”, even though it felt ridiculous talking to myself in that accent. Day 2 too was a triumph for my willpower. Day 3, however, saw my head sunk in Tiramisu, holding fried chicken in one hand and milkshake in the other. I could metaphorically see my willpower chuckling an evil laugh, covering his face with his cloak and disappearing into the night. A sneaky villain, you must agree. Lulled me into a false faith in the first two days and then stabbed me in the back on the third.

This was not the first time it had happened. My willpower had proven his treacherous ways before. And I was reminded of the old saying - Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twenty seven times, it’s time to go to a weight loss clinic. I was never too keen on signing up with a weight loss clinic, but the indelible picture of the Goodyear blimp got me to revise my decision.

A friend suggested a particular clinic that I am not allowed to name under the threat of courtroom battles. He said it used high tech machines and that his friends had gotten good results from it. Verified results. Now that’s a rare thing from places like these. So I paid this place a visit. Sure enough, they had sophisticated equipment all over the place. You could see they were sophisticated cos they had colorful displays and beeped every time it printed out something. And you could see the people there were trained professionals, cos they wore white lab-coats and carried notepads. They read out all the reports and explained their conclusions (”Holy crap, are u fat or what!”). They sat me down for an hour explaining the various methods they’d use to get me to lose weight and how they’d keep track of all the weight that I’ll be shedding by the day. They used technical terms, anecdotes, jargon, and possibly even threw in a fat joke somewhere there, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the specifics. I was looking for mentions of the two golden rules. None. Number of talk points revolving around diet - nada. Number of talk points revolving around exercise - zilch. I joined up immediately.

It was like a high profile boxing match by then. High tech versus fat.

Round 1. Vibrating straps around my stomach. Really? This is it? It felt quite inconceivable that this was actually going to do me any good other than maybe make it easier for me to learn belly dancing, and that’s not what I signed up for. But then I told myself “Calm down. There have been verified results. Something must work here”

Round 2. Body massages at high temperature. Really? Sauna? But hold on, Hammy,  don’t knock it yet. Remember - verified results!

Round 3. I was directed to the dietician. Huh? Dietician? I didn’t remember this part from the brochure. I got a list of food to avoid, and specific food items that I was to consume on a daily basis. It all started sounding suspiciously like witch doctors prescribing aspirin. The exotic muck is for show, while the aspirin cured the headache in the background - the unsung hero. Well, I’d already paid for the sessions, so I might as well take the advice. Sure I’ve been getting free diet tips for years, but this dietician was different. She was wearing a white lab coat. And I figured - Hey, at least they didn’t ask me to exercise, right?

Round 4. I was directed to the… physiotherapist??? For those who are not clear about the term, in this context, it stands for “The guy who’s going to prescribe your exercises”. The cold smell of aspirin filled the air again. This was still a boxing match, but not the one I actually paid to see. Instead of the unknown rookie, high tech, knocking out the undefeated reigning champion, fat, in a fair match, I saw that high tech was merely a puppet, dancing to the tune of veteran boxing legends diet and exercise.

And despite this obviously unfair advantage, fat was still winning. He’s like Rocky Balboa, getting pummeled in the face in one round, but coming back for more in the next; like he was supposed to be fighting an exhibition match against an unknown  amateur featherweight geek, but was blindsided inside the ring by Apollo Creed, Clubber Lang and Ivan Drago punching the daylights out of him from three sides…

Time out. Did I just make ‘fat’ the hero of this match? Gawd. That’s not good. Fat has to be villainized again. The weight loss clinic did take out the fun from the match, but they’re not the villain here. Fat is. How do we get there? Ah… well, fat was clearly outnumbered, outclassed, and outmatched; so why was he still winning? He was cheating. He had a nefarious accomplice in the sideline, an insider surreptitiously pelting stones at both diet and exercise right smack in the face from time to time, using a hidden catapult. And the identity of this mischief maker is hardly mysterious. It has to be… the infamously weak Hammy willpower, fighting in stealth mode against both diet AND exercise. Think about it; without a saboteur, it would be quite impossible for Rocky to… I mean ‘fat’ to… Hmm… Rocky…. I’m afraid I have to leave this discussion at this stage. I need to watch all the Rocky movies again right away. If I remember right, Rocky’s wife, Adrian, doesn’t show herself to the public until the end of each match. It’d be interesting if I zoom in on her on the DVD and see a hidden catapult somewhere, wouldn’t you agree?

Ever since mythical aviation enthusiast Icarus glued on feathers and jumped off a cliff, man has been trying to answer the quintessential question of ages - Is man meant to fly? And if he is, who should keep track of the frequent flyer miles? It has been one of the most common dreams through the history of man, resulting in an abundance of crimson stains underneath popular cliffs.

We have come a long way from Icarus’ wax wings. Today, if we have to travel from, say, UK to Bangalore, we can - thanks to the magical wonders of modern technology - browse the internet from the airport lobby while listening to flight delay announcements.

I had always believed that aviation has progressed over the ages, but if my recent flight experience is any standard to judge by, this blind faith may need to be re-evaluated.

I am not going to name the particular aircraft. This is primarily because of two reasons.

1. It’s probably not the fault of one single airline, and it’s possible I just experienced this particular one on a rare bad day…
2. I don’t want to be tracked down by a team of rabid lawyers and sued off my last button before being kicked incessantly by the airline staff.

Yes, it’s mostly 2.

Not that it was a complete disaster from the word go, you know. As a matter of fact, things were fine enough until the word go. We were all herded in, seated, given the obligatory training on seatbelt usage (Seatbelt 101 - “This thingy goes in here“), and we had even started taxiing to the runway, when suddenly, without warning, the plane took a U turn, heading back to base.

It was confusing. No answers were given, leaving the passengers to speculate… Did they miscalculate the mileage and spend the entire fuel load on that short trip to the runway? Did the pilot get on the wrong plane? (”Ok, boys, we’re off to… Bangalore??? Krap!!!”) Did they find a ninja terrorist hiding in one of the overhead luggage compartments? Did the pilot suffer from ADD and suddenly think he had already reached Bangalore? Was the plane suddenly recalled by the manufacturer? It was impossible to say at the moment, but I was rooting for the ninja theory, because… well, come on, it’s a ninja terrorist. In the luggage compartment. Admit it, you were rooting for him too.

This one.

But save a few of us who had already started visualizing ninja battles in the front half of the airplane, a majority of the passengers were understandably upset over the matter. Whatever the reason was, the captain should have at least made an announcement of some kind. Leaving them hanging without a word of explanation was quite an uncaptainly thing to do. Halfway to the terminal, the pilot finally gave an announcement - “Ladies and gentlemen. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ve been instructed by the control tower to return to base to tighten the engine.”

All of a sudden, leaving the passengers without a word of explanation started to look oh-so good.

I don’t know if pilots are given sensitivity training… If they are, then this particular pilot sure went to a lousy training camp. “Tighten the engine? The engine is loose?? You mean the one that’s supposed to hold up this 180 ton metallic coffin? Why didn’t you say so before?” And apparently, it was so loose that the control tower was able to see it while it taxied the runway.

And this was followed by an hour long wait, while, I imagine, ground technicians with monster-size screwdrivers ‘tightened’ the engine. During this while, the passengers were not allowed to disembark, the AC was turned off to save power for the journey, and the hostesses were patrolling the aisle asking passengers what they need, just to get a kick out of saying “I’m sorry, but we can’t help you at this time“. Even the entertainment system was inactive, keeping us vulnerable to the slow wails of boredom from the rest of the passengers.

But all’s well that ends well, right? After about an hour which seemed like roughly 2.4 years, we finally took off. Bangalore, here we come! Woo hoo. I smiled and looked around the cabin… All’s well. The lights dimmed, the passengers dozing, kids tugging at the parent’s chin, the roof leaking, seats reclining, trolleys ro… wha??? roof leaking?? That can’t be right.

Apparently, it can. There was a thin, but steady trail of water leaking from the roof. I didn’t even know airplanes could leak. It wasn’t even raining outside, and even if it was, we were ABOVE the clouds… And even if it were raining, AND we were below the clouds… we were inside a plane, dammit! I could see one passenger pointing to the leak and talking to an air hostess, who appeared calm and confident… I wasn’t able to hear the conversation, but I’m willing to bet it went something along these lines.

“What do you mean calm down? It’s a leak. On the plane!”

“Do not be alarmed, madam. Kindly remain seated.”

“Seated? You didn’t hear me? It’s a friggin leak in a plane. Leak. Plane. You-me-flying. Leak, dammit!”

“Keep your seat upright and fasten your seat belts. Thank you.”

I don’t know if the air hostess was trying to be calm and reassuring, but if she was, then she probably attended the same sensitivity training camp as the pilot. It seems that the liquid was not water after all, and that it was not really a problem for the flight at all. But when your flight springs a leak while you’re cruising at 30,000 feet, either explain why it’s not a big deal, or at least pretend to be surprised at the event. (”Oh, my God. That’s never happened before!“) Acting like the aircraft faces overhead leakage every Sunday is probably not the best course of action.

The grueling neverending flight finally seemed like it was coming to an end (yeah, neverending flight coming to an end - I get the irony), but it was not so. We hovered over Bangalore for an extra hour and a half because of the fog. The pilot was quick to announce that if weather continued this way, he may drop us in Chennai or Mumbai, where things appear less foggy. And he said it like most of the passengers jog from Mumbai to Bangalore on a daily basis; like if he dropped us in Mumbai, we’d just have to hop over a fence to get to Bangalore. If he actually didn’t realize that the distance between Mumbai and Bangalore was nearly 800 miles, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he learned geography from the same place he got his sensitivity training. I think pilots should be trained on how best to deliver bad news…

By the time we landed in Bangalore, I felt like I had aged considerably more than I had planned to. All things considered, we had around 3 hours of delay to account for. I would have expected irate businessmen to storm out complaining and asking for pilot necks to strangle. But no, not a single passenger complained. In fact, they all wore happy smiles, thanking their lucky stars that they weren’t dumped off in Mumbai. That possibility was so strong that merely coming in a few hours late seemed like an extravagant blessing.

Hmm… Maybe the pilots ARE trained on delivering bad news after all.

Hullo, wotcha, and an ay-up to everyone. No, I don’t really know what they mean, but from ye olde English writings, I understand the words were hot stuff yonder in London. And it felt mot juste to start off this account that way. Mot juste, FYI, was one of the phrases frequently peppering Wodehouse novels. It was all right for Wode, but why, or wherefore (to use one of Shakespeare’s gimmicks) am I resurrecting these old phrases in this paragraph? I don’t really know, but for some reason, these words always pop up when the mind wanders to London. And you can hardly expect one to write about a visit to The Square Mile without one’s mind wandering off to London, can you? Forsooth.

So yes, I finally got to pack up my gear and hop over to the United Kingdom. As I boarded the plane, I knew that I’ll soon be marking my first footprint outside Asian soil. A momentous occasion. Well, maybe for a geologist. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to differentiate between the soils, but I tried real hard to delude myself that it was momentous. Yet, every time I tried, I’d remind myself that I’m on an extremely brief trip, with most of my already short time devoted to slavish work. When you have just three days in a place like London, two of which are devoted to the office, it’s hard not to think about the time insufficiency. I had about 10 hours to see the place. It was like a reality show -

“You have 10 hours, and 44,267 landmarks to see. Your time starts…… NOW! GO!”

Thankfully, I was able to use my phone-a-friend lifeline. My prodigious cousin, Rosh, and his wife, Ashy, have temporarily established foundations in the land of Big Ben, and together, we conspired on how to best allocate my 10 hours to productive use. Perhaps, we could allocate a priority based algorithm to derive the most important landmarks, and run past as many as possible till sundown. Maybe we could just taxi around town till time runs out. Maybe we could create a historic mystery out of the monuments and rush from place to place like Dan Brown characters.

- “Look! The birds are flying over that statue of Napoleon Bonaparte… and he’s pointing up at a 75 degree angle. Clearly, we need to run up the stairs to Big Ben and look for more clues.”

- “Whoa! Hold on, there, Hammy. Firstly, that’s NOT Napoleon. Secondly, that’s not even a statue. That’s a French tourist, complete with sunglasses and camera. And thirdly… and perhaps most importantly, he’s NOT pointing! He’s just picking his nose!”

- “So?”

- “Hmm… You make a strong argument. Let’s go.”

On second thoughts, that’s just silly. I can never run up the stairs to Big Ben. I’m told there are 334 steps… and that too, spiral. No, thank you. I have simpler ways of killing myself.

We finally arrived at a plan that screamed simplicity from the word go. We’d just get dropped at a random location in Central London, and then walk all day, stopping at whatever landmark is gracious enough to pop up on our way. The less co-operative landmarks and sceneries will have to wait for another day. It was the only fair way, we decided.

We strolled through London bridge, across the whachamaycallits, near Westminster Abbey, the stores around the thingamajigs, and the whatnots… (Man, I should really take up travel writing on a professional level), Shakespeare’s theater… from the outside, and, - at the risk of repetition - the London bridge… Despite all the stories in rhyme we were subjected to when we were kids, I would like to assure you, that London Bridge is NOT falling down; a bit rusty at parts maybe, but it looks stable enough. Enough to withstand another thousand nursery rhymes, in fact. So if you were worried on that count, well… don’t be.

I wanted to try out the traditional English fish ‘n chips. So on our way, we stopped at a restaurant called… “Fish ‘n Chips”. That was the name. Asking for a menu sounded redundant.

- “So what do you have, my good fella?”

- “Ahem. What do we have? You walked in to a place called ‘Fish n Chips’, so tell you what… Why don’t you take a wild stab at it? A shot in the dark, if you will. I’ll wait.”

I enjoyed the stroll. London is a beautiful place, and on a personal level, it was a revelation. My London visit clarified a lot of confusion carried forward from my childhood days. The most important of these was the Western fascination with summer. I have read innumerable stories and poems where the author/ poet glorifies the beauty and magnificence of summer. This was always confusing.

To understand why it’s confusing, you’ll have to sample a Summer from South India. Summer, as a season, comes scorching the land like a forest wildfire. The rational response of most citizens is to jump away from the sun and hide in the shadows like soldiers dodging napalm fire. In Chennai, I’m still convinced that people are always hurrying about because those who stand in one spot under the sun spontaneously melt into a wavy puddle on the hot unrelenting roads.

But like I said… London was a revelation. I get it now. London was a cold place. All around me, people were heavily geared with coats, jackets, sweaters, scarves, earmuffs, gloves, vests, overcoats and woolen caps… and I’m talking PER person. People were still shivering, gloved hands shoved in pockets. When I saw couples hugging, it was difficult to decipher whether romance was in the air or whether they were just strangers trying to beat the cold. Every time the sun peeked out from the clouds, it sent a fresh wave of short relief; a reminder that all will indeed be well. I can understand how they’d regard summer with awe and adoration. The sun was not a threat; not the villain, he is the hero around these parts; the iconic rock star of every winter. If he could sign autographs without burning his fans to a cinder, he would. There was an unwrit…

“AAAAANNNND time’s UP! Let’s see how Hammy has done. He had 10 hours to allocate between 44,267 landmarks. How did he do? Let’s go to the judges”

In the blink of an eye, it was over. I was heading out to the airport, suitcase in hand, bidding adieu before I ever really said hi. I guess the most apt ending to the account of my short visit to London would be an appropriate quote from William Shakespeare. However, since I can’t think of one offhand, you’re gonna have to settle with -

Toodle-oo!

Hardly seems like enough time has passed for you to sing ‘tra la la la laaaa, la la-la-la’, but Christmas, in all its glory, is here once again. And before you actually read this entry completely, it’s probably wise for me to wish you in advance, ‘cos I know you’re busy today. So here goes - Merrrrrry Christmassssss, one and all, Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.

No, wait…. The bottle of rum part didn’t quite belong there… Well, then again, for some people, it certainly does. If you don’t belong to that set, however, then maybe you [...] Continue Reading…

End of the world predictions have been around ever since the the world had lunatics… and that’s basically since the beginning of time. As predictions go, Earth has been subjected to the R.I.P. monitor on a periodic swing… The predicted cause of complete human doom has been postulated across meteor showers, volcanic doom, tidal waves, machine conquests, God’s interventions, planetary collisions, overheating suns, underheating suns, alien invasions, nuclear holocausts, mafia dominion, ecological collapses, economic meltdowns, and, of course, my favourite… zombie takeovers.

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Now it has been a while since I have updated my blog, and gosh darn it if I’m as uncreative as to blame it on the same old excuse of hectic work schedule, but when your clients and the powers that be toss you across the room and bounce you off the walls for entertainment, it gets re-he-heally difficult to look beyond office life to dig up an excuse for just about anything.

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I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. They scare the bejeesus out of me. They really do. I wouldn’t say I am otherwise the bravest guy on this side of the planet, but I’m not that much of a coward either; and yet, I’m scared shitless of these people. The Humor-noids.

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