The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas

As some of you know, I got married on the 28th of Jan, 2012, kick starting the Mayan end-of-days prophecies in my own sweet way. The one question that is most commonly asked to newlyweds of the modern era is “Where are the snaps?”

My wedding ring, my wife by my side, our wedding registration, her passport declaring me as her husband, her moving in with me – nothing seems to satiate the masses as absolute proof of marriage. The few stray pics from other friends’ cameras that found their way to Facebook seems to have pacified a few, but clearly, there will be no real resolution until they see the wedding album itself, the only thing that seems to have absolute credibility on the matter. In the generation of ‘pics or didn’t happen‘, nobody takes anybody’s word on anything, and without photographic evidence, there appears to be some unresolved query in all my friends’ mind about the whole marital status thing.

We still haven’t received the official album from the studio yet. But that’s not an acceptable or even credible explanation for most people. Even photographers back in the 70′s used to deliver their albums in under a month, and with the evolution of quick-click photography in the digital era, where people can snap a picture, remove the red eye artifacts, correct the texture and lighting and upload to three different social media sites in under a minute, with time left over to comment and get half a dozen ‘likes’ from random strangers, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to believe that my camera crew is taking over two months to release any of my wedding pics. Speculation is ripe that maybe we buried the pics because the flashes bounced off my increasingly shiny forehead and overexposed the shots.

All lies, of course. The shininess has been greatly exaggerated. But truth be told, we were partially to blame for the delay here. We took our own sweet time selecting the pictures for the album. As opposed to the jiggling 70′s, where each roll of film had 32 pictures provided they didn’t lose any frame due to overexposure/ underexposure/ camera shake, etc, the modern photographer is not bound by any real limitation. This enables him to take photographs of any and all events/ non events with complete impunity.

For our wedding, the cameras clicked away to glory through the ceremony and the reception, bringing the grand total of snaps to about 17.3 gazillion. Without doubt, these would include a dozen close up shots of the groom’s left nostril, several blurry shots of the photographer’s right foot and a two gazillion obligatory cross shots where the cameramen took snaps of each other.

If we had printed out the  entire repertoire of wedding snaps taken, we would have depleted a small rain-forest for the paper used. Getting the parents to sort out the photos and to browse through the DVDs for selecting and shortlisting the required snaps was no easy task, which is why I offered no help whatsoever, letting them sort it out at their own pace. So, yeah… This took some time.

After this long and arduous task, it should be smooth sailing, right? The studio just needs to hit the print button and start binding the sheets that shoot out, right? Nope. We now enter the world of post-processing, an industry held on its helm by Photoshop. In the modern studio, no photo goes to print without being ‘retouched’ or ‘corrected’, processes that were spearheaded by the human tendency to label reality as either ugly or unrealistic.

Once the photographer had a look at the task ahead of them, they said it would take another couple of months before they could release the photos. I don’t know if you understand photographers’ lingo, but in the industry, that’s what’s known technically as a ‘helluvalotta time’. Understandably, they’d get to work on digital surgery – photoshop in some hair, and photoshop out the tummy. But wait a minute. Should I really leave this up to them? Do I even know them very well? What if the lead post production guy is a fan of ‘The Apprentice’ and decides to reward me with Donald Trump’s hair? I’ll spend most of my time explaining to friends that no, I did NOT carry a dead beaver on my head during my wedding.

No. I’m thinking I’ll butt in and demand for better transplant sources. I think if I ask nicely enough, I can get them to put in Tom Cruise’s hair… maybe George Clooney’s eyes. While I’m at it, why should I deny myself Brad Pitt’s chin or Hugh Jackman’s body? That might be worth the delay… maybe.

Maybe that’s a bit too much. Maybe it’d be too confusing. Perhaps, I should have a non-photoshopped version of the album kept aside for my wife, so that she doesn’t think she accidentally married a hybrid-celeb-cluster mutant and was too zonked to remember any of it. Such issues can manifest itself as road bumps in marriages. And we all know what those road bumps mean… more Photoshop.

January 28, 2012 was a defining day for me. Specifically, it defined the beginning of married life. It was the end of an era, and a beginning of another era. It was the best of times, it was the best of times. It was on this day that I married Rhine and added her to my life. Many of my friends have had long drawn out engagements where they enjoyed the whatevers of fiancehood for months at a stretch before they took the marital plunge. For me, this long drawn out engagement was only a short span of one week. I got engaged on January 21, 2012, and raced to shed my bachelorhood completely within the next week.

Things were, as you may imagine, hectic. Did I mention that I was not even in the right country on January 19th? I reached India on the morning of the 20th, at which point the average guest was more involved with the pending engagement than the groom a-la moi. It was a race against time. Being a management graduate, I was quick to see that the whole exercise needed to be broken down to a Kaizen system of management if we were to get things done on time. Kaizen is a Japanese management philosophy that aims for ‘continuous improvement’. They do this by empowering the entire workforce into acting as one unit, making small, but meaningful improvements on a continuous basis that augments processes at all levels, creating a dynamic and interactive design that enables smooth functioning and efficient workflows. In a wedding scenario, this translates into getting all the involved parties involved in decision making, from the selection of the cake to the venue decorations. So, no. We didn’t bring in Kaizen. We’ll leave that to Japanese wedding planners.

No, we played into an alternate routine of management that, while admittedly not as acclaimed a practice as Kaizen, was infinitely more familiar to my usual way of life. I call it the ‘Do-Whatever-You-Can-Think-Of-And-Pray-You-Haven’t-Forgotten-Any-Of-The-Really-Important-Stuff,-Like-Pants’ style of management. Being a veteran practitioner, I can say with some certainty that the only petty reason why this style is often overlooked by MA textbooks is that it’s difficult to condense the  name into a manageable chunk.

On my way to India, I had kept myself busy by creating a mental list of the things I had to do on the day of the engagement. The trouble with creating mental lists was that you tend to rely too much on memory. By the time I reached India, the only part of my list that remained in my head was “Buy new shoes” and “Do not sleep during the ceremony”, both excellent notes for sure, but hardly sufficient for any real world event more complex than snoozing an alarm clock.

In the end, the engagement was an exercise of random scurry from family members. From waking up late to walking down the aisle groggy, everything felt so last-minute and sudden. But at least, it served as a cautionary tale. As a family, we vowed to take all of these events as a learning… to treat it as a training ground so that we do not repeat any of the same errors for the wedding ceremony. It was with a firm resolve that we decided to push ahead and meet the schedule. It was motivating. It was beautiful. We were a determined bunch. We just knew that we would make the wedding a whole lot better.

Of course, in the end, we didn’t really learn anything, and the wedding was just as rushed up and haphazard as the engagement, if not more. But we didn’t know that at the time. Oh, no, at the time, we were absolutely convinced that we would be on top of things for once. With a little bit of determination and commitment, we reasoned, it could be possible. With a little bit of determination and commitment, perhaps, but I guess we’ll never know for sure. We had one week separating the engagement from the wedding. After the engagement, we took around three days recovering from the hectic rush of the engagement. We then took an additional day to lament about how we could have done things differently. We then spent two days shopping for clothes for the wedding, and before we knew it, it was the wedding eve. We were back to square one. I had no choice but to make another mental list of things that I was supposed to do urgently. By morning, the mental list was reduced to “Locate the new shoes” and “Do not sleep during the ceremony”.

From forgetting the cake figurine to wearing some of the clothes inside out for part of the day to arriving late for my own wedding, there were a lot of things that, in retrospect, could have gone smoother. In what appeared like a sharp contrast, my better-half-to-be seemed to have gotten her stuff together better. Her fleet of family and friends seemed to have gotten the basics in order, and seemed to be a far more punctual, organized and methodical in their preparations. Since then, of course, she has earned the title of Mrs. Hamish Joy, instantaneously reducing her personal efficiency by around 50%, and it is expected that by this time next year, she would be just as random and scurried as myself.

But the proof is in the pudding, and from most accounts, the pudding was excellent; the events were beautiful and joyous. Most of the hitches went by unnoticed, the guests seemed to have a gala time, the church service put very few attendees to sleep, the ambiance of the halls was well applauded, the food received rave reviews and the actual pudding also got multiple thumbs up. All things considered, things worked out well. But make no mistake about this. I’m not marrying again.

Thus began my life as a married man. Time to think more responsibly and to behave more maturely. How exactly do I do that? I’m not sure. But I’m going to start by preparing a mental list.

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Note to self – Need to update site more frequently

Note to better self – Happy one month anniversary, sweetie.

I’m a very rational person. I don’t even deal with irrational numbers like pi, lest they come and destroy my perfectly rational world. They’re a slippery slope to irrational beliefs. As a true rationalist, I brush away unfounded conspiracy theories every chance I get. Ghosts? Hogwash. Psychics? Frauds. Area 51? Bogus. But there’s only so much shit you can take before you start believing in conspiracies.

But it’s probably best to bring in some context before I elaborate. Not everybody has had the privilege of observing a Hamish in his natural habitat. But the ones who have tend to compare it with industrial landfills on a particularly bad day. The popular school of thought regarding orderly housekeeping prescribes handy notions like ‘putting things where they belong’, ‘putting things back once you’re done with it’, and the ever-notorious ‘taking out the garbage everyday/week’. But being a strong-willed rebel, I had long since adopted the far less popular fringe tactic of aggressive laissez faire – where the only tenet is ‘Let it be’. As a result, my living room perpetually looks like it just got broken into by a burglar with chronic muscle spasms.

From time to time, I clear up a small space for me to use, and that’s usually the spot in front of the TV. And once in a while, I even do some light cleaning around the house. But one place that I had given up on, is the balcony. My balcony opens up to a majestic view of… the wall of my neighboring building. But if I crane my neck out and look to the right, there is a beautiful view of the park… if I remember right. I have to rely on my memory now because it had been months since I set foot on the balcony. There was a time when I used to at least try to clean the balcony. But the with the kind of weather there, it just was too much trouble to maintain. So I decided to shut off the balcony altogether. So what if I miss out on a view? I can always simulate the view on my TV.

But there are real consequences to avoiding cleaning your balcony. And I’m not just talking about the sand dunes that pile up after a couple of sandstorms in the desert here. As is the case anywhere, when you ignore prime real estate, you can expect to find squatters lining up. And the squatters that lined up on my balcony were the kind that didn’t give a shit about how the balcony looked. Well, that’s not true. Quite the contrary, in fact – my complaint is actually about the amount of shit they HAD given to how the place looked. The squatters who took over my balcony… were pigeons, and they had all tacitly earmarked my balcony as a public toilet. Some of you might be thinking “Whu-ho, man. Stap trippin’ on dem pigeons. Buhds will be buhds, won’t dey?”. And to those imaginary hippies with weird Southern accents, I say – “Oh, yeah? You don’t even know the quantity of poop I’m talking about here.” I’m talking massive. It’s like all the pigeons in the region with diarrhea has a homing beacon to my balcony.

But why? Why my balcony? Aside from the obvious reason that I hadn’t bothered to clean up the balcony in months (which I will conveniently ignore altogether), the reason is – boxes. Piles and piles of discarded cardboard boxes. All the boxes from the various appliances and gadgets I’ve bought last year – I had kept them on the balcony. As it turns out, they are the key assets that the modern pigeon family looks for when it comes to real estate. Apparently, birds feel that cardboard is the best environment for raising a family. Families of pigeons kept showing up, laying eggs, raising baby pigeons, shedding feathers, and accumulating bird droppings.

I assume that they kept inviting their friends and families to party and poop in the five star toilet facility for birds that my balcony had become. It was a conspiracy. The way they were going about it, I was forced to assume that they were practicing for the impending bird-shit apocalypse. With all the training they’d been going through, that Armageddon is going to be intense.

Even with with all the bird-brained turd conspiracies going on, I still wasn’t concerned. What happened on the balcony, I reasoned, stayed on the balcony. It’s like the Vegas of apartments. Not bothering me. But as some of you may know, I am getting married soon. On the 28th of January, 2012, I lay my bachelorhood to rest. In a short while, I will be bringing my better half to my abode. And most marriage counselors seem to agree that a guano infested balcony is very low on the list of things you can spring on your new bride. I’m not superstitious, but it’s generally considered a bad omen when the bride starts screaming in the first half-hour of stepping into her new home.

So I started the arduous task of cleaning up all the crap off the balcony. It took me like… a few days. Oh, yes – a few solid days of earnest and diligent search before I found some people who were willing to clean up the balcony. By this time, the bird droppings, dust, feathers, and other assorted nesting accessories had accumulated itself into a large pile. It wasn’t easy seeing those brave people wading in filth trying to reclaim the Balcony of the Birds.

But finally… they did it. With my help (which essentially consisted of morale boosting well-wishes from the couch), they cleared several months of accumulated crap and wiped the balcony clean. After a long period of exile, I finally set foot on the balcony once again. One small step for man, one giant leap for cleaning supplies everywhere. So crisis averted. I could get my wife into the house without the risk of her fainting… if I were bringing her in right now. But I’m not. There’s a good couple of months left before I bring her in. And while I HAVE gotten rid of all the crap, the birds haven’t gotten the memo of eviction. They keep coming and knocking on the glass panes, as if saying “Pardon, me, sir. But would you have happened to see my cardboard-box villa? It was about so high… I had a lot of shit stored up in those, you know… and I would hate to have to start from scratch”.

Can I keep the place decent till I bring home the missus? I’m not betting on it. I can already feel the pigeons’ laughter behind my back. At least, I hope that’s just laughter.

Act 3 Scene 4

Seated on her computer chair, Rhine Francis. Enter stage left – Mallaunty, or Nirmala Sunil, Rhine’s maternal aunt. Displayed is a picture of Hamish Joy on the computer
Nirmala: “Ah, so this is your fiance?”

Rhine: “Yes, I’m positive. I’d recognize him anywhere”

Nirmala: “Well, what’s his name?”

Rhine: “Hamish Joy”

Nirmala: “What was that again??”

Rhine: “Hamish”

Nirmala: “Ooooh… Now I understand.”

Rhine: “Hmm… understand what?”

Nirmala: “Don’t you see it?”

Rhine: “See what?”

Nirmala: “The name… What does it sound like?”

Rhine: “???”

Nirmala: “Come on… doesn’t it remind you of anything?”

Rhine: “Like what… Skirmish? Famish? What? You think he looks famished?… Vanish? Tarnish? Garnish? Lavish?”

Nirmala: “No, [...] Continue Reading…

Neither of us remember when it started, but at some point, we started our ‘pancharayadi’ or ‘sending each other some sugar’ during one of our extended conversations. At one point, I considered having a packet of real sugar sent over to her place as a gesture. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m not shutting down the option anyway.

I like to think we’re not prudish in any way, but we still tried to be careful that no one hears the… err… sugar delivery. But when you’re video chatting on a daily basis, and since the sugar delivery system tends to [...] Continue Reading…

Our early chats tended to be slightly on the formal side. While I am fairly certain that it wasn’t as bad as – “Dear madam, Greetings. I am calling with reference to our chat last night, on the third of August, 2011. Note that we..” etc etc… I am not willing to bet on it.

During one of these chats, Rhine popped a question out of the blue – “You’re not very romantic, are you?”. It took me by surprise. I always thought I wasn’t remarkably romantic or unromantic. But I was wrong. Apparently, I was remarkably unromantic, clearly proved [...] Continue Reading…

I don’t know what the norm is in arranged marriages for the girl reacting to the photograph of a prospect. As always, my presumptions are shaped by what is documented in the movies – if she likes the photo, protocol demands that she smile, tilt her head sideways, and gaze at the floor as she makes small circular motions with her right toe, at which point the parents would start planning the ceremony, and a flock of relatives/ friends might erupt into a spontaneously choreographed dance number. The actual process may vary from case to case.

The case was considerably [...] Continue Reading…

From the way we talk to each other and the the way we look at each other through the convenience of Skype, there has been considerable audience speculation that

a) we have been courting each other for years in secrecy

b) we may not have the patience to wait till the wedding, and just elope     and

c) we will one day kiss our computer screen so hard that sparks will fly… as the circuitry holding the computer screen would fry

This is why, when we tell people that ours is an arranged marriage, many people react with a bewildered ‘wawasat?’. But indeed [...] Continue Reading…

Hullo, everybody.

And yes, that means you too. It’s happening. In 2012, Hamish Joy becomes nuptially compliant. I’m hanging my bachelor boots out to dry. And later, when I’m looking the other way, my fiance plans to burn them and bury the ashes.

I will be tying the proverbial knot on Miss Rhine Francis… Or is it tie the knot with? If it is with, then what are we tying the knot on? Ok, ok… forget that… let me start over.

I will be getting married in January, 2012. You know, the over-hyped Mayan ‘prediction’ of the end of the world in [...] Continue Reading…

The war is back on. Tough times up ahead, but it’s on. And this time, it’s personal… Well, technically, it has always been personal. Internal fights with your own body are usually personal by definition. It’s how it works. But let’s not get hung on semantics here… What’s important is that the battle of the bulge is engaged.

Even casual readers of the BBYYs may have observed that there is a fair bit of ‘literature’ on this site about fat control. Ever since I passed out of high school, my waistline has been on an exponential growth curve; on the [...] Continue Reading…