The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas

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, no. That guy from the movies… the one you like… what’s his name…”

The ever astute aunt was paving the verbal road towards the abominable Emraan Hashmi. For those of you who have been fortunate enough to have never heard of Mr. Hashmi before, he is an unrepentant excuse for a Bollywood actor, having secured a list of inexplicable hits to his name. His whiny persona and contrived acting skills had placed him as a sore irritant blotting the landscape. The fact that his name took an anagrammatic spin on my own has only served to enhance the irritation.  ”Locate and punch Hashmi right smack in the nose simply for being annoying” is number 27 on my bucket list.

Nobody’s perfect… and I was very much prepared to see chinks in my fiancée, Rhine’s persona. Unfortunately, the imperfection in Rhine seems to have manifested in the horrible form of an Emraan Hashmi fan hood. Ever since she was subject to his movies Murder, Gangster and Raaz, she has been living under the intense delusion that he is a capable actor. She seems to have made it a point to watch his movies at every chance she got - and mind you, she does all of this voluntarily, without so much as a gun to her head. From the looks of it, the damage seems to be permanent, and noted experts say she’s going to remain a Hashmi fan for life.

It’s a tough dilemma that I face… Marital counselors often stress that for a good and lasting relationship, it is extremely important to refrain from punching your wife’s favourite star in the nose. In almost all cases, I agree with them, but this particular nose rests on the face of Emraan Hashmi. I’m sure none of these so-called experts have taken this into consideration.

But a healthy relationship demands sacrifice. While I am currently clueless as to how I will achieve this, I have determined that I will be more tolerant of all the Hashmis that life throws at me. I will even watch some of his movies with Rhine. My current plan is to stab myself in the thigh with a sharp pen in order to take my mind off the screen. I will grin and bear it as he prances around on screen in his stereotyped role as an ‘amorous, lovelorn human being’, trying - and miserably failing - to portray a believable human being. And when she asks me how I enjoyed the movie, I will force a smile as I spurt the words “Oh, it was great, honey“, thinking “…at least, it wasn’t as bad as the pain my thigh“. But for this to happen, I will need to pray that Mr. Hashmi improves as an actor. I’m not expecting miracles. I just want him to improve a little bit so that he’s at least better than the piercing pain of a stab-wound in my thigh. I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my pens sharp.

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 kick in spontaneously at times, you don’t always have the time to look over your shoulder before you.. err… initiate transfer.

So it was inevitable.

“Tche!! I think ma saw that”

“Eh?? What?”

“The sugar! The sugar!!”

“Oh… dammit, you mean the sugar leaked?”

From that day on, we were on the watch for unwanton sugar leaks. At least, we tried to be. But occasionally, it would slip by… In time, there were people who jokingly monitored the chats from the side, looking out for any inadvertent leaks that may happen. Rhine’s cousin, Varun, seemed to be dedicated to plugging the leak whenever he could. This is how he became the self-appointed (but not self-titled) leak inspector. Every day, he would walk past Rhine’s comp, ostensibly just minding his own business, but in reality, checking for the by-now-rampant leaks.

There was a brief period when Varun contracted chicken pox, and was incapacitated from his duties as the LI. The amount of sugar that flowed in that period could have taken on Brazil head on in the sugar export business.

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…

For a few days now, I have been toying with the idea of getting into more serious articles. Let’s face it, here at the BBs and the YYs, it is not often that I weild my pen for heavy issues. In fact, in the digital age, it is absofrigginlutely rare for me to weild pens at all, except as perhaps a very poorly thought-out improvisational weapon if I face a McGyver-style plot situation. However, with actual main-stream media like ‘The News of the World’ wrapping up their papers and contemplating retirement in prison for their sleazeball tactics, I believe [...] Continue Reading…

People come up to me and say “Not again, Hamish. For the last time, we do NOT come up to you, we do NOT ask you questions, and we do NOT exist, so stop making us up and putting us in your articles!”… Hmm… Well, ok, so after they’re done ranting and raving for a while, they go on to ask “So, Hamish… How do you manage living in a country where you don’t understand the language?”

An excellent question, if I do say so myself… err… I mean… if they do ask it themselves… Anyway, it’s an excellent question, [...] Continue Reading…