The bush was thick and dense. And he was hidden well behind it. “No. They’re not gonna find me here”, he said to himself, half believing what he said… He breathed a sigh of relief and took a rare moment of rest. It was risky, but he chanced it; he dropped his guard. It felt like old times.Oh, how he missed the old carefree days, never having to worry about them dropping on him. No. No more of that shall he have. He was now the hunted; the prey. He had seen the hunts before. Friends… family… all who had fallen long ago… and yet, like a fool, he believed his own time was far far away… a mirage so far off that…

Wait! What was that??

Someone calling his name. Another trap. No. It can’t end now. It was time to move. Quickly. Quietly. He would evade them yet.

—–

Man goes through several stages in life; from doodying a diaper to flunking chemistry to half drowning in beer in an office night, he goes through a variety of transitions.

There comes a time when loving relatives load their metaphorical guns and start shooting. This stage starts in such a transient manner that most people can’t pinpoint when the first shot was fired.

I can. To the day.

Hunting season for Hamish Joy was declared on the 23rd of April, 2007. This was the day my pretty little cousin, Dileepa John, got hitched and traded in her name for the brand new, sleeker “Dileepa Rinil”

It was a lovely occasion, of course. As the groom smugly claimed his prize, flashes flashed, etching the event on digicam memory. Kodak moments that Mastercard can’t buy, so to speak. It was as I was dipping my greedy face into the scrumptious banquet when suddenly, unexpectedly, and sneakily.. the first shot fired.

In hindsight, I see I should and could have foreseen the ambush. But as it happened, I was blissfully unaware… Blissfully ignorant… Blissfully carefree…

It was a close aunt who flung the first arrow. “So, Hamish… When are YOU getting married?” I gagged. I reeled. I almost toppled my chair and landed flat on my back, risking spine injuries.

No. She was joking. Ha ha. What a kidder, I said to myself laughing it off as best as I could. Not that it was a great joke, mind you. It wasn’t - Not by a long shot. But I couldnt just hurt her feelings, could I? I laughed politely and moved off, happy to see the end of the whole thing.

How was I supposed to know that was only the beginning? The floodgates were wide open. Uncles, aunts, and even some cousins started popping all over the place with flaming arrows all aimed at my nose. When people you trusted and believed in turn on you, what do you do??

I ducked and dodged like a veteran soldier trapped behind enemy lines, not that I’m saying veteran soldiers restrict themselves to ducking and dodging when they are behind enemy lines. I’m sure they find nobler pursuits to follow. But ducking and dodging seemed pretty much all I could do. There was no effective ammunition I could have used when attacked…

- “Hey, Hamish… So… When are you getting married?”

- “Huh! Like… when are YOU getting married??”

(Ha! That will show them)

- “What do you mean? I AM married. Married your uncle a whole long back. Many glorious years. That’s why I keep telling you… “

(Uh-oh. I just stepped into a mine field. Gotta create a diversion…)

- “Whoa. Wait, auntie.. Your shoelaces are untied.”

- “Huh?”

- “Shoelaces. Shoelaces”

- “What laces? I’m wearing slippers. Are you alright, Hammy?”

(No time for strategies. Must pull off a hasty retreat. Forget honour and saving face. Must make a run for it)

THUDDD!!

- “Hey, watch it!! You should be more careful, Hammy. You know… you wouldn’t have tripped over your shoelaces if you were married… you could have blah blah blah…”

(Groan! Nice going, jackass!!)

Nope. No ammunition. None at all. Somehow I came through the party fine, but the plague apparently persisted. Whenever I see married relatives now, I get paranoid. I keep awake at night; due to an absurd notion that if I let my guard down, I may wake up married.

The meek may inherit the earth, but the roads shall still belong to the auto driver.

For those of you who are fortunate enough to not know what it is, an auto, a.k.a. an autorickshaw, or more lovably, a ‘rick’, is a three-wheeled taxi you find all around India, unless of course, you are in desperate need of one, in which case you’d have better luck finding ice cream in an active furnace.

It generally has a yellow tarpaulin hood on top and an unpleasant hood up front in the driver’s seat. In a society where daylight robbery is categorically banned by law, these citizens try, more or less successfully, to fill the void.

Ricks are a boon to society… in theory… because theoretically, it aims to alleviate the problem of public transportation… in theory. In case you missed the subtle hints I’ve dropped, let me reiterate that the ‘boon’ part is merely theoretical. You gotta love theories. In principle, the forlorn traveler finds an unoccupied rick and uses the all-too-familiar hand gesture to flag it down (the gesture being a folded fist with the thumb sticking out in the direction of intended travel). The rick actually stops on try one, and the forlorn t. is so used to ricks stopping so easily that he doesn’t reel over in the middle of the street clutching his chest. No, instead, he nonchalantly gets in and informs the smiling driver where he wants to go. The driver turns on the meter, finds the shortest route to the destination, drops the passenger off, pockets his fee as shown in the meter, hands back the change, and the commuter walks away thinking, “Oh, God. Ricks are the greatest invention since sliced bread…” And then he whistles the tune to “It’s a beautiful life” as he disappears off screen, an obvious happy camper.

Now what’s wrong with this scenario?

EVERYTHING!! Now, I have nothing against fiction, mind you. As a matter of fact, most of my friends are fictional. But this scenario’s so far fetched that even J.K. Rowling’s going “Yeah, right!! Give some goddamn credibility to the story, mister.”

The ideal rick, like most theoretical concepts, is an illusion. Here we find yet another situation where theory is practical ONLY in theory.

Even the basic premise of getting a rick is a task by itself. Now, these three wheeled contraptions are not exactly what you would call ’scarce’. In Bangalore, you can, in less than fifteen minutes, locate an empty rick; the real trouble is finding one that goes your way.
You see, a Bangalore rick is like a train. Once set in motion, it does not deviate from its set path. More often than not, the drivers already have a destination in mind, such as his in-law’s house, or a bar, or his dentist’s office, or god-knows-where. If it so happens that the prospective passenger asks to go somewhere ON this route; if at all there is no need for the rick to go out of its way, then the driver may drop him off… for double the legal fare, at times. And this, if he is in a charitable mood. A safe protocol would be to unobtrusively determine where the driver is going before you make your own destination clear…

(Auto stops)
You: Hi, nice weather here. Where are you off to?
Driver: Uh?
You: Do you have somewhere particular to go?
Driver: What?? Where do you want to go?
You: Where do you stay, sir?
Driver: What do you mean?
You: I mean… you may be going home, which is perfectly fine. Nothing against that. Hey, man needs to go home, right? Where is your home? And are you going there right now? If not… that’s cool too. You can’t ALWAYS be going home, can you? You’d have other places to visit too. You’re a busy man…. I can understand. If not home, then where would you be going?… Or just give me a hint… Which direction are you headed? Maybe you are off to the…

Driver: Hey, mister. What are you blabbing about? What do you want?
You: Listen, buddy. Don’t take this the wrong way. I just need to know where you’re headed… If you can…
Driver: Why do you want to know where I’m going??
You: Well… you see… I…
Driver: Look, this is how it works. YOU tell ME where you want to go. Understand?
You: Errr… yes…
Driver: Fine. So… where do you want to go?
You: Ok. Take me to the Forum mall…
(Vrrrrrroooom!!)
You: Hey!! Where are you going??? Come back here!!

Hmmm… Maybe this method won’t be too much of a help, after all. But none of this worries me. Sure, I have to waste roughly an hour just waiting before I get a rick back from work every day, and sure, I’m tired of bargaining over the fares, and sure, I get so edgy I often kick the first thing that crosses my path (which reminds me…. sorry, John. Nothing personal. Hope your leg’s fine now), but at least I’ll be rewarded with eternal salvation for resisting the temptation to blow up these vehicles… I will, won’t I? It had better pay up in the afterlife, because it doesn’t seem to be paying off in THIS life.

Like I said, all these don’t bug half as much as the arrogance and the I-own-everything-on-the-road demeanor…. It’s almost as if they inherited the roads… as if they are beyond the law.

Their plan seems simple. Own the roads - Hell, people will HAVE to use them. No matter which company or industry grows or sinks, people will have to use roads. Everyone makes their mark… somewhere… The ricks have decided what they want. They’ve marked their territory, - peed on the roads, so to speak.

Not all of them are this bad, though… During my 4 year stay in Bangalore, I have personally encountered seven auto drivers who did their duty without cribbing, bargaining, being rude, being offensive, or driving rashly… Of course, there is a chance that I was merely dreaming then…

The engine roars, the heart pumps and the tyres screech, throwing mud and gravel smack into the face of anyone dumb enough to put his face right behind the wheels of the Ford Fiesta, doing 140 km/h on the highway. The red Mahindra Scorpio is about five kilometers in front, racing at an incredible speed, thinking that it has finally seen the last of the Fiesta. After all, it is but a speck in traffic, and there are already a dozen cars and trucks between them.

But as far as the Fiesta was concerned, the cars and trucks between them were merely parked on the highway; momentary obstacles to whizz past. Inevitably, the inevitable happens. The Fiesta cuts ahead, leaving the Scorpio baffled, troubled, and lost in traffic.

No. This isn’t a snippet from a new Hollywood release. This is a personal episode from my life I like to call “The Fast and the Curious”. Maybe it would be better if I started at the beginning. This November, I had got an uncharacteristically long vacation from work, and I had intended to spend it exclusively getting tanned by TV rays. However, dad and mom, being dad and mom, felt this may not be the ideal way to spend my time. They felt this was a great opportunity for me to catch up with our relatives down south in Trivandrum (This was cool).They wanted to start our journey at 5:30 a.m. (This… was not). Apparently they went and forgot that the average Hamish starts his day at 7:00 a.m. At the earliest.

This, of course, meant that our trip got delayed. We started on our five hour journey at 7:30, two hours off mark, like any decent airliner. But it wasn’t too bad. A leisurely road trip was not to be scoffed at. It’s one of those rare opportunities to enjoy a calm serene ride; to watch the drifting landscapes recite poetry in motion; to wonder over the other vehicles, as to how their infinitely disparate existences have aligned paths for however small a journey… A philosophically intriguing trip, unless, of course, you get carsick, in which case you’d be too busy throwing up on the upholstery.

Things were calm enough in the beginning. I was half asleep in the backseat, working my way to a complete snore orchestra, when… enter Scorpio, stage right. It sped right past us. As we observed it skidding ahead and startling the other travelers, it was obvious that this Scorpio was the brattish variety, with the i-own-the-world complex typically attributed to cats. It was quite used to taunting its saner comrades out on the highway, possibly singing “Born to be Wild” for the whole trip… In fact, if it could have, it would have taken time out to boo at the other cars.

You know the type. It’s not uncommon. You find this character on every highway these days. ‘The fast’, therefore, is quite routine, not particularly noteworthy… What piqued my interest away from thoughtless slumber was ‘the curious’, a. lovingly k.a. … dad.

My dad is a rare combination of carefulness and talent. He’s probably talented enough to play stuntman in Dhoom 3, but you’d hardly notice, since he normally maintains an upper limit of 60 kmph. And this is not entirely due to the fact that our metallic gold Ford Fiesta is brand new. He’s one of those dads who want to ‘lead by example’. And he knows that if he plans to lead someone like ME by example, he’d better keep the ‘Cautious driver of the century’ award firmly in place. The last time he almost had an accident was in 2003 when an absentminded pillion rider (who happened to be me) pulled at the rear view mirror WHILE he was riding the bike. (Do NOT try this)

However, as the Scorpio sped by and started fading into the horizon, dad suddenly got curious. “That Scorpio”, he said, “seems to be a regular speed demon. Now if I were to whizz past him…. just once… how depressed would he be?”

Quite depressed, as it turns out. My dad stepped on the gas and ON the Scorpio’s ego, which turned out to be more fragile than I had imagined. We could see it huffing and puffing and breathing heavily in disbelief behind us.

This was meant to be a one time deal. Once this was done, the question on depression was answered. We slowed down, letting the fuming Scorpio overtake us. The Scorpio regained its ego. Dad got cautious again. Angels sighed in relief. Normalcy and sanity were restored. Peace reigned.

But it was not meant to last. Half an hour later, the Scorpio was somewhere way up ahead, tearing its way out of our sights, fighting earnestly to convince itself that what just happened did not happen; that a Fiesta overtaking it was a fluke of nature, an aberration. And just as it ALMOST succeeds in this task…. dad wants to do it again.

Like a kid who had just gotten off the ride in Disneyland demanding another trip, dad wants to do it again… The smile he wore was addictive. It was his inner child acting up. And this inner child had a driver’s license. A very eventful cat’n mouse chase ended with the Scorpio disappearing into the horizon; a vanishing speck in our rearview mirror. We don’t know what became of the Scorpio, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it sobbed itself to sleep, its arrogance evaporating under the hot sun. All I know is that we covered our 5 hour journey in just a bit over 2.5.

I’ll never forget my dad’s words the trip ended. “If I ever see you driving like that”, he said, “you’re grounded!!!” His predicament was obvious. He had just squandered away his ‘Cautious driver of the century’ award, and his ‘lead by example’ motif was running thin. For the remainder of my vacation, he kept recounting news articles on how rash driving was causing accidents all over the country. The very prospect of me driving pushes dad beyond the call of duty.

Dad: “How come you never read the newspaper, son? Look at this report. ‘Youth smashes car into tree and goes into coma.’”

Me: “Ya, ya, ok, dad. I get it. Rash driving – bad. I get it. How come you get to do 140 on the…”

Dad: “I’m not done! ‘…smashes car into tree and goes into a coma. 26 year old Arun Hegde was doing 140 on the freeway trying to imitate his father, who had once… and ONLY once, sped on the highway, and has since regretted the act. Arun has now lost his arms and legs… and is scarred for life… and is blinded… and has lost all his hair… and…’”

Me: “Wh..?? Let me see that…”

Dad: (folding the newspaper) “Now that isn’t important. What is important is that you should KNOW that safety is something that should always be top of mind. If you speed more than you ought to, you may save a few minutes, but at what risk? Are those minutes worth the blah blah yada yada blah blah…and so on…”

I have this sinking feeling that I’ll never get to drive a car without paying for this incident… And note… I wasn’t driving here. My only involvement was being in the back seat when this happened. That, and being awake.

People come to me incessantly, asking about my purpose in life… And if you think it is OK for people to come to you incessantly for something, you obviously have never had people come to you incessantly. And when they start grilling you on the purpose of your life, their primal motive is to make you feel about as useful as a chewed wad of bubble gum. More often than not, they put these queries in more colorful tones, such as;

“Hamish, what IS your purpose in life, besides wasting oxygen that I could have used?”
“Hamish, are you planning your life properly, or are you going to drift through it like an F1 racecar without a steering wheel?”
“Is there a goal you’ve set for yourself, Hamish, or do you feel watching movies while spewing half chewed popcorn out the side of the mouth is good enough for you?”

Hearing all these tactful, sensitive, and thought-provoking voices of genuine concern has led me to think, “Dang! My purpose in life might be a good thing to write about.”

These questions wouldn’t bother me if I were prepared for it; but usually, I answer them with the eloquence of a Taiwanese cattle farmer responding to queries on advanced molecular biology… asked in French. Hence my natural inclination, had I been given the power, would be to have such questions shot, quartered, split, shattered, and reframed to form sentences like “Hey, Hamish. Nice to see ya here. I gotta go now. Catch ya later.” But then again, twisting people’s words may not be the best course of action if I want to keep friendships healthy. The next best alternative, then, would be to be prepared with the answer…

I do have a purpose in life. There IS a planned goal. Thought the untrained eye may not see it, I AM ambitious… in fact, I may even be overambitious.

My plan; my ultimate goal; my purpose in life, like that of a few irrational and many fictional characters before me, is world domination. Complete and utter world domination. Now the question that possibly springs to your mind is “What do I have for dinner tonight? Dare I try a weird sounding dish like ‘La Carpe deFleur’?” For people who were paying attention to what I wrote, however, the question is more probably in the tune of “World domination? How is that fatso planning to pull that off?” Unlike Dr. No, Goldfinger, Darth Vader and the other visionaries, I have a rational plan.

Unbeknownst to the world at large, I am currently recruiting for two strong factions where I would be undisputed ruler by divine right… The first one, The Legion Of Laze, or LOL to its members, would take some work, cos so far, members are too lazy to come to a meeting. My other group, The Fatman’s Club, is faring much better. It is being groomed to be my personal secret weapon; my ultimate tool for the goal of world domination.

One day, when they least expect it (tentatively at 10:30 a.m., July 5th, 2015), we shall muscle in – or rather, fat in – to the UN assembly, grunt at the assembled world leaders, and politely force them to declare me the undisputed world leader. If they fail to comply, members of The Fatman’s Club, each of whom shall rival the mass of a compact nuclear silo, shall threaten to sit on a world leader of their choice.

Personally, I do not see a flaw in the plan.

By the way, since I have told you the plan, I urge you, for reasons of health (yours), to keep it to yourself. If you break this vow of secrecy, I’m afraid I may have to sit on you.