People write about a lot of different things. Some people write about nature, the environment, space, the cosmos, or even the classification of different types of bird shit (”No, John, it may LOOK like an ordinary crow. But if you taste it, you’ll see it belonged to the rare Lesser Black-backed Gull.”) Still others write about war, famine, epidemics, quakes, plagues, and the imminent threat of nuclear annihilation.

My favourite topic when it comes to the mundane and the depressing, however, seems to be the loyal public service provider who is apparently DEDICATED to giving me an unending stream of material to write about… the stalwart auto driver.

Now I DO know there are some auto drivers who behave like sane, honest, law-abiding citizens, but an overwhelming lot seems bent on proving that laws are made to be broken. These are men of legend, about whom songs have been sung and dedicated, notably, Rob Zombie’s ‘Scum of the earth’.

Frustration can make you do many stupid things, but it is still something many people can easily relate to. If you have ever tried flagging down an auto on a busy road, and ON a rainy day… I’m sure you’d know how it feels like to shout obscenities at the sky and sprain your toe by kicking lamp-posts, followed by what I like to call the toe-hopping dance. If not, you’d be quite perplexed if you chance to observe my daily routine…

“Oh, my. What strange custom. Him seems to be hopping on leg while chanting… what’s that he’s saying?… ‘Yu Go Dam Sa Nova Beach‘?? Is that Japanese?”

“I’ve seen him around before, madam. He does this regularly around this time. Must be a new religion or something”

No, it is not a new religion, although I HAVE verbally banished a few spawns of the devil back to their natural habitat.

So it was after this routine, customary dance one day when I found an auto which was willing to take me to my destination… but he was charging twice the normal fare. I happened to be in a hurry, and it WAS raining rather heavily. My primal instinct dictated terms giving preference to remaining dry. So I took up the offer without haggling too much. But if I said I was happy about it… that I jumped up to the front seat and hugged the driver, calling him the best thing since sliced bread… I’d be lying.

No, I was not the proverbial happy camper. I was still grumbling about the deft pricing strategies when he asked me to move over a bit so that he can get other passengers in the rick as well.

“aap baarish ka faida utaa raha hai, kya?”
“are you trying to capitalize on the rain, now?”

“arre, dekho. bechaare log ab baarish mein faz gaye hai”
“take a look outside. the poor people are stuck in the rain there.”

“mauka mil gaya tho usko bhee loot lega, kya?”
“if you get the chance, you’d rob them too, eh?”

This drove him mad. He didn’t like the way I implied he robbed people. True, he was charging double the legal fare and true, he was thinking of pumping out cash from the wet and straining folks out stuck in the rain until all that’s left of them are their undies, but he was NOT a robber. He obviously preferred the term ‘con-man’. So he stopped the rick, looked back at me with eyes that screamed ‘you’re-gonna-pay-for-that,-mister’ and barked off…

“Mein thera baap ka maal loot raha hai, kya”?”
“Am I stealing your DAD’S money??”

This was amusing.

“Nahee. Mera baap ka maal nahee. MERA maal loot raha hai.”
“Nope. You are not stealing my dad’s money. You’re stealing MINE”

This ticked him off no end. He threw me off the rick and stormed off in hot, blazing fury. I imagined a thick cloud of vapour hovering his auto as the heat of his fury evaporated all the rain falling near it.

I had to walk home that day. I got drenched. I was cold. But even as the incessant drips of icy water droplets tricked over my face, I was aware that I was laughing.

“Egad, James. Isn’t that the same Japanese speaking religion founder we saw a while back? Is he really laughing out there, stuck in the rain like that? These people. These customs. They is very strange, no?”

Though you may not guess it to look at me, the Hamish persona has always been the kind of honest, law abiding citizen that people write songs about (like ‘Bad bad Leroy Brown’ No, wait… scratch that. It’s not the theme I was looking for. Hmm… I can’t think of anything right now, but I’m sure there are some songs that fit the bill.) I was probably never the ideal candidate for the Model Citizen of the Year award, but my heart’s always been in the right place (in the middle of the thorax with the largest part slightly offset to the left). So it will be surprising for some to know that I was the direct accomplice of a motor-vehicle theft.

It is with a heavy heart (heavy, but still in the middle of the thorax with the largest part slightly offset to the left) that I shall now relate the incident which people have come to call GTS – Grand Theft Scooto.

It was on the day we had an auto strike in Bangalore. The auto drivers had placed some minor demands from the city. I don’t have any actual news reports about the demands, so, like any seasoned journalist, I’ll write down my guesses on what their demands were

1. They should legally double their rates because of a probable increase in petrol prices. Sure, 99% of the Bangalore autos run on the cheaper LPG, but they COULD have been running on petrol, so there’s a strong case for this.

2. They should no longer be obligated to take the passenger to his/her preferred destination. Passengers would still be free to voice their suggestions, but the ultimately, destination selected shall be at the discretion of the driver.

3. They should be legally enabled to demand money at knifepoint from random strangers. This would reduce red tape and forego the formality of taking people from one place to the other, which, when you think about it, is a pretty futile and unrewarding exercise. They would still be the same person at location B as they were at location A, except that they would be cursing at auto drivers by the time they reach location B.

Whatever the demands were, there were no autos on that day, and I had a project to run. Of course I can’t reveal anything about my project (It was top secret. You’d need a level 5 security clearance to get anything out of me. Level 5 security clearance, or strong arm interrogation tactics, such as twisting my left arm clockwise for about 12 seconds)

Part of my responsibilities included transporting certain materials from my office to a nearby hotel. The material in question was 5 kilos of the fried variety of Solanum Tuberosum (‘5kgs of potato chips’ simply sounds lame)

Me and my buddy, Arvind, had to borrow a black Kinetic Honda from another colleague of mine, Suresh. We left our office at around 4:00 p.m. and for a couple of hours, were blissfully unaware that we had crossed the line of lawfulness and were treading the path of fugitive anarchy.

As luck would have it, we had unknowingly taken a black Kinetic Honda that belonged not to Suresh, but a random stranger, because both vehicles looked about the same… and wonder of wonders…. the same key worked for both of them. By around 7:00 p.m., the random stranger was fuming and breathing fire from his nose at the apparent theft of his vehicle. He had already placed a complaint with the police, and was already waiting at the parking lot with a bunch of HIS colleagues, ready to start a mini-war. By this time, Suresh, and a couple of other mutual friends, had come to the parking lot, and Suresh promptly started scratching their head when he found his scooter in the parking lot; the very same scooter he had loaned to this humble narrator.

The random stranger I have mentioned in the previous paragraph pounced on them like a hungry cougar: a cougar with singular talents; a cougar trained to shout legal mumbo-jumbo at defenseless preys; a cougar who can threaten legal prosecution for auto theft with apparent ease. It took some time before my glib colleague, Bharath, was able to put in a metaphorical pacifier right smack into the cougar’s mouth. After that task, he called me up and broke the news of our slip into the dark side.

Arvind and I rushed to the spot, in time to return the stolen vehicle back to the owner, the metaphorical cougar, who was by this time, so happy at repossessing his scooter that he was purring like a metaphorical kitten.

He said he understood that it was an honest mistake. He also assured us that he would take back the complaint he had filed with the cops. But now, whenever I hear sirens blaring, my heart starts beating wildly… it is possibly no longer in the middle of the thorax, with the largest part slightly offset to the left.

When I hear sirens sounding in the distance, I find myself looking for bushes to jump into. Until you have yourself become a fugitive on the run, you’d never notice the severe dearth of jumpable bushes in Bangalore city.

Entertainment has owned me for the better part of my life. Even when I was a toddler drooling on VHS tapes, my dad had to spend an unreasonable amount of time dragging me away from the TV. And if you think dragging a kicking and screaming Hamish away from a good movie is a walk in the park, you have a twisted view of what a park should be like.

Imitation is rumored to be the sincerest form of flattery, and I have often, in my own way, flattered many characters I have admired on screen. I’ve walked around looking cold and distant as a tribute to Robert Patrick, better known as T1000 from Terminator 2. I’ve walked about with my hair combed to a point and swinging my head at every step, in honor of Ace Ventura. And as a hats-off-homage to the muscle-bound Arnie, at some point in time, I’ve even talked like I had hot coals roasting in my mouth.

Me: Owyadoein, vudie?

Friend: I’m doin fine, buddy.

Friend’s friend: Huh? You understood what he just said?

Friend: Ya. He was asking me how I was doing. That’s Hamish, by the way.

Me: Elo. Naiedomeedoo

Friend: He’s saying it’s nice to meet you.

Friend’s friend: Uh… ok. Hi, Hamish. You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.

Friend: No. He doesn’t have anything in his mouth. He’s just movie crazy. Right now, he’s in his imitate-Arnie phase.

Friend’s friend: Arnie?? As in Arnold? He doesn’t sound anything like Schwarz…

Friend: Now don’t start, ok? Sometimes he gets carried away… He imitates…. well… just… don’t ask, ok?

I’ve also tried my friends’ patience by yelling phrases like ‘Arrr’, ‘Avast ye bilge rat!’, ‘Sail ho, landlubber’, and ‘Get ya sealegs spiked and hoist me skysail, matey’ imitating the inimitable Jack Sparrow. Thankfully, I have very patient and understanding friends, though they weren’t as supportive of me muddying up my face and wearing an eyepatch to work.

My latest craze is a maverick doctor who solves medical mysteries using little beyond biting sarcasm. The show is House, M.D. and the character is Doctor Gregory House. The show has been a brilliant hit from the Fox network. I’ve only recently started watching the show, but it has been around for donkey’s years. Note that I’m talking about a very young donkey; one born around mid November, 2004.

The more episodes I watched, the more addicted I became. And then I began noticing how much of the character I can emulate. I don’t think I’ll go and get a medical degree for this, but there’s more to the character than just medicine. So I looked at the character closely.

Ok, ok. Let’s stop at that. We don’t really want to explore TOO deeply. House and I share some similarities. Let’s leave it at that.

The last time I went home, I got my parents to watch an episode. I also bought a cane.

Not EXACTLY a cane, I must say. I’m not gonna buy a cane just to imitate a TV character! God, that would be lame. No, I bought an umbrella that LOOKS like a cane. Pretty smart, I thought to myself.

However, dad kinda took the umbrella away, saying it’s impractical for me to carry such a long umbrella to work everyday. This screwed up my plan of walking around in office with the ‘cane’ and making my colleagues cry out again over my so-called-obsession with the character. Of course, I couldn’t tell this to dad. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have appreciated the plan. He’s probably gonna use it for something unproductive… like sheltering himself from the rain. Tut tut.

Never let it be said that “For want of a cane, a tribute was lost”. I told myself, “Hell, if I don’t have a cane, I’ll fake one.” There is always photoshop. Thanks to the digital age, I can draw in seven canes if I want to. I worked out a little flash file to the tune of House, MD.

Click here to see Hamish, M.aD.

Boys don’t cry. Nah. They may run into nasty boo boos and get mommy to kiss the wounds from time to time, but at least when they’re with his gang, boys do NOT cry. And men. They do not cry. Ever! Nope. They can’t cry. The tear glands are there for decoration only.

Imagine Lois Lane running to Superman for cover from Lex Luthor and Superman bursting into tears. He’ll be the laughing stock of the superhero community. It won’t be long before Batman asks him, “Hey, water-eyes. Does that S on your chest stand for ‘Super’ or ‘Sissy’?” and overtime, he starts feeling self conscious, stops attending parties, shies away from friends, and stays at home watching reruns of the Oprah Winfrey Show with a bucketful of napkins in close reach. Stuff like these tends to ruin hard earned reps.

Bizarro: You will pay now, with your life. Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha ha….

Victim: Help!!! Somebody save me!!! Is there anybody there??

Superman: This is a job for… Superman. Unhand that citizen, Bizarro.

Victim: Uhm.. Is there anybody ELSE there?

Superman: Fear not, citizen. I am here.

Victim: Yeah. I can see that. Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t want you making a scene. But I think I’ll wait for Batman or Daredevil.. or maybe.. Hey, come on, now. Don’t cry already!! Get back here. Oh come on!!”

Crying men, then, are not commonly accepted. There are, of course, exceptions to the rule… as there are exceptions to every rule… There are women who refuse to cry, and there are men who cry. And quite frequently, they are the ones who used to get beat up, scolded, teased and ridiculed every day as a child, and that was just by his parents

Now I am not a crying man, as a rule. But just like I said about four sentences ago, there are exceptions to every rule. Emotions CAN pile up from time to time. I watched the new Aamir Khan Movie “Taare Zameen Par” last night. It was spectacular and stunning at the same time, which is not difficult because the words more or less mean the same thing. I am typically not a big fan of Bollywood, but if I had a hat on, I would have raised it in reverence to the skill with which this movie was made. And there were scenes which were filled to the brim with emotions…

So when I got to office today, I was ranting about the movie and was pushing everyone to go watch it. And I also happened to mention that I cried for a few scenes. This apparently raised a few eyebrows.

Colleague: You mean you cried?

Me: Yeah, there was this scene where…

C: You mean you ACTUALLY cried?

M: Huh? What?

C: Nothing. I just imagine you crying and…

M: Oh… Ok… No, no no. I didn’t cry. Sheeesh. Nope. Not me. Sure I had a few manly tears I belched in between beers. But no crying.

C: Hmm…

M: I had a lot of stuff that kept going to my eyes. It just happened to coincide with the emotional sissy scenes on the screen. That’s all.

C: Ya, I’m sure

M: Gnats and dust particles in my eyes. That’s it. And that too, not the sissy gnats. I’m talking about the macho gnats from Mexico with hairy chests going ‘Let’s poke this guy in his eyes, hombre’.

C: Ok, ok. I get it. You can cut the sissy talk now.

M: There was NO sissy talk. Just one or two random stray tears. And those were not sissy tears. They were part acid, part alcohol. They were a man’s tears.

C: STOP IT. I give up. I’m sorry I raised the issue. Can we change the topic PLEASE???

I don’t see why it’s a big deal. As far as I’m concerned, those tears (the masculine potent ones of mine) were testaments to the brilliance of the movie.

Right about now, most of the people who know me are falling off their chairs in wild wonder. A Hamish praising a Hindi movie is quite unheard of. Usually, when I watch a Hindi movie trying to get emotional, I move to a secluded spot so that I don’t hurt bystanders when I roll on the floor laughing. Far too often have I cringed at Bollywood actors/ actresses relentlessly ruining the magic of movies… Sure, I’ve applauded Dil Chahta Hai, secretly enjoyed Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, and have fond childhood memories of Mr. India. But these came nowhere close to eradicating the ill effects of Soldier, the ham acting from Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Ghum, the recommending for which I almost severed ties with a close aunt and her daughters. So it is indeed quite out of the ordinary for a Hamish to lavish praises on a Hindi movie. But Taare Zameen Par certainly deserves it. In fact, I recommend that you stop reading this, run off to the nearest theatre, buy tickets and watch the movie.

I’m frantic that way. I’ve been randomly canvassing people in a more or less similar fashion.

Me: Hey, you. Yes you. You look tired. Why don’t you go and watch ‘Taare Zameen Par’?

Random Stranger: Huh? Do I know you?Yeah, there was this scene where…

Me: No, not really. I just noticed you were looking kinda irate as you walked by. Just giving a suggestion, you know. A movie might do you good. Could help ease your tension… or something.

RS: You know what. I HAVE been feeling tired lately. I think I’ll take your advice. A movie might be just what the doctor ordered.

Me: Attaboy. That’s the spirit. Let’s see now. The closest theatre here is PVR. Why don’t you go there and check out the tickets to ‘Taare Zam…’

RS: Hmm.. Naah. Not really in the mood for tearguzzlers. I think I’ll go and watch Akshay’s ‘Welcome’ instead. It’s supposed…

Me: Blasphemer!! Hrmph!!!

Now why do I get riled up over this? It is just a movie, after all… right? Well, maybe so, but this is the first time I’ve found a Bollywood movie made so well, and if it doesn’t turn out to be as popular as it deserves to be, I’d be frowning rather seriously at the Indian population. I’d be forced to shed another tear for my countrymen. A manly one, of course