Ok, I’ve thought about this long and hard. I think I’ll do it. I’m going to trust you with a secret. But shh… not a word to anyone. Like I just said… It’s a secret. It’s a teeny tiny incident that happened a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t told a soul. And I haven’t told a soul because it’s embarrassing. Oh my god, what am I doing? This is a mistake. I shouldn’t write about this. Let me write about something else… like… errr… cricket. Ya. India scored, like a ton of points… or goals… I mean… bah… who am I kidding? Me writing about cricket is like George Bush writing a book on ethics.

What the hell. I think I can trust you with my secret. But first, you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. No, no one. Absolutely none. Mum’s the word, and no, you’re not telling her either. This can’t be one of those ‘i-swear-i will-never-drink-again‘ or ‘no-new-taxes‘ kind of promise. No. This time, you must mean it. Pinky swear.

Ok. So this happened a couple of weeks back. Whatever hair I had left was growing like African prairie grass. It was time for a haircut. And I knew it was time for my haircut because of my dependable friends and caring family members who chipped in with ever-so-subtle suggestions…

“Dude… Get a haircut”
“Are you trying to disguise yourself, man? Or are you actually trying agriculture on your head?

and

“Oh, My God, Hammy. If I see you with frazzled hair one more day, I’m going to personally buy a lawn mower and run it up and down your scalp until I get enough hair to start a bonfire, around which I shall be telling the tale of the disheveled monkey, which shall both scare and amuse little children around camp.”

Despite my stubborn reluctance at parting with the follicles, I finally decided to relent. I went to the local barber, armed with my wallet and a yawn (well, it was a Sunday. I was sleepy). I was feeling particularly lazy too. I thought, what the hell, let me get a shave as well.

Waiter. A haircut. AND a shave. Step on it. And since I am not particularly concerned with how I look, I didn’t even bother checking the mirror. I think I was awake, but I really can’t be certain. A lot of accidents could have happened. It didn’t. The whole process went on smoothly. Towards the end of my shave, the guy made eye contact and frowned.

Huh? What’s he frowning about?
“Sir, your eyes. the skin under your eyes. It’s dark.”

I peeked at the mirror. The guy was right. I skin under my eyes was dark. Just like they’ve always been since I became a movie addict when I was four months old.

“Well, ya, they are dark.”
“Is not good, sir”
“No?”
“No”

Hmm… he was frowning more intently now. Maybe he’s campaigning for some doctor or someone.

“If I apply this on your skin, it will make it better. It go away”
“My eyes go away?”
“The dark spots. Unhealthy. Dead cells. They go away”

Unhealthy dead cells go away. That sounded good. My face is not a cemetary. Get out, you dark cell scum, die, you dead cells, die…

“Hmm… well, will this take time?”
“I can start in five minutes”

Five minutes. That was not a bad deal. I had no plans made for the day yet. I had all day. So maybe taking five minutes to scrub off dead cellular corpses from my eyes would be worth the trouble

“Five minutes, eh? Ok. Go ahead.”

The barber’s frown disappeared. I didn’t see anything at that time, but on reflection, I think his eyeballs popped into the shape of the ‘$’ sign, and somewhere in the background, a gong fell off in the tune of “KA-CHING”

He slapped on some yellowish paste and smeared it under my eyes… and then proceeded to scrub it on the rest of my face as well. Of course by this point, I couldn’t open my eyes, and I was in the dark literally as well as figuratively. But I had, using clever deductive reasoning, deduced that this was not what I had signed up for. But I had, using the same brilliant reasoning, reminded myself that I was never REALLY that clear about what I had signed up for to begin with.

I needed to know the name of this procedure.

“Excuse me. Are you still here?”
“Yes, sir”
“What do you call this thing?”
“Sir?”
“This thing. This procedure. What do you call it?”
“It’s called a facial, sir.”

A Facial!!!! I was getting a facial??? Get up, wipe your face. Run away into the wild, Bang your head on a rock, bleed a little. Then come back and yell at the barber!!

“A facial, huh?… Ok.”

Guys do not get facials. If they do, they buy a fake moustache and beard, wear weally weally dark glasses, take four random cabs to four random places to lose any tails, and then proceed to a salon which has a reputation for secrecy. No. Guys do not get facials. Guys go to bars, belch the letters of the alphabet, crush beer cans and joke about women and the time they spend getting facials.

If I had gotten up and walked out, it would have made my initial decision look completely moronic. Plus, I was already paying for this, and I’m cheap. I sat through. In a few minutes, the guy washed off the stuff from my face, but before i could make a run for it, he poured some new goo all over my face.

And then, he started getting violent. He started pulling and twisting my cheek, nose, and assorted nameless muscles from my face and started tapping the lambada on my forehead. At this point, I was wondering whether it was just one man doing the pulling and tapping. Maybe he put up a board that said “One day only. Punch an executive in the face. Just 5 bucks a hit.”

In due course, which was NOTHING close to ‘five minutes’, the ordeal was over. He wiped off the assorted goo from my face and showed me a mirror in much the same way a magician would pull out a coin out of your ear.

If what he expected from me was surprise, he got it. I looked exactly the same. I was surprised because I expected my face to look a LOT redder after all the pulling, pinching, and tapping.

So there you have it. My first facial. Remember the vow of secrecy. Tell NO ONE. This shall NOT become a point of idle snickering. This is NOT going to be a random quip you can tell to pass time. This can NOT be used as a funny story you can relate at the beginning of your big sales pitch to your customers. For my part, I’ll do my best to forget the incident. In fact, I’ll do my best to hide the fact. The tactic that comes to mind immediately, is diversion.

“Ooh, boy. I feel so relaxed in this crowded bus. But that is NOT because somebody got a facial.”
—
“Man, this airport is so hot. But hot is fine. Hot is cool. It’s not like I’d want to go get a facial or something. Ha ha.”
—
“You know what happened two weeks ago? A lot of things happened. There were like… news and stuff. Thousands of people died… and just as many were born… You know what did NOT happen two weeks ago? I did NOT get a facial. Oh, yeah. That’s what did NOT happen.”
—
“Hey, there fella. Let me clue you in on what’s in… Hmm… bootcut jeans are in… or were in… or something. Hell, I don’t know. I’m not a trend analyst. One thing I DO know, though. Facials. They are NOT for us. I can’t even think of any guy wanting to…”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey… you’ve been going on and on and on about facials. If you want to get one, just get it already. Jesus Christ.”

Well… you win some, you lose some, I guess…

Birds were singing, flowers blooming, and every guy who had a girl to hold on to, had a big cheesy smile accompanying an animated far-off look… rather like Ron McDonald, only goofier.

It was the 14th of February, and unless you’re a grizzly bear who is smart enough to hibernate through this period, you know what that means. Valentine’s day: mush overload.

Historically speaking, it has roots going all the way back to the 13th century, at a time when the church had about one dozen Saints with the name Valentine, giving around 42 tales of origins of the traditional lovers’ day. The church had so many martyrs called Valentine around whom the tale revolves that I’m wondering why there wasn’t a folksong that went “Will the real St. Valentine please stand up?” There is, likewise, no consensus on the history of Valentine’s day. However, we can all agree that the tradition only gained popularity in the 19th century, with the help of St. Archibald, who said to his team of marketing associates,“We seem to be running out of card occasions. We have Christmas, mother’s day, father’s day… still not quite enough… Ideally, we should have something around mid February. Any ideas/ suggestions?”

If you have any doubts/ qualms about the accuracy of the last paragraph, remember… I am not a historian. I’m allowed to make a few mistakes here and there.

In any case, V-day is celebrated with great gusto all around the world. This time, here in Bangalore, you couldn’t have thrown a stone without hitting a Ron McDonald smile off somebody’s face. And he/she would barely notice. Even restaurants change their decor, ambience, and sometimes, the waiters’ uniforms to suit the occasion. In some places, they even change the titles on the menu…

“Good evening, sir. What may I get for you?”
“I’d like a doughnut, please”
“Oh. Sorry, sir. We don’t serve doughnuts today. May I suggest a Lovenut?”
“Eh? What is a lovenut?”
“It is is a sweet, deep-fried piece of dough or batter. We give it in a ring-kind of a shape, and pour chocolate on it”
“Sounds like a doughnut”
“Ahem. We do NOT serve doughnuts. It’s a lovenut.”
“Is it that round thing I see on the next table? The chocolate covered ring-thing that couple is having?”
“Yes, sir”
“Hmm… That’s a doughnut.”
“No, sir. We do NOT serve doughnuts today. THAT… is a lovenut”
(sigh) “Ok, ok. Just… just give me the ‘lovenut’… And a glass of iced tea”
“Oooh. About that, sir. We don’t serve iced tea today. I recommend that you go for a Lemon Embrace, a Strawberry kiss, or a Peach smooch”

What a love-sy experience…

But I know why the V-day is successful. At least I think I do. Miscommunication is the bane of most relationships… One of the daily combats is to decipher what I call the ‘partner code‘. Surprisingly, this happens after a couple is together long enough. Each feels the other understands them a whole lot better than they actually do… and they expect each other to read their thoughts as if it is printed on their forehead….

“Sure, you can go out with your friends”
Forehead says - “If you go out with your friends, I will set fire to your couch and cry until you admit it’s your fault.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. You pick a movie. It doesn’t matter what movie we watch as long as we watch it together.”
Forehead blinks - “You better KNOW what movie I want. If you can’t understand that, what kind of relationship are we in?”

(For a more detailed narration of a similar incident, check out Alex’s page here)

But on V-day, there is no confusion. Couples KNOW what the other is thinking… It is law… The rules are clear. and it’s binding…

“Oh, sure, if you want to go out with friends, go. I understand he’s a close friend, and he’s leaving for America. I’m reasonable. Go on. Enjoy yourself”

Sounds sincere. On any other day, it would have been so easy to fall into the trap. But not today. No need for a message to flash on anyone’s forehead. Instinctively, you have the answer…

“Oh, no, sweetie. He may come back from America… in three or four decades. I’d rather spend my time here with you.”

and… SAFE!!! Thumbs up.

“Hey, you have that project to submit tomorrow. I understand how important it is. We can have our dinner plans postponed to tomorrow. You know I don’t really think this day is special or anything. We don’t need a special day to tell each other how we feel. Go ahead. Get your work done. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nope. Not even a second’s delay for the answer…

“No way, honey. I made plans with you, and that’s more important than this crummy job… or a promotion as VP… or a raise that’d double my salary… Hell, no. I can find other jobs. With you by my side, anything is possible”

And SAFE!!! Yet again… TWO thumbs up.

Of course it’s not always smooth sailing. On V-day, the expectations also tend to be higher. Absolutely no excuses allowed…

“Hey, baby. I’m… irrrk… I’m sorry. I won’t be able to make it tonight. I think I just had an attack. I’m in an ambulance. On my way to the hospital.”
“Hmmm….”
“Huh? Hello? What’s wrong, hon?”
“Nothing… so… you just had an attack… these MAY be your last minutes on Earth, knock on wood… And you’d rather spend that time in a hospital than with me????”
“Huh???”
“Did you even consider my feelings about this? Maybe I needed to see you… be with you… at a time of crisis like this. You HAVE my number on speed dial, and yet, the first number you dial is for an ambulance??? I could have called an ambulance for you!!! And if you think…”
“Wha? Oh my god… my head is spinning.”
“Oh, sure… your head spins when you talk to me on Valentine’s day. I thought we were above this. I thought we were closer than this. Sob sob sob sob…”

Well, maybe SOME rules are still obscure.

Who would have believed it? I was busy. Me. I still remember the time not too long back when the most tiring work I had was to muffle the sounds of my snores. And today, I am so loaded with work that I’d probably have to hire a secretary to brush my teeth. Today morning, I reviewed my projects, packed up my notes, charted my expenses, and got the recordings collated and organized. And now, I had to go and do my biggest task for the day… getting a rick.

If you’ve been to Bangalore, you’d know that getting a rick is never easy. But today would be fairly easier than otherwise, I told myself. Today, I’m trying to get to office early. It usually is easier to get a rick at 7:30 a.m. Not saying it will be easy, or simple… Just easier than usual…

Ah. Lucky me. There are two ricks right next to my place. I go to the first rick. The driver’s inside, reading some newspaper. So far, so good.

“Bhaisaab, Gaadi chaloge?”
(”Hey, bro. Does this rick run?”)

No response. I mean… NO RESPONSE. He continues to read the paper. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even flicker his eyelids.

“Ahem. Bhaisaap?”
Response - He flipped to the next page. Only, I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of secret code I was supposed to break, or whether he was simply done with the previous page.

Maybe if I tried a bit louder? With the second rick driver?
“BHAISAAB!!”
Niet. Nothing doing. Shouting in all-caps didn’t even get me a sideways glance. I was beginning to worry now. I had seen this in a movie once. Guy walks around being ignored by everyone, he remains puzzled for about quarter of the movie, retraces his steps and finds out that he’s actually dead. I looked back to the path I had taken. No. No dead bodies. Maybe I was losing my voice. Maybe I’m just squeaking…. mumbling unintelligible gibberish and not realizing it. Hey, it can happen. It was like I was back in Geography class.

I pick up my phone, dial, and listen to the phone ring…
turutu turutu….turutu turutu….
“Hello…”
“Hello, John”
“Whoa!!! Hamish!! Haven’t heard from you in ages, man. What have you been….”
“John, can you hear me?”
“Eh?”
“Can… you… hear… me? Simple question”
“Errr… Sure. I can hear you. Is there some kind…”
“Can you understand me?”
“What?”
“Can you understand me? Am I speaking clearly?”
“Of course I understand you, man. You’re speaking English. Are you ok? Are you in some kind of a…”
tet…tet…tet….

Ok. So that theory’s out. My voice was audible and comprehensible. It still didn’t explain my two auto guys, though. And I was running out of theories… unless… maybe it’s the news!!! Something BIG was being covered in the papers and they were engrossed in that story. Whoa… That must be SOME story. Maybe another war had been declared. Maybe George Bush dreamt that India had weapons of mass destruction. Maybe Rajnikanth announced retirement. Maybe Aishwarya Rai shaved her head… Something BIG… I know curiosity has been found to be dangerous… particularly to cats, but I gave in. I peeked over the driver’s shoulder.

As best as I could figure out, he was reading an article on how snoring could lead to bronchitis. Either that, or a snippet about a two headed snake being found in Argentina. He must be one hell of a snorer, cos I can’t imagine he could be that perturbed about an isolated incident of reptile mutation all the way over in Argentina… unless…. unless HE was responsible for it!! My god! An eccentric mad scientist!!! He works as an auto driver during the day, but at night, he loads weird creatures into his laboratory, does experiments, and ship them off to… Argentina…?

Hmmm… wait… I think this theory may not be as ironclad as I thought. Crap… those were my better theories, and they got invalidated pretty quickly. Now what can ex…

Even before I finish that thought… (the thought up there… in the previous paragraph… pay attention!!) it hit me!! The rates!!! I wanted to kick myself for not thinking about it sooner. Imagine Sherlock Holmes looking at a body, puzzling over the mystery; declaring it to be ‘extremely singular’ and ‘possibly unsolvable’, when all this time, the murderer was standing right behind him, with a gun in his hand, blood all over him, and a written confession in his pocket. Pretty embarrassing, you would admit.

This fair city’s RTA (Road Transport Authority) had seen it fit to raise the auto fares recently. Our RTA would do anything the Autorickshaw Drivers Union asked for. If the auto drivers had asked the city to dance on a mixture of broken glass and hot coals, the RTA would grumble about it for a while, and then say “ok, but we’re ONLY gonna do it on one leg. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

The fare was, thus, hiked. Many autos already using rigged meters which usually runs faster than the auto itself. AND, it runs not on petrol, but on the cheaper LPG. So what does this hike mean? To the average auto driver, it means that he could work less than he used to, and still earn the same amount as earlier… This means he is less inclined to be helpful to the average commuter, not that he ever was the beacon light of compassion.

This explains, at least partially, the ‘deaf’ and ‘dumb’ auto drivers I met today… the ones on the scholarly pursuit of newspaper driven knowlede… Now they can spend less time ferrying passengers around… and more time on R&D, whence they conjure up newer and newer ways to fleece their fellow citizens.

Even before the price hike, you had to beg, plead, roll over, and play dead before an auto driver would consider taking you where you want to go… Now it’s becoming even harder. There shall undoubtedly be more price hikes in the future… and one day, the time will come when an auto driver is legally empowered to fleece the traveller without limit. He can, after ONE trip, for ONE consumer, make enough money to retire to a brand new furnished resort in Honolulu.

Bleak days.

Everybody wants to be a superhero. I’m sure that from time to time, even you have woken up, rubbed your eyes, yawned, and felt that insane urge to don a cape, shout out an eager catchphrase at the top of your lungs, and jump out the nearest window, determined to fight crime, spread peace, and sell millions of dollars worth of collectible merchandise… It’s a universal dream. At least, I hope it is, cos if it isn’t, then it must be just me. That would have made my actions look rather embarrassing… particularly that Monday when I wore my underwear over my pants.

So I guess it’s relieving that this is a universal phenomenon. Of course, the main challenge is figuring out HOW to gain superpowers. Now, we Hamishes are nothing if not resourceful. I have spent over twenty years of my life dedicated to researching this topic. It wasn’t too hard. In fact, there are innumerable documented cases of superheroes and superpowers available all over the world… IF you only bothered to look for it. There are, in fact, SEVERAL methods on how you can get superpowers, some of which I can outline before you right now.

1. The easiest way, by far, to get superpowers is to be an alien, born on another planet… This is a very effective method, documented to bring about powers such as flying faster than a speeding bullet, being able to leap tall buildings in single bounds (one bound per building – hence the plural), having a hide thicker than steel, and being able to die and return from the dead if enough readers wrote in… On a related note, this may explain why kids nowadays have a hard time figuring out why Jesus’ resurrection was such a big deal…
2. The second most favourite method, it seems, is to pick your favourite animal/ insect/ reptile and fry the sucker with radioactive rays. Then all you have to do is to make sure that it accidentally bites you and mixes it’s altered DNA right into your bloodstream. This will, as per reviewed documentaries, improve your physique, reflexes, and make you able to crawl up tall buildings and watch some alien leap over it in a single bound.
3. Another time proven method, it appears, is to run right smack into a Government funded secret project and jump at some molecular re-arranging thingy. This may sound like a hard task, but it’s basically simple. First… finding the government funded secret project… This is the simplest task. The more secretive a project, the easier it is to locate. A true secret project, particularly if funded by the Government (ANY Government will do), will be so densely guarded by hordes of guards in black Kevlar, that you’d just have to look up a black swarm up from Google Earth to get there. Now, how do you find a molecular re-arranging thingy? Once you break into a building, look for the most sophisticated (most shiny) metal structure you can find, surrounded by three or four lab-coat wearing technicians (and not a single guard) who take coffee breaks once in every 4 minutes. That’s your machine. Go for it.
4. Alternatively, you can just plan out an accident wherein you lose your sense of sight, but miraculously gaining superhumanly enhanced effects on all your other senses. But, if you are already without sight, I doubt if this method will work for you…

Of course, none of these methods are without drawbacks. Method 1 bit the dust after I checked my birth records and proved conclusively that I was, as a matter of fact, born on Earth… Bummer, eh? I had some hope on this front for a while, with many close chums proclaiming that I couldn’t possibly be from the same planet as them.

Method 2 is still under consideration. Trouble is, I’m not really a reptile/ insect fan… So I just can’t choose a creature to radiate… I DID once settle for a spider, but there were severe copyright issues involved. Even superheroes and superhero-wannabes are scared of lawsuits.

Method 3 is not faring that well either. I had managed to locate three top secret Government projects, but they turned out to be lame ass sessions. One was for a proposed name change for the city of Delhi to Dilli. The second one was a proposal for a centralized bribe collection system. The third finally turned out to be a bunch of scientists developing a machine. But it wasn’t a great one. It was just a small device that creates large, random numbers. On a related note, Bangalore auto meters are going to be updated soon.

Method 4 is the scariest from the ones I’ve listed. Even with my eyes intact, I walk into walls and trip over furniture far more often than the average doctor would recommend. Even with all my other senses enhanced, I doubt how I could cope with life. Also, when you REALLY think about it, do you really want your other senses enhanced? Imagine being able to smell the public restroom that’s three miles down the road… Imagine being able to hear the abuses muttered by the disgruntled employee in the next office… And everytime you eat out, no matter which eatery you choose, you’d be able to tell what animal got fished out of the boiling tub by which employee… You’d be puking so often that you won’t really get the chance to save the world or anything…

So there really is no winning, is there? But then again, we DO have more and more documents pouring in each day. Like any ethical journalist, I won’t reveal my actual source for these documents, but I’m not averse to saying that a large chunk of these have something to do with Stan Lee.