A cellular phone is more or less the norm for the people of today. You can’t throw a brick around Bangalore without knocking off somebody’s cellphone, crushing the teeny lil thing and eventually getting sued for a helluvalotta money. It is the cultural norm and a workplace necessity; the default gadget of popular askance. When people ask ME whether I have a mobile phone, however, I get to answer “yes” as well as “no” without compromising on my honesty. I have a mobile phone, yes, but I have been using the service of Spice Telecom.

Now Spice is a special service available only in select areas of Punjab and Karnataka. So many of you may not be aware of the connection per se. Even fewer would have looked up the history behind the brand. It was originally designed by the British ruling class before India gained her independence, as part of their ‘divide and rule‘ strategy. I am sure that the historical account I am giving here is not entirely correct, owing mostly to the fact that I am making stuff up as I type along.

The original plan was to provide Spice connections to all the freedom fighters and their supporters. Once they have the connections established, the seeds of scorn and distrust would automatically get embedded, sooner or later…

One party would try calling another and get a voice recording saying “The number you are trying to call is currently busy. Kindly try after some time.” They’d hit redial and get the message “Please check the number you have dialled. The number does not exist”. They’d hit redial again and hear a new random message that goes - “The Spice subscriber you are trying to reach has caller ID and has decided to ignore you.” While half the people would go crazy and shoot themselves, the other half would be so angered at each other for shunning their calls that they’d forget the whole struggle for freedom and succumb to internal conflicts.

At least that was the original plan. The project got so delayed that the British rule had been long overcome by the time Spice set up office in India. Today, Spice attempts to live like a normal service provider. Their original purpose has been long forgotten by the masses. Even historians are scratching their head about the last couple of paragraphs.

I have been using their service for the past three years now, and it’s about time I took out the sim-card and danced the Bossa Nova on it with metallic-spiked shoes.

But lest you think I have nothing nice to say about Spice, let me clarify a few things… Despite the fact that I can’t make a call after 6 p.m. without trying a number at least 20 times; and the fact that I was thinking of learning how to climb trees so that I can stay connected long enough to finish a phonecall; and the fact that the last time I, or anyone I know, was able to reach the Spice Telecom customer support was on June 3rd, 2007, when someone accidentally picked up the call and talked rubbish for about 30 seconds before getting cut off; despite all these factors, I tried to stick with spice… I really did.

Now, WHY did I try? At one point, it had economical schemes, and that counted high on the charts back when I was still in college. And soon, a lot of people knew me only through that number, +919844364074, and since giving up the sim-card here would mean giving up the number as well, it seemed prudent to give Spice some time to redeem itself.

But Spice continued to taunt me with its incessant and relentless degradation. Some of the people I give my number to don’t even bother noting it down once they realize it is a Spice connection. They reason that they could have better luck by passing a note to a random stranger and asking him to relay it until it reaches a Hamish Joy… somewhere.

Once I tried going to a store to get my mobile recharged….

Me: I’d like to recharge my phone….
Store owner: Ok, sir. What’s your connection?
Me: Spice…
S.O.: Spice??? Why did you go for that, sir? It is the worst connection ever….
Me: Hmm… do you have the recharge card or no?
S.O.: No, sir. We don’t keep Spice here.
Me: Know anyplace around where I can get…
S.O.: No, sir. No good store would keep Spice.

That was pretty bizzare. I walked out… The owner actually followed me a bit, continuing his tirade…

S.O.: Spice is the worst company in the world…
Me: (Starting a slow run) Emm… Ok….

Now, truth be told, I have to admit that there have been times when I was pleasantly surprised by the reception offered by Spice, but too few too late, it had to go…

The last straw was their new service called “Spice Missed Call Alerts“… a new paid service offered by the company which enables you to get SMS alerts regarding all the calls attempted to your cellphone while your phone is (perceived to be) ‘switched off‘ or ‘out of coverage area‘… which basically means they are getting YOU to pay for their incompetencies and inadequacies.

I thought about this and sobered up. Hell, if Spice starts to charge me for its incompetencies, I’ll be bankrupt before dawn. I had to get out of this. I asked around… Taking a new card seemed to be the most popular method. And so, here I am… brand new SIM card in my phone… brand new grin on my face… and brand new bills coming to wipe my silly grin off…

I shall still retain my Spice card for another two weeks… until The Official Ceremony Of Throwing The SIMCard In The Middle Of The Ocean And Dancing Around.

As of now, it is too early to crib about my new connection at +919886775074. Hopefully, I won’t have to crib about it too much… Maybe I should look up the history of Vodafone just to make sure…

“What would you do if you had an unlimited amount of money?”. I was recently asked by my bespectacled cousin. It was a serious question; not the kind I could have slipped by with flippant answers like “Buy off the legal system and go ramming traffic police-vehicles with my customized Ferrari.” Now, unlimited financial freedom is too heavy a concept for my brain cell. My answers seemed to stem around the ridiculously simple ones.

“Hmm… Unlimited amount of money, eh? I’d start some business, invest my money…”

“Eh? Why? Dude, you don’t need any more money. You have an UNLIMITED supply”

“Oh. Ok. Then I’ll just travel the world, write some books, market them properly…”

“Why? Why do you want to do all that? You have an UNLIMITED amount of money. You can do whatever you want. You don’t need to invest time and effort on work.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. I’ll just… I’ll… I’ll simply buy an existing company… something that can sustain itself. That won’t require much work from my…”

“Bah!”

I’ve asked around, and apparently, most people have thought about this at some point… It’s like Required Dreaming for the Working. And they’ve thought about it hard. I know someone who know exactly what model of hovercraft he would get handcrafted and what alloy he would use to emblazon his initials with. It was yet another arena of thought that the Hammy persona had fallen behind. This got me thinking, and thinking bulges the nerves on my forehead… a decidedly unpretty sight… I gave some real thought to the concept of perennial wealth; of unwavering financial might; of true pecuniary excess…

Now what would I do with a gazillion bucks?

A house would be a good start. Now what kind of house would Hammy, the multigazillionaire want? Being a product of perfunctory City life, I would live in a house modeled after a Hypermarket. It would be expansive, air conditioned, and guarded 24/7. It would have a parking space for all 27 of my current cars up front, additional space for guests’ vehicles to the side, and a helicopter launchpad right smack in the middle, though admittedly that’s not the accepted style for the hypermart of today.

There would be guards stationed at the gates trained to yell at wandering wannabe-shoppers in four different languages - “Move along. Move it!! This is not a Hypermart. Do your shopping elsewhere.” I shall have a four member staff at the front desk, whose ONLY job would be to say “Good morning/ evening/ night, sir. Have a nice day.” I won’t keep a fridge or a storage room for my stuff. I shall actually have the items placed in proper shop display, from where I shall pick up food/ snacks/ other items in a shopping cart, carry it to the counter, and pay for it using MY own credit card, which will work only for me and my immediate family.

In times of boredom, I shall engage in shoplifting, trying to outwit a hired actor who’d play the part of the nervous, but agile security guard. All the staff members would be paid top dollar for their part… Yes, I shall actually get my money converted to dollars just so I can use the expression ‘top dollar’ a bit more freely.

Once I pass through the Hypermartish entrance, I shall move on to the oceanside BBYY Hotel, where I’ll have entire floors instead of rooms; my studio, my bed-floor, my kitchen-floor, the living-floor, the bath-floor, the home theater floor, the jogging floor, the video-game floor, the library-floor, the liquor floor, and I’ll have a few floors kept for guests. I shall even have actors playing the part of neighbors. I wouldn’t mind having Julia Roberts or Johnnie Depp living a floor below… And I’ll have a large swimming pool filled with a mixture of vodka and Sprite.

I shall have to use personalized speed-bikes to travel within the house.

I shall frequently fly my own jet labeled ‘The Blah Blahs’ or ‘The BBYYs’ right up to a remote location and eject to watch it crash on the debris of all my older jets. I shall shoot the explosions on video and distribute them freely on the net.

I shall even have a store exclusively for giving away my old stuff, such as day-old clothes, shoes, food, and beverages; week-old shoes, watches, glasses, etc; year-old cars, bikes, helicopters, etc…

I shall replicate this structure in all the major countries in the world so that I can travel without the worry of finding decent accommodation.

I shall also produce a Hollywood movie…. in a story written, directed, produced, and casted by me. It shall be the most expensive movie ever made… The director’s chair alone would have the budget of the X-Men trilogy.

Dammit. I’m tired of thinking. The vein bulging on my forehead is threatening to erupt into a mini-flood…. Waitaminute. I got it.

I’ll hire a team of creative experts who’d come up with newer ways to spend my money. Teenagers would be ideal. What do you think?

I just bought a brand new laptop. I don’t really know how it looks like, I don’t know the configuration, and I don’t really know how much it cost me. All I know is that I have indeed bought a laptop, and that my buddy, Nash, feels it was a great bargain. For reasons undisclosed, Nash was packed and couriered by his company to the US of A for a period of three weeks, which is the accepted maximum duration any given geography has been able to withstand. This felt like a great opportunity; all I needed was to get Nash to smuggle me something useful. The goody two-shoes absolutely and vocally refused to carry gold bricks, so I had to settle for a laptop.

Now when you buy technological gizmos like laptops, it is imperative that you give absolute, crystal-clear specifications so that you get what you need. Nash knew this. He called me up to make sure we were on the same page.

“Dude. I got your message. You want a laptop? What kind are you looking for?”

I thought for a minute,

“A good one…”
“Oh. Ok.”

I trust his judgment. Of course, I will validate his judgment tomorrow when I go to his place and finally see the device. And if I find an ugly little toy instead of a decent laptop, I am not closed to the idea of strangling his judgment, shooting a couple of holes in it, pulling it by the short hair and hanging it out to dry. But I am not worried. I trust his judgment. And I’m carrying my shotgun because… err… I always carry a shotgun.

But to get back to rational sense (only temporarily, folks… don’t worry) at the end of the day, it’s just a laptop. It’s not going to alter the course of my life… I can AFFORD to buy one without being intricately involved in the purchase process. In the old days, people used to make supremely important decisions on whims. I am not talking about George Bush. I am talking about arranged marriages.

No, I am not ridiculing the concept. If I were, I’d go like this - “Ha ha ha… Arranged marriage? What a dumb idea!!”. No, I recognize the advantages involved, AND I understand that when it happens these days, the bride and groom gets time and space to get to know each other well…

Things were not always this smooth. There used to be a time, at least among the stubbornly religious, orthodox communities, when the bride was never even allowed to see the groom until after the ceremony. There have been documented, bizarre, spurious cases where the bride accidentally married the groom’s pet porcupine. This was never a good sign, and if PeTA was active back then, they would have had pickets up against the inhuman treatment of… well, the inhuman porcupine.
But then I digress. I tend to do that sometimes. If I digress in the future, it is your job (yes, YOURS!) to get me back on track…

So what was I saying? Arranged marriages used to be unbalanced decisions where, if you arranged the people involved in the order of their importance, the groom and bride would come after their fathers, mothers, grandparents, uncles, aunts, older cousins, neighbors, and their sacred animals, if any.

But those were the old days; the dark ages - people were less aware, the youth weren’t seen as mature. Today, people in general are more open minded; they are willing to see their young ones as able, independent, confident people who can judge their lives for themselves. They are in control of their own destiny. Today, if a bride marries a porcupine, she KNOWS she’s marrying a porcupine.

Incidentally, as I was daydreaming about my laptop, which, as I imagine it now, has the power and capability to wake me up, make breakfast, file my tax returns, microwave dinner, and fly me to work in rare cases of emergency, I called up a friend back in Kerala, and she told me the wonderful news that she was engaged. Let’s call her AQT. (Why not? That’s what I call her anyway. Honest!)

Hey, she’s a product of the new age. She’s educated, with loving parents, and with enough exposure to the world. She’s not the porcupine-marrying specimen of yesteryears. So, quite naturally, I congratulated her. She beamed, took a bow, and thanked me. Of course, I’m assuming that she beamed and took a bow, seeing as we were chatting up on the phone.

“So, what’s the guy like?”
“Hmm… I haven’t met him yet..”
“Oh? Well, that’s ok. He’s just like my laptop. I haven’t seen it yet, either. Well, so what do you know about the guy?”
“Hmm… Well… He’s from Dubai”
“Oh, cool. Mine’s from the U.S. What else?”
“Err… he’s nice. I’ve seen him when we were kids.”
“Come on, you gotta do better than that. What’s his name?”
“It’s… errr”
“Mine is HP. Go on, take your time. Tell me more about the guy.”
“Hmm… His family knows my family.”
“Hey!! Come on!! Mine has a 250 GB hard disk. It has a webcam microphone built in…”
“Well, he’s… he’s… I’m…”
“Wireless network, 15.4’ screen, Windows Vista preloaded…”
“He works in Hotel management…”
“That’s better. What is his background?”
“Duh. He did his hotel management course.”
“Hmm… and? Anything? Mine comes with 2 GB RAM. It’s a pretty good deal, excellent features, robust, stable”
“So is he.”
“Really? He comes with 2 GB RAM? I don’t think so.”
“That’s not what I meant. I… you know what… it’s not fair comparing my guy to your laptop.”
“That’s right. In a few years, I can always upgrade my laptop.”

Well, ok… so maybe the new ‘know-everything-about-each-other-before-you-tie-the-knot’ philosophy of arranged marriage hasn’t got through to everyone. But still, society IS getting better. Plus, there are fewer objections to love marriages than in the past… almost none at all from porcupines.

But then again, what do they know? They’re just a bunch of pricks.

The lighting was artificial, far from sufficient to navigate the terrain confidently. But he was thanful for whatever illumination it provided. The very thought of walking on the uncertain terrain in the dark brought a shudder to his spine. It was hard enough as it was.

His eyes darted across the place. Piles of random junk strewn sporadically. No apparent sense of order. No easy way to search for ANYTHING. If you lose something here, he reasoned, it has a good chance of never being found again. Not even by him, and he was reasonably familiar with the turf.  After all, he’d been returning to this very spot nine times out of ten for the past several months. He could recognize the various objects scattered around, and he treaded on tiptoe ever so carefully, trying hard to avoid crushing them under his heavy feet. He had to take a minute before each step, trying to find a safe footing. Slowly, but steadily, he progressed. He finally picked a few stray pieces of junk, brushing them aside, making a clearing for himself.

The mess wasn’t ‘cleaned up’ by any stretch of the imagination. It was just a mess of a different order now. Cleaning up the whole mess would not be easy. He’ll take care of that later, he told himself, postponing the herculean task to an indefinite future.

For now, he had his clearing… not much; just enough to stretch his legs and catch forty winks… enough to get through the night, and tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow, he’ll take the broom and clean up the whole place… OR… tomorrow he’ll write about it all… and that too, in the third person.

Now why would I write in the third person? Aside from the obvious fact that it is fun (Really. Try it out.), it also has benefit of easening confessions and admissions.

The first step in the process is admitting you have a problem. So let me just come out and say it. I… am… an alcoholic. It all started during my MBA cour… No, wait. That’s another article. Let me start over here.

I… am… a litterbug… a mess-master, a scrapyard junkie, the mess-iah of chaotic disarrangement, a landfill-mimic interior decorator, an architect of material ruins.

It’s an engrained trait, and like a true Carl Jung follower (which I am not), I’ve traced it back to my childhood.

You see, I’ve had an enchanted childhood, surrounded by magic. When I return from school, I used to leave a trail of uniform clothes leading from the front door right up to the TV. I could leave my books lying around, flipped open to a random page. I could wake up and leave my bed unmade in the smug knowledge that it would all get sorted out by the time I return for my next nap. I could put my socks on the TV stand, I could leave my shoes scattered on the doorsteps/ front yard, I could throw my dirty lunch box on the floor, and watch my daily dose of television. The mess WOULD sort itself out.

It was magic. No doubt about it, it was magic. It was the kind of magic I used to depend on. It was magic I had come to take for granted. It was magic with a capital ‘M’. It was magic spelt ‘M-o-m’. And it was magic who used to take care of it all despite maintaining a nine-to-five job on the side.

When I left for college, and subsequently, to work, my clothes and junk no longer ‘un-messed’ themselves up. I tried ‘abracadabra’, ‘alakazam’, ‘zim-zim-salabim’, and other assorted magic words, but the magic was gone. The mess remained.

The rational man would have shrugged his shoulders, given a frown, fetched a broom and started sweeping. But as the undisputed king of procrastination, I had certain expectations of myself… I said “Later”, and went back to watching a movie on the comp, despite part of the screen being obscured by the sock hanging from the monitor…

Mom once suggested that I at least pile up the garbage into plastic bags, so that it gets seperated from the other ‘necessary’ junk. That was a year ago. Now, my room has a pile-up of enough tied-up plastic bags to be used in Fear Factor’s Climb-a-garbage-mountain challenge.

Today, the list of things that I have lost, but am confident are ’somewhere in the room’, includes, but is not limited to four expired credit cards, twelve to fifteen DVDs, three nasal inhalers, two small containers of pain balm, one computer mouse, over a dozen ball-point pens, two permanent marker pens, two keychains, four separate keys, three novels, one shaving kit, several dead batteries, a guitar string and a grand piano.

Ok, so the list does not include a grand piano, but it might as well have. I once thought of organizing a scavenger hunt for these items, but then again, I don’t want to repeat the Cleaner’s Fiasco of ‘07.

The Cleaner’s Fiasco of ‘07 refers to an incident a few months back. A team of highly trained veteran housecleaners, armed to the teeth with high end state of th art cleaning equipments, dutifully determined to combat the mess inside. The proud men and women walked into my room in the month of August ‘07, with the song “We are the champions” playing in the background. And they walked in slow motion to further increase dramatic effect. They were never heard from again.

I acknowledge the distinct possibility that I dreamed the Cleaner’s Fiasco of ‘07, but that does not diminish the danger I’m talking about here. If you are a good friend of mine, I would never recommend that you go into my room alone, unless you have a working compass, a map, and your insurance premiums are in order.

I don’t claim to be alone in the matter. Back in my college days, I knew people who would consider their room to be clean if it passes the government imposed hygiene standards for industrial landfills… people who slept on a bed of beer cans, people who used shovels to pave a walkway to their beds… people more commonly known as bachelors.

They are invariably guys. Sure, you have the occassional documented bona-fide lady litterbugs, but their rooms, at the worst shape they’d been in, would be too clean for the male litterbug to comfortably enter, even in their dreams.

And speaking of dreams, have you ever had a dream that you were so sure was real?  How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world? Ok, ok, so that’s part of a dialog from The Matrix. But still, I’m sure we’ve all had such dreams. My mom sure did.

She suddenly found herself in Bangalore… It’s possible, she reasoned. She could have come there to visit me and my brother.

She has come alone… still possible, despite the fact that she’s never left Cochin city without dad by her side since 1979.

She saw a lot of familiar buildings; buildings similar to ones back home in Cochin… possible, what with all the common engineering practices and all…

She was able to easily find her way right to our rented home without needing to call either me or my brother… possible. After all, she HAS visited us before.

She opened my door and walked in to find…  neatly made beds, a dust free computer, a clean and shining floor, plates washed and kept aside, and books neatly arranged on shelves…

And she thought to herself, “Dammit. This is just a dream.”

She was picking up the groceries from the forward rack. Her back was turned against me. It was night time, and the store was more or less deserted. It was, as Elmer would say, vely vely quiet. And she had no idea I was sneaking up on her. This was the perfect opportunity. And so, I pounced…

Me: Boo!!

Her: (nonchalantly) Very funny.

Me: Come on. Must have scared you a little bit. You weren’t expecting that, were you? You WERE scared. Admit it.

Her: Uhm… Was that supposed to scare me?

Me: Ya, ya. Act like you weren’t scared. You don’t fool me

Her: When will you grow up? (and walks off)

It is certainly condescending when somebody tells you to grow up. And trust me, it is even less appealing when the comment is made by your younger cousin, four to five years your junior. But, in my defense… I really thought I had her that time. Hmmm… maybe next time.

A practical joker, I am not. I’m not the guy who’d wear a fake flower on my shirt, squirting water on anyone who comes close to inspect it. I am more the guy who dispenses stupid verbal puns, such as “Yes, doctor. I think you’re a fine dentist. You know the drill“, actively making people all around a bit more open to poking their brains with sharp metallic objects. But I’d have to confess that I HAVE been guilty of trying to scare people with a surprise yell… Now why do I persist in doing this? It’s certainly not because of the impressive success rate. Most of the ‘victims’ stifle a yawn and walk off. What exactly do I plan to achieve? What happens after I really manage to scare someone? Grin like an idiot and say “I got you there”? It’s the fine art of ignoring questions like those that makes me me.

But for stupidities like those, I guess what’s really important is the victim. You read my account on the less-than -successful endeavor with my cousin up there. She’s not easily fazed by simple tactics like those. She’s got nerves of steel. Then again, she’s been subjected to numerous idiocies by yours truly. So she more or less expects these things.

What you need is the jittery nerve-racked string-o-wires kind-of victims. The ones who do intense acrobatic backflips everytime they see a shadow of an insect on the wall. And I knew JUST the gal.

My good old friend, Sherry. She lives alone. She stays out late at times, and when I drop her back home, I get solid entertainment watching her paranoia. She makes me wait in the living room while she takes her magnifying glass and tries to check if random strangers are hiding away in the closet/ attic/ cupboard/ bathroom/ etc etc. She even opens her large suitcases and does a thorough search. Who knows? Maybe the incredible shrinking man from Taiwan crawled in with a wrench.

Now, I don’t blame her for the paranoia. Bangalore has been the breeding ground for two legged vermin. You can’t pick up the paper without seeing bizzare criminal attacks on households. But I still get amused by her antics.

“Have you checked inside the bean bag? Sometimes, these guys remove most of the beans and hide inside.”

“Oh my God!!”

I am such an asshole. But this day, she was taking much longer than usual. Maybe she had a few extra suitcases stashed away. I was getting tired waiting around, and I was making my irritation known…

“Hey, I’m leaving. It’s late. I have to go.”

“Just a second, Hammy. Just wait.”

“Nope. Me leaving. Good night.”

And I opened the door. Of course I couldn’t leave her like that. She’s a small creature, to look at her, but when she gets mad, the bravest of knights shed their shining armor so that they can run faster..So I shut the door.

BANG!

“Hammy!! Don’t go! Are you there??? You better not have left, dammit!!”

Hmm… Don’t answer. Let’s see how scared she gets. Quick! Hide. No, you idiot. Not behind the aquarium. It’s transparent. Duh! Quick. Under the bed. Are you kidding? You’re never gonna fit under that.

“Hammy!! ARE you there?”

No time. Quick. Hurry. Ooh, ooh. The pillar. I can hide behind the pillar. Yes!! So there I am, ready to pounce on poor little Sherry. She’ll come to the living room, expecting to find me waiting. She won’t see me, cos I’m smartly hidden behind the large pillar. Then she’ll start thinking “Crap. He really left. Just wait till I catch him next. He’s gonna pay big time.” and suddenly, without warning, I’ll jump out from behind the pillar and shout ‘boo’.

I have weird ideas for fun.

But wait. I hear footsteps. Here she comes. Get ready now.

“Hammy… Where are… Oh”

He he… Any moment now. Get ready to jump.

“Hmm… I see you, Hammy. Just come out.”

Huh? She’s bluffing. She’s joking. Well, maybe not. But what is she laughing so hard about?

“Ha ha haw haw he he hoo hoo” etc etc etc…

Ok, ok. So I come out. I squint my left eye, arch the eyebrow, and ask what’s so funny…

“He he he.. You hid pretty well, Hammy. But I still saw you. Your stomach stuck out from the pillar.”

Ouch. I really should get serious about a diet! Dammit, stomach. Bad tummy. Baaad tummy.