For a long time, I was living under the delusion that I was , if not a neatness freak, at least intolerant of living in dumpsters. But looking at the mess I leave behind in every room I could lay my hands on, I have to face the ugly truth… Even when I wrote Movers and Rakers and Junkyard Woes, I had built an impenetrable fortress of self serving excuses. Excuses that any decent lawyer could drill through as easily as a chain iron through butter.

Lawyer: “Is it true, Mr. Hamish, that you submitted a lack of time as the reason for not cleaning up your last place of residence?”

Me: “Umm…. Yeah…”

L: “Well, what kept you busy?”

Me: “I’m a working guy. I have office work to attend to. You know how it is…”

L: “No, sir. I do not know. I understand your work gets over by 6. Is that not true?”

Me: “No. No! I mean… depending on the workload, I may have to stay back late… that takes up a lot of time… and that also…”

L: “How often do you have to do that?”

Me: “It’s hard to say… It depends… I can’t put a number on it.”

L: “Try. In a week, how many days do you get home before 2000 hours? “

Me: “Huh?”

L: “8 P.M.”

Me: “Hmm… hard to say… “

L: “Would you say more than twice a week?”

Me: “Hey, it’s not that simple. Of course there are times when I get back home early, but I need my rest. After a long and tiring day, you can hardly expect me to…”

L: “Well, Mr. Hamish… What sort of tiring job do you do on a regular basis?”

Me: “I’m a…. I’m… I’m a market researcher. I do research stuff… I research the… the… you know… the market and all… I… I… Awwwwkkkk!!” <clutches chest, rolls eyes, drops to the ground and fakes attack in a boldly planned strategic move>

I KNEW I’d crumble. I hid behind excuses of workload, and minor illnesses. I kept fooling myself with promises…. promises that I would take care of my next place better.

And here I am. Day 31 in my new place, and already my room is lined with assorted junk that would put the Addams family to shame. This time around, I refuse to be fooled by my mishmash of piled up lies. Just let me try to pull a fast one over me. This time, I’m ready!

Me: “Hey, man. I know it’s a mess. I didn’t mean to dilly dally around this.”

Myself: <sarcastically> “Oh, you didn’t, did you?”

Me: “No, I… Hey, what’s with the attitude? What’s your problem?”

Myself: “You know DAMN WELL what the problem is! How could you let this happen? Now what’s your plan, bigshot? You want to move AGAIN??”

Me: “Whoa. I SAID I’ll clean up, didn’t I?”

Myself: “Oh, sure. That’s gonna solve it. You pea-brained nincompoop, that’s what you said the LAST TIME. You can’t go on like this. You have to roll up your sleeve and get into it. DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU PROCRASTINATING PILE OF GARBAGE-LOVING RETARD???”

Me: “Hey, I do NOT need to take that shit from you. I’m leaving.”

Myself: “COME BACK HERE! GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, YOU!!! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?”

Me: “I’m going out for a while… get away from this stupid argument.”

Myself: “Oh, oh, oh?? Now this argument is STUPID, IS IT?? You’re gonna leave your room like a pigsty and go out doing… WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO DO ANYWAY?”

Me: “I’m going to go have some beer.”

Myself: “OH, REALLY?”

Me: “Yeah, really!”

Myself: “Why didn’t you say so? Get me a bottle as well.”

DAMMIT!! Never trust me in an argument with myself. I’d cave in… any day.

But you know what… I’m not overly perturbed. Because I know… It’s not just me… It’s everybody. Everybody is a litterbug at heart…. Well, ok… every GUY. Girls tend to have a pre-conditioned temperance towards a tidy atmosphere. In fact, if they saw a room like mine, they’d faint with a vengeance… But guys have roughly the same tolerance towards piled up mess as a junkyard tractor. Back in college, I knew guys who literally had to shovel a path to their beds on a nightly basis.

It is an ingrained trait, a characteristic as old as man himself. Our prehistoric ancestor, Moog from Oog, would leave charcoal scrapings lying on the floor after he etched pictures of his day on the cave-wall, embellishing the bit about his fight with the mastodon by omitting to note that it was already dead when he got there. Mrs. Moog, on seeing the scrapings, would have another fight with Moog, which was particularly difficult then, because neither of them knew English…

Mrs. Moog: <Pointing at the scrapings on the floor> “Moog!! Brab frag rbar span BAM!”

Moog: “Arb barb argarbarb… Sbar Kapar Minpl…”

Mrs: <takes wooden club in hand> “MOOG!! MARG SPINKTE STEARB FALK BLEGH!!”

M: “Err… Ernepa… Err..”

Mrs: “STAER GRINX MARD DREAJ JEACB DAVON DBIH DOAH GHIB AOTB EEK BAES…”

M: “Err…”

Mrs: “…BRUGER ABTWA RER AWEA WTFT EERK CLANE WBAS BEAN SREATH AGRLJ SDEJEATH DAE…”

M: “Err… Awwwwkkkk!!”<clutches chest, rolls eyes, drops to the ground and fakes attack in a boldly planned strategic move>

Recently, a lurking, irksome, nearly forgotten evil made its presence known, albeit in a slightly different form. It was an evil that I, and so many of my discerning friends, had blissfully considered long forgotten… an ugly memory of the past, buried under the thick fabric of time. We were wrong. But enough about Himesh Reshammiya’s upcoming movie.

Let us, instead, focus on a recent mini-buzz stirred in the blogosphere. Note that when I say ‘recent’, I use the term rather loosely. Blogging heavyweight Anjali Philip (a.k.a. Silverine) showcased one of the more popular social evils in our country today, the dowry system. This sparked off several tangents, notably, Mathew’s passionate call to arms. Mathew was so overwhelmed with righteous anger that he bypassed his customary touches of pointy humor.

This got me thinking. It was high time I put in my two cents, possibly more, depending on inflation. So it was with grim determination that I pulled out my pen, only to put it back when I remembered I don’t need a pen to type in my article.

For those of you who are thankfully ignorant of the nuptial custom, dowry is the traditional practice where the bride’s family forks up a shovel-load of money and fills the groom’s pockets until the seams start to burst. Back in the medieval times of ignorance, as far as ten years ago, it used to be seen as a right and a matter of demand. Over time, this has resulted in/ contributed to the varied facets of society such as female infanticide, child marriage, abandonment of the girl-child, wife-abuse, poverty, land swindling, suicides, and similar pleasantries.

But thankfully, with the proliferation of education, learning, women’s liberation and a wider mind, the situation has - at least among the urban population - become ridiculous. Most educated people have been taught, AND understand that the system is bad. “Dowry = Evil”- thus quoted the textbooks. And hence quoted the Indian Penal Code, and deep within themselves, every educated chap knows this equation well. And yet, it is surprising how many people still jump for it like monkeys on trampoline. (No. I don’t really know if monkeys are particularly aggressive about trampoline hopping, but I sure like to think so.)

Now why is that? You can get a whole lot of self serving justifications, from “Hey, her family wanted to follow tradition. I just didn’t stop them”; “it’s just her family’s gift… How could I refuse?”; “No, man. I never wanted that. My folks are just too old fashioned. I can’t refuse them.”, and the ever popular – “Hey, what they give is their business. I don’t bother with these things.” Nothing will ever change unless people step forward. Sadly, few do.

“No, dad. I want to marry THAT stack of money.”

But worse than those guys, I am more frustrated with the armchair cynics… the kind of people who live by the mantra “Nobody’s going to change anything. I can’t do anything, and neither can you. So shut up and let me enjoy my soap operas in peace”. Now those are a special brand of people; people who ought to be hung by their thumbs and periodically dipped in molten tar. The next generation is coming a long way in tackling the world today. They’re adding newer lines to Billy Joel’s “We didn’t start the fire”, and they mean it. The least you could do is get out of their way. The cure IS spreading.

But then again, it’s not spreading fast enough. We do have a lot of people who refrain from asking for dowry, but don’t say no to it either. And there are misguided parents of some girls who feel that giving a sizable dowry is a sign of respect; a matter of prestige and pride. We need the daughters to stand up for themselves. (“I swear, papa… if you offer dowry for my marriage, I shall run away with the cook. Yes, the one with the limp.”) And we need guys to stand up aggressively and refuse dowry offers. Guys have multiple options to tackle the situation, two of which can be outlined as follows…

Option 1 – Active Aggression: “You dare offer me dowry, you simple minded, prehistoric moron?? That does it!! I’m not going to marry your daughter. What I am going to do is hold you by the cuff of your collar and shake you until your dentures fall out!”

Option 2 – Subtle Humor: “So let me get this right… You give me 15 lakhs and a car… I take your daughter for life… Hmm… Let me think… Tell you what… give me 25,000 and I’ll take her off your hand for a month or so. Deal?”

(WARNING: Grown up girls’ parents are notorious for missing subtle humor. Option 2 may not be a healthy choice)

Dowry has been predominantly peppering arranged marriages. But really, the most interesting aspects come to light when dowry rears its ugly little head during the course of a love marriage.

“Darling, I’ll bring you the moon if you need it. I’ll blow the sun away if you think it’s too warm. I’ll dive off the highest mountain and into the deepest ravine. I’ll carve your name on that big revolting rock with just my teeth, and sing love songs for the rest of my life… the good ones, not the Barry Manilow ones… IF you would only marry me.”

(giggle giggle, blush blush) “He he… Of course, silly! OF COURSE I’ll marry you!”

“Great! Come tomorrow to the corner of 6^th and main. Hand over 6 lakhs in small denominations to my dad, get his blessings and come meet me at…”

“You have GOT to be kidding me!!”

“Huh? Not at all… small denominations are easier to handle. It’s…”

“Not that!! Are you really asking me for dowry??”

“Oh… yeah. You know I don’t really care about it. It’s my folks… they’re really set in their old ways. Besides, 6 lakhs is not that big a deal. Your dad…”

“Jesus! How can you even ask me something like this?? I thought you loved me… you said you’d do anything for me… how can…”

“Hey! I do love you, ok?… Here’s what I’m gonna do… and believe me, I wouldn’t do this for anybody else… Don’t tell anyone, but… I can give you a very lucrative EMI option…. And if you act now, I’ll throw in…”

Now those are another bunch of people who ought to be buried alive in a vat full of stale decaying fish.

But the really rosy memory when it comes to dowry is an event during college years. Me and a bunch of friends gathered up to be at a classmate’s brother’s wedding… It was a very different sort of an event… one of my friends was translating the ceremony on the fly… and at one point, the father of the bride put up 1 kg gold on stage. My friend explained that that would be the dowry. I stood up and said, “Hell. I’ll give 1.5 kgs. I’LL buy your son.” This started up a small bidding frenzy amongst our little gang. It went up to 5.25 kgs, but then died down.

Of course, all these dialogues took place in hushed whispers from the back of the hall, out of hearing range from the rest of the people. Otherwise, I don’t expect we’d have come out of the place with our bones intact. And we all need our bones, particularly the backbone, when it comes to standing up for what you know is right.

Wedding bells chimed… metaphorically, of course. Crowds cheered, drinks emptied, cameras clicked, and speeches given. Another joyous occasion. And no, I am still safe, sound, and blissfully single. The wedding was of my prodigious cousin, Roshan Francis, and my multi-talented friend, Ashika Sharma. Wrongly rumored to be next in line, and the clear target for the loathsome ‘ooh-you’re-next-when’s-THAT-happening?’ speech, I sought refuge behind the camera lens… incognito as the unofficial photographer. The old hiding-in-plain-sight tactic. Not a bad strategy. Almost worked.

For those who came in late, Rosh is my high-flying, globe-trotting, wry-smiling, head-banging, crisp-talking, quiz busting rootin tootin cousin from my mother’s side. And he met Ashy, my French-teaching, paragliding, multilingual, guitar slinging, piano playing, pencil sketching, horse riding, palm reading, kathak dancing, matte painting, nature trekking buddy during a small party I had hosted a few years back.

Frankly, I never even imagined they would hook up. But looking back at the last paragraph, I realize I should have anticipated something of the sort. There’s a whole lot of him. And there’s a whole lot of her. Sparks were bound to fly. Matching each of their personalities would be a tough job by a third party…

“I’ll throw in a rock climber and nature enthusiast”

“Ha. I’ll see your nature enthusiast, and raise you a French linguist. GIN.”

They’ve been together for over two years now, unless my memory fails me… again. They say love makes the world go round. It certainly made THEIR world go topsy turvy, upside down… and spinning by the side. The problem was… like 92.73% of all couples the world over; they had differences… in opinion, in culture, in religion, in ambition, in drive, in interests, in addition to the generic differences between the sexes. But finally, they decided not to let trifles get in their way. Love, they proclaimed with their hitching ceremony, is all that matters, giving poets and songwriters a global boost.

It was an event so big it spawned a prequel and a sequel spanning over three states. The trilogy event started with a pre-marital fiesta in Pondicherry, where the bride’s friends gathered with the firm resolve to dance until they wake the sun up. This was followed up with the actual marriage in Madurai where tired, but still enthusiastic supporters danced and drank until the wee hours of the morning. And then they had a reception in Cochin where prudence kicked in before the tired bridey got tossed into a coma and festivities were euthanized early enough to allow a decent siesta. All activities from fiesta to siesta were covered in under a week, with barely enough time to breathe. The week was packed tighter than a wine shop on Christmas Eve.

It was strangely very fulfilling to see the event. It marked the end of the ‘is-love-really-worth-all-this?’ phase and marked the beginning of ‘let’s-get-committed-to-working-things-out’ era. The only thing they needed to know was whether they loved each other in spite of their differences. A lot of couples lose perspectives at this point.

Love is like an equation spread over infinite terms. Over time, you notice more and more and more factors, some of which seem unstable. The left hand side, or the LHS, and the right hand side, the RHS, both needs to be active in maintaining equilibrium. If the LHS starts fidgeting over a couple of new factors on the RHS, it might begin to lose balance. And then the RHS might say how awkward some factors on the LHS really are, but how it tactfully chose not to complain about them. And then LHS would say that RHS never thinks about how she would feel, and RHS would complain about how much LHS spends shopping. Then LHS would react by bringing in the time when she wanted to buy that lovely beige sweater with the pink border for her father but RHS spent that money on a new golf bag instead, hearing which RHS would simply shake his head and go bowling with his friends. Then LHS would storm out of the house with the kids and stay with her mother and serve divorce papers to RHS, who would, by this time, have taken to drink…

I screwed up the metaphor, didn’t I? I stretched it too thin. My metaphor turned out like a samurai warrior in scuba gear – vivid enough to catch attention, but too irrelevant to make good sense. And it doesn’t do much to retain the attention either.

Anyway, it’s good to find that some people can and do see past the trivialities and focus on life. I’d give two thumbs up to Rosh and Ashy, but then that’d make it difficult to type. I use my thumbs for the spacebars, you know. But then again… hmm… what the hell, they deserve that much.

Sohereyougo.TwothumbsuptoRoshandAshy.Maytheyhaveagreatlifeahead.

I’m moving.

Yes, moving… shifting house… migrating… changing horses … jumping ship… altering my housing supplier. Some of you may be thinking of jumping up and down in joyous exuberance, while others might be crying deep within. While I protest more vehemently towards the first group, BOTH reactions are quite unwarranted in this case. I’m not moving very far. In fact, my new place is hardly ten minutes walk from my old place. I dare say that if I were exceptionally strong with my throwing arm, I may be able to fling a bag of moist manure at my old place. And after a rather unpleasant talk with my old landowner, I plan to test that theory out. Have to find some moist manure first, of course…

People move for starkly different reasons. Some people move because their work place has shifted; some because of a tiresome transfer; some simply because they need a change of scenery; some because they are wanted by the FBI; some because they are planning covert undercover maneuvers against global terrorist fundamentalist organizations. I can’t claim to belong to any of the mentioned categories. I am moving because… I just can’t rake it anymore.

No. No typos. I MEANT rake.

For those lucky group who have not been drilled with the boring details of my mundane existence, allow me to reduce that luck by a small factor. For the past few months, I have been living with my brother, Lewin, and a few of his friends in what I’d like to call a typical bachelor lifestyle. But to be honest, I should concede that if this were indeed the depiction of bachelorhood, the whole drama about mankind being a superior being is just a sham; a myth; a self glorifying lie.

To say our place was a mess is an ‘understatement’. But since I can’t figure the right statement, I’ll go with that. Our place was a MESS. We started out by deferring the activities of taking out the garbage, sweeping the floor, and generally arranging the place by a mere ONE minute. (“Oh. Yeah. That’s just ONE garbage bag. I’ll take it out in a minute. Don’t worry about it. Just… just give me a minute.”) Minutes accumulated into hours. Hours accumulated into days, days accumulated into weeks, and weeks accumulated into months, until we became the world’s first indoor landfill.

We routinely packed off our leftovers, dirt and grit in neat little sealed plastic bags, and carefully placed them on the side of the room, FULLY intending to one day start throwing them out into some corporation dumpster. Now our rooms are laced with neat stacks of bloated plastic bags. Once, a salesman dropped by and got stunned by the pile and toppled over backwards. He would have cracked his skull for sure were it not for our trusty fortress of garbage bags that broke his fall.

But none of this fazed me. None of this fazed Lewin. We yield to no one in the art of thinking on our feet. We were men on a mission. We just needed a plan… And one day, tired and half asleep on our beds, we came up with a reasonable one.

“Bro. I think that garbage bag just moved.”
“Ya. I saw that too.”
“We need a plan. That garbage bag is still moving, by the way.”
“I got one. I say we wait.”
“Wait? Wait for what?”
“We wait and keep on raking the piles to the corner, like we always do. We wait until it reaches the stage where we share a risk of being pronounced a contamination site. And then… we give up. We move to a new place. Start all over. Clean setting… Sounds ok?”
“Perfect. Ideal!! I’m with you, man. Let’s do that.”
“Cool. For now, I think we better run. That bag is giving me the creeps.”

And we ran. We were sprinting away from the moving bag. We were sprinting in high spirit. We were sprinters with a plan.

(BTW, for those of you who are wondering, the movement in the bag was caused by some bugs. Nothing serious… or poisonous… I hope.)

It seemed like a neat plan… as any member of my secret covert organization, the Legion Of Laze (LOL) would attest. Leave the garbage alone. Nobody’s going to steal it. Once it really becomes intolerable, by which I mean the gases generated by the decomposing material inside the plastic bags become lethally explosive, then we split with a smile. Nice, neat, efficient, simple, short, sweet plan.

Didn’t quite turn out the way we hoped.

Our landlord had other ideas. Weird ones. He asked… no… He INSISTED that we clean up the place before we left, can you believe it?? And his insistence took the form of vaguely disguised threats. As you can understand, this rather puts a jinx on our efficient and simple plan. And he refused to hear reason. We tried explaining why his demands were mauling efficiency and simplicity, but he was too shortsighted to see things our way…

Right now, the original plans are out for a toss. We have moved our stuff into our new place. And to a small extend, we have cleared up the mess in our rooms. I still wouldn’t expect the city to bestow awards for exemplary housekeeping, but I rather proudly believe that newer visitors can walk into that room without tetanus shots.

Now, I am not proud of being a litterbug… unless I’m on my third bottle of beer, but that’s beside the point. What I meant to say is… Now I have a new place. Pretty close to the old place, but still… new. This means a new start. That means I have one more chance. I can get it right this time! I can clean up my act. I can start sweeping floors once in a while. I can put my trash in a waste basket. I can use dust wipes to clean up the computer, laptop, and other assorted items. I can do ALL that!!! And I can start by taking care of that ugly looking plastic bag I put in the corner; the one with tonight’s leftovers. I can start with that. And I will!!

Just… just give me a minute, though…