Fazed Book

I should write a book on how to lose and repel people.

Just write about sex, masturbation and insanity.

I can almost see the tumble weed rolling across the ghost town this place has become.

You are so fortunate that I do this for the sake of it; otherwise I would have felt ignored and hurt. Imagine that!

I have been doing Facebook.

It’s a strange place.

People say the weirdest things.

They call it status update.

How many statuses does a person have?

Apparently a lot.

It’s like that river and you never step into it twice kinda thingy. Our status is constantly changing and the world now gets to hear of it.

Yippee.

I didn’t realize that status in Facebook means the state of your mind at any particular time. So in the beginning, I kept writing things like:

Married.
Not sure if I am still married.
Definitely married. I think
Not sure.
Yep. It’s confirmed. Married.
No longer.
Make up your mind woman!!!

Then I was told very gently that this is not what that space is meant for.

These things are difficult for me.

I look at it and I wonder, what do I say?

State of my mind?

I leave that blank.

Question.

When someone posts something about a child that is hooked up into various tubes? Isn’t pressing Like a little distasteful?

Yesterday, I saw this link someone had send about the funeral of that Tibetan kid who burned himself to death for his countries freedom. It had 39 likes!

These are nice people. Really. I checked. They care. Then what is that they liked about something as morbid as that? It’s a bit confusing.

Commenting.

My wife is worried about me ever since I signed up for this. There are these key words, if I see, that tends to make me go into frenzy. It’s like waving a bed sheet at a bull.

God, religion, soul.

I dont know why but I am then compelled to put in my 2 bit. And that will be the end of a beautiful friendship that has lasted more than two decades.

That’s the thing about Facebook.

These are people you know or who knows you or who know someone who knows you. These are the walking proof of the six degree of separation. These guys know you, they know where you live, and they know your wife, your kids.

It’s probably best you deal with them nicely.

But commonsense has never been one of my stronger suits.

Face book scares me.

But there is comfort in knowing the even the most stupid thought in your head, if put into words, in that little cyber space, will have at least one like.

There’s always someone who agrees with you in Facebook.

It’s a beautiful, polite, considerate world.

People are so politically correct there. I guess you will think twice before saying: Fuck you niggers!!! , when with a click of a button, someone can find out where you live.

It’s wiser to be nice and neutral.

Me? I can’t resist.

I find it hard to control myself, when that 43 year old cousin of mine repeatedly posts pictures of her posing like an 18 year old. I mean it’s her life but doesn’t it require an honest opinion? I mean isn’t it why she is putting it out there?

So who gets to say the emperor is naked?

That’s where I come in.

Oh, my cousin has officially unfriended me.

Fuck. That’s not even a word.

All sane with a pinch of madness

There’s a rumor going around that I might be bipolar.

This is insulting.

Just because I look like a planet is absolutely no reason for people to get nasty.

Personally the term bipolar brings to my head this image of a polar bear that swings both ways.

Anyhow.

Since the possibility exists that what I am maybe actually a medical condition, I felt that I need to explore the matter, after which, I aim to ignore it completely.

I am jobless that way. Some one once asked me, if people's opinion of me matters to me. I would not be blogging if it did.

So with the help of a friend, who has tremendous experience dealing with someone who has this condition, I set out to find out more about this.

I am also the king of denials. My wife can attest to this fact.

It’s never my fault. Ask her.

The problem is I am so good at fooling myself; I am not sure if I will be able to see if truth stands in front of me and does a strip tease.

I do not think I am bipolar but this, if it turns out to be the case, gives me the perfect excuse for all my actions hence forth.

It will be my very own Get Out of Jail Free card.

My own PMS.

This will be great.

So, I did a survey.

I spoke to my friends.

The conversation went like this.

Me (on the phone): Hey, Hi. I just wanted to ask you a question.
Bloke friend: No. I didn’t borrow any money from you.
Me: No no. It’s something else.
Bloke: Oh, ok. Shoot.
Me: Do you think I am crazy?
Bloke: yeah man, totally. You are the craziest arsehole I know.
Me: no you fuck face. Do you think I am, like, you know? Mentally unstable?
Bloke: Of course man. You are totally insane.
Me: oh, fuck it. Where’s the cash you owe me?
Bloke: you are crazy; I never borrowed any money from you. You are just imagining things. Go see a shrink.


I come away confused.

You really can’t ask a male friend if you are crazy. They just lack perspective.

So I turned to my girl friends. Well, actually they are all my wife's friends. There's this unspoken deal between my wife and them that they should check in on me once in a while, since she’s not here anymore. My wife is convinced that I will loss the plot when she’s not there to buffer me from myself.

So I called them.

Women.

Me: Hey, do you think I am bipolar?
She: Totally.
Me: Do you even know what bipolar is?
She: Totally.
Me: Enlighten me.
She: It’s what you have.
Me: And that is?
She: You know? Where you swing between moods.
Me: I most definitely do not swing between moods. Fuck man, that sounds like a fucking monkey.
She: Will you stop swearing? I am going to tell mads.
Me: Fine. You go fucking tell mads that I am fucking swinging between moods.
She: Fine.
Me: Fuck you.
She: I don’t even know why I bother.
Me: You really think I am bipolar? I don’t feel like a bipolar.
She: Well maybe not exactly bipolar but there's something definitely wrong with you.
Me: What the fuck do you mean there's something wrong with me?
She: You are not exactly normal.
Me: Of course I am not normal, that is my whole USP. This me is a finely chiseled put together piece of art. One of a kind.
She: Fuck you tys.
Me: I am serious, I am yet to meet another me.
She: Fuck you. You know very well what I mean.
Me: Yeah (I don’t)
She: You need help.
Me: No, I just need sex.
She: Go fuck yourself. I am going to tell mads.
Me: Don’t flatter yourself. I am a far better company to myself than you can ever hope to be.
She: What?
Me: Never mind. Bye.

I am not convinced. So I asked mads.

Me: hey mads, how’s it going?
Mads: work. What about you?
Me: iam fine. Hey, do you think there’s something wrong with me?
Mads: like what?
Me: you know, the kind of person I am is due to some medical condition.
Mads: there’s nothing wrong with you.
Me: you sure? I mean, sometimes I don’t connect. I see things differently. I am unable to connect. The core is unaffected inside. Things happen on the surface and subside. Is that normal? Maybe the whole thing is just a mental disorder.
Mads: You are just alone tys. You are seeking some sort of validation. Just come home.
Me: Yeah. Soon.

Inside. None of it matters. These answers.

But a guy can still play with himself, can't he?

Next , the shrink.

I think I just hit the mother lode of material for my deprived blog.

Maybe we can start a bookie thingy here. Is he or isnt he? Maybe I might put up a poll here. We will take bets. Fortunes will be won and lost here.

The odds are against me.


My favourite bipolar joke :

I don't believe in Satan, I just think God has Bipolar Disorder

Sex and other such nonsense

Aah the pleasure of coming back here and seeing all those empty chairs.

Standing on this platform speaking to an empty void seems like the time I shouted 'I can’t hear you' from the viewing platform in Ponmudi to hear the echo shout back at me, repeatedly, my words, until it faded like dispersed fog. I was 12.

Nothing has changed.

I still have to talk to hear myself.

And you, my silent listener is the choiceful victim, led here by your fingers and hopefully staying here for your own reasons.

What shall we talk about today?

Let’s talk about sex.

Really. Let us truly talk about it.

Considering that I haven’t been having it for a very long time, you might understand and perhaps will not be harsh in your judgment of me, for bringing up a subject that for some, will be uncomfortable.

We will not lose focus and study why something that your parents did which resulted in you, is an embarrassing topic. We will not bother with why seeing naked people inserting, penetrating, sweating, licking, holding, which in a single beautifully descriptive word is called fucking, makes some cringe, while the same will watch with no discomfort the killing, maiming or other gores acts we commit to each other.

We will not bother with all that. We all have our reasons. So we will respect that and leave that alone.

We will not discuss what arouses us.

Is it what we see, or what we hear or what we read and what we taste? , or is it what they wear, or what they represent or what they do?

We will not go into all that. It happens. We do get aroused.

We will not discuss rape. Why some of us are uncomfortable with discussing it. Why we attach shame to an act where the victim gets raped twice. First by the rapist and then by the society.

Fuck all that.

We can discuss about masturbation, if that’s okay with you. But I guess you won’t. Act of self pleasure that can, if used correctly, is the remedy for sexual impulses.

Feel ridiculously horny?

Wank off. Go on.

Its way better than trying to seduce your secretary or your boss or your ex flame or your husbands best friend or forcing yourself on your maid or paying for an hour of tryst with a stranger. It’s more economical and less stressful.

And consider the range. For a person who likes multiple partners in real flesh, is still limited by the number of actual people who will respond to his or her needs. But for a well self trained masturbator, the world is his /her range. Everyone is available. All possibilities exist for you.

Wanna do some one? Anyone? This is your solution. You do hold the world in your hands.

Briefly.

After which you are requested to wash your hand and face the world with that out of your mind.

But we will not talk about it. I can see your discomfort. I can see the nervous giggle. I can see you looking over your shoulder to see if anyone can see what you are reading. I can see you calling your friend over to read it with you and laugh, so that in the pecking order of peer group all things that are shared are fine.

Prostitution.

My friend, philosophies that to drink milk one need not buy a cow, but merely go to the supermarket and take your pick.

Demand and supply.

That’s about it. We need not go there. We can get academic about it. We can, if you want, talk passionately about the violent crimes that revolve around it. We can get our pulses racing about issues like human trafficking, the abuses, children sold into it. We can go on. But we won’t.

Here we will stick to sex. The kind that involves feelings, that happens between consenting people. The one that involves some amount of foreplay, then the act and possibly some post coital rituals like a cuddle or a smoke or some innane conversation.

You will now ask me what about orgies, what about teenage sex, what about voyeurism, porn, ménage a trios, wife swapping, affairs, etc.

You might even ask me if our discussion will involve more than just sex, will we talk about tools. Handcuffs, whips, lubes, costumes, chocolate syrup....

I say why not. Yes there is consent. That’s the sex we are planning to talk about.

Now what is it we were talking about?

Ah, sex.

There isn’t much we can talk about it when its stripped off all its clothes, is there?

Much like an onion.

Like the saying goes: Just do it.

The sound of a man

I snore.

So they say.

I have never heard it. Never been woken up by it. Never lost my sleep because of it. Never wanted to smother a pillow on my own face while screaming 'Stop snoring you bastard'. That part is also kind of impossible to do.

But they say I do and so it must be true. I am a very trusting guy. I never doubt what others say about me. Most of the time what I hear from them about me is a revelation even to me. It’s always nice to know what others think about you. Giving a fuck about it is another story.

Back to snoring.

It was first brought to my notice by my wife.

She had one day woken up to the sound of a Harley Davidson in her bedroom and discovered that the sound was emanating from a large piece of human lard, her husband, who had also stolen the blanket.

Jesus said that faith can move mountains. But then he hasn't woken up next to me.

10 years later major sleep deprivation have made an energetic lovely woman into a bundle of nerves.

Scientists have recently done a study ( on the same line as the research to find if the penguins actually look up to watch a plane flying over them until they fall over. They don't. They actually cross their three toes, since it’s considered unlucky by them to watch anything that stiff fly) on women and men who are sleep deprived.

The studies have shown that women can be dangerous when sleep deprived.Even murderous. Sleep is a necessary part of their make up. Men on the other hand do not seem to suffer as much. Aren't we the lucky ones!

I believe this research.

A woman who is not rested is an evil thing. They are down right scary. Ask any man who had to deal with a woman, who had been kept up all night by a colic baby, the next day. Deal with that and man, facing a firing squad will seem pleasant.

Go on, tell her what a beautiful day today is and ask what’s for breakfast.

Then watch your arse explode beneath you.

Sleep deprivation is a bitch.

Ask any woman. Now they got science to back them up.

Another step down for men. So along with chest hair, lord of all he surveys status, non existent emotional IQ and other sundry things that gives having a penis such a pleasure, we lose the I am more tired than you battle.

Well we still have the stand up to pee bit.

Hooray.

Back to snoring.

Last time my friends and I went camping, I woke up to find a lynching crowd gathered around my tent the next morning. I had a wonderful sleep. Mountain air is so refreshing. I had apparently also cleared the place of all wild animals in the vicinity, who had gathered around the Al Ain zoo wanting to be let in.

My friends exaggerate.

I have always had great flights. Never have I had to face a rude hostess. Never have I not been helped to stove away my baggage into the overhead cabin (which is every time), never have I been insulted, cuffed or had hot scalding liquid poured on my lap.

That’s unless I sleep.

There’s always a chill in the air when I wake up on a flight. Nobody is actually rude. But there’s definitely a change in the attitude. I get these looks from my co passengers like I was responsible for something bad. The same looks you get from the guy who steps in when you exit an elevator you had farted in. It’s that look which that girl gave while she slipped off Stallone's grip in Cliff Hanger.

Oh, come on. You know that look. It’s the one that says: How could you do this to me?

Actually the look I get on the plane is the same as the one the guy who I met in the lift would give if he saw me again another day. In the same lift.

It’s the post betrayal look.

It’s cold. It’s accusatory. It’s judgmental.

And I would be wondering if there was an alien takeover while I slept.

Now I know.

It’s the snoring. It must be. Aliens’ taking over people’s body while I slept is so far fetched. It has to be my snoring.

Thing about snoring is that it’s a lot like demonic possession. You have no idea that you are doing it. You cannot be held responsible for something you are not aware of. Our justice system supports that. That’s why you can kill thousands and say God made me do it where the judge will go like, oh why didn’t you say so? Now off you go.

Technically I cannot be held responsible.

But try saying that to that woman who looks like that girl from Grudge, who is sitting at the foot of your bed staring at you when you opened your eyes.

Scared?

You should be.

Gay pride and me

Having studied in a boy’s only school for a major part of student life, I would have thought that I will be fine with gays.

I am fine with gays. But I think thats because I don’t know any.

Of course we did have the occasional touching feeling and in some case boys who went about as couples in our school, looking back I think it was more a case of making do with available resources. And like prisoners, when they stepped out of the restrictive situation, everything fell back in the right places and things went where they are meant to go. It seemed like a temporary lapse, nothing more.

Except even now, I shudder when I drop the soap in the bath and bend down to pick it up. Hopefully it will pass with the unavoidable Alzheimer’s that is due to make its presence felt in the next 10 years or so.

Age brings along with it certain mellowness. I would have loved to say wisdom but that seems to be elusive. You tend to recognize that most of your ideals and prejudices were all handed down to you and that you been just chewing someone else’s cud. Being a jerk, I tend to avoid the popular thought that is prevalent just because I can.

I do realize that now it’s all about right of freedom to do what you feel like. I have not problems with that. As long as it’s not my arse on the line, I don’t have any problem who is shagging who.

But by god, am I curious.

I want a gay friend. I have so much to ask.

You do too, don’t you?

That’s the problem when you start patronizing people. You make them into strangers. You might think you are on their side but your very support is the wall that separates you and them. Because in reality, your acceptance doesn’t require any expression. And if that acceptance is there, they would not be feeling like freaks.

Personally I find naked men nasty. Especially if I find one in my bed. Sex would probably be the last thought on my head. Whatever doubts I have had about my sexuality disappeared the day I was introduced to Adv.Anjali in the Debonair magazine in school. I was hooked. Fat bottom girls made my world go round since.


Then came today.

Everyone’s coming out of the closets. Hell, I think there are more people in there than clothes. There are parades. Sexuality is celebrated. It is now shown in mainstream movies.Basically people’s sexuality will soon become a non issue. Its really great.

Nope. You still can’t fuck a goat.

Yes, I know you think that it’s unfair but if you wait maybe a decade longer, we perhaps will get our head around to it. Yes, we do see your point. Yes, we do notice that the goat is really attached to you but somehow it’s not bringing good vibes to me buddy. That’s my food you are fucking.

I really think sexuality should be a non issue. Like the color of peoples skin. I mean, it’s really stupid if you think about it. It’s amazing how it lasted so long as it did. But then stupid ideas have a tendency to stick. Eh, god? You concur?

But for all the gays out there, I know absolutely no one. I mean personally. I have no gay friends. Which is a shame. I do get hit on once in a while. It’s kind of flattering. And I feel very weird when I say that I just want us to be friends. And the sound track in my head is going Man, feel like a woman...

We did have a college friend who was very feminine. Then we realized that he is a bhartanatyam dancer and a real sneaky womanizer. He catches them unaware. They all assume he is gay until too late. Almost like Jaws.

Well the truth is it would really not matter if my friends are straight or gay (why can’t it be straight or zigzag?). The way I am going, I doubt if I have any friends left.

Thing is I believe that a gay friend will be my ticket to finally understanding women. Of course this very inspired thinking came from my assumption that since a gay is a man who likes men, then it stands to reason he will be like a woman.

Brilliant deduction I must say.

Now to find a gay who will hopefully help me with this and will not try and seduce me.

This brings me to the next question:

Can a gay and straight be just friends?

Watch this space for the answer to that question.

Gay? Call me.

I dont do curtain calls

I am not into self analysis.

I love myself a little too much to indulge in such fool hardy pursuits. The hesitance could also have stemmed from previous futile attempts at trying to understand my inner nature by ticking all the relevant boxes in those - Are a real man or How to know if you are satisfying in bed etc. - columns in my sister in law's ample collection of Cosmopolitan magazines.

Yes. I read women magazine when I get a chance. Understanding the enemy is always a good strategy. Isn’t it weird that in men’s magazine we have girlie pictures and in women magazine, they still have girlie pictures. You would have thought otherwise, but no. No wonder there’s a general amount of male bashing going around; women have all turned lesbians.

Anyhow.

The readings from the ticking, which in the end will require some amount of mathematical skill, will be given at the bottom of those articles.

90 - 80: Boy, are you good! Just bronze your dong and declare yourself as a national monument.

80 - 60: You need to work at it. You need to express your desires and bribe the girl into accepting them. No. Blow jobs are not as exciting to her as it is to you.

60 and below: Just go and kill yourself. And while you are about it stop playing with yourself.

Invariably I realized that I was wasting my time finding out things about myself that were not exactly endearing.

I don’t do horoscope either.

Indian horoscopes are not your run of the mill Linda Goodman gushing about how you are the gift to the universe and how perfect you are.

Indian horoscopes are scary.

They make it so by making it appear to you that there’s a whole lot of calculations and enough symbols to give Dan Brown a hard on, going on to arrive at the answers to your puny existence.

Then in the midst of some gibberish that stands for a language that seems to be all but dead, they reveal to you your destiny.

I kind of lost interest when they started talking about some planets in somebody's houses and other such strange things. The only thing closely resembling a planet in my house is my father.

I get it. The logic behind it all. The usual argument of how moon affects tides and how we are 80% water etc. My question is only this.

What’s this big deal about us that we think our destiny is somehow very important to us?

I am scared of horoscope because it probably has nothing nice to say about me. I plan to read mine in my death bed. Just to check which parts came true. That would make an interesting read.

Thing about trying to find out about yourself is like opening your father's diary. You really don’t want to know all what you might find. Life is best lived with as much ignorance as possible. It keeps you in a state of wonder.

But when you do get the masochistic need to give the stick to someone to beat you, you tend to give importance to what others think about you.

Some of the saddest people I know are the ones who are trying their darn best to rise to someone's expectation.

And some of the real bastards are the ones who let them.

Yeah. I know you are reading this. You know where you belong.

Very early in my life I have learnt that if you want to be happy, you should give two hoots about others opinion about you and your action. As long as what you do is not affecting another adversely, I think you have all the right to go ahead and do it.

Others feelings don’t count. How someone feels about your actions is to a large extent based on their own needs. It’s not a bad thing but that’s how it is. Ideally it should not affect you if your partner cheats on you, but it will if it happens, and that feeling of hurt is more about you than about the other. So feelings don’t count when you know you are on the right track.

Hyper sensitive people are leeches. They feed on the desire to be hurt. You can’t win with them. The whole world is against them any way and the sun always shines out of their arse. It’s about their feelings and their actions and their fuck all mind where every other person has to bend themselves backwards to accommodate them.

I don’t mind sensitive people. I think they are just a little bit more fragile than thick skinned rhinos like me.

Suggestion?

Walk away. Don’t put up with it. Let them know that. Of course they will be hurt. But you are giving them what they want anyway. So in some karmic way you are being kind.

I don’t do hyper sensitive. You wouldn’t either. Hell, even sensitives don’t like hyper sensitives.

You like being insulted? Get an opinion.

Like I did. I came to know about this site from this girls blog and it piqued my curiosity.

and this was the result.

Make place girls, Big Mama is in town.

Guilty as Charged

Its not every day I put my foot down.

Those who have the unfortunate luck of knowing me on a personal level are, I presume, aware of my laid back approach to insults and confrontations. It’s not easy to piss me off. But when I do get my arse off the couch and decide to fight, I never back down. I pretty much stay at it no matter what. Don't know why but must be the lack of excitement in my life.

Well, that's pretty much enough of my dick is bigger prelude to the tale that follows.

I have only one enemy. I hate it with passion. Apart from the man made concept of god, no other concept, in my opinion, has done more damage to the human fabric than it. It’s the faceless, bloodless, and unavoidable, in your face organization called the bank.

I try to keep my distance with banks. I don't like them but they seem to love me. At least they pretend like they do.

Long ago, in fact about 5 years ago, my wife and I decided to buy a SUV. We sold my wife's Volkswagen Golf for the down payment and financed the rest through a bank known then as Me Bank. Talk about a personality disorder. Of course I knew it was a bank when I walked into it and had to suppress the instinctive desire to brandish a cross.

Of course I got the loan. We were good for it. Of course for the next 5 years we religiously paid the EMI that was owed to it. We, in the meantime, named our steed Ben and then I promptly fell in love with it.

5 years passed.

I go to the bank to get a clearance letter. Lots had happened in those 5 years. Water was found in Mars, we found out that god men can have sex and so can really old Indian politicians, governments were ousted, some were reinstated, a nation held their collective breath while an old man fasted and ranted, ,Mebank was swallowed by Emirates NBD and I gained 10 kilos.

So there I am, feeling really cold, in front of one of those suits whose smile never reaches their eyes. I let him know that I have cleared my debt and now want a clearance letter. He keys in some commands on his computer, thereby perhaps nuking some unfortunate family's life and turns to me saying that my account is still open. He says it with a relish. I could almost feel him sniffing my blood.

I ask him to check again, considering that I had given a million cheques covering the number of months in 5 years ,all of which had been cashed by them. He strikes another bunch of keys. I can almost hear screams in the distance.

'There's a balance of AED 387.75 in your account. Pay that and we will provide you the clearance letter'

I am, as you know pretty stupid, so I enquired why I have to pay that amount. Upon which I am told that it is there on the statement, so I have to pay it.

Now that pisses me off. I hate being told that because it’s written, that's how it shall be. Fuck, I have been fighting that almost all my life.

So I requests him to tell me why that charge is there.

He can't. Why? Because he does not know. He says that it could be a charge due to the integration of the bank. So I asked him if I have to pay when Emirates NBD decides to carpet their office.

Now he does the finger pointing routine. This is where he will tell me to run pillar to post. I told him that I refuse to go anywhere. I want to know where this charge came from and that I am pretty sure that he can find it out for me without me having to go on a pilgrimage for it. Then he asked me to call up the contact centre. I told him I won’t since I am already in a bank.

I am pretty irritating, no?

So he calls up the collection center and asks someone there to check my account and revert back to me. I tell him that since I have met him, he will be the privileged one who will have to deal with me. He grudgingly tells me to call back in 2 days.

I do and am told that he hasn’t got a reply. So I call their contact center. There I am told the amount is AED 239. Amazing. The amount seems to have a life of its own. So I give the contact center chap for whom I have the greatest respect, the same spiel about how I am not planning on paying a single penny unless someone tells me what the charge is for.

Accrued interest I am told. On what? I ask. He can’t say. Funny since I always thought that you need something to charge interest on. He requests me to pay the amount. I say I can’t. I ask him to give me the number of the collection center. Which he gladly gives.

So I call the collection center. The phone is answered by a guy with an Arab accent. So I give him my details. He tells me I have to pay AED 139/- The dancing charge!

I ask him why. He tells me because the banks can charge as and when they feel like it. I ask him to repeat it. Which he does. So I ask him why can’t he just call it a bribe. Now the man is angry. So am I. So I tell him we can do this dance on the newspaper. He gives me his Assistant Manager's number.

I call the number and am answered by a very cheerful man who in the beginning does the friendly Arab intimidation act. This is where he is all smiles and laughs and treats you like an errant client. I am from sales. The trick is lost on me. He sings the same lines. Integration charge, accrued interest etc. I give him my reasons as to why I think the bank is trying to get me to bend over so that it can slide it in and have me thank them for the courtesy. He realizes that I can go on. I am polite but annoying. He promises to get it waived. Tells me he will get back.

He does. After 2 days. Every thing sorted out. All charges waived. I am to contact any branch and get the clearance letter. I do and I get my letter in 2 days.

I thanked every one concerned but one thing still puzzles me.

I am yet to be told why that amount was there in the first place. What was the charge for?

I am aware that many customers who have already shelled out thousands every month just want the whole thing behind them and therefore will pay what ever the bank tells them to; no questions asked. Not many are jobless like me to make a fuss over this.

From what the loan officer told me, no one ever questions this and when you do I guess it gets waived.

Well, that's all folks. Check your statements. If you find a shape shifting amount in your loan statement when you go for closing it, call me. I am your man. I have got all the numbers you will ever need.

And I wont charge you a penny.