Tom, Dick and Shyamsunder Patthabiraman Pillai.

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There he was, sitting on the lightly cushioned chair ahead of his interview for a certain multinational in another part of the world. The breakfast he had ,a wild muddle of aloo paratha made in coconut oil with tons of ketchup-held-in-water and Bhojpuri-ginger-pickle was enough to give him regular gastro-abdominal repercussions.Thanks to the sound absorbers around the waiting lobby , there was nothing much to hear anything out ,courtesy ;bowel gassification. And the strong lavender room freshener that was sprayed generously all across the space, blocked any unwanted, convulsive odor from causing any olfactory eeks.Time was ticking pretty fast and he was the sixth last candidate. It was actually difficult to count him from the first, as there were quite a few people who had come to play 'question and answer'. First prize: A job with the company. Second prize: A job with the company. Third: A job with thecompany. The interviewers weren't too sure there would be any fourth. That depended on the quality and ability they said.The next would be his turn and his heart started pumping faster than the speed of rising gasoline prices in India. The doorway to hell opened and outcame a dejected redface with a disgruntled, jaw-dropping look that seemed enough to take the remaining courage left out of him.Enter SPP( abbr. for Shyamsunder Patthabiraman Pillai)Interviewer1 (I1),with resume in hand: So your name is Shaam..s.under.Pat.ha.bi..raman..Pill..ai?SPP: A bit shorter than that.You can call me Shyam.Interviewer 2(I2) : All right Sham. Tell me something about yourself....Another quarter of an hour passes by and by the time he leaves the door of the interview hall behind his brain gets into mix mode. He did not fall in any category of smokers or else within the next hour he would have helped ITC's profits rise by another two percent. The results would be communicated through internet and the selected guys would see a soft copy of their appointment letter in one quite corner of their inbox, any moment starting then.Next day, with a face that appeared to have lost all it's agony of the yesterdays ,Shyam logged in the most commonly used personal email id.Shyamsunderstand@yahoo.com. All letters after 'r' in that id were a supposed creativity for the sheer overabundance of Shyamsunders across allof the globe minus Antarctica. After typing in the ******** he waited for the 256kbps line to yield to his digital demands . The first unread mail had something to do with exotic techniques to enbeautify certain parts ofthe human body in exchange of pounds. A pound for flesh . The second wasfrom a college buddy asking for his date of birth with or without the year .Once entered , would make social life easy for the buddy . No checking out scrap-books ,neither sending complimentary mails. It would be automatically done ,year after year . Internet revolution made easy. Sham used the sameinstrument and forwarded it to all the people he knew or used to know. The next was a forward from his not-so-close ,long forgotten batchie, Suharsh .Subject was " Save me" and once opened , unfolded a long narrative about aTurkish widow who lost her only husband in an undiscovered infection of the heart called angina-pectoriosis . In addition , her son who happened to bea little younger than an infant , was been held captive by a herd of non-vegetarian cannibals. A lot of news report followed by a last line,which asked the mail to be forwarded to at least twenty-five people withintwenty-five hours from then, failing which would cause irreparable pneumenoultramicroscopicsilicoconiosis, an uncommon complication of thehuman lungs . Without any molecule of hesitation, Sham, left clicked onthe icon marked 'forward' and added all possible ids . A countin at the endto make sure that there were more than twenty four. There were,in all,two more than the required, but the mail never provided any upper cut-off so nothing to scratch head about. With a refreshingly senseless sense ofaccomplishment at getting saved from the dreaded forty-something-lettered desease, he kept the chain moving. Message sent.Days passed and it did not take long to realise that any little expectation that Sham had getting a job in the aforesaid multinational seemed to be crumbling down like the century old multi-storied dhabas in Bombay whose foundations disssolved in the floods ; resulting in the fourth floor replacing the ground floor amidst disarrayed concrete, asymmetrically broken bricks, and rusty wrought iron supports. 9/11 on a portable television.One fine day, the sun shone bright . Sham , with his updated copy of his resume which he had got it developed,compiled and manipulated by a body of professionals called resume experts,set off for another round of puffing,panting, and wall-punching .A few moments down the lane;the interview bay."Welcome Mr. Shaam..s.under .Pat.ha.bi..raman..Pill..ai..Myself Tom Harmisson any my colleague Dick Ashton..."And thus began another belly-crunching, nerve-tearing sequel of " Thelook for employement ." The meet of the toms , the dicks and the harrys ,cut; Shaam..s.under .Pat.ha.bi..raman..Pill..ai..s.