Utekkare

Soul Catcher

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:36 AM 2 comments

SoulCatcher - Tweets6

Cris and Roshan walked into Marty's office. Marty looked terrible. His eyes were bleary, and blood-shot. His pants were crumpled, and 2 buttons on his shirt were missing. His hair was dishevelled, and he seemed to be in a terrible mood. He looked at them grimly, and motioned them to sit down. His desk was piled high with papers; his wall looked like it hadn't seen a coat of paint in over a 100 years; his paintings hung crookedly; He absently swept away a pile of papers from his desk onto the floor, as he turned on his computer. "What's up, boss? You look seriously pissed!” Cris remarked. "The Sotona have attacked the Andeli at Prague, Rome, Santiago, Sao Paolo, Glasgow and Aden. We lost 7 angels and about 40 souls. They violated the truce that Roussaini brokered in the last Vremenom." He logged into the celestial network, and turned on the soul-tracker. "We're trying to track the souls to pinpoint their hide-out. But the souls are not appearing on the grid. They seem to have disappeared." Roshan glanced at Cris, and said, "Boss, did the Sotona have a black energy footprint?" "Why do you ask?" Roshan pulled out his motion capturer, and hooked it up to the monitor. "Look at this" He said. The monitor flickered for a moment, before it played the motion capture. Marty massaged his brow, as he stared at the monitor. "Boss, do you want a coffee?" Cris asked, "I'm going to the machine, I'll get you one as well." Marty nodded and smiled tiredly. It had been a long night.

The Bezdusan sat silently in the passenger seat as the van motored along the dark road to the cottage in L'ile Rousse. His mind worked furiously, plotting his next move, even as the eyes remained closed. He concentrated his energy along his forehead, to make a portion of it look like a red crescent as if the blood had accumulated. Sheila was asleep in the compartment behind. The van driver whistled cheerfully.

Marty studied the screen intently, as the motion capturer played back the events of the night past. He saw Cris and Roshan drop to the ground.He saw them approach the car. Cris walked in with the coffee. Marty saw Sheila faint, and he saw the energy profile for the Bezdusan. It was completely black with a green outline. Marty slumped in his seat. "That is a soulcatcher!! How could it exist anymore?? We wiped them out!!!Cris, did you destroy this creature?" "No Boss, he got away. We didnt chase it, because Roshan got the message to report here immediately." The motion capture moved to the actual fight where the Bezdusan rose out of the body shell, he thumped the table in anger. Robert walked in. "What happened?”

The van drew up in front of the cottage. The waves crashing into the rocks in the distance seemed to be playing a symphony in the warm night. You could hear crickets in the fields around, and the grass grew wild. The van driver roused the Bezdusan and Sheila from their slumber, and told them that they were here. The brass plaque gleamed in the dark. "Maison Roussaini"

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:29 PM 0 comments

Soulcatcher - Tweets5

The soul of The Bezdusan stretched out two black, inky arm-like tentacles. They melded together into one black glistening shape, with a sharp point. The Bezdusan bent himself, as if in a meditative pose with his joint tentacles resembling a spear, with a single sharp point protruding. A small tear shaped drop of black liquid like substance seemed to be suspended at the end of the point. As Seb writhed in semi consciousness, the drop fell into his ear, from where the blood was dripping. The drop mingled with the blood. The drop turned the blood grey and seemed to coagulate the blood. The blood stopped, and all the blood turned grey and started receding back into the ear. Suspended in the same position, the Bezdusan in his spear shaped pose, dipped himself as if diving into a pool. Like a river the soulcatcher flowed into Seb's ear. As the Bezdusan appropriated Seb's body, and consumed his soul within his body, Seb's body seemed to almost split into half. He writhed in wierd contortions, as if his soul was trying to fight the Bezdusan for survival. After about 20-30 seconds of this struggle, he stood up with a start. His eyes glowed red, as the Bezdusan surveyed the surroundings in his new shell. He had to get out of that forest. He walked over to the car that Seb had been driving, and pulled it up, almost effortlessly. The car righted itself, but it's roof was punctured, and some liquid flowed from under it's radiator. He saw Sheila stir.

As Sheila came to her senses, she looked around groggily, as she oriented herself in the darkness of the forest, blotting out the moon. She saw Seb standing on the grass beside the road and tree, and she saw the Jaguar lie there, crumpled.
She got up and rushed to Seb. "Seb, darling, are you hurt? I feel so dizzy!". Seb looked at her, and replied, witha blank look on his face. "Oh god, my head! It hurts so bad. Who are you, and what am I doing here?" Sheila grabbed his arm, and said, "What's going on, Seb? Don't you recognise me? I'm your fiancee, Sheila! We were on our way to our cottage on L'Ile Rousse!". The Bezdusan smirked inside the shell, and he spoke in Seb's voice, "I do not remember anything. My head feels like it's going to split. Please help me!". Just then, they saw approaching headlights.

Roshan reached Cris's side, just as the Bezdusan rose into the air and fled. Roshan took out a small hip flask, and squeezed 2-3 drops into Cris's mouth. Color slowly returned to Cris's face, and he woke up, feeling his head. "What the hell was that, man? I feel like I went halfway to hell and back. What does that mean?" Roshan said, "We have to meet with Marty." Roshan helped Cris up into the helicopter. Cris said, "Check if the humans are OK." Roshan said, "We'll check on them tomorrow. We have bigger fish to fry."

The van pulled up to The Bezdusan and Sheila, as they frantically waved out at them. Sheila went up to the driver and explained in her French that they needed a lift to the nearest town. The driver obliged, and asked them to sleep in the compartment behind the driver. The Bezdusan smiled at the driver, as he sat in the van, He put his hand in Seb's jacket pocket. He pulled out a white pasteboard card, and saw Seb's business card:
"Chief Resident, Heart Surgery,
Hospital of the Merciful, 148, Rue Madeleine, Paris."

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:51 PM 0 comments

SoulCatcher - Tweets4

Cris whipped out his photon laser and disengaged the trigger. He activated his energy shield. Although you couldn't see it,his body tingled. The Bezdusan cursed, and ran towards his backpack. Cris yelled at Sebastian to get into the car. Sheila lay motionless on the road. Seb ran and picked her up and half-dragged,half-carried her. Cris hid behind the boulder, and shouted out, "Devil's child, you are in violation of Inter-World Laws! You have abused your powers!" "Devouring Souls is against the treaty. Stand forward and be judged!!! Surrender yourself and your weapons before the Celestial Guard!"

The Bezdusan scowled, as he packed up. What a waste of effort tonight. One sealed up soul, and one squirrel. His soul growled. Sebastian ran around his car, and got into the driver's seat quickly. He revved up the car, and put it into gear. Cris motioned him to drive away. As Seb drove away, He mouthed "Thanks" to Cris. The Bezdusan yelled at Cris, "Do not deny me my prey!!!!" Just then, he heard the Jaguar drive away. His lips curled into a sly smile. He took out his teleporter, and punched co-ordinates on it.

Roshan, in the mean while, had quietly slipped out, behind from Cris, and made his way behind the boulders. As Cris shouted at the soulcatcher, he silently armed his weapon, and shield and edged his way towards the Bezdusan's hiding place. "You would dare challenge me?? I am the Bezdusan. Don't meddle with black magic, little one. You have no idea..." Cris engaged the demon-trap on his weapon, and yelled back, "Come on out then, you 'Bezdusan'! Fight me like a god!" Roshan saw the back of the Bezdusan, hunched over, packing up his backpack, and he saw him punch in co-ordinates on his teleporter. Roshan moved into position. He disengaged his trigger, and aimed the energy photon phaser at the creature's back, and fired.

Cris, angered at The Bezdusan's patronising attitude at him, roared, as he charged towards the boulder The Bezdusan was hiding behind. Cris fired his parabolic energy photons in the general direction of The Bezdusan. The shots lit up the sky as they rose into the sky. The fired photons moved downwards in an arc onto the creature.

The Bezdusan felt the heat of energy photon as it approached him in the back; He also saw Cris's bolts shoot into the sky. He leapt to his left, onto the sand, as he saw the energy photon hit the soul-scanner. He jumped up and ran towards Cris, with murderous intent on his face. Cris saw The Bezdusan and fired his demon trap. Pins and Needles emitted from around the muzzle in the form of many arrows, towards the standing Bezdusan. The Bezdusan ripped off his green belt, and swished it around him. The belt let off small circular black bolts, that whizzed through the dark night and cut most of the needles in half.

Cris's parabolic bolts landed on the Bezdusan's backpack. His backpack exploded, as the slim-net, the soul-scanner, and his other gadgets crackled and sizzled as the bolts hit them. The Bezdusan hurled the belt at Cris. The belt flattened and became rigid as a spear as it flew at Cris. Cris raised his arm, and a silver shield erected on his arm. The belt hit the shield and Cris was thrown physically almost 10 feet away. The belt fell to the ground, and fizzled and died. The Bezdusan advanced onto Cris to finish him off. Roshan ran behind the Bezdusan and fired another energy photon at him.

As Sebastian drove away, behind him, he heard the crack of lightning, as if someone had split the sky and electricity had struck the land. He looked in the rear mirror, and the night seemed to be set alight by white energy flying around. Sebastian pressed his foot on the accelerator, as he negotiated the turns in the beach road. The road suddenly turned into the forest. The Jaguar careened into the turn, as Sebastian fought for control with the sharp curve. He saw a creature appear out of nowhere in front. Sebastian struggled to avoid the creature, and the Jaguar turned turtle as it rose in the air, and cartwheeled into the trees.

The Bezdusan felt a burning sensation in his shoulder. He cried out in pain. He felt the photon pass through the body. He realised that there was no way he could let the photon pass through him. If he let the photon pass through his shell, his soul would be compromised. He would be a marked man. He could not let that happen.He clicked on his teleporter, and hit the white button on it. He felt his soul rising from the shell. Just in time as well. The photon exited his body, just as the soul rose into the air. The shell collapsed to the ground, and burst into white flame. Roshan rushed to Cris's side, as The Bezdusan rose swiftly into the air and zoomed towards the co-ordinates he'd punched in earlier.

The door of the upturned Jaguar opened, and a bleeding Sebastian crawled out. He made his way to the passenger door, and pulled Sheila out. The two dogs, somehow unhurt, ran out, yelping. Sebastian collapsed with pain and exhaustion at the road's edge, alongside the bleeding and unconscious Sheila. As he looked up, a black shape zoomed in front of him. Sebastian passed out. Blood trickled out of his ear.

The Bezdusan mentally smiled. He now had a new shell.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:29 PM 0 comments

Soulcatcher - Tweets3

Rob cried, "The soul anti-theft alarm has gone off!!". Cris ran to the console and checked the co-ordinates of the alarm. "Hey, those co-ordinates are very close to the beacon that Gene sent you", Cris noticed. "Yes, they are.I'm worried if its a scavenger, Rob". Rob checked on the beacon. "No, the beacon is fine. This is another soul."

Cris picked up his phone and called Marty Krause, Head Celestial. "Marty, we have a STA alert here. It's close to a trapped soul beacon. I think we have a scavenger on the loose." Marty, a grizzled old man who looked in his late 50s, with close cropped hair, and a salt/pepper beard, got up from his bed, and replied, "No Cris, this doesn't look like a scavenger. If it were, why didn't touch the beacon? I want a ground report, with the soul post mortem." Cris looked grim when he hung up the phone. He looked at Roshan and Rob and said. "Marty's asked for a ground report. The two of us will go" Roshan smiled, and said, "Finally some fun! Putting together damaged souls, and filing paperwork for lost souls is so boring!" Rob sat back in his chair, "Do you guys need any backup or weapons?" Criss nodded, "I don't want to take any chances, we need to be armed."

Sebastian stood rooted to the spot, as he saw the man swallow the squirrel's soul. He stared, as the man wiped his mouth, and lift the net. He fixed it onto a cylindrical tube, and Sebastian saw it retract into the tube. The small bulb at the end glimmered with silver liquid.

"Tell me, earthling, what is Your name?" He asked Sebastian. "Sebastian Armond". "And your companion?" "Her name is Sheila. Why?" "What's your name?" Sebastian asked him. He concealed the soul-net, and spun around, and smiled. "My name? Why do you want to know it? He asked. "We told you our names. Please do not hurt us. Who are you?" "My name", He said, almost growling, "is Bezdusan"

His belt started glowing green. He looked at his belt and cursed. They were here. The paratroopers appeared as if out of nowhere, and the sky seemed to be set alight by the white flame of the aerocraft that settled above. It hovered above the soulcatcher, and Sebastian, like a silver orb.

He walked over to the blackmat that was flat now. The squirrel's body had been completely absorbed. He quickly folded up the blackmat and looked at Sebastian. "You are very lucky. You live."

Cris scooted down the jumpthread and Roshan soon followed. They slid to the ground, and as they came down, they saw him. What was That creature? His thermals were non existent. Cris switched to energy vision. He saw a green glow outline the man. It seemed to be burning like millions of small needles dancing. The man's soul was completely black. Cris cried out, "Identify yourself, earthling or skybeing. Demon or Angel, stand forward!"

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:36 PM 1 comments

Soul Catcher - Tweets2

Gene patrolled the trapped souls distress network from 9 PM to 9 AM in south west europe 3 days a week. He clambered out of bed, and dressed hurriedly, flicking the monitor on, so he could see the location. It was tough enough having a regular human day job. But to do 3 nights a week and report late to work in the morning! Outrageous! The beacon seemed to be in Northern Corsica. Gene sighed. It was going to be a long night.Gene called the French Angels and informed them of the beacon. They said they would try to send a patrol.After all hauling ass from Switzerland all across Europe for one soul was a lot of travel.

The Celestial Guardians Officer in Charge was a newbie, Robert Caulkin. An american who got buggered during the Iraq War. Surprisingly, his soul was never tainted. Robert picked up the call, and answered the French Angels. 'Yes, we can send a patrol to retrieve the soul.' Robert called Gene, to pinpoint the coordinates of the soul. Moments later, he was plotting the site. Rob got excited. Finally an assignment he could contribute to. Manning a 'graveyard' shift really wasn't the most exciting job, since he had received the call-up to the Guardians. He'd expected far more action, but being the youngest shift supervisor on the force had it's low points.

He checked his watch impatiently. They should have been here by now. He tried the soulscanner. It spluttered and died.He fiddled with the soul scanner, trying to extract the last vestiges of its battery life as he peered into it's display. The net rippled in the moonlight sending shimmers across its strands, as it waited. Inanimate, invisible. As He was tinkering with the console, he heard the car swerving around the bend, and 2 seconds later he heard the net crackling and buzzing.

The squirrel pranced onto the road, as it chased the leaf out of the forest, unmindful of the silver trap set for larger targets. Sebastian took the turn at 80 mph, and saw the squirrel just in time, skidding on some gravel on the road in the process. Sheila shrieked as the car swerved violently, and came dangerously close to toppling over. Sebastian twisted the steering wheel violently. The squirrel got shocked out of its skin as it saw this gleaming metal machine bearing down on it. It scampered in the opposite direction. As Sebastian got control of the car and stopped it, he heard a strong crackling noise, and a blinding white energy light up the dark road. He saw a gleaming silver net collapsed on the road, with a white oblong shape in it. Sebastian and Sheila got out of their car, and stared at the net, and the white object struggling inside it, desperately trying to get out.

Gene groaned as the phone rang again. It was Rob again."Yes, Sir, what do you need, Now??" "Gene, I need the co-ordinates again.", Rob said. Gene fished out the co-ordinates and sent it on a topographical map, using Night Vision technique to ensure it matched what they would see.Rob pulled out his phone and typed an sms to Cris, the senior Guardian Retrieval Agent (GRA). "Urgent Soul retrieval. Need someone expert in wooded territories.Beacon transmission OK".

The squirrel's body was on the other side of the net.As Sebastian and Sheila stared in disbelief, the black mat began absorbing the squirrel's body. It seemed to swell up as the squirrel's body was swallowed. Sebastian turned to Sheila, who's eyes were goggling at the struggling white object in the silver net. The net was crackling and buzzing.The soul thrashed about in the net. As it tried to release itself, It had turned mottled grey in color; silver threads like a spider web appeared all over it.

He grinned widely, emerging from the shadowy boulders. He walked over to the net to see what he had caught for a long awaited dinner. The squirrel's soul squirmed as the net got increasingly tight. He walked over to the net, and saw Sebastian and Sheila, standing with ashen faces, looking at the squirrel's soul in the SoulNet. He cried out in dismay. He stooped down and grabbed the soul in anger, and opened his mouth wide. Using both hands, and wringing the soul into knots, he swallowed it whole. Sheila fainted and slid onto the road, unconscious.

The dark heavily built curly-haired man took off his leather jacket, and dusted his weathered jeans, as he got off the Sports Cruiser.He took off the bandana, and shook his hair loose, as he unhitched his saddlebags, and walked into the Celestial Guardian station. "Hi honey. The new boy pissing his pants already, is he?", he asked the receptionist as he swaggered through the reception area. "It's his first week, Cris. Give the kid a chance!", said Roshan, his colleague, another wellbuilt clean shaven balding man, dressed in a t-shirt, and trackpants. "What are you doing here this late?", asked Cris. "Just getting off duty. It's been terrible today, the number of lost / dismembered souls we've had to reprogram. The paperwork is boring. If this is a field job, I prefer the pig to this pigpen anyday."

The emergency alarm shattered the laughter that ensued. Cris and Roshan ran up the stairs to the main control room. Rob came running out, looking pale.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:11 PM 2 comments

Soul Catcher - Tweets1

He stared at the dead body as his mind raced. He still needed to break the skin. He hated internal injury. So much work for just 1 soul. He scanned the immediate area for an appropriate weapon to pierce the skin. Hair pin? Naah. Safety pin? Too small a hole. Treetrunk?. The trick in extracting souls after death is to ensure they are whole and untarnished. There is little value to a damaged soul. Energy replenishment will be 50%, so you might as well be careful during extraction.As these thoughts raced through his mind, he wondered if he would be able to extract the soul before it got deactivated.As he stared at the dead body get stiff, he saw the beacon being formed. 10 minutes and the Celestial Guardians would be here to claim it.

Then he heard a car approaching. The car must have been about 4 miles away. He got up and zoomed to the forest's edge, licking his chops. He took off his backpack, and unpacked the soul-scanner, and switched it on. Beeping, it announced that the batteries were at 10%. Oh well. He pointed the scanner in the general direction of the approaching car and punched a few buttons on the console. The holographic projection suddenly lit up the dark night. The glow from the lamp illuminated the road and bushes in a white halo.The scanner reconstructed the life-forms in the approaching car and told him all he needed to know.... Distance, shape, purity, age, and most importantly, time left to contact. He grinned evilly, his yellowed misshapen teeth gleaming in the white glow of the scanner, his eyes burning red at the thought of 4 souls...

The car sped down the darkened road, as it cut the moonlight into pretty little shadows, on it's way west, straddling the forest and the sea. Sebastian absent-mindedly flicked the fog lamps on, as he stared at the road ahead, as his Jaguar ate up the miles with a steady purr.. He glanced at the sea crashing onto the waves on his right as the car sped along it's way to the summer cottage in L'ile-Rousse on the N197. Sebastian turned on the radio. Strains of "Lara's Theme" filled the car as he involuntarily whistled the tune. His wife stirred in her seat.She stretched slightly, adjusted her long slim legs, and turned over and tried to sleep again. Sebastian adjusted his rear view.

He switched off the soul scanner and packed it up. Just 45 seconds away. He quivered with excitement. He checked his watch. Less than 4 minutes before the beacon was formed. There was a chance the angels wouldn't arrive before the Jaguar did. He stretched his body's arms, to make sure they didn't malfunction while he used them. He opened his backpack, and rummaged through it. He found what he was looking for, and took out a cylindrical object with pincers at one end and a globe the size of a marble at the other. The globe glistened in the moonlight, with energy like liquid mercury bubbling in it.

Sebastian checked his watch. 9:39 PM. He felt like taking a piss, as the French said. He eased off the accelerator, and pulled over onto the sandy shoulder just above a large expanse of the beach. The car came to a stop, and he stepped out of the car, and stretched langurously. Sheila woke up at the break in motion and looked around. The back seat suddenly came to life with a little yipping, as the 2 poodles awoke from their cheesecake-induced slumber. Sheila immediately leaned back and lifted them onto her lap. "My dear darlings, did you sleep well? Seb, honey, have we reached already?" Sebastian, lost in the pleasure of relieving himself, didn't hear her. He turned around, and walked back to the car. "Seb, where are we? It's pitch dark and I can't see where we are." Sebastian smiled, and said, "We're almost there. We'll be there by 11."

He decided that he needed a little space to assemble the net. He walked across the road, and settled down behind some convenient boulders. He twisted the rotator sleeve on the slim-net, and punched in the co-ordinates of the length and width of the net. He entered the soul purity, the number of souls, and the shape of the shells. He then pressed the orange button on the slim-net and pointed the pincers at the road. The slim-net pincers expanded, and spread their claws. They seemed to spread wide like neverending slivers of silver web creating spidery slender needles into the cool night air. The needles stopped extending after a while. Small pinpoints of white energy began to shoot out of small apertures along the needles. They connected with other strands of white light emanating from the apertures of the other needles from the pincers, till they meshed. Together, it looked like a big silver net had been created. The white energy pulsated and crackled like electricity. Once the strands had connected, the energy strands ran up and down the needles to complete the web. The web then detached from the needles. The net then seemed to float in the air, and the needles retracted into the pincers. The display flickered, and the reading read: "Net Active for 480 seconds." As he looked at the net suspended above the road, spanning the width of the entire road, the strands of the net slowly disappeared. He anxiously checked his watch. less than 20 seconds to impact.

He took out the black mat, and ran to spread it just beyond the energy net.He unfolded the black mat, and spread it across the tarred surface. He flicked away the gravel as he smoothed out the mat. Dangerous stuff. The black mat, when completely opened, could cover 2 sq miles of any terrain. Any undulation and it would start absorbing matter. He wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted the mat to line the edges of the road without being too conspicuous. He rushed back to his hiding place and checked the console display. 10 seconds to impact. He was almost salivating. He hadn't feasted in awhile.

Sebastian leaned over and kissed his beautiful wife, and he entered the car. "Cherie, will you please pass me the Evian?", he asked. "Sure!" He settled into the car and started it up again. The Jaguar X80 was a class in itself. It came to life with a purr, as he engaged gears. He shifted into Drive, and stepped on the gas. The Jaguar lept into the inky blackness as if it was a champion race horse on course. He glanced at the time. 9:41 PM. Funny how time slowed down when you were in a hurry to get somewhere. The signboards to Lile Rousse gleamed. Sebastian figured that, with the roads empty, as they usualy were in late September, he could get to the cottage by 11.00 PM, or even sooner "87 miles".

The alarm went off, shattering the wispy clouds that had floated in through the window of the chalet. Gene woke up with a start. I'm beginning to hate clothes. No way a soul can make it's way out on it's own nowadays. This department is woefully understaffed for this.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 4:47 PM 3 comments

Nostal-Gaya

And it is fun. Remembering old days. Old lives. Old people. Old restaurants. Old hotels. Old routes. Old places. Old friends. Old enemies. Old things I used to say. Old things I used to do.

Like the Bun-Maska at Kyani's at 8.00 AM after a sunday morning basketball practice session at the college court. Like Dabeli on King Circle outside the VIP Showroom that used to be Koolars & Co. Like Chai and Singh-dana on Marine Drive at 6.45 PM with the sun setting, and the couples snuggling. Like Onion Uthapams at 4.00 PM at Indian Gymkhana Canteen. Like Samosas from Guru Kripa as a treat for winning inter-school basketball games. Like 3 course Udipi meals from Ramdev Hotel as a treat for winning inter-school semifinals. Like losing my water bottle every time I got a new water bottle. Like losing my umbrella every time it rained.

All these things and a million more things remind us. Of what we were. Of the days we so obliviously lived, without appreciating those small events that remind us of a life that has gone. We like to reach for that old cobwebbed dusty trunk of memories on that topmost shelf of our brain, where the most treasured thoughts lie untouched, year after year.


Year after Year. As we grow up, and we romance women, and we chase dreams (much like dogs chase cars - we don't know what to do with the dream when we catch them). As we try to emulate those who inspire us, and as we pillory those who denigrate us.

And these thoughts and dreams, and memories are like a warm blanket. They allow us to snuggle, and shrug off the wet cold real world and feel comfortable and welcome. They make us feel relevant. They make us feel like we have a chance at life. The life. As we experience life, and as we stare at unaffordable houses, and as we gaze at BMW and Mercedes convertibles zoom past us on roads that we hope some day will be big enough to accomodate our small dreams and even smaller cars.

But like all good things, these memories must fade. Because that old school you once studied at at the corner of that small lane that led away from the milk booth you bought milk from, everyday for over 15 years, is now a gleaming, glowing, tall, white and gold edifice of gujarati jain affluence, that is at the end of that large road that made sure the milk booth was demolished, and that the milkman was given his mandatory 225 sq feet in some squalid corner of Mankhurd where he doesn't have a hope in hell of restarting his life. Because that English teacher who made you prefect, is not 6 feet under ground. Because the double decker bus where you sat at the front of the bus on the 1st floor and stuck your tongue out at the wind coming your way, is now an exhibit at the Nehru Science Center, and is now a tourist postcard for Mumbai.

Because the world has lost it's innocence. And nothing is now straight and it's definitely not narrow. Because nobody has an equal shot. And work is tough, and relationships are tough. And finding happiness is tough. And realising your dreams is tough. And finding those simple times is tough. There is not enough Nostalgia to go around.

utekkare,
Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 8:35 PM 0 comments

A Special Leave of Absence

So there are so many questions to be answered when you have been away for so long.
Like where have you been? and what is it that took you so long? and where did you go? and are you a changed man? and how much money did you get for your ferrari? and where did all your hair go? and what is the meaning of life?

And you find out who your real friends are. Like that answering machine that has precisely 5 messages, 4 of them asking for money past due, and 1 asking you to take a new loan. Like that inbox that boasts of 4358 unread messages, 4357 of which are mass emails, newsletters, bulletins, updates, webmaster gyaan, special offers, viagra education messages, and unsubscribe requests from the utekkare blog newsletter. 1 is from the email company terminating your account because you did not log in for more than 90 days.
And you try and catch up with all that has been happening. Like the Boss's son who used to date, then broke up, and then started dating again, had this miraculous episode where a woman found his potbellied, hair-thinning existence attractive enough to endure a year long courtship, and a marriage that might last many years. Like the Boss's Son's brother who decided that it was too traumatic to endure life alone and also decided that he must inflict his own special brand of life on his wife as well.

And you try and figure out what it is that you did during this leave of absence. Did you embrace Buddhism and explore the depths of the great faith by visiting Varanasi, Gaya, and the beaches of Thailand, especially the one Leonardo DiCaprio meditated on. Or Did you decide to become a divemaster in a beautiful turquoise atoll in the midst of an ocean and ran out of money to open your own dive shop? Or Did you decide to sit in a room by yourself where the fan does not work, and the mattress is lumpy, and you stared and stared at the peeling, cracked lumpen misshapen wall, lit by the dim light thrown by the hanging tubelight in the corner of the room? Or Maybe you felt that you could not stand life anymore and wanted to run as fast as possible. Only halfway to the corner store, you realised you have dodgy knees and you fell down from the excruciating pain the running caused you and spent all this time in rehab desperately trying to feel your knees again.

And when you return, you want to hear the birds sing, and hear the dogs bark, and watch the waves flow, and the politicians die. And you think you might have received an inheritance that wasn't planned for, or you might have received those lottery winnings you bought a ticket for, or you might even have been promoted at work. But that's not your problem. Let the Boss's Son worry about that.

And ofcourse when you are back, its so comforting to hear words of comfort from those nearest to you. Like your partner who asks you when you will turn that damned computer off, and come eat breakfast.. Like the Boss's Son who cocks a sneer at you and wonders how long this latest literary jaunt will last.. and like your own pet dog who just laughs at you with her tongue out.

Well. Only time will tell.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:58 AM 1 comments

Of cities, and thoughts, and places and ideas and cricket and drama

Tirupur is a city without structure. It is sprawling in all directions, and desperately misses a distinguishing feature. Anything would do - a bay, or a sea, or a decently running river, or a mountain range, or even a single mountain, or a national highway that has more than 2 lanes, or a 'demble', or a city plan that had more than just "build anywhere you like, as long as the price goes up" as its mantra.

And since motorcyclists are denser than flies here, so driving on Tirupur roads is an opportunity to exercise mindless dysfunctional autocracy of imperious aggression, as you try to fit 2 indicas, 1 tempo, 2 rickshaws, and 4 passing motorbikes on a road designed for the sedate passage of 1 vehicle in either direction.

As Tamilnadu progresses from Tamil to English, and the people pride themselves on their forward-looking attractions for visiting dignitaries from neighboring and distant regions of suspect vernacular lineages, on display are pictures such as these:

And as they set sail for their elaborately laid out plans for the future, Erode had this to offer as a ladies toilet:

And I have more to share about the last 4 months in hiding.

Like Orlando Airport has developed a special liking for my body, since they frisk me on a Special basis every time I pass through there.

And I have found that I like living out of a suitcase. Especially when the suitcase has international baggage tags on it. And I found out that Chicago Airport is one of the worse Airports in the world.

Like I went to Philly, but neither the Wharton School of Business or Mr Rocky Balboa, set in stone, or the dreary climate, or the saddened Pakistani taxicab driver, or the Marathi-speaking Jew who was born in Matharpakadi, Mazgaon, and whose wife is a travel agent, made a favourable impression on me.

And I went to the States but did not visit New York. And I was very sad about it.

And I went to God's own country in February. But God was in Kashmir . Here is evidence. I found it in April.

And since the IPL has started, so much that was sacrosanct is now being questioned. Like the art of bargaining, especially in the face of some extremely moneyed folks. Like the sacking of Charu Sharma has given me the audacity to question any and all HR policies of Mr Vijay Mallya. Like MS Dhoni suddenly realised the devastating effect relying on Australians could do to his resourcefulness. Like Shane Warne is laughing. At Ricky Ponting, and John Buchanan and the Australian establishment. And Ricky Ponting is laughing at Harbhajan. And Yuvraj Singh is secretly laughing at Rahul Dravid. And Shane Warne is also laughing at Saurav Ganguly, and Virendra Sehwag (after tonight). And Shane Watson must be laughing at Virendra Sehwag also. And Kolkata is laughing with Saurav at Hyderabad. Everyone is laughing at VVS Laxman, and Herschelle Gibbs and Shahid Afridi. And Everyone is also laughing at Sree Santh. But Sree Santh is crying because of Harbhajan. And Harbhajan is crying because of Lalit Modi and the BCCI. And Sachin Tendulkar is crying because of his groin. And Mumbai is crying because of Sachin. And Dravid is crying at himself. And Mr Mallya is crying because of Dravid. And Bangalore is crying because this is T20 and not a test series. And Hyderabad is crying because of complete breakdown of expectations.

And I am unsure of whether to laugh or cry. After all, Duniya Hila Denge Hum.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:20 PM 2 comments

[Travelphabet] Archaic Agra

Stolen from Travelphabet:

The first thing you notice about Agra is it's inaccessibility. It is situated about an hour's drive from Mathura, 2 days stinky train ride away from Mumbai, 4 hours away from Delhi, and has no airports to speak of. Funny, how the mighty have fallen.

From the capital of the Indian Empire from Burma to Iran, it has plummeted to greater depths than the heights it was capable of scaling. It threatened to be a world centre of civilisation, culture, art, crafts, literature, and learning, but never delivered on it's promise. The truth is Agra was manufactured out of a nothingness that doubled as a military advantage. The Indian Army will smile when you say that as they flaunt their cantonment.

But vast numbers of tourists from across the globe, and across our great nation journey their way, braving some of the worst roads, and even coarser tongues to behold the greatest monument ever erected, now falling prey to that other great monument of modernity.. pollution on the yamuna. It is so easy to miss the river altogether, as you marvel at the yellowed marble, you gaze mesmerisingly at the chipped statues, and the intricately damaged carving in the windows, and the grinning guards as they escort you to the fake mummified remains of Mumtaz and Shahjahan. Yes, it is tragic.

And when you have seen the decaying vegetation in the gardens of the non-working fountains, and the tottering gates at the entrance to the great halls, and the hastily scribbled graffiti that proclaim Nasir's undying love for Anjali, and those telephone numbers that will offer you physical gratification instantly on connection, and all those lewd lyrics that would put the great Akbar's bards to shame, you wonder what other great monuments are left to sully in this once-venerated city.

And you are beseeched by agents, and agents of agents, and their rickshaw wallahs, and tanga-wallahs, and the carpet shops, and the jewellery shops, and the artifacts, and the stone shops, and the overpriced handicrafts stores, and you have survived the crowds in the only Pizza Hut that is brave enough to open in Agra, and still serve decent pizza, you are faced with the problem of time. How much more time can I spend here, without reaching for my wallet every 15 minutes?

And so you decide to head for the hotel you booked on the internet.. the proudly Victorian hotel that screams its Anglicised name at you from the Hotel Website Bookings Page - "5 star facilities at 3 star price"; "Newly renovated hotel with old English charm"; "self operated travel agency"; "doctor on call"; "24 hours room service"; "Suites available".... You step through the arches of what was probably once the outhouse of a middle level British government servant, as you glance at the badly trimmed lawns, and avoid the lethal spray of the sprinkler, that seems to be suffering from an overdose of steroids. You walk through the hallway, that reeks of that old mouldy smell that comes from damp, unwashed, fading carpets, and from dust webs that stare down from their vantage point in the corner of the ceiling.

But the real reason you should visit Agra, is not in the city itself but about 50 kms away (about 30 miles), Akbar's walled city of Fatehpur Sikri. It is an amazing amalgamation of unsurpassed military strategy, and artistic brilliance, never before seen. This was the seat of the Mughal Empire, and the sheer magnitude of the city built to be self sufficient for a year or more in case of a seige, takes your breath away. The Indian government has done a commendable job of keeping graffiti artists and other assholes-that-be at bay by cordoning off certain sections of the city that are accessible only to the Archaeological Survey of India. Even after the mahals and the rooms have been stripped of all their grandeur, treasures, and their tapestries and furnishings, you can still sense the power that these rooms were witness to, and it is a surreal feeling to stand on top of the ramparts that command a view of the open plains upto Rajasthan.

And so I say, in this highly incomplete and extremely subjective prognosis, Visit Agra for Fatehpur Sikri. The carpets you get fleeced for while buying are just a bonus.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:13 PM 2 comments

Dancing the Dance

And we are back. To dancing the dance.

We twirl. And pirouette. And we bow. half-shyly. As if apologetic of our skill. As if we are uncaring of how adept we have become at this dance.

In full view. We gyrate, and smile, and move our body, sometimes marvellously in tune, sometimes hopelessly trying to keep up with the beat, trying always to catch their attention.

It is a familiar kind of uneasiness, restlessness, and the hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach, the same kind we feel when we rush down from the top of a ferris wheel, plunging down at the mercy of 4 pinions and a small enclosure from 1000 feet above earth. And we like it. We thrive on it, and get all giddy and excited.

And our faces sparkle, and our eyes glitter, and we are always out of breath, and we are chirpy again, and we are bright and positive, and the world looks clean and nice and happy again. And our enemies dont seem so harsh anymore, and our friends dont seem close anymore, and nothing seems the same.

And the dance is addictive. We keep twirling around ourselves, as if trying to tie ourselves into knots, always keeping in mind that the audience should enjoy the spectacle, without making abject fools of ourselves. Some compromise between privacy and allegory is reached, as we symphonize our life's achievements into a long and intensely personal ballad.

Yes, we are dancing. As much for the other person as we are for ourselves. We dance as if our life depends on it, because who knows, this could be the last dance we have to do. We dance because the thrill of the dance envelops us all, and it allows us a suspension of disbelief. It makes us believe in coincidence, and fate, and time, and god, and karma, and attempts to make us understand how many strings are being pulled by someone else.

And we are as scared of the dance to stop, as we are of having to dance again. We worry about the dance, and all its moves are dissected threadbare, to check for any overt gestures of desperation or looking needy, and to make sure it does not look covertly cocky or pushy. No negative signals must be sent out.

And each dance is customised to the audience it is intended for. So some dances are garish, and full of color and style. Others are silent, non moving studies in composure and pain. Some dances are symbolic of their end-use, while others are a just a sham to cover the true nature of the audience. Others are an appeasement of the senses, while others are like fencing matches and shadow boxing. Some dances run for years, and years, while others end almost before they begin. But nobody tires of the dance. It is intrinsic to life, and it is intrinsic to happiness.

If we dont dance, we will never find happiness. And even if we dance, we are not sure we will find happiness. For most, it leads to a shimmering oasis of temporary madness and hedonistic pleasure. But, it is those precious few, those chosen few in the world who dance the dance, and are rewarded with a lifetime of rest. It is the ultimate goal, and the final destination for all dancers. Even if some are in love with the dance, and not the audience, they are all looking for that shimmering oasis to be the watering hole they need not leave for ever.

And the dance, even though it is public, is by invitation only. For your eyes only. And it feels good to dance the dance again.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:18 PM 2 comments

My God, the Professional Procrastinater

So God walked sleepily into his cubicle 25 minutes late on Monday morning, cursing monday morning tempests, and assinine heavenly spirits who were sleeping while Neptune had his way.

"I've got to create the world this week...", He grumbled as his tie got caught in his stubble as he folded his hands in obeisance at the mirror kept on the pedestal opposite his workdesk. The worst part about working for the Multinational Corporation of the Heavenly Abode (MCHA), was Monday mornings.

He walked down the aisle to the water cooler, and waved his fingers idly at the machine to make him some coffee... As he reached for the cup, he was distracted by the new receptionist, from Hell. She was there on the student exchange program that traded souls between heaven and hell for 2 months to learn about each other's cultures... He took his cup of coffee back to his desk as he stirred sugar into the coffee with an imaginary stirrer...And pondered how to go about the task of creating a world in one working week... while trying to push it off to the next week. As he sipped his coffee, and cursed himself for trusting a water cooler to do a job of a cappucino machine, he noticed that he'd wasted as much time as he could have, legally, before starting work, without being reprimanded by the creator. Nasty thing, that third eye thingy...

Well God decided that no large task could be accomplished without a plan of action being laid out in detail. So he spent about an hour and a half looking for a suitable pad, and then another 35 minutes looking for a pen that wrote well, before he could sit before it, make an impressive headline that read "The making of the World - by God!" and started studying the blank piece of paper with a thoughtful expression till lunch.

Post lunch, God scratched his head and decided that he really needed to show some work, and thought about the easiest ways to create Earth without too much work, and headache. Thats when, after he had chewed through about 4/10ths of the pencil, he hit upon the idea of templates. Templates for men, women, children, grasslands, marshes, rocks, stones, water, oceans, sand, mud, air, clouds, stars, Bangladesh, trees, animals, rabbits, possums, landladies, authors, designers, furniture, Bollywood songs, middle aged American women, kashmiri terrorists, Chilean Sea Bass, Texan Oil Magnates, Pakistani Army Chiefs, seals, snakes, tigers, elephants, cameramen, bootpolish-wallahs, shy muslim girls, dancing peacocks, rain, dust, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, jack frost, santa claus, radio jockies, school principals, and all that the world would contain. HE took about 28 minutes to list down all this and about 10,437,892,135,067,112.43283333333 (recurring) more entries.

And then he sighed. Now that he'd got half the hard part done, he needed to create Diversity now. And it wasn't even 4.00 PM.

God, I hate Monday mornings.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:31 PM 1 comments

A lot to catch up on

And since I am in a half decent mood today, I shall try to dig up all those thoughts I should have blogged when I thought them, where I thought them. But since I am a lazy bum, I will try to regurgitate them here...

So I have been travelling. From Mumbai to Delhi to Tirupur to Coimbatore to Delhi to Goa, and back to Tirupur and then to Mumbai. But the longest journey I made was from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex. And the biggest culture shock is going from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex.

Like I have finally realised the pleasure of nonchalantly ordering a "double large", and cocking a snook at the waiter when he asked if I wanted ice to fill up the glass in absence of a suitable beverage to mask the taste of the undiluted alcohol poured into my glass.

Like I found and experienced all the things people dont like about Delhi. Like noisy people, and combative irritating people, and expensive food with no taste, and cocky waiters, and horrible traffic, and mindnumbingly vast distances between places, and meetings, and getting confused between vihars, and ganjs, and nagars, and enclaves, and layouts, and kunjs, and baugs, and phases, and roads, and places, and circles, and gurgaon, and noida, and okhla, and cold winters, and roasting summers, and high hotel prices, and even higher alcohol prices, and snooty punjabi women with vacant expressions and buxom bosoms, who look for gold rings on your fingers, and gold chains round your neck, and expensive watches, and who know the difference between silver and platinum but not the difference between pearl jam and linkin park. And people speaking like they know how to speak English, but use behenchod liberally, with a lot of dude, man, yaar, saale, chutiya, and some assorted phrases like chill yaar, to make up for their completely indecipherable pronounciation of sentences.

And I have not experienced the things that people like about Delhi. Like the new Metro.

Like the alcohol prices in Delhi, make me want to hide my pain in South Goa. Until the rates in Goa rise.

Like South Goa is like Calangute in 1996. But now the Russians are there, I think it will take less than 11 months to make South Goa crowded, and irritating, and unpleasant, and commercial, and crass and Gujju for Holiday.

And All small towns in India look the same when you are slightly sleepy, and the streets are whizzing past you. The cows look the same, and the rickshaws look the same and the trucks look the same, and the LCV's trying to wedge themselves in your face in the street meant for 3 people to walk shoulder to shoulder, look the same. And walled cities, and small shops, and old carved edifices of erstwhile successful establishments gone to seed, and small trinkets sold outside colleges, and new gaudy electronics stores with branches, and localised promotions, and international bank branches, and ATMS, and aditya hitkari smiling down at you benignly from Peter England posters exhorting you to be like Mumbai and buy the honest shirt.

And I have seen coconut groves in interior Tamilnadu, and wheat plains in coastal Goa.

Like Anil Kumble is the only man who can kick anyone's ass from the top to the bottom. Hell, hes so senior he could probably kick Sharad Pawar's ass too. Like his wings are now unfurling. Like Saurav Dada and Viru and Sachin and Dravid and Yuvraj and Mahi and Irfan and Wasim Jaffer and Gautam Gambhir and Dinesh Karthik and all the kings batsmen cannot put together 20 wickets for Mr Kumble.

And the ICL came and went. And nobody bothered about it. Sorry, Kapil Paaji, but Kapil Dev da Jawaab finally hai.

And Airports are now fun. And Airport lounges are fun. Watching people look important, tired, happy, sad, united, fighting, unhappy, lonely, busy, creatively irritating, bored, nonchalant, interested, vacuous, alert, unimportant, and silent is always fun.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 8:56 PM 2 comments

Things I have to say; Things I have to do; Things I've been thinking of

And I have been travelling around India, in a round circle, that starts from Mumbai, goes to Bangalore, then to Coimbatore, and then Tirupur, then moves to Delhi, comes to Goa, then goes to Tirupur again, then back to Delhi and finally back to Mumbai. It is like a big wheel of India with Mumbai as the hub, and Jetlite flights, and Go Air flights, and Indigo flights, and Spicejet flights, and Air India flights and Indian Airlines flights are the spokes in this big wheel.

And while I was away from Mumbai, I have been visiting Mumbai. I have been travelling to Napean Sea Road, Bandra, Jogeshwari, Mira Road, Bombay Central, the Sapphire Bar, the hospital in Juhu for slashed wrists, and to Amitabh Bachchan's home in Juhu, and to the Police Commissioner's Office in Colaba, and to Panchratna in Charni Road, and to Gujarat, and Dahisar, and to Madanpura, and to Dubai and to Karachi, and to Bandra East to Kalanagar to meet Tigers, and to Arthur Road Jail. Thank you Mr Mehta.

And I did all this while thinking about how much fun it was. Without sweating or getting harassed or being threatened with my life, I did it all. Before I was 40.

And I want to travel even further. To New York, and Florida, and Orlando and Disneyland and to Madrid and Barcelona and to Paris and to Holland, and to Rome and Milan and to Athens, and to the boot of Sicily, and to the South of France and to Israel, and to Ibiza, and to Liverpool, and to Baltimore, and to Australia to Sydney and Melbourne, and to make sure that my company and its garments are plastered across every shop from sea to shining sea. Every day of the week. And twice on sunday.

And I want to do so many things. Like I want to take up screenwriting even if it doesnt pay me even a pittance. I want to make successful famous movies and TV Serials, and I want to learn to promote and sell these ventures and learn make my producer his money even before the movie has been released or has hit the box office. I want to sell my script and ideas and passion to Shahrukh Khan. Because I think he knows what passion is all about. I didnt believe this earlier. But I do now. And I want to live in an apartment in Brooklyn or in New York and walk down cobblestones and sit on pavement cafes and have Saturday brunches as a routine. I want to be able to own a small piece of land in the Caribbean from where I can go snorkelling, or fishing or go swimming whenever I feel like. And I want to be able to travel to wherever I want to go, and It should be on business so I can feel good about it.

Like I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy, my parents, my acting coach, and all those crocodile tears that my Gucci wallet cannot conceal while I climb the stairs to take the mike and blast out all those no-good, incompetent, asinine, dimwitted, fucking misfits of friends that I entertained all these years. I am cutting off vestigal limbs. And I am learning catharsis. And I am gaining in self belief. That I am not a bad person. And that I am not inadequate. or unintelligent. or insensitive. I am being that non-needy person I always looked up to.

And I am not putting in effort where it will bring me nothing but hurt, pain, rejection, introspection, depression and unhappiness. And I want to talk about a lot of things. And I want to write about a lot of things. And I want to travel. Travel a lot.

I want to eat Sushi all the time. And I want to go snorkelling in the Andamans. And I want to expand my business. And I want to learn to drive. And I want to bring down my waist to 32 inches by February 3rd.

I am taking a departure to normally written posts. But I am at liberty to do so now. Because this is my blog. And I am unapologetic about it.

I can feel alone and not feel that it is a bad thing. But a positive thing. An attribute to thrive on. That cannot hurt me or harm me in any way. That is not a quest for validation in any way, shape or form.

This is a deeply personal post. But I am now a deeply personal person. I am serving the emotional needs of a person we all know as Pranay, first.

I will succeed. Not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not then, there's always next week.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:47 PM 2 comments

Old is Gold

And on a listless wednesday, some points of view, and assorted pieces of non-news..
and all my own work.

As my parents never fail to remind me, purane gaane are amazing. Not like today's songs that lack empathy, feeling, emotion, audible and/or decent lyrics, and "lilting, soulful" music scores. I am reminded of classic old songs that had intelligent meaningful lyrics, like "Eena Meena Dika, Dai Dama Nika", "Lal Chhadi Maidan Khadi", "Andar se koi baahar na ja sake", "Julie, I love you", "Hum Kaale hain toh kya hua dilwale hain", "Yahoo! Chahe koi mujhe junglee kahe", "I am a Disco dancer"...

A newspaper rag recently did not report the following: "Preeti and Pinky, Beaters, Falguni Pathak and other dandiya artistes recently formed an association that approached the government, the workers unions, the danidya organisers, Bharat Shah, film producers, Vijay Mallya, the Hore racing association of india, CRY, Medha Patkar, Anupam Kher, Yash Chopra, Shahrukh Khan, Karan Johar, the Phantom, Mandrake, The Western Railway Commuters Yojna, Chinchpokali Kreeda Mandal, The Lalbaug Ganpati Organisers Chit Fund, and started an SMS Campaign parallel to the Indian Idol shows. They requested all these individuals and organisations to make a dandiya coliseum where marriages, film shootings, mass pregnancies, gymnastics, and most importantly, DandiyaRaas that can be played till atleast 2.45 AM could happen like any other discotheque. Anti pregnancy pill companies rushed to sponsor different parts of the said complex as the hype grew."

When contacted, the artistes denied the allegations, saying they were either :
a) chasing the organisers for their money
b) raising a second mortgage on their home to pay for their mercedes
c) practising for a fund raiser for Gujarati under privileged women, hosted by Narendra Modi and Mallika Sarabhai"

As the cricket team prepares to get slammered in Mumbai (One Day Match tickets Rs 1000.00; T20 Match Tickets Rs 3000.00), All I ask myself is: Have monkeys evolved?

I like John Grisham novels. They are all a work in grey. No black and white heroes. All complicated tangled webs of the American Legal system. Where a single word can make a case win or lose. Where juries, and audiences are synonymous. I especially like the part where they retire to the Caribbean. Where the hero escapes from the legal system and lives it up in Europe. There was one where the hero escapes everything and his girlfriend cheats him. Even John Grisham doesnt trust intelligent beautiful women.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:39 AM 0 comments

Festi-vali

So, yesterday I met a bank employee, who was really disgruntled.

He said that there is too much stress and tension in the Indian corporate working environment, and we need more holidays.

To this, I pointed out that he had Saturdays/Sundays off. Thats 8 days a month, and 96 days a year of relaxation. Then I showed him that he had 3 days for Ganesh Utsav, 3 days for Durga Pooja / Navratri / Dussehra, 5 days for Diwali, 2 days for Eid, 2 days for Christmas and New Year, and additional 18 such bank holidays for secularly celebrated religious holidays across all faiths, such as Gudi Padva, Moharram, Parsi New Year, Guru Nanak Jayanti, Buddha Purnima, Mahavir Jayanti, Good Friday.

I then also happened to mention that he had about 25 Casual Paid Leave Days, that he could use in combination with any or all of the above holidays and weekends to get almost a week off on occasion.

And since he worked for an MNC bank, he was scheduled to attend atleast 7-8 3-days seminars, training, holiday "character-building" camps, with paint guns, rock climbing, rappelling, and trekking, to enhance his "team building" skills. And 4 inspections outstation every month, so thats 48 days in a year.

Then, I mentioned the bandhs, the rasta-rokos, the rainy days when the trains broke down, the days when we were mourning a dead politician's death, or the day when his wife was giving birth. I also tactfully slipped in those 4 days when India was playing Pakistan during office hours.

He just smiled, and said, "Time kaise pass ho jaata hai, pata hi nahin chalta... :)"

utekkare,
Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:57 PM 0 comments

Toy Story

And when a toy breaks, it hurts. You can love a toy to bits. Watch it take baby steps, wind it up and watch it clap its hands in perfect harmony with the key unwinding in its side. You can see it give you that big smile when you make it stand on your mantelpiece as all your friends marvel at how well behaved it is.

It smiled on cue, laughed on cue, and was extremely respectful of all that moved around it. It never uttered a single word in anger or ever turned on its masters.

It was very quiet when it's batteries ran out, but it did not raise the roof or demand servicing too often. It quietly stood in a corner when you found something new to concentrate your affections on. It beamed generously when you went back to it and lavished your attentions on it. When you painted it's arms, and bought it small little accessories, you felt gratified when it bore your new accessory proudly and strutted around like a new-born toy.

It did not give you joint problems during the winter, and it did not swelter in the heat. It came with you on all your travels and gave you endless hours of pleasure after hours of hard work. You shared your toy "selflessly" with all your friends, and you even made it get all social, by buying it more toys to play with when you were unable to play with it. You got it the latest in pets, in soft toys, cutting edge technology in toy-pleasing machinery. You always made sure that it was kept in the right cupboard, and that it was clearly marked "For Greater Things".

And when the toy got older, you got it repaired at the best technicians, and you made sure it was oiled, and greased and kept in shape, as far as possible. After all, a toy cannot be kept forever, but this particular toy has great sentimental value. It was going to see you through your old age, and be the emotional crutch you could lean on. It was going to put all those other toys your friends own, into shame.

Until one day, you took your toy to play at the neighbour's. And your neighbour loved your toy far more than you could. And that neighbour decided to ask you for the toy. After all it was an old toy, and the neighbour was lonely. Suddenly, you couldnt think why someone else would love your toy as much as you did. You got all resentful, and angry. You started wondering whether that toy was actually two-timing you. Whether the toy actually meant it when it beamed at you when you made it walk up and down your mantelpiece. You no longer take out your toy to show off to your friends. You dont like to play with it anymore. Every time you take out your toy now, you think of that stupid neighbour who thought your toy was worth asking for.

And slowly, but surely, you began hating your toy. Every time it grinned at you, you got angry, and irritated, and you no longer get the time to dust the toy. All this while, it just stood there in the dark cupboard, wondering when it would see the light. You stopped playing with your neighbour, and moved to another city.

It's not your fault. You broke your toy in transit.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:05 PM 1 comments

On a C-rickety wicket

Cricket is not a suitable career for young men. No, it is not. The odds of being chosen in the Indian team is about 250 million to 15. And the fact that 40% of India's population is between 23 and 45 is not helping either.

So if you did a little bit of backpage math, you would realise that you need to start showing signs of being a cricketer at the age of 3 or 4, be recognised by your parents or a coach, or an elder brother or an uncle at the age of 5 or 6, find your first coach under whom you can find success in school by the age of 8, and start getting runs, and into a decent college team by the age of 14. Unless you're Tendulkar. Which, sadly, 999 million, 999 thousand, 999 of us are not. So then, you need to get into college, and start sucking up to the Ranji scouts who are slinking around MSSA and Inter College cricket teams, hoping to find some decent talent.

Then you need to be in the Ranji team and need to have scored atleast a million gazillion runs to be noticed for the Indian team. And even then there is no logic or pattern to that. You might have scored 50 runs in an important match where someone happened to have dropped you at the individual score of 4 but let you get a fortuituous 50 which saved the match and you got picked into a provisional A team squad. On the other hand you might have scored hundreds of thousands of runs for 10 years running, and while it is tough to run a family on just 500,000 rupees a year, half of which is spent on cricket gear and travelling, you have to thank your stars and hope that some day the Indian selection panel will happen to go ahead; make your day. Punk.

And ofcourse, you have to eat shit, and suck up to match officials, and team coaches, and senior players, and India players, and BCCI referees, and Match referees, and politicians, and selectors, and Zonal selectors, and groundsmen, and scorers, and umpires, and managers, and still more managers, and endorsement companies, and employing companies like Indian Oil, and Bharat Petroleum, and Indian Railways, because you never know when you will need regular employment. And you must kiss ass with retired famous players, and test discards, and treasurers, and secretaries, and joint secretaries, and under secretaries, and notable members of the board, and the regional board, and the central board, and county scouts, and county managers, because you would love to live in England for a year or so.

But all this is not enough to guarantee you a place in the Indian team. Depending on who likes you, and how much they like you, if you fail in your first game, or even if you score highly in your first game, you are liable to be dropped, or be "persisted with". You could be selected for a 3 month tour and never see the playing field except when you carry water out to the batsmen who are the stars. You could be selected for a one day tournament, and be forced to play at Number Six and be sent in to win the match with an asking rate of 8 per over. And you have opened all your life.

And you could have all the talent. And the luck. And the blessings. And the scores to back them up. And you could have the opportunity. And the occasion. And the spirit. And the aggro to back it up. But you could be playing football during a training session, and trip over the ball, and break your ankle, and have to spend 4 months on the bed, and in rehab. And in that four months, someone else took your spot. And an old has-been got a test recall. And all you could do is watch as someone else took your place in the world. And noone remembers you. And noone cares.

And being captain of the Indian cricket team is even worse. Ofcourse you should have the best team in the world, and you should beat everyone in the world. And when you query how this is possible, its because you are paid to stand in front of a camera and tell the world that your favourite brand of cola or biscuit or sweet or luggage or watch or fabric or shampoo is the best. That is the reason you must win. Not because you have no training on bouncy pitches. Or because you were so busy protecting your place, you forgot about the match and the team and winning. Or because you could not figure out who ran the team. You or some bureaucrat in delhi.

But on some days, it is all worth it. When the world is at your feet, and when everyone is a fan. And the world is a happy place where it rains money, and friends, and supporters, and happiness, and ticker tape parades and accolades and promise, and positive thoughts.

Yesterday was one such day.

utekkare,
Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:42 PM 3 comments

Cheap at Double the Price

I think I want to buy an apartment.

So my friend and I went to look at this apartment complex, who boasts an astoundingly low rate of Rs 4000.00 per square foot, and says it is in Mulund. East, but still Mulund.

And it was a reputed Builder, renowned for its quality construction, luxury lifestyle apartments, and large towers.

So we went looking for the apartment complex. We went past Nahur station, and turned left on the highway. We passed the signal before the Toll Naka. Then we passed the Toll Naka. (After we paid the Toll). Then we took a U-turn just before the Octroi Naka where someone had thoughtfully pulled out the dividing section of concrete between the 2 opposing lanes, to ensure we could take a U-turn before entering Thane. Then we took a left on a dirt track that boasted the entry to the BMC Dumping Ground. The road took a sharp right in front of the dirty black BMC gate and we were suddenly confronted by 2 security guards who wanted to know why our lowly Innova wanted to enter their hallowed premises. When we assured them that we bore no ill-will, they smiled and directed us with their grimey hands and blackened teeth.

We were suitably impressed by the height of the towers; The progress of the construction; The bright blue swimming pool. Actually real! And we were whisked into a sterile meeting room with the Sales Officer. Mr Important. And he regarded us carefully.

This property is top of the line. 27 storey towers. With views of the garden in front and the green belt in the back. Green belt? The future green belt. Currently known as the landfill that had green organic matter growing on it. But no no no, Sir, you have nothing to worry about. There is no burning here and it is no health hazard. And besides, they are building a new bridge that is on the Development Plan but does not exist. So please do not look for that bridge. And ofcourse, you are 15 minutes walk from Thane Station, but make no mistake Sir. You are in Mulund, NOT Thane. You may have to pay toll every time you want to take a pee. And everytime you want to bring a package home from the station you will have to pay octroi. But what is that minor harrassment and expense when you can see what you have in front of you!!!

27 storeyed towers. E3 flats, also known as 2 1/2 BHK flats. Not 2. Not 3. 2 1/2 BHKs. You know, for that inconveniently unplanned second kid?? And Free Dry Balconies. Yes!! Free. Ofcourse, we have 30% loading on Built Up. So you can use only 850 sq feet in a billed space of 1225 sq feet. Never mind that when you load 30% on 850 sq feet it adds up to 1105, not 1225 sq feet. But defensive builders are the foundation of reverse mathematics. So the cost of the Flat is Rs 51.65 lakhs plus Stamp Duty and Registration of Rs 2.75 lakhs, so your total is Rs 54.40 lakhs. Cheap, no?

Oh and sorry sir, there is an additional cost of Rs 15 per floor rise. Oh, and parking costs Rs 3.50 lakhs if you want to put your car under the building. If you want to leave it open to the elements, it will cost you Rs 2.00 lakhs. Very reasonable. The society and other deposits are only RS 2.50 lakhs. Not much at all.
We cannot negotiate the rate you know sir. Ofcourse if you can bring your booking amount of Rs 51,000 to the table, we can take a spot approval for rate from my superiors. Can we do that?

Oh, and last of all. We can only show 3400 rs per sq foot in the agreement. If you dont have Rs 7.50 lakhs in black money to give us, dont even waste our time.

I'm sorry but this does not seem to suit our budget.

I'm so sorry to hear that. You know, you should have come in here 16 months ago. The price was 2000 Rs per sq foot then. Have a good day.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:33 AM 5 comments

Getting too old for this

So I went out today. After all it was Saturday night. And I definitely did not want it to be the loneliest night of the week. And since I met Trevor, we decided we wanted to go out, party, go crazy, and generally have a great time.

And since my simple goddess was unavailable, and all the other maidens were bowled over, by potato-deprived maharashtrians, and punjabi horses of iron, we decided to make it a boy's night out.

And to begin with, I thought, what the hell, since I work on Sundays as well, I might as well work hard, and party harder. And so I managed to close up by 8.30 PM.
Then we thought, we would go to this awesome nightclub where I would be able to wangle an entry on the guest list. Never mind that it is free entry before 10 PM, and never mind that the nightclub was in the mall 4 storeys below my office.

But we had to take the dog home in the car, and the driver needed to be sent home early if we were to get to work on Sunday. So we ended up at my place, dropped off the dog, and started discussing prices of real estate, interiors, shelf placements, and the cost of double bedsheets.

But since I was not to be deterred, I changed my shoes, and wore funky light brown sports shoes, and sidestepped all efforts to sit down to dinner, and discuss wall colors, varnish, polish, and cabinets.

We left, and generally congratulated each other as I made elaborate plans to get sloshed. And since we were in College again, we discussed how foolish it would be to go to Leopold's since the price would be too high. Instead we could even go to Lalit's and enjoy the quarter system. Like old times.

And we could have gone to Lower Parel, Bowling Company, and bowled a few games, and had a few beers, and struck up a conversation with the all girls team bowling alongside us. But we didnt. After all who needs a sore right arm the next morning?

And we could have called a couple of friends, and gone dancing and drinking in a nightclub. But my knees are not OK yet, and Trevor didnt want to risk breaking his leg again. So we didnt. After all who needs more complications in body parts?

And we could have gone for a movie at IMAX, and enjoyed the late night show thoroughly. But we needed our sleep, and since we didnt want to bleary eyed the next day, we didnt. After all who likes a crotchety Pranay at 10 AM on a Sunday morning?

And then we decided that we were men, and we went to shoot some Pool. We smirked at the kids playing there, atleast 10 years our junior. And 2 kids cockily came up and asked if we would play Doubles, we nervously looked at each other, and I stuttered, "No LP"... After all the last thing we need on a Macho Saturday night is a reality check before 2 kids.

And we talked about our trips abroad, and compared notes on how the white house looked, and reminisced about what we used to do when we were in college, and how years had passed. And we continued playing mediocre Pool and feeling good about ourselves.

And after 2 drinks, we decided to head home, and hailed a taxi. As we drove down Mahapalika Marg, I exclaimed that we should go back to College once.. For old times sake. As we passed it I realised that most kids we would pass in that college hadn't even been born when we were in college. I held my counsel thereafter.

And I dropped Trev off, and the cabbie took me meandering along Foras Road. And I could have jumped off the cab, and walked to Delhi Darbar, and explored those gallis, and observed, and taken a cab home later. But I was unsure of who might jump me, and drug me and force intercourse on me. And I kept thinking, I'm too old for this.

And then I reached home, took my medicine for a scratchy throat, an aching back, a pulled muscle, a headache, and checked my hair loss in the mirror.

Sigh. I'm going to have to get a hair cut sometime soon. I'm too old for this.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:57 PM 2 comments

Generalisations, and Accusations, and Insinuations, and Suchlike

So on a saturday morning, in the middle of the desert, some general mindless meandering thoughts, and points of view, and interesting observations (All my own work)..

Like I found out that I'm not the only pretender who apes Behram Contractor. And that there are those who are given reams and reams of newsprint so they may sully their reader's eyes with mediocre Busybee-ish "Like"s and dis"Like"s... and is it coincidental, or is it completely intended that these mediocre observations should accompany mediocre cricket?

And that I am getting to write again. And that when the spirit is willing, the body is conveniently misplaced at some other location.

Like Karma is easy come easy go.

Like Mind blowing lines, and Slick copy accompanying equally intelligent thoughts, and round about sentences in mildly suggestive assertiveness, describing situations that bring on heady bouts of anger, distaste, opinions, salty prose, and irritation, should be written down and noted down for posterity's sake.

And I visited Panvel in an ST Bus. It was a quick journey there. That is the only adjective I can generously use in favour of the ST Bus. And contrary to popular perception, the driver was safe. Ofcourse, that is a subjective point of view, since I, the subject was sitting on the inside, and the seats were Definitely greener on my side of the fence.

And I saw that the small village once was famous for its Ramakant Vada-Pav, and its Bhajiya and Chai and Waterfalls, and nature treks, and small paths, and panthers in its greenery, and being on the way to Karnala, and Goa, and Pune, and Khopoli, and Karjat, is no longer on the way but is the end on the map.

And all traces of the that old village have been obliterated, and now assembly-line townships, and buildings, and roads, and post offices, and ICICI Banks, and HDFC Banks, and Mahesh Tutorials, and McDonalds, and foresighted individuals, once in decrepit rickshaws, now in Sumos and Scorpios, preening around their 50,000 Rs per meter foot land, never mind that it is in the mangroves, and that it is in a swamp, and that the roads look like the Moon's Surface, and that there are no street lights, and that your nearest neighbours are snakes and crabs.

And builders, and investors, and gujjus, and sindhis and Mr and Mrs Moneybags from Andheri and Juhu, and Bandra, and Santacruz, investing and hungrily staring at their property prices doubling and then tripling, rubbing their hands in glee.

Ofcourse, all this humbled me, so I returned by ST Bus, and (although I was suitably irritated by the ST bus), I returned in 1 piece and far earlier than a train or a car would reach me.

And now I must go. Or my flight will offload me.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:58 AM 0 comments

All in a day's work....

what is memory? just the hopeful synaptic climax of one tragically hysterical effort after another to recreate nostalgia.
even if it happened a moment ago.
this is one cupboard that will stay untidy. and no matter how much you go rotting around in your brain, you will not find the answer to happiness. Just pray that the next time, the motorist is too drunk to notice you wander across the expressway.

utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
the threat of life
the bane of pleasure
the depths of desire
and expectations.
the pain of satisfaction
the chill of comfort
the surreal optimism
the instinctively hopeful
will be
the scourge of you.
and Yes.
Torn you are.
____________________________________________________________________________
sigh. yes, sigh.
desire. pain. warmth. wind.
sunshine. rain. undeniable happiness.
a window of hope. a ray of sparkling glory.
silence.
if only there were words.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
flights of fancy
fanciful expeditions
of the vengeful mind
mindless delusions of
the vagaries of dissent
entombed in disaster
return to the fold
venture not, not far, not close
lost in time, in space, in vain
regretfully yours
Progress? Nil.
QED.
____________________________________________________________________________
running into walls of time
clashing with memories of a bygone era
when i was naive. and headstrong.
silent masses of thoughts colliding
gathering into a cohesive unit
entrancing even the sublimely outspoken
ensnaring, endearing, entrapment
sorrow, plight, darkness,
plunging headlong into tomorrow.
let me sleep some more.

utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
the autumn of life.. full of falling leaves..
the most foolish of fools.. will call this gold.
but gold it is.. the treasure of windfalls.
made of madness, and of hope.
of optimism, and of desperation.
chase them till they fall. never to rise again.

utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
i speak less. hissing is a language.
i have no leanings. the absence of choice becomes an option.
i float in thin air. my feet are light and my heart is heavy.
i laugh in the face of danger.
and i light my own fires.

utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
ah, the plate glass barriers, shielding the vulnerable, and the eminently anguished...
arms at the ready, poised to strike.
shields at the shoulder, bent over, peering down the glint of your spear.
strengthen your armour, and tighten your noose.
hear the sound of the twig cracking? it is the disheartened cry of your own will, breaking. silently.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________

utekkare.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:45 PM 0 comments

The day I died and went to Heaven. Almost.

So the other day I got tired of living. Yes, it can happen sometimes. So I decided to do that great twirly whirly thing and die. You know, kaput, the end, sayonara, shalom, etc etc. So I walked up to the terrace on the highest floor of my building, and stepped out onto the parapit, and stared down. But my life did not flash before my face. Only a pigeon did. Not very encouraging, I saw. I avoided all the mini satellite dishes, and a smile crept across my face as I thought of all that satellite disruption I was causing... Or maybe not. But atleast I felt evil. Atleast that was a thought.

I carefully avoided all the wires, and the ropes and the bamboos and the decorative lights from the recent wedding reception that had been held there. After all you do not want to get tripped while trying to die. It's so gauche.

So I tiptoed to the edge and turned around. And then I smiled. A million dollar smile. One that would have made Renuka Shahane proud. And I spread my arms exactly the way I had imagined and I lunged backwards into the vast pool of cool air. As I hurtled down, I wondered about whether I had turned the Air Conditioner off in my room, and if I had left my wallet out in the open again. And whether the door had been closed. There would be mosquitoes again in the... THWACK. I hit Joy's Alto ass-up and as i felt the blood oozing out of my ears, I closed my eyes and died. Well my heart stopped and my vitals were killed. My brain was still ticking over but it had nothing to talk with. My body was smashed. Since It didnt want to be lonely, it decided to Die as well.

I started looking for a way to exit the body. The mouth was closed. The eyes were bulging open but it would take a while to ooze past the whites of the eyes. And those flies are so worrisome.. Always trying to get a taste or two... Oh wait there are people coming to see what that big THUD was.. hmm, this should be better. I'll exit from the bloody backside.. It's such a pain to hang around in a stinky body, I tell you.

But I got out. Eventually. And I needed directions. I haven't died in 28 years and a bit you see.. Add another 9 months gestation before that and it's been about 30 years since I bit the bullet the last time. So I needed directions..

I wandered around a bit near Kemp's Corner.. wandered down Marine Drive.. See, when you're a free spirit, you can do whatever you want, wherever you want. I always wanted to go to the Niagara Falls.. BOOM, I was there. While I was playing "lean-over-the-scaffolding", a portly young man came to me and said, "Spirit, here is your ticket to the sorting station." And he handed me an icecream cone. Reach the station before it melts or you'll miss your ride. And then he looked at me. Peered, rather. Rather rudely, I might add. Almost microscopic. And then he winced and walked away, muttering, "these out-of-turners.. why wont they just make a fist of it while they're alive.. make a mess of the system.."

Well, when you have an icecream in your hand, especially a spiritual icecream, you shouldnt let it melt, so I started licking it, and eating it, and making sure I had the stickiest spirit fingers I could get. Suddenly I looked up and I saw I was in a waiting room. A table and a chair was at the far end, and the official-looking creature behind the table looked.. well, he looked Bihari, and spoke with a Mid-Atlantic twang.

I walked up to him and handed over my now-empty cone. By now, the old ways had come back to me, and I knew what the drill was now. Icecream was such an eternal icon.

So anyways, he looked at my cone, and then at me, and then at the cone again. He growled in Bhojpuri, and dumped the cone into a disposal by his side. One of those celestial bottomless regurgitative recyclers, you know. Then he looked at me, and cursed, and looked at his register, and then looked up at me and growled again. Then he said, "You're out of turn. You're not in the register. Wait."
All this time, spirits came in and out of the room, waltzed in, and floated out onto the platform. I heard trains coming and going but I couldnt see what was happening behind the thick curtains of the exit door. Sort of like Egyptian Immigration. Only dirtier, less ornate and ruder.

Then he gestured like a telephone dialled 3 digits on the make-believe handset and listened. Intently. He then spoke into thin air, and kept babbling on and on about irregularities and how he was a part-timer and why he wasn't cut out for this kind of work. After a while, he calmed down, and then hung up. He made a kind of gesture with his hand to denote an incoming fax paper and out of nowhere, a paper with writing on it materialised. He read the page, looked satisfied, and then beckoned to me.

He "Come here, you". I walked up. "Fill this". I stared at the printed form. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to die after all.

..Part 2 follows


utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:49 PM 1 comments

The trappings of success

Yes, I agree. I do have all the trappings of success.

I am fat. Not obese, but just the right amount of fat, that shows that I'm fat, but not that much that I feel I cannot get away with wearing tight clothes. So I look fat in the tight clothes I feel I could get away in. The big illusion.

I am losing hair. It grows in patches, but when you will look at me, it is evident that I am losing hair. It is growing alright but not in all the places it is supposed to. And someday soon even that will stop growing.

I am stressed out most of the time. Although my sugar levels are normal, and my blood pressure is ok, and my body is not looking like a mis-shapen lump of diabetic dysfunction, I can feel it. My inheritance includes high BP and atleast one heart attack. Maybe it will happen by the time I'm 40. Another trapping of success.

I have an awful digestive system. I hurry my breakfast, delay my lunch, and ingest my dinner with absent-minded numbed-out desensitisation. I do not eat on time, and when I eat, I either eat too less or too much, and it is always of the wrong thing. I can digest a lot, but I cannot control my bodily cycles with the random precision that a completely tuned individual manages. I am a helpless bystander, and my body exclaims its helplessness in the most inopportune places with the most inappropriate gestures..

I travel in a car that is too big for me. And I sit alone in it. I stare out of the window at all those people travelling by Bus, by Train, by Auto, by Taxi, and all those people stare back at me.

I sit with people who I fondly think of as my friends. I drink expensive liquor, pay for it with my expensive credit card, and then i say goodbye, go home, and sit and work till 3 in the morning. Then i fall asleep in front of the TV.

I no longer have the time to read books, to listen to music, to travel, to roam about the city, to visit book fairs, to look up old friends, to sit and chat or read a book over endless cup of coffee, to walk up and down Carter Road and Bandstand, to write what goes around in my head, to write down what I feel like, and to do what most normal people do. Laze around on a Sunday.

People bitch about me behind my back, and to my face, and people do not like me, and people think I am arrogant, and aggressive, and idiotic, and completely crazy. People do not think I have a chance in hell of making it big, and sometimes I believe them too.

These are the trappings of success.

Now all that is left for me to do, is to be successful. And that does not seem to be happening any time soon.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:35 PM 10 comments

Festival of Mumbai

And since it is the Mumbai festival, let us celebrate those things that are truly Mumbaikar in nature. And in deference to my orkutkar friends, let us be celebratory of those things that are truly Bombayite..

Like fisherwomen at Bhau-cha-Dhakka at 5.30 in the morning, jingling their jewellery, and their starched colorful saris. Like BEST bus drivers driving the last bus at 1.45 AM and the first bus at 4.30 AM. Like Harbour line train drivers. Like Sandwich wallahs, and bhel wallahs, and dabeli-wallahs, and chana-wallahs, and Marine drive coffee,chai-wallahs.

Like Icecream at K Rustoms, and chinese food at Kamling, and Beer at Mocambo's and Mondegars, and Icecream at Snowmans, and Guru Kripa Samosas, and Tibbs Frankies opposite the American Consulate and at Hill road (no longer), and Horniman Circle, and the peeking hand at the odd place on the statue outside the BMC office opposite VT Station. And the Cooperage, and Cross Maidan, and AZad Maidan, and Queens Road, and University Pavilion, and the Matchbox building outside Elphinstone Rd Station.

Like jaljeera and kathi kababs at Samovar. And Samovar. And roadside art used to attract coins. And Fashion Street, and the Nimbu paani wallah at the junction of Khau gully and Fashion street. And the Ganna walla at the beginning of Azad Maidan, and at Sion Circle, and at King Circle and at Andheri east opposite Geet Gunjan.

And Rang Bhavan, and the canteen inside Rang Bhavan that serves the greatest dal-chaawal. And the canteen in GT hospital. And Round Building, and getting pushed through Churchgate subway. And travelling faster than a moving car in Kalbadevi.

And one sort of lit up kandeels at the colony at Mahim Causeway that look so bright during Diwali, when you are coming into Mumbai, like sentinels that greet you at the gates of a great fortress. And kreeda mandals in Chinchpokali, and in Worli, and in BDD Chawls, and in Sewri, and in prabhadevi, and in Police Colonies, and in Nehru nagar, and in BPT Colony, that celebrate diwali, and ganpati, and sankranti, and navratri, and holi with the same fervour, and togetherness that their parents used to.

And quarter bars, that serve you exactly the amount of alcohol you want to drink, and make sure you feel good about the alcohol, and dont feel bad about the money you pay. And the bhurji-wallah opposite Dadar Station east, and the pav-bhaji wallah opposite dadar Station West, and Bade Miya's Dhaba, and Sardar Pav Bhaji for late night food.

And Heera Panna, and Manish Market, and Zhaveri Bazaar, and Tulsiwadi, and Kapolwadi, and Teen Hath Naka, and Teen batti, and Khotachiwadi, and Matharpakadi, and Tankpakhadi and Gundavli, and Kapoor-Bawdi, and the Thane creek, and the Vasai creek.

And snacks from Hearsch's bakery, and not making too much noise there, and sitting at Mocha's, and wafers opposite Andrews College, and wafers from A-1 and OK wafers. And chilya food from mahim, and worli naka at Cafe City, and Biryani from Noorani's and Dabba Ghosht from Delhi Darbar.

These are the truly Bombayite things that make my festivities.. Perhaps you have noticed the overwhelming majority of foodie things to do. Well if it is a festival, you must do that which makes you happy. And all Bombayites are almost always hungry.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:19 PM 1 comments

Not sorry at all

I am not sorry. No. Not at all. Not sorry.

I am not sorry for littering my city. For sleeping till 9 am every morning. For working too late, or not working at all, or for pretending to work all the time. For not relaxing on sundays. For staying up till 2 am on a saturday night, flipping through channels on TV.I am not sorry for forgetting people's names, their birthdays, their likes and dislikes, For falling asleep in a car. On a desk. at the computer. For breaking peoples hearts. For joining them again. For not helping out in the kitchen. For not keeping my room clean. For not watching what I say. and acting without thinking. And getting excited. And getting confused. And getting agitated. And getting enthusiastic.

I am not sorry. For Pluto being relegated. For George Bush and the Iraqis. and Saddam Hussein. and Margaret Thatcher. Also I am not sorry for my country's political situation. And for Bihar and UP and Jharkand and political murders, and murdered politicians, and for just politicians and for even just murders. I am not sorry for Manu Sharma and for Nitish Katara's girlfriend, and for those designers in the broken down mall in Delhi.

I am not sorry for eating sloppily. And for snarling at the sweet little beggar at my window. And for slurping down the last drops of peach ice tea in my glass. And for pushing my way ahead in a crowd. And I do not want to be sorry for slapping errant rickshaw wallahs.

And I am not sorry for screwing up at work. And for demanding less working hours, and for claiming amnesia. I am not sorry for wanting a break a week after I have had a break. And I am also not sorry for taking the break and returning as stressed as I was. And I am not sorry for wanting to run away from it all, and I am not sorry for thinking uncharitable thoughts about all of humanity. And I am not sorry for not wanting to adjust.

And I am not sorry for paying less at a shop and forgetting to return to pay the balance. And I am not sorry for not tipping a waiter. And I am not sorry for not being nice to stray dogs.

And I can be nice. And I can be sorry. But I am not sorry for not being sorry.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:08 PM 1 comments

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posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 1:53 PM 2 comments

Filing my returns

And since the fifteenth approaches, with a week of holidays, I think I will file my returns for July.

And July was quiet. All of Mumbai was bleeding. And Mahim was bleeding. And Khar was bleeding. And the road was bleeding, and the traffic was bleeding. And the railway tracks were bleeding. And everyone was sympathetic. And everyone was jingoistic. Everyone that is, outside Mumbai. And Mumbai's spirit was saluted. With 7 bombs and about 200 dead bodies.

And the cleansing came before the wounds. And Mumbai bobbed its head above the polluted rain water that clogged its drains, and that snaked into the ground floor houses. And the BMC asked us to wait another 3 years for the water to recede from our terror-striken brains. Mr Jonny Joseph is an honourable man.

And Mr Bharadwaj has done what no man has done before. He has made the Censor Board understand what an "A" rating is. Unapologetically. Without begging with politicians. And cabinet secretaries. And media houses. And pressure groups. And producers. And he has got the film he wanted to be shown the way he wanted.

And Mr Natwar Singh is singing like a canary. But to the wrong people about the wrong things. Like a deer in the cross lights of an approaching SUV, he looks stranded.

Like Maybe Sonia Gandhi should join the Samajwadi Party. Then none of the gangsters will have anything to fear. And the common man will be sent to jail for paying his taxes on time.

Like maybe Karan Johar should now delve deeper into the grays of the human pysche and try making a movie on split personalities.

Maybe road travel in Mumbai will soon resemble a stampede in the Serengeti. The deterioration of an entire people from a manageable, coherent, alert, non interfering, caring law abiding group to a lawless unethical, selfish, derogatory rabble of careless humanity.

And I saw it begin right in front of me. With an utter disdain for traffic law. Flouted in the face of a feeble-minded traffice pandu. Instigated by those out-of-towners.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:49 AM 3 comments

And it is raining. As usual.

And it is just another monsoon day in Mumbai.

And King Circle is flooded. Just like in 1995, and 1998, and 2002, and 2004, and 2005 and 1974 and all those years before and in between. Only this time there are cameras, and vans, and microphones, and people wearing all sorts of protective rain gear peering earnestly into cameras, discussing the size of the pothole opposite Don Bosco High School and the level of murky water on Char-Rasta with the kind of fervour you normally associate with war correspondents.

And since before I can remember, we have been walking home in knee-deep water. And trains have been running slowly. And people have been crammed into uncomfortable bogies like sardines. And electricity has been coming and going. And schools and colleges have been declared shut. And buses have not moved for hours on end. And people have stayed at friend's places. And airports have been shut and people have been given bread and sambar to eat in transit lounges.

And Matunga has been flooded. And Lal Dongar has been flooded. And water has built up in Marol. And in Tardeo. And the Sion railway tracks have always been waterlogged. And it has always shut down train services between Kurla and Dadar. And people have walked home along the middle of the road for ages. And I can remember when we walked home from VT to home, during college. And it was an adventure and an escapist fantastical release from the daily humdrum of work, home, and reliving the same routine every day. And the airports delayed flights for longer than 15 to 20 minutes.

But the CM did not need to answer the media people. And viewers did not send in sensational pictures of ankle deep water and floating debris. And people living in the ground floor of Railway colonies did not have people poking cameras and microphones into their living rooms. And people smiling genially into cameras portraying them as martyrs and heroes and crusaders against the unyielding rains.

And discussions about high tides and disaster management and preparedness and the Mithi River above danger mark and even more discussions about the Mumbai spirit and the Police Commissioner gravely condemning all rumour-mongering and requesting cellular companies to spread generalised messages about "Heavy to Very Heavy rains expected in the next 48 hours". And the Met department forecasting perennial rains for the next 7 hundred and 22 hours.

And NDTV and Aaj-Tak and CNBC and Zee News and Star News putting out correspondents in Chembur and Kurla and Andheri and on the highway and the expressway. And grave faces and even more grave predictions, and newspeople telling their reporters to "tough it out" and "brave the elements" and they will "keep us updated" of the "situation". Ofcourse even 4 hours later, the trains are still crawling, and the buses are still moving, and people are still wading through water, and it is still raining in Mumbai.

And I cannot understand where these media people were all these years. When we were playing antakshari in the candle light at 8 in the evening. When we were wading through waist deep water at Parel. When those slum dwellers in Asalpha lamented the death of their families when their wall fell over. When office commuters sat and discussed cricket and politics and social issues while perched on the window sill of a VT local stranded between Sion and Matunga for the better part of a day. When people got up every morning and decided to go to work and were not dependent on souped-up reports of 100 mm of rainfall in Santacruz for their daily programs.

And I feel the need for a 24 Hrs Weather Channel who can agonise painfully and convulse in raptures over each and every deviation from the mean and median performance of the weather.

Then maybe these news channels can go back to reporting the news. And NOT the weather.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:00 AM 4 comments

Bad First Date Foundation and You

And since I am wallowing right now, from great challenges spring great ideas. And millionaires and orators, and politicians and strong-willed people fashion such debacles into footboards to long and winding staircases to the heights of achievement - a brownstone apartment in Brooklyn...

And I will start a movement. I will build a non-profit foundation called the "Bad First Date Experience and You".

And I will write a book on these experiences. And the proceeds I receive by publishing this book, will be employed to screen each and every propspective first date contirbutors possibly will embark upon before they actually embark upon the date.

And I will start a blog. Specially for this. By invitation only. And I will get written about. In papers. In newspapers. On toilet paper. I will be interviewed. On radio. On FM even. And on TV. I will extol the vices of staying single for too long, and I will caution against plunging into a bad first date that can nullify any and all longings for familiar human companionship of the sexual kind. Eventually.

And I will conduct seminars, and events, and I will inspire youngsters everywhere. And I will find everyone listening to me with a frown on their face. And colleges will ask me to lecture to students. And I will offer employment to out of work detective agencies. And offer normal people a shot at greatness. By writing their stories.

And there will be parts 2. Maybe even parts 3 and 4. And I will start more foundations. And I will go abroad. And I will be hailed as a genius. And people will donate. Generously. Ofcourse Cheques are not accepted. Cash only.

And then one day, I will offer a "heart-to-heart" interview with Arnab Goswami and I will thank my failed first date. Maybe I should thank her now before everything starts.

Maybe I will be too busy to remember her then. Thank you.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:18 PM 0 comments

Australians can't play gully cricket for nuts

The other day, Sharad Pawar invited Punter, Gilly, Brad, Pigeon, and Clarkey to play gully cricket with us in our backyard near the garages in Andheri. After exchange of autographs, we invited them to a game of gully cricket. They agreed.

So we were 6 a side, and we tossed for batting / fielding. They won the toss and decided to bat first. Gilly took first strike and started looking for the stumps. We politely showed him the wall on which 3 lines were drawn by brick. "These are the stumps?? You must be crazy, mate!!". But we assured him these were the stumps. This way we didnt need to worry about french cuts, and wicket keepers, and slips, and backward point and third man, and fine leg, and leg slip and hitting the wicket keepers helmet and conceding 8 runs.... plus there were more fielders to put in catching positions this way. He tried to take guard but the hard concrete refused to give way. So we brought over a piece of red brick and drew his guard for him - Arre boss, humour them na. TP thoda toh chahiye na... He looked for the bowling wicket and we showed him the large stone that doubled as the bowling wicket. The batting crease was shown too to him. Just in case he decided he wanted to counter the spin and stand outside the crease.

Just as he was about to start batting, we decided to make things a little more easier to him. I asked the boss's son to go and explain all the rules to him. So the far wall was 2-D, if the ball bounced and went behind the wall it was 1-D, and if it went into the passage to the building it was 1-D. No running at all! easy, na? Also we drew the box line. When he saw this he asked why were cutting the already small pitch into half. We explained that as per box cricket rules (to avoid him breaking any glasses - with aerial shots yaar!), anything he hit had to bounce within that line before going anywhere. Or else he was out.

And so I bowled the first over. After the trial ball over arm, I bowled the first ball, he played down, and it came back to me. No run. He immediately came and said that Mr Chappel's tactics would not work for every ball. Thats when Punter told him that gully cricket was actually underarm. And only spin, no pace. Ofcourse there was no question of line and length so Pigeon looked quite sad. Hmm, they actually are intelligent! Just 5 mins and he understood everything. The very next ball, he hit into the ground, and it sailed into the air on the first bounce, and into the boss's sons's hands. OUT!!

Gilly didnt move though. We thought it was really bad sport of him, especially since the bat and ball was ours and he was in no position to bargain for an extra life. We were nice though and yanked the bat away from him and told him he was out. One-tuppie out, na!!!

Next in was Punter. He didnt bother taking guard, and started batting. I bowled a finger spin legspinner to him, that he played to the 2D area. Nice. I then bowled a ball at his legs, and spinned it away from him. He asked for it to be declared a wide. We didnt know what he was talking about. So we continued bowling as if we hadnt heard him. The next ball, he got really angry and hit it high into the air and it hit the 3rd floor landing before coming down and bouncing away. Ofcourse he was out too! I mean, dont they know that hitting the building full toss is out???

Then came Clarkey. Now this guy had learnt from his predecessor's idiocy, and he just pushed and prodded the next 3 balls for 1D away.

The boss's son bowled the next over, and He bowls a nice offspinner on the second bounce. And when clarkey came to play the ball, just when his bat was going to connect, the ball bounced again and hit the wicket lines. They protested that the delivery had bounced twice, but we reasoned that they had not clarified the ghasar-gundi rule before batting.. By default, shooters along the ground were allowed.

The tail did not put up too much of a fight and they were out for 23 runs.

Then we batted, and got 6 extra runs for the fast balls they threw at us. Not bowled, threw. We told them this was not softball, it was cricket and fast fulltoss was not allowed. But they wouldnt listen.

So then we hit 3 sixes. Apparently they did not know that chikki-run and box rules did not apply when you hit the ball full toss into the next compound. Then it was 6. The art of placing the ball without hitting the building or the cars earned you a 6.

Post match press conference:

Us: Ofcourse we won because we were the better team and we used the rules and conditions better. All the guys were disappointed because they thought Australia would kick their ass at this competition. I mean if you lose by a hundred runs to Dharavi 6 and to Bhoiwada, then i suppose expecting to win against Australia is too much.

Them: This is a new innovation to cricket and we will take a few years to adapt to this. Im sure we will win the major world championship in about 5-6 years. We will start grooming young gully cricketers immediately. I will speak with our Selection Panel to start a grassroots gully cricket program to help nurture the best talent. We will build awkward buildings, park cars indiscriminately, provide awful training facilities, forget about proper cricket gear, and make sure there are no other places to practice except your own building compound.

ICC: Im sure that they will not get invited for the next All-India night box cricket tournament to be held in our colony. About 10 teams from Andheri are participating but we wont call them. Australia are a young team at gully cricket and we dont want them to compete without gaining in confidence. The teams we will invite are Kenya, Somalia, Central America, Brazil, Thailand, Malaysia, and Malegaon.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 5:22 PM 0 comments

The Boss's Son

And today I will introduce you to the boss's son.

He lives in an apartment, but can do nothing by himself. This is because he lives with his parents and has been pampered silly. Maids to wait on him hand and foot; Drivers to chauffeur him around; Gardeners to keep the roses in bloom; Computers, and Television Sets, and Cupboards, and a surfeit of laptops, and gadgets, and soft warm beds, and even a lovable adorable golden retriever. With no maintenance whatsoever.

The boss's son can wake up at almost any time he likes. Consequently he can sleep at any time he likes. He has a gym membership he does not use. He stocks Fruit juice in the refrigerator, but he doesnt drink juice. He keeps eggs and cereal and milk, and butter and cheese, and ham, but he will have none of it if it was not cooked for him.

The boss's son does not need to work. All he needs to do is show up to office in a chauffer-driven car, stride lazily into his cabin, and appear engrossed in front of his expensive laptop screen. Coffee runs cold and water warms up while he concentrates on writing inane emails to people across the globe, while trying to look busy.

The boss's son likes to party. He loves to go out to clubs, pubs, discos, restaurants, coffee houses, dinner parties, and he is always planning to meet with these gorgeous and intelligent women. Ofcourse they never show up and he is always going out alone. But he never fails to get drunk.

The boss's son has had an excellent education. The best. But you would never know that from the language he employs. Some of the crappiest.

The boss's son travels abroad, and sometimes when he is in a good mood he will let me tag along. He stays at expensive hotels, and uses the taxi to get everywhere. He is too snooty to rent a car and spends money on the most idiotic merchandise.

And The boss's son will never get fired though. That's my job.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 3:34 PM 0 comments

The first date

And today I received THE phone call. She decided she would go out to dinner with me.

And since it was my first date in months, I thought I would give it my best shot. So I went out and bought an expensive shirt. And trousers to go with it. And since you never know where these evenings end up, I decided to buy new underwear. And that new Bvlgari parfum.

And I asked the driver to stay back late. For the first time in months, I decided I would go home from office at 7.30 - The boss's son wasn't too happy about it (I dont remember when he last had a date), but I didnt care. For once.

And since I did not want my ubiquitous BO to rear it's ugly head, I scrubbed myself extra hard, with the scrubber. For once.

And I shampoo-ed and conditioned my hair with the special Special Fragile Hair Formula, so I wouldnt lose more hair that day. And I air-dryed my hair and smoothed over the patches that recede, and I brushed my hair softly, and set it so I would look cooler than I was. So I could make a good impression. For once.

And I used the specially purchased Scope Mouthwash (TM), and I packed my pocket full of Chlor mints, and hoped that she would not notice me popping a chlormint at regular intervals. And more optimistically, that my halitosis would stay away for 5 hours. For once.

And I wore my special shirt, and I sucked in my tummy, and hoped that it wouldnt sag that night. And I wore my trousers, and wore my lucky belt. And buckled it a little loosely. In case the dinner was good. And if I overate. Just in case.

And then, I borrowed 2000 bucks from my mother, so I would not have to think twice about going to a club if dinner went well, or to offer her an expensive drink, or if she wanted to have a sumptious dinner followed by a sinful dessert. And I checked on my Emergency funds to ensure I had enough.

And then I left. I reached the place we were supposed to meet, and she suggested we go to a Seafood Restaurant that just happened to be in a 5 star hotel.

And just as the conversation was warming up, and I felt we were getting somewhere, and maybe this might just be the first of many more dates, it ended.

It happened just after we ordered the drinks. I ordered a beer, and she ordered a Mojito. And then, as we were making general conversation, the maitre d' came up and enquired if we might want to order. And innocently enough my date asked about the specials.

And the maitre d' said," There's a decent sized lobster you might want to order tonight, ma'am."

And as my date nodded her head vigorously, I sadly looked into my empty plate and smiled.

If only they didnt order the lobster. For once.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:03 AM 0 comments

Blame it on the Rains

And since the rains are here, we can blame the rains for all the problems that would otherwise plague our life..

Like waking up late, and reaching school late, and missing the schoolbus, and getting your clothes wet, and losing your water bottle, and reaching class late, and coming home late, and getting your shoes dirty and mucky.

And for people like us, like if you want to miss office for a cricket match, or if you want to miss going to a dull party at night, or if you want to spend some more time with your girlfriend before returning to your wife, or if you are required to email an important presentation from home, or if you are caught sleeping with your girlfriend's best friend because you shared and incredibly romantic moment by the seaside where the rain drenched her and showed you the tender side of her cleavage...

Ofcourse, there are advantages to being caught by the rain too...

Like wearing shorts, and drying your hair without a hair dryer, and getting a crush on the really hot girl in the inadequate salwar kameez, and fighting the rain in a rickshaw with flapping rainguards, and wearing gumboots, and eating hot vada-pav under a polythene roof, and putting out buckets under the leaking roof, and wading in knee deep water (only knee-deep), and drinking hot choclate, and making sailing boats from paper, and missing school officially, and also college, and wearing trench coats, and honing your Antakshari skills by candlelight, playing football in the rain, and listening to the old radio, and searching for batteries to power it, and watching insects coming out of their holes, and smelling freshly crushed caterpillars, and smelling the nice new earth.

And following rainbows to see if they have pots of gold at the end.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 4:50 PM 1 comments

The day I died and went to heaven. Almost.

And so I decided the other day that I might think of commiting suicide.

And since I decided to think about suicide, I automatically thought about the reasons I wanted to commit suicide. Well, heaven, ofcourse is the most important reason to commit suicide. God is always quite lenient on self-murderers. He understands the value of a single human life and consequently the reasons for extinguishing the life.

And since life is not so much fun right now, death seems so much more appealing. And Sharon might call on my cellphone after a week to see if I'm in Mulund on a Monday night to have coffee. And my mother will tell her I am currently sightseeing in Samarra. So she will write about me. And she will tell her friends that I died. And Smita will probably never find out. Because she was busy and assumed I might be busy too. And maybe she will give me a missed call. But floating souls have pathetic motor skills. And no strength to return missed calls. And Trevor will call up to make plans to meet. And when he finds out that I am dead, he will come to meet Mom and Dad. He is a good friend. My generation's answer to Yeh dosti hum nahin chhodenge. And Ryze messages will pile up. And requests for friday night meetings will go unanswered. But I will not care. And life will go on. and on. And Sonia will celebrate her birthday and go to Canada and sell her piano.

And when I die, people in the gym will think about the boy who made too many bad jokes. And why he decided to quit life. And people will try to connect with me. And maybe people will read my blog. Utekkare. And people will understand the brilliance of Utekkare. As a word. As a paraphrase. As a movement. And people will compliment the subtle delicacy of my articles.And they will reprint my articles. In newspapers. And magazines. And people will interview my father. And my mother. And my friends.

And women will express their hidden love for me. And they will grieve. And all my dreams will come true. Such optimism emerges only from morbidity.

But it would be nice if I would be alive to experience all of this.

So marna cancel.

utekkare,
pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:34 PM 1 comments

Aap Kataar mein hain

You are in queue. Please wait.

There are lines for everything in life. Grocery lines, Ration lines, Civil lines, Tan lines, Straight lines, Immigration lines, Fishing lines, Ant lines, Hairlines, Waistlines, Clotheslines, Fashion lines, Credit lines, Pickup lines....

But we are in line. All our life is one big line. And we are all queued up to get to somewhere.

Like We are in line to go abroad. And some people get to the head of the line when they're 14. And some when they're 40. I got to the head of the "foreign-travelling" line when I was 25. Some just make it by default because they are on someone else's arm.

Like we are in line to complete our education. Some of us are jostling for space with others, and frequently, we are pushed out of the line for a year just because we are too busy jawing with someone , or trying to pick up a chick from the line next to us. Or because we fell asleep while standing and all those young kids with a superior intellect pushed us to the back of the class, and elbowed their way through.

Like we are in line to fall in love. And when we reach the counter, and meet the woman we want to fall in love with, we become speechless, and are sent away to the back of the line to work on our communication skills. And this time there might not be the perfect woman at the counter. And because it is too late in life to go to the back of the line once again, you have to make do with the woman that came with the counter, and make it count all your life. Because you were speechless the first time round.

Like we are in line to earn money. And there are so many lines running concurrently to earn money. And we must choose which line we must join. And there are fast moving lines that end up god knows where. And there are slow moving lines. And most of them are extremely slow lines. And all of them end up in a vacation condo with a middle aged secretary smiling like a cheshire cat while the greying middle level executive who was standing in line once upon a time with visions of a home in the country, and a pension, and a dog lying in the porch, is caught with his pants down.

Like there are man-eating lines. Where you could be standing in line, and instead of looking forward, you have to be looking over your shoulder. Because they will slash, and cut, and maim, and gouge, and bomb, and shoot, and spear, and bind you down in ropes of thorns till you have bled the blood of the healthy. Best to avoid those lines.

And there are lines with storm clouds hovering above them. With hypothermia, and cold feet, and no couches, and bloodshot eyes and glazed looks and uncomfortable silences. And there are lines with creeping insects and scurrying rats and gridlocked conversations and frustrations, and aggression, and insults. And racial insults. And inequality. Where you are thrown to the back of the line just because you are ill. Or you have AIDS. Or you are a particular skin color. Or a particular surname. Best to avoid those lines too. Like the plague.

Like we wait in line for fame. Our 15 seconds. Ofcourse, this line is the most ragged and disorganised. Because the counter could open where you are standing. And it could stay there for 10 minutes. Or for 5 hours. Make the most of it.

And 2 weeks ago we are all in line to meet with God. And here there are no shortcuts. Everyone is as important. And it doesn't matter if you are rich or poor or crippled or famous or intelligent or badly dressed. God is always smiling, and he is waiting to meet you. Ofcourse the conversation is tremendously short and it is always one-sided.

And there is a very small, special, select line. For those whose prayers are heard.

I wonder if I am in that line.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:56 PM 0 comments

I don't like beggars

I don't like beggars. I think they stink and they're dirty and rotten, and I think they are a stigma to society. A slur on mankind. A curse on the upper middle class urbanite.

These beggars are extremely inquisitive. They want to know where you've been, who you've been talking to, and what you eat. They want to know where you stay, and how you travel and how fit you are. And they want to be paid handsomely for all the services you obtain. Compulsorily. If you dont pay them, they want to know why. They want to know why you paid them a little less last year, and how much you'll pay them next year. And then want to know today. They take your money and make it look like a favour by accepting it.

And I dont like beggars invading my office, and my home, and breaking down the glass of my new imported car, and throwing me out of it and charging me for the privilege.
And these beggars will rummage through all my old papers, and charge me with not having papers even I did not know I would need. And I definitely do not like them coming home for dinner and breaking down my moulded ceilings that hold up my chandeliers. Yes, JUST my chandeliers. Imported from St Petersburg.

And when you politely ask what they did with your money, they will rave and rant, and go on strike, and beat you up, and throw a bunch of mildewed papers they have labelled "Official Secrets Act" in your face and you will suddenly have to be conversant with the twisted meaning of the phrase "need to know".

And their chief beggar stands up every year on the 28th of February in front of 500 odd other buffoons, and extols their virtues of insolvency, greed, debt and economic insecurity before the populace of this country. And people applaud, and grandstand, and are making all kinds of intelligent statements. But everyone knows that these are beggars, who are the lowest form of humanity.

And the chief beggar will tell you how he "plans" to divide your money amongst all those 500 buffoons. And you can count on the fact that a your money will be divided amongst all the buffoons. And each buffoon will take some of that money and use it to line his pockets, redecorate his house, pay his bills, send his son abroad, and marry off his daughter.

And he will use the money left over to evade beggars. Successfully.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 2:56 PM 2 comments

The Great Gamble(r)

I would like to think that I am an inveterate gambler.

But I hate gambling. I think it's wasteful, and tempting, and wrong, and an adam's-appley type activity. I never went to those slot machines. I never tried my hand at the computer poker games. I never got addicted to card games (except for a brief passage of time when I was 5 - but I was too young to bet it all). I never liked casinos, and their flashy neon signboards. Ofcourse it helped that gambling is illegal in most parts of Bombay. In Mumbai, its now allowed in select areas that are taxed a gazillion percent.

Yes, I hate gambling. I'm using the word 'hate' here. I do not like twists of fate, and I do not like roulette, and I do not like Blackjack. And I do not like Slot Machines. And I do not like Horsing Around. Especially in a three piece suit in the middle of April on a scorcher, amidst really cute women who are supressing a smile as I drippingly stroll by, desperately trying to loook nonchalant as I place my minimum bet.

I also do not understand newspaper listings of horses, and I cannot understand how odds are placed, and how much I would win if I placed my bet on a short animal and if I placed it on a long one. I suppose the longer one had the edge if it came to a photo finish. If only.

I simply do not like the fact that my life could be changed by the simple rolling of a dice. Or the placing of a bet.

But I tempt life everyday. I cross the road in the face of speeding cars without a care in the world... I climb mountains for fun. I run on treadmills and I push weights. I shave myself looking in the mirror, and I step out of my house, and I wake up from sleep, and I brush my teeth and I wear my clothes, and I predict my future, in the expectation of living my immediate future exactly the way I plan it.

Now, If you are like me, playing a slot machine is something you wouldnt lay odds on.
But crossing the road is something you could lay odds on, and most probably come out a winner. But not always. Since it is common knowledge that crossing the road kills more people every year than terrorists, air crashes, and predatory second wives put together, I would say you're taking a bold step with your life.

And remember, when you gamble, you are betting your money. When you cross the road, you are betting your life against a few stolen moments to add to your seemingly relevant and hectic day.

And it is a one in a million chance that you could wake up and be surprised by an earthquake. Or that you could walk out your house and be struck by lightning. Or you could slip onto a road and be run over. Or you could meet someone seemingly special and end up counting the days that you have spent lamenting your fate when you're 40. Or you could get stuck in the life and die of suffocation. Or you could have an accident and be run off the road by a madman. Or you could be caught in a fight and sustain injuries. You could get caught in a hailstorm in May in Mumbai and be pelted to death. You could catch a cold, contract pneumonia and die.
Nature has many queer and wierd ways of killing you off.

Ofcourse none of this could happen. Life could go on as planned and it could stretch into tomorrow and the next week and the next month. Ofcourse it could happen too. You could also live a 100 years through 3 world wars and the bombing of berlin and live to tell the tale.

But I gamble. Every day. And I tempt fate. And I use the greatest prize of all to play with. My insignificant life.


utekkare,
pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:02 PM 1 comments

Turning over a new leaf...

Dear Aunt Jezebel,

I am sorry. very sorry. I am sorry about all those things I thought of you. that you are rude. and uncouth. and irritating. and flippant. and flighty.

That you do not know my life. not at all. that you set the standards so high that I cannot reach them. As it is, I have a weight problem. its so difficult moving forward in a straight line that I cannot even imagine reaching up. I suppose the grapes can be labelled as sour. If they aren't sour today, they will be some day. Because nobody can reach them.

Yes. I know that you are beautiful, and people seek your company. And people are interested in you. And they get excited if you touch them. That they feel its good luck even if they see you around them.

I also know that you are depending on me. To stand up and be counted. To fulfil my destiny. To become like you. Tall. Graceful. Fashionable. Desirable. Yes, I also want those things. I would love it.

But it is far more difficult to change myself. I cannot see into the future. I just cannot.

I am fat, and round and shapeless. I cannot sit in one place for too long, and I cannot travel too far. I get tired very easily. I would have loved to laze around all day, but my appetite belies my size. After all I am trying to fit all the food I would need for an entire life in a few short weeks.

I just want to curl up in a corner and not be noticed. If my luck is good, I will be like you.

No. I am tired of hiding, and running, and being scared. If Robin wants me, let him come and get me. No more retreats, and camouflage, and no more subterfuge.

If the leaf is there to be eaten, I will eat it.

And maybe, just maybe, I will be a social butterfly some day.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 2:34 PM 0 comments

User Manual for the Human Body - Part Deux

Dear Consumer Spirit,

A thousand apologies for cutting you off that day. We were sidetracked by a sudden inflow of bodies from an earthquake. We were called onto urgent sorting duty by the God-who-never-talks-but-points-obliquely-at-what-we-should-be-doing.

Well, no, as a rule we do not recycle human bodies. Each human shell is unique and is especially designed for the spirit it carries within. We design human bodies based on the stringent parameters laid down by the Elders Guiding Council based on past sins, future progress on the path to Nirvana, and all affecting factors, namely parenthood, previous mishandling of human bodies, premature disposal of the human shell on some trivial mishap (e.g.suicide). The guiding council lays down parameters when a spirit approaches conception, and decides on the broad outlines of how the human shell is to be constructed:

A. The morphology of the body: Whether it is superficially normal or deficient in some physical respect - i.e. a missing or deformed toe, or finger. Or it could also have additional fingers "added on", although these could also be rare manufacturing defects that usually cause no harm and are not usually important in determining a human shell's karma. e.g. Hritik Roshan.

B. The internal workings of the body: Whether there is some kind of inbuilt allergy discoverable later, and that can be used as a stern test of the spirit's character, and is usually employed when the spirit is trying to break into the next level of karma.

C. Grave physical defect: This state of human shell is used either to punish an errant spirit (But not so much punishment that it is relegated to a lower life form), for past misdeeds and exceeding its brief in a single life, or for misusing a human shell in a previous life - too much smoking, drinking, womanising, and / or drug abuse could lead to this. The only other reason a physical defect is implanted is to offer the human spirit a chance to jump 2 levels of karma towards Nirvana. This is therefore considered a double edged sword, and dear consumer spirit, be very careful whilst spending your celestial dollars on a human shell from us. If your brief this life is to lie back and enjoy the ride, you might be rudely surprised.

In very rare cases, where there is a malfunctioning human shell, we have instituted ways to deal with it. You could apply for a miscarriage or for a still birth. Both proceedures are frowned upon (although it is due to no fault of your own), the Guiding Council's stipulations clearly mention that on acceptance of a human shell, you are bound by their rules and you must try to make optimum use of the human shell alloted to you for that life. These means of returning to the counter could prove dangerous as it closes out an entry into life for that particular cycle, unless you find another slot to fill, which is not guaranteed, given our long waiting list waiting to enter this ultra modern world.

Note: For miscarriage, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XII.
For still birth, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XIII.
Our representatives from the hard luck and consolation division are standing by to take your calls and offer you free counselling if you should get a bad deal.

Now back to the further analysis of the new and improved Human Bodies on spirits nowadays:

As detailed earlier, the brain is extremely updated, and now with increased levels of fitness, medical training, we have employed spirits with good karma to be able to work wonders with small errors in brain configuration even in the middle of a life.

Now we shall enumerate the features of our central pumping station - the heart:

The heart was placed, after much debate on the left side of the human shell. We use some of the raw ends from your soul to connect into this organ. That way you have control (or atleast communication) with both, the brain and the heart. These are the most important decision enhancing centres of your body. Always remember that because there is a lot of energy being utilised by the heart, the decisions offered through this organ may save on energy and appear simplistic. However these short cuts have the ability to make your life difficult. We are working on making the heart more rational, but however, we have been cautioned that this may trigger a drop in romanticism across the board, which will cause our factory sales to slow down.

Although it is an ethical issue, we are doing our best to strike a healthy balance between a rational heart and an impulsive heart. However, diverting the heart from these decisions also has an effect on the basic working, and causes sudden pains, and chest pains caused by the erratic pumping of the living fluids - in this case, blood.

Watch this space as we talk in more detail about the heart and expound on the other features that go into the making of a human body. Your Human Body.

Live smart. Choose the Celestial Human Body Shop.

utekkare

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:48 PM 1 comments

The Serial Kisser

I have not seen any films starring Emraan Hashmi. or is it Imran Hashmee (pronounced EEM-RAAAN HUSH-ME).

But I have seen promos. And footage. And interviews. And I have read Page 3. And I see posters. And music videos. And once, I have even seen Emran Hashmi in his Honda Accord listening to noise canceling headphones in the front seat. (Maybe the multi-thousand rupee honda stereo system was not working.) More plausible is that perhaps he needed the music penetration straight into his ears, since his ears must have been ringing from the resounding slap he must have received from that woman who rebuffed his advancing tongue.

And so I will write about what I feel is Emran Hashmi. He is the protege of the Bhatt camp. Mukesh Bhatt. Mahesh Bhatt. Pooja Bhatt. Koi bhi Dooja Bhatt. I suppose he does films "zara bhattke"...bad joke.

His films have a heroine. Whom he kisses with unfailing regularity. Rumours abound that he pays scriptwriters, and screenplay writers, to write in "tastefully handled" kissing scenes.

His films have popular music. And he is always the hero. And always the central figure. He and Himesh Reshammiya are destiny's children. They have been given iconic status within a very short period of time.

I think that Mr Hashmi enjoys kissing women. His facial expressions are geared around looking sincere just after kissing a woman.

Mr Hashmi is getting married. I wonder if his wife will be present at the sets for future scenes. I suppose you have some kind of a guarantee of satisfactory performance when you marry Mr Hashmi. (How many women have you kissed in life: A-More than 20 B-More than 40 C-More than 100 - All of the above!)

Well, I have been invited to watch "Gangster - A Love story" - it deals with the rehabilitation of murderous mafia dons, and the exceedingly optimistic attitude of a drunk and an Indian bar room crooner.

And after Saturday, I will not be able to say that I have not seen any of Mr Hashmi's films.

Ofcourse I am hoping I forget the tickets at home, that I find traffic on the way, and that the electricity goes away for a while.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 1:02 AM 1 comments

Shireen

Shireen lived at Marine Lines.

A dingy semi-victorian one room apartment. with a 'mori', and a small square window that looked out onto Queen's road, Marine Lines, and then Police Gymkhana and finally Marine Drive. On a good day you could see the foliage surrounding the Governor's bungalow. On a bad day, well you could see just Marine Lines. If you opened the window, that is.

There was a bed. A four poster, no less. with assorted bedding, blankets, razais, and pillows. A mosquito net was draped over the frame made by the 4 pillars that rose from the bed posts. Opposite was a chest of drawers. Wood again. On top of it was a round desk mirror and an old black analog telephone covered by a white embroidered cloth. and a yellowed calendar on the wall behind showing dates of November 2003. A dull frosted glass lamp housing a 40 W bulb glowed unconvincingly from the top of the wall illuminating the room in a pale yellow halo. A cello was placed behind the bed in its dusty cover. Blackish-Grey.

A printed curtain seperated the mori from the main room. Next to it was the kitchen. A single ledge with shelves in black cuddapah stone underneath and pots and pans and rice containers, and dal containers, and bowls and spoons and forks and knives. Above was an open cabinet with tea, and utensils. And some Bourbon biscuits. An old cupboard sat in the last corner of the room. Blackened mirrors scowled back at you if you mistakenly happened to demand a reflection. 2 old suitcases and a grey hatbox sat on top of the cupboard. A couple of spiders had woven their homes in the crevices between the hatbox and the suitcases.Next to the cupboard was one chair. A wooden upright cane seat chair. Above it was a book case - open wooden shelves with books on them right upto the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a walnut wood rocking chair. With a carved back, and a delicate arch. With smooth polished rockers, the wood looked almost black. A tartan cushion sat in the seat, and the back was slats of wood held by a frame. A rosary hung by one handle. A half empty bowl of water was kept by the window. If you looked up, you saw rafters. Great big pink painted rafters. Steepling from the edge of the room and meeting the wall. A few pigeons coo-ed and you could see marks of pigeon droppings on the window sill. A ceiling fan rotated creakingly, suspended from one of the rafters.

Shireen was of indeterminate age. She had pinched sallow cheeks, black curly hair with streaks of grey in them, a pointed nose, and a creased forehead. Her neck was taut, and her lips were perennially pursed. She had a rake thin body, and she wasnt too tall. or too short. In fact in a crowded place, you might miss Shireenif you blinked. She wore blouses - whether they were polyester or silk, noone knew. Some days she wore cotton. Always the same pullover, come rain or shine. And skirts. Always pleated and always below the knee. Nobody knew where she had her clothes tailored. They were so nondescript that ready-to-wear was ruled out. She usually wore severe black or grey shoes. No garish colors. No style statements. No coiffeured looks. After all, for whom did she need to do all this? She was happy with what she looked like. Shireen was not too tough to please. Especially when it came to Shireen. She wore thick framed glasses. The kind that were in vogue in the 60s when nothing else was available.

Shireen worked in a Marwari export firm 10 minutes walking distance from her building. The export firm had been in business since pre-Independence days. But rioting, errant sons, splits in the family, eroding market share, competition, laziness, and plain ineptitude had kept the company in exactly the same place it had been, with the same people visiting it day in and day out. A loser company, kept in business by its owner, who frequented casinos, the races, went abroad frequently, had a high maintenance wife, and 2 bratty children, who kept their launderers busy. Until they squandered their inheritance, they kept Shireen in employment. Sometimes the boss brushed her bottom on his way across the office. Shireen just bit her lip, and continued on her way. It was not so often that she would have to do something about it. But not so infrequent that she forgot about it. It was something she submitted to, only because it happened rarely.

Shireen lived in a continuum, where days were words, and dates were numbers, and all life was a single cycle. Every day, she got up at 7 AM, answered the door for the milkman. Heated the milk, and had her regulation one cup of tea. She then poured out a little milk into the bowl, and added equal parts of water to it for the cat. She then turned on the Antique iron geyser and waited for the water to boil. She then filled up a clanking iron pail with 50% hot water, 50% cold water, and had a bath. She never washed her hair. Neither did she comb it. It was always bunched up. She would leave for office precisely at 9 AM. She shut the two doors and padlocked the outer door. And then pulled the chain across. Just to make sure.

One day, when she returned back from work, she saw the Mehta children from the 2nd floor tying a string of cans to her cat's tail. The cat was obviously scared and as it ran away from the children, mewing horrendously, the clattering cans made a louder racket, frightening her even more. Shireen was shaking with anger and irritation when she stopped the cat and gently untied the cans. She then stroked the cat gently, and let it go. She strode up the stairs, muttering under her breath. When she reached the 2nd floor, she began to stride down the long hallway to the double doored Gujju household of Mr Mehta, Bania; Mrs Mehta, Henpecking Bitchy Housewife; Aunty Mehta, returned from Kenya; and the Mehta brood - 2 to the Bitchy, and 2 to the Aunty. And their ghanti-toting Grandmother. Up at 5 AM reciting mantras at the top of her voice. As she approached the door, it opened, with loud gujarati voices condemning the existence of Muslims in their neighbourhood, the rising prices of onions, and the school systems that made private tuitions for English compulsory.

Shireen hesitated as she contemplated yet another inequal argument between her pidgin hindi and Mrs Mehta's articulate gujarati. She stood, poised for a split second. Then she turned around and walked away swiftly, and turned up the stairway, before they came out.

That night, the gujjus were troubled by a stringed instrument, soulfully howling out into the night.

utekkare,
pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:45 PM 2 comments

Obsolete

I sit there. At the big wooden desk. I watch everyone come and go. Day and night. Big people. Small people. Male people. Female people. Kind people. Harsh people. Intelligent people. Dumb people. Rich people. Poor people.

And I told some of them what to do. And where to go. And what their future was. And some of them took my advice. Actually a lot of them took my advice. Some of them ignored me.

And I grew in confidence. And I became stronger. And wiser. And I grew powerful. And the world listened to me. While I sat there. I began to see things that I did not see before. I saw ordinary people bestowed with extraordinary opportunity as they frittered it away. I saw extraordinary people trapped in ordinary lives because a few key choices in their life went astray. I saw mediocre people sitting in positions of power, misusing it to their heart's content. And I grew angry. And frustrated.

And I lost old friends. And I made new friends. And enemies. Ofcourse I still have my old enemies. And I found love. And I found hate. And I began scorning existentialism. Which is a nice way of saying I chased materialism. And I liked. Hedonistic pursuits of capitalistic pleasures.

But then I needed help. I decided to share my success. And my achievements. And I thought I would find happiness. And togetherness. And I would be building a legacy. Carried forward on able shoulders.

But I was wrong.

I sit here. But I dont tell the time any more. After all noone wants to read a clock that has stopped.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:44 PM 0 comments

2 mynahs

Every day, when I wake up, and step out of my house, a part of me is always filled with trepidation. About whether I will see 2 mynahs or 1 mynah.

Oh, by the by, today is blog deluge day. When I am able to write what I think, and think about what I am going to write, and I am blocked by neither time nor laziness.

And now, back to the mynahs. The old woman's rhyme goes:

"1 for sorrow, 2 for joy, 3 for letter, 4 for (boy/girl), 5 for silver, 6 for gold, 7 for a secret never to be told." Well now, this was presumably years and years and years ago. And I am quite sure it was written in a part of the world where mynahs are few and far between. And sighting 30 of 40 of them together is not so common. Ofcourse you will find these mynahs everywhere. Literally everywhere. in the world even.

And woe is me, because i was afflicted with stupidstitionitis from a young age. Bordering on compulsive obsessive disorder, I am unable to discount day to day events as happenstance or even a happy coincidence. There are always factors - hidden, unseen factors at work that ensure the passage of time as it does pass..

And it is these pieces of good luck (or bad) that determine whether the day is good or bad. Never mind that it will influence my thought process. Or that it will create a disconcerting presence of the fear of the illogical in my mind. No, ofcourse I am as rational as the day is long, but is it my fault that I mentally live not in a tropical country, but rather in a ice covered northern waste, where it winters for months, and is summer day for but a fleeting passage of time.

And I am wary. Of looking out of the window when showering. Of looking out of the window of the car when travelling. Of strolling to the broken window by the lift and staring into the blank distance. Of lifting the blinds of my 5th floor window. Of hearing a single shrieking call of the single mynah out to fill my day with bad luck, and forgotten appointments, and mislaid tasks, and unheeded advice, and backlash. Fierce, retributional backlash.

And on days, where I challenge my luck. And I see the pair of mynahs sitting on a lampost. Flying across the road. pecking at the ground. Chirping and fighting with a crow. I am happy, and I feel lucky. And things still go badly.

After all nobody likes a cocky arrogant son of the boss who thinks nothing can go wrong just because he saw 2 mynahs together.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 8:19 PM 0 comments

1 minute and 30 seconds on a traffic island.

And so We were stranded. The signal behind us turned green even as we turned to retreat onto the pavement. And the signal before us was green already. Served us right for braving the wrath of a thoroughfare.

Careful, no. Dont want those superspeedy idiotic double deckers to run over your feet. Retreat a few inches. not too far back. Your ass is vulnerable to a rear guard action.

Looking around. An old american with wrinkled skin, a straw hat, Sun City Bermudas, a loose dirty snot colored Polo and ridiculuous aquamarine flipflops that begged to be stamped on. Well, not me today. A young petite chinese / HongKonginese woman. Actually you can never make out the age on these oriental women. Firstly they dress like its christmas every day. And they never seem to age. It seems like they're 16 till they're 55. And then suddenly they're looking like a 100. And for the life of me, I cannot distinguish between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, Taiwanese, and other Indonesians. Although I am told they are as different as chalk and cheese. Ofcourse it bothers me that if a chink can outsmart another chink, then a japanese or an indian should be easy meat. Me? easy meat? Sure... Well there's Brian. ex-Marine. Married. Businessman. Golfer. Cigar baron. well not quite a cigar "baron". but close enough. and just about 25. Damn. And a bangladeshi suit - middleaged, gleaming balding pate, striped suit, hand in pocket, eyeing the wrinkled American. Bloody darzi. These bangladeshis, pakistanis, sri lankans, sindhis, and filipinos had cornered the secret art of surviving in developed nations en famille.

Reminds me of a conversation I had at a street corner about 25 mins ago. Looking for chinese silk shirts. I ran into an indian subcontinental featured pair of gentlemen. So I asked where I could find Silk Shirts. Turned out one was a Pakistani and one was Bangladeshi. Presently, an Indonesian strolled up to join the discussion about where one could purchase Silk Shirts. Ofcourse, after a protracted argument, tried to hustle me into buying tailored suits. Cheap ones. Only 1000 HK. When I told them my flight was in 5 hours, they lost interest, the argument dissipated, people stomped off, and one of them pointed across the street in the vague direction of a shopping mall before he snorted and took off.

Well, now back to the denizens of the traffic island. One American oldie, One bangladeshi well preserved oldie, One ex-Marine, one Asian looking cute chick, and an overeager overdressed Indian budding entrepreneur accounted for. In the balance were a Caucasian stock broker type, supercilious and spectacled; a companion for the old American, equally wrinkled and attired in flipflops; and a surprise addition to the group - a daschund on a leash, leading a tired looking British dowager.

And I felt we shared a bond - an oasis in the middle of a honking and beeping and traffic laden desert; that we were connecting beyond all stereotypes, and all races and cultures; That this was a tale of passion, togetherness, and human survival; That this was the most momentous humanised occasion of my short trip; and that it showed that humans are capable of loving, and that I could maybe, just maybe get that woman's telephone number just by willing it. Ok, even if she looked at me, I suppose it would be enough for my mind to metamorphose into a short fling we enjoyed together.

But just when I was getting to know everyone, the signal turned and everyone scooted off.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 7:32 PM 0 comments

Bean Counted!

We are not people. Not human beings. Not insolent living creatures who challenge the limits of nature's patience with every passing day. No. In our man-made world, of convoluted and complex human idiosyncrasies, we are all numbers.

And if we are the right number in the right place, we have right of passage. Otherwise, we're out of the loop and we will be stranded. After all its nothing personal. We're supposed to be the right number. Its just a numbers game.

So at school you are your rank, you are your percentage, accompanied by a full stop preceding decimals that could sometimes decide the future of your life. At the medical checkup, you are the right weight for the right height, the right chest size and the right chest expanded size for the right age, and the right heartbeat for the right type of activity. Otherwise, you are a loser, a failure, a has-been, an obese couch potato, and a slacker. In that precise order of judgement.

At school, you will always be the wrong shoe size, the wrong chest size, the wrong shoulder size, the wrong sock size, the wrong height, and the wrong waist size till you stop growing. And your parents will always be worried about buying you too many clothes before they grow out of them. Especially that lovely Osh Kosh B'Gosh Overall you wore when you were 4. But ofcourse you were the right age then, and now any age under 25 and over 6 is the wrong age.

And in class you are your roll number, and if you are the right roll number, you are placed with the coolest dude in class and so you will be able to hang out and get cooler. But if you are the wrong roll number, you will be with neither the geeks nor the dudes and will end up being the cat who walks alone, best favourite friend.

And in college, you are first a form number, then a fees receipt number, then an interview number, and finally a class number. If you start early, you might get some kind cute chick's telephone number, and that is always the best numbers to have. As you move on, ATKT numbers, hall ticket numbers, and travel pass numbers, and even more roll numbers, and black list numbers, and protecting your parents' phone numbers, and basketball jersey numbers, and NBA superstar's numbers. And remember, that without the right number at the right time, you will end up being called a dude, an ass, a chemistry handicap, a candidate, a lucky rich kid, an arrogant sports scholarship holder, a future basketball star, and a has-been basketball discard.

And as you progress through life, you are a PAN Card number, a Passport number, a Visa number, a bank account number, a credit card number, a vendor number, a boyfriend number, an office number, a telephone number, a gym membership number, a mobile number.

And yes, you are important. When these numbers are punched by strange fingers on foreign keyboards, doors of countries open for you, banks open their lockers for you, companies invest their money in you, governments assess taxes from you, janitors demand diwali bakshish from you, women demand attention from you because you just might be the one, and cell phone companies offer you more cell phones and more airtime, and gyms offer you extended memberships.

And its not because you are funny. Or because you are good looking. Or famous. Or intelligent. Or because you are rich. Or successful. or happy. Or obedient. Or friendly. No, in fact it even has nothing to do with your scoring rate with women. Or that you can bench press 400 pounds. Or that you can run 30 mins on a treadmill at 10 miles an hour. Or that you have a bad left knee. Or because they felt sorry for you.

No. We are offered all this importance because we are the right number in the right screen at the right time.

I can only hope that luck continues.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:57 PM 0 comments

3 points of view - delayed inordinately

Should have been posted 31-Jul-2005.

And on a day devoid of electricity, water, sunlight, warmth, happiness, and relaxation, a few points of view on things that get my goat.

I dont like the rains. They think they are completely superior to us, and will go to any lengths to prove their superiority. When contacted for an opinion, I came away drenched to the bone, and JUST to spite me, they submerged my nice 1 year and 9 month old car in 7 feet of water. Poor car. Caught in the crossfire between me and the raingods. Ofcourse, since they are supposed to be a benevolent raingod, they spared my other 5 month old car and allowed my brave driver and me to bask in the collective heroics that we employed to emerge unscathed from the Tuesday deluge.

I think that most people dont actually get how privileged they are. Imagine living on the surface on a simultaneously rotating and revolving tennis ball, composed of a burning liquid centre, covered by a thin wafer cover on which over 70% of the surface is water, some of which extends upto the beginning of the centre. Imagine that the tennis ball is suspended in a vacuum covered in a faint, very very flimsy mist is ultimately only hot, very very hot air. Imagine walking on the tennis ball without falling off, and not stepping onto the water. Imagine that even if the tennis ball shifted by 1-2 inches in the vacuum, and if it wobbled a little excessively, the liquid centre would make it roll sideways like a small dory in an ocean swell, and the tin soldiers in the dory would probably be thrown over.
Imagine small stone pellets being thrown at the tennis ball in large swerving motions by crazy, impish schoolboys from afar, that end up becoming balls of fire that the tennis ball can do nothing about but just sit there and wait to be hit.

I dont like the new cell phone craze. Time was when you used a cell phone to make calls, receive calls, and look important before the aam public because they couldnt afford it and you could. And the women would croon and cajole and talk sweetly to your cellphone. But now, its not enough. You have cellphones that can talk back to you, that can play songs, and play the radio, and can replace your music system and that can replace your computer and that can replace your cameras and your video cameras and that can replace your secretary, and that have more storage that your old black and white PC, and that can communicate with computers, and other mobile phones and that can let you stop waiting for the cablewallah to get happy after 12.30 am on saturday night/sunday morning. Oh, and sometimes you can make and receive calls. The latest craze is Bluetooth, supposedly named after a Nordic prince who brought tribes together. A friend of mine recently bought a phone that had a bluetooth headset included with it as a Special price, and he was extremely happy that suddenly he could look like an extension of the Star Wars generation with a space-like orb glowing blue over his ear. He can listen to the radio, listen to MP3's and he can take pictures. But his phone is always unreachable when I want to talk to him.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 5:39 PM 1 comments

Pak-pak-pak-pak-Pakkak!!!!

And now, since we have a pandemic amongst us, no more chicken makkhanwala. No more chicken tangdi at Bade Miya.

And no more chicken tandoori in Chembur Camp. And no more Chicken Shredded Poutine (pronounced "foo-tay-ne") in Mocha's. And no more chicken steaks and no chicken legs, and no chicken mixed fried rice and no more chicken mixed steamed hakka noodles with boiled chicken and prawns and MSG sprinkled upar-se from our local Chinese thele-wala.

And goodbye to chicken desi and broiler and english by the kilo, and chicken curry, and chicken stroganoff and chicken masala and chicken burgers at Mcdonalds and no more chicken kadhai at Khyber.

And tata to Venky's Chicken-in-Minutes and Godrej Chicken, and Maggi's Chicken Clear Soup, and Knorr's Sweet Corn Chicken Soup.

And no more Chicken Luncheon Meat, and no more Chicken Loaf, and no Chicken Shashlik at Kobe's or at Yoko's.

And no more saying "Murga ban" to NCC cadets, and no more cocks on the weatherpanes, and no more squawking chickens in dirty chicken trucks and no more chickens crossing the road "simbly" or "to reach the other side" or "to cross over" or any such jokes. And no more business for Narayan Rane. No more chicken business at any rate.

And since there are no chickens, there can not be eggs too. No andelal eggathons, and no eight annas hard-boiled eggs and soft-boiled eggs, and no eggcups, and no egg-white omlettes and no sunny-side-up and no kheema ghotala and no more midnight egg-bhurji opp Dadar station and no more pudding in Kyaani's and no more egg pastries and no more "egging on" people and no more spoilt eggs.

And the goats are bleating. And the pigs are squealing. And the fish are even more slippery than ever. And the prawns and the crabs and the lobsters are biting the hand that catches them more than ever. And those who live, but for a spinal cord and a nervous system - those who grow tall and short and underground and above it will get eaten with disdain and regret.

Until a virus comes along that makes them all stars of the day. And we have to subsist on pills.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:38 PM 1 comments

The World is flat. Mind it!

lying down, in response to a migraine
close my eyes to prevent them from descending down to my knees;
bend them quickly. tilt your head up, watch your sweat pour down.
pull in your soggy tummy, and see the fat rearrange itself.
clench your jaws, or your teeth will fall off.
one by one.
run your hair through your hair. no, wait. on second thoughts, dont. its all the hair you have left.
pull your right earlobe to look happy.
now look what you've gone and done. your right one, not your left. so thats why you look like an ass.
from the Rann of Kutch. no, i dont know why the kutchie rann. maybe because kutches win mutches.
get up slowly or your brain will go into shock because of newton's 1st law - persistence of inertia.
and yes, the world is round. hold on tight. or you might just slip into the mariana trench one fine day.
hey, dont con me into this. I'm just a goldfish. I live in a round bowl all day. and sometimes at night too. i dont remember yesterday. that was today wasnt it?
staring at the stars. twinkling fireflies that dwindle not.
scratch your head. maybe it's lice. maybe it's an itch. maybe your scalp is trying to feel your finger up. naughty scalp.
slap your right knee. was that the bad one? no, its the left knee. yes, my dear mutating mosquitoes, come and feast on the most vulnerable knee in my body...
balderdash to you, but infinitely intelligent conversation i am capable of.
complete coherence and sanity.
but not now. later.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:48 PM 0 comments

One flu over the cuckoo's nest!

And since it was a saturday, I looked forward to my email eagerly, hoping that someone might invite me for a party. Surprisingly, since I had been relatively illness-free for a long period of time, an invite awaited me - from WHO and the Pharma Council of india. An invitation to interview Bird Flu at the social diseased party of the year at the garbage dump in Worli near Love Grove Sewer.

And since I couldnt refuse, I got togged up in a cotton suit, and tie and trudged along to the party.

To my surprise, the who's who of the illness world had shown up in all their splendour - Chicken Pox, Jaundice, Cholera, Typhoid, Malaria, Dengue Fever and even Leptospirosis had arrived, looking their virulent best, cloistered with their own pet patients. Evidently nobody wanted to be left out on the arrival of Bird Flu on the global stage. Chronic party crashers like Spondilitis, Arthritis, Rheumatism, Asthma, and Obesity had turned up (some even sitting together on a single patient?!), and were seen hero worshipping the industry bigwigs like AIDS, Cancer, Angina, Heart Blockage, and Renal Failure who was hanging around by the bar sipping on Hapless Mortals and Unknown Patients, counting out his pending dialysis sittings and sipping his blood nervously looking around.

Just as the party began losing steam, and the patients started recovering, Bird Flu walked in, like a giant cake being brought in - with Glaxo, Cipla, Ranbaxy, and SKB trailing behind like sycophants, applauding as Bird Flu made it's way towards the dais.

As Bird Flu walked, rumours and murmurs flew about the kind of growth he had accomplished in such a short time, and how with just a few deaths, Bird Flu had grown in stature to an international epidemic. About how skilfully it had operated and the beautiful coup de grace it delivered to unready administrations. About where it had struck so far - Far East, USA, Europe and now India. Sicknesses whispered, "it was only a matter of time before he came to India - with such a large population and consumer base, it would have been hara-kiri to ignore the indian public.

In a corner of the party, sat a small bent deformed demented person, who called himself small pox sat quietly, sipping on a cheap bowl of soup and crackers. Illnesses whispered that he'd blown up the machines to get out. And that IAF had been red in the face trying to deny the stray case and that small pox and its head honchos had been passe - eradicated by the health police for years.

I shouldered my way across the dance floor where Dettol was dancing the forbidden dance of disinfection - alluring but untouchable, and walked towards where Bird Flu was chatting with the health minister, and Cipla's CMD. I coughed quietly to attract its attention, and Bird Flu turned around to greet me as if I was a long lost old pal. "Arre, Its great to finally meet the disease free Utekkare! so you are here to share in my moment of triumph when I will spell disaster for the Indian chicken industry! You shall see me raise Ranbaxy from its recent debacle in UK and USA, you shall see Cipla ride this wave of grief to greater profits, and you will see the Indians eat more fish than ever before - until the government eats Turkey and makes the medicine / vaccines subsidised... Then I shall turn my attention to some other countries!" All this time, AIDS and Cancer sniggered - since they were atleast uncurables - and would never be out of business no matter how subsidised their medicines were... Let this johnny-come-lately hog the limelight for now.. We are the real killers and we will never be out of favour...

Bird Flur continued to crow about his waxing zenith of his powers... about how the chicken farmers lobby had come to his doorstep to negotiate an agreement - and requested him to bypass India. He said that he wouldnt have infected India if they hadnt reneged on the deal to offer him unlimited access to the chickens in Africa...

And all I could think of was why only Chickens? Why not these stupid pestilential common crows???? And so I asked him, why not crows? After all these creatures were everywhere and could spread the disease much faster than a clucking chicken...

Suddenly there was pin drop silence. Bird Flu turned slowly and the color drained from his face.. He lifted one wing and slapped me across the face. "Dobara mat puchna!!!! Damn fool!" and he turned away.

Malaria and Jaundice took me by the hand and threw me out of the party. I walked home, replaying the events over in my head, thinking that maybe it was for the best and that I have had the opportunity to get close to these diseases.. without getting infected.

As I turned into the dark lane leading to my home, Common Cold, along with Body Ache, Cough, and and Head Ache and Runny Nose jumped out of the darkness and threw me down. As they infected me, they screamed,"That'll teach you to suck up to foreign illnesses.. We demand Poorna Swadeshi!!!!"

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:56 AM 0 comments

The Human Body - A user manual

Dear Consumer Spirit,

Thank you for choosing a human body as your preferred means of travel in this specific astral period of travel. As a discerning source of living energy and as a committed traveller of the 3 worlds spanning many millennia, we are pleased that you felt a human body would best propel forward your journey towards Nirvana.

We have a superiorly evolved Human Body series - product name Homo Sapiens series 2006. It has been perfected through trial and error over millions of centuries, and has been subtly refined to what it is today. Ofcourse, we continue to keep ourselves updated in the field of research and if we find superior refinements required we shall update the human shell - But this is a time consuming process and we do conduct experiments with product launches some of which fail, while other succeed. We like to term these as deformities until properly patented and replicable. Examples include hyperextension of elbows to promote off-spin bowling / fast bowling in Cricket, increase bodily hair to resemble bears, sharper reflexes to counter growing requirements of international espionage / terrorism, superior recognition software in the brain functions to aid quicker development, and earlier participation in adult activities.

Now, we would like to introduce you to the key features of this human shell you have decided to purchase for your astral journey.

1. Brain: Showing massive reconfiguration, we have interpolated the thought and action areas, and seperated the grey and white cortical masses. We have provided superb cushioning for the sensitive parts of the brain, and have encased in a titanium equivalent of enmeshed boneplate built covering called the skull. Often used as the symbol of evil and power when combined with 2 rather rudimentary crossbones, these skulls usually survive the harshest of injuries unless treated with utter disdain. We have tried and tested these skulls and we can proudly say that they come with a lifetime warranty. If these should be split or cracked or broken in the course of regular use during this astral journey, we will replace this human shell FREE OF COST with a second human shell in your next astral life.
The human brain is state of the art and is completely filled with features to make your life a living wonder of ease :-
- Unlimited Memory storage (limited by only your imagination!),
- Ease of compartmentalisation (imagine the processing power of a million supercomputers at your disposal!),

contd

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:06 PM 1 comments

To the right of what is Left.

I wanted to understand whether it was better being a capitalist or a communist.

So I went to the rally conducted by one of our very illustrious left-party leaders. It was the CPI or the CPI(M) - I cannot remember which. The sickle and the star were everywhere and it blurred my currently myopic vision somewhat.

I reached the venue, and it turned out to be a huge rally. Security goondas for the party had gone to nearby villages and had returned with truckloads of hapless mortals to attend this rally. However, they were superb actors, and raised their hands on cue, and screamed "ki jai" on cue and never dropped the ball. Superb. Just superb.

And I waited to hear the leader talk about communism. I waited to hear them talk about common ownership of the means of production. And a stateless lawful society. And a means to eradicate poverty. And a means to stop corruption. And a way to serve the poor and the homeless and the illiterate to stand on their own feet.

And I waited to hear about the rationalising of labour laws. And about increasing India's footprint in the global world. And about pushing reforms forward. And creating jobs for more people by concentrating on Infrastructure. Like Telecom. Like Roads. Like Airports. Like Pipelines. And waterways. And electricity. And pollution control. And cleaning up our rivers. And our lakes. And our seas. And I waited to hear about competing against the best of the world. And winning. And making our competitive edge better. And about boosting revenues by intelligence, not blind stumbling. About reducing expenditure. And corruption. Destroying corruption and the malaise that fills our system. From top to bottom. And about revamping all those babus that eat the 80% of the 100% sanction and why only 15-20% percent works.

And I waited to hear about strengthening our people's resolve to fight back against terrorism. And bigotry. And oppression. And about building out opportunities for the common man to earn his daily bread. Earn it.

And I waited to hear about a stable government. And a stable decision making parliament. And I waited to hear about support. Not puppet strings.

But I heard about Aanganwadis, and Balwadis, and free handouts, and rerationing food to villagers. And I heard about free power. And more load shedding. And load shedding in Mumbai. And I heard about Worker unions. And strikes. and rasta rokos. And vile and juvenile rebukes aimed about just about anyone.

I heard about government sponsored insurance companies. And road building companies. And I heard about unused MP's funds. And about airport refurbishments. And about evil stock markets. And about no disinvestment. And about choosing what is right for our country from within. And not aping the west.

And I also heard about their angst towards George W Bush. And USA. and UK. and Italy. And their friendship with the erstwhile Soviet Union. And Iran. and Iraq.
And I heard about introducing inheritance tax, and a special tax on rich special consumption. And I heard about widening FBT. And about how foreign scandinavian countries have adopted the foreign tax. And about how rationalising Drawback incentives. And how to mop up another 45,000-50,000 crore.

And the leader then ended the speech by warning that a tug of the strings was all that this government would need to collapse.

Then he got off the podium. He got into a BMW 7 series, while talking on a NOkia 9500 communicator. He took off his neta topi as he sat in the car. The faintest words I could here was :Buy Infosys and hold till the markets start dropping.

I smiled to myself and left.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:46 PM 0 comments

Things I will never do

And today when I did things I had promised I would never do, like going to Siddhivinayak, and turning my cell phone off, and bragging about a vacation to Mauritius and chatting in the middle of the day, and talking about my brother's girlfriend, I will talk about things I will never do:

Like feeling superior when a small boy comes up and begs. Like shaving with a shaving brush, and Palmolive Shaving Cream and a Gillette Razor. Like walking up to make friends with strange women in nightclubs. Like asking strange women "would you like to make friendship with me?". Like going to first day first show. Like spending 35,000 bucks on the newest latest cell phone. Like going to Singapore (or Malaysia or Thailand or Mauritius) for a holiday. Like going to a stadium to watch a cricket match. Like going anywhere to watch a football or hockey match. Like travelling to Virar (or Vasai or Naigaon). Like walking upto Siddhivinayak.

Like getting a suit stitched to my size. Like getting anything stitched to wear. Like wearing ultraviolet hair gel. Like wearing yellow trousers. Like wearing white shoes. Like wearing sunglasses in a gym. Like "pumping" weights in the gym for 4 hours straight. Like parading myself in front of an actor's house. Even Amitabh Bachchan's house.

Like marry a Gujarati. Like liking to eat karela. Like live in Dahisar. or Mira Road. or Kalyan. or Kasara. Like own a farmhouse.


And things I will never be able to do:
Like make friends with Abhisheik Bachchan. Like play the guitar. Like drive a car. Like take a day off to go attend a writing workshop. Like take a 'sabbatical'.
Like start a film project or write a film script or a film anything.
Like writing a good script for Darna Mana Hai. Like remembering to use the proper figures of speech and use the dots and commas and full stops where they are supposed to be used in a poem; a story; a script; a sentence. etc etc. Like win a music quiz. Like win a bollywood quiz.

And things that will never happen to me:
Like inheriting a lot of money from someone I never knew. Like receiving a love letter written in some deewani's blood. Like owning a make-up van. Like being asked to sing on screen. or off it. or being asked to do a voice over. or to dub for someone. or to scream "I love the Globus Sale" on radio. and expect to be paid for it. Like winning a prize for answering 3 correct questions on Sholay. or Deewar. or Golmaal. Like having children sitting on a sofa next to me on a stage with a large backdrop at my own reception. Like sitting on a horse for my marriage.

more later,

utekkare,
pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:52 PM 0 comments

Monday blues

11:55 AM: Just walked into office. We just have to get into a routine. Wake up at 7, reach Gym by 7.30, come home by 9.00, get ready for office by 9.45, reach office by 10.30 work till 2.30, eat lunch, work till 7.30, come home by 8.15, watch tv and work till 9.30, eat dinner, and collapse by 10.00.

hmm, sounds good. but what about all those US buyers you need to kiss ass with. Im sure they can wait. After all the routine should be god, right.

irfan pathan is out, tendulkar is doing his best to get out, but why dont these pakistani bowlers understand that? all they need to do is bowl legitimate deliveries around his knee roll and hey presto, one less indian legend to worry about.

peshawar is such an amazing word. it conjures up images of john rambo, the CIA, the plain of 4 lions, 5 rivers, 6 pathans, and women who get married into harems.

wish i could write a book on peshawar and the life and times of the affluent and not so affluent living and working there
sort of like a diary. but i need to be white skinned and rich for that, i suppose.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:53 AM 1 comments

Sunday ka Gyaan - Pranay ki zubaani

And so here I am again on a Sunday double poster (borrowed from the NBA ishtyle double header). Some new points of observation and comment. Also some thoughts for food and intelligent sentences.

Like Narayan Rane should never be allowed to be made Chief Minister. He will make all the bar girls to be re-elected from their constituency, and the national symbol for the Congress will be made a chicken. Gade murge ukhadne nahin chahiye.

Black Horse Festival is on. So is Siddhi Vinayak Maghi Mahotsav. So is One Tree Music Festival. I wonder if I will make it to any of these. Just like I wondered if I would make it to the Banganga festival, the Mumbai festival, the Shopping festival, the Diwali festival, the M.F.Hussain festival, the Upper Classes art festival, the Middle Classes Ambarnath local bhajan festival, and the Shivaji Mitra Mandal carom festival. But I didnt make it to any of those.

Like this is one of those free Sundays there is never a Caferati readmeet on. Like I am always free on a non read meet sunday and always busy on a read meet sunday. Maybe one of these days I will learn the art of not thinking about a readmeet. Planning is futile.

Like AAI should be given the "theka" to make worldclass airports. Let them start with Agartala or Kanyakumari. Maybe we can think of Chennai and Kolkata then.

Like Anil Ambani is realising soon that kicking up his feet and throwing a tantrum will get him nowhere in the real world. Like he is understanding that the Congress is giving out the tenders and contracts for the Airport modernisation, not the Samajwadi party.

Like Rang De Basanti has restored fame to Aamir Khan and that he should always wear his hair short. Like he should understand that any film that calls for a handle bar moustache and flowing tresses should be avoided like wildfire.

Like I got a new phone that has a 1.3 MP, and hotswap, and MMS, and RS-MMC, and MP3 and AAC and GPRS and WAP and XHTML and HTTP and Email and Voicemail and MS-Office. And it is lighter than my earlier phone.

Like Rahul Dravid should stay at No.3. VVS Laxman should retire to Sydney, Australia. And Sachin Tendulkar should become Assistant Coach. This is one of my considered opinions.

Like the Indian cricket team hates chasing. They cannot think of batting more than 30 overs on a 4th innings pitch that is bouncing stump high and is moving more towards the covers than the wicket keeper.

Like Mahindra Singh Dhoni and Virender Sehwag should be given a handicap of 2 each before they come out to bat. Otherwise they will never make a hundred.

And finally, Soaps on Indian TV are existential and optimistically fantastical. It is my way of saying they are crap without saying it directly. Hopefully noone will find and quote my blog when I am rich, famous and writing scripts for consumption.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:21 PM 0 comments

Main aa gaya hoon Teja

"It's not fair. It's just not fair, yaar." I fumed and raged and ranted on and on about the unfairness of the situation.

Aashit seemed to just ignore me. "Chhod na yaar, jaane de. It's just a stupid contest. Prize wize bhi nahin tha. Just 3000 bucks." He chewed contently on the two boomers he seamlessly merged into a coheSive mass of bubblegum, by the persuasive combination of saliva, his upper and lower jaws. "Agli baar dekh lenge. Study karke aana.", he concluded, as if to denote the conversation was over.

We were walking along Flora Fountain, after the stupid Black Horse festival. Ofcourse a few hours earlier it hadn't seemed so stupid. Surprising, how not winning at a fiction contest can make everything seem so trivial suddenly.

"You know, I can appeal against this in a court of law. A consumer court even. I can take them to court!!! I will take them to high court! to Supreme Court! I will khatkhatao the doors of parliament!" Now, I was in my element as a courtroom barrister, fighting imaginary courtroom duels, with robe and all. I was eloquent, and smart, and scoring points. I was getting confessions 'bhari adalat mein', and I was dancing like Akshay Kumar and singing like Kishore Kumar as we walked past the Sessions Court.

"Bas bas, ab band kar. Ghadi ghadi drama karta rehta hai. Stop acting like Utpal dutt in Golmaal."

"Ek ek ko chun chun ke maaroonga! chun chun ke !!!"

Well ok, I know I was acting a little hyper about the whole thing, but being disqualified rankled. OFcourse, and the morbid atmosphere around Cama hospital didnt help either.

"You know, I knew they had it out for me. I knew it when I saw that writer judge hobnobbing with that ex-RJ I used to hang out with. I know he always hated me. On the other hand, it could have been that cute judge I hit on about a year and a half ago.. Wonder why she still has a problem with me. But kya karega, must be my cute irresistable charm. Can't switch it off once I've turned it on!", I mused.

"But yaar, tu toh, you don't understand at all!! It's not about the money! Remember woh kya kehte the Esmero Sir? It's not whether you won or lost but how the game was played. And this was absolute cheating yaar!!", I said.

"And remember what Sangram Singh told him when he said that? Winning is not everything, it is the Only thing."

Strong Xavierite teachings still hold good after 7 years. They never wear off. The man can wear off but the teachings won't.

Aashit was trying hard not to control his own laughter. As he looked at me with derision, and tried to make sense enough to string an entire sentence together, I continued:

"Ofcourse, the entire thing could have been rigged and the finalists and winners pre-decided. Bloody networkers! bottom feeders! Saala, Angrezi ka A bhi nahin aata hai! I could teach them a thing or two about racy prose! What was wrong with my story? What was it? Poora within the limits tha! In English, with a trigger and everything. Even a black horse for good measure. I even added a villain and kept it within 300 words!"

Aashit narrowly missed stepping into a grate covered with old and smelly cabbage leaves, and we wound our way between parked trucks outside Crawford Market. "Yea, yea. Your story was good. In fact it was great. There was suspense, drama, trauma, humanity, truck drivers and school children, there was a hero and a villain. Even a couple of songs. Hmm, I wonder why they trashed it." As he spoke, he jauntily stepped into an old basket kept there. His foot went through the basket, disturbing the little home there. Squawking and screaming, 2 extremely irate chickens retreated rapidly into the shadows of the vegetable market.

"Unka bhi time aayega", I thought. "Chickens are brought to Crawford Market to be eaten. Bachke kahaan jaayenge?"

And I went on, " This is a gross injustice to the scriptwriting youth of our country!! Maybe I should have asked the co-ordinator out. Perhaps that would have helped?"

Aashit laughed and snorted nastily, "She wouldn't even look at you in your wildest dreams!"

"What about that cute chick writing earnestly in the front row? Maybe she didn't win also, did she?"

"You would have known if you'd waited till the end. You shouldn't have tossed the chair aside and left in dramatic fashion!"

"Haan, yaar. But that was so filmy, na? Ekdum Angry young man types."

"Ofcourse, ofcourse. Everyone was so happy to see you leave without breaking any more "props". Producer paise dega na." He said, pointing towards himself.

"So what yaar. Izzat is more important than some 100-200 bucks. And I was going to return the money I owe you. Just that I didn't win this stupid contest na...", I trailed off.

As we entered Badshah, I headed straight for the AC section. "Saab, Dus baje ke baad AC seksun band hai. Idhar baithna padenga." The miyan at the counter yelled.

After we ordered our faloodas, I returned to the topic of the day - Story No.1 by Pranay Srinivasan.

"Kaise fail hua? Now I know how Sanjay Kapoor feels every Friday when he goes out to see his new release. Flop.Flop.FLOP."

Aashit chewed noisily as he took out another Boomer. "Yea, boss. Next time karna. Ekdum fielding karke, reading vagaira karke write a nice story."

"But this was the No.1 story yaar! After this all will be No.2 or downwards. What to do yaar, I can't write anymore. This is too tough!"

Aashit said, "chal I'll talk to Peter on the phone. Abhi tak he must be on the train home." He took out his phone and dialled Peter Griffin. When he got through, he got up and walked out. I got up to accompany him, but he motioned me to wait. Cupping the receiver, he said "Idhar hi ruk. Aata hoon."

The faloodas arrived - predictably superb. I slurped mine down and looked at Aashit's temptingly. I took his glass and thought, "If I were to mix his falooda, that wouldnt be so bad would it? Otherwise it would settle to the bottom. Bechaara, he's trying to talk for me, I can do this much for him." So I mixed the vermicelli, the icecream, the rose, the milk and the subja into the falooda.

After a while and still no sign of Aashit. I thought to myself, "The top portion is getting warm. I should mix it a bit more". So I mixed it and whilst doing so, I saw some melting icecream down the side of the glass. "Must keep it clean", and I licked off the icecream. "Now see what you've done!". "no, no", Another voice said. "Take the top off and pour out the top 1/3rd into your glass. That way it'll stay at the bottom and stay cold." So I poured out the top half and the icecream. "Abhi toh it has become jhoota. Might as well drink it up." So I drank it up.

It was turning 12 and still no Aashit. So I thought, "It’s nearing 12’o’clock. These guys are gonna throw us out anyways. Might as well finish his falooda off. I'd be doing him a favour." So 15 seconds later, I was licking my lips and wiping my mouth with some cheap paper tissues.

As I was getting up to leave, Aashit came in. "Abey kidhar tha tu??" I asked him. "What did Peter say?"

"Peter? Nothing yaar. We finished in 15 seconds. Then my girlfriend called and I was talking to her. Yaar, she's not well. She went out and actually just sneezed. It's pretty serious. I offered to go over to her place, but she said she'll be OK."

"Ya, ya ok. What about the story???" I was impatient. Here I was waiting for him in this sadela Badshah Coldrink House, and he was talking to his GF. Asshole. Prick. Stunted Humanoid.

"Oh, that? Peter said that Zanjeer was already written before by Salim-Javed, and that Zanjeer had a white horse, not a black one. He said, tell Pranay to read the rules."

Aashit was looking around him.

"Wasn't there a falooda here when I left?"

The End.

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:16 PM 0 comments

A lot of articles

I have written many great and enormously inspiring articles. Funny ones. Aggressive ones. Sentimental ones. Subtle ones.

I have written articles about politicians. About film stars. About poverty and abject starvation and hunger and deprivation. About suicidal maniacs and their mental though processes. About social workers who extort money using poor dejected labourers using conniving policemen. About rising fuel prices and about falling car prices. About EMI's and hire purchase and buy-now-pay-later and interest schemes and investment potential and mutual funds and about Securities Exchange Board of India and about money-back and endowment and whole-life and maha-life and about other insurance salesman who make your life miserable on an ongoing basis. About office automation hardware and telephone lines. About mammoth MNC's who behave worse than Government organisations and about thieves who dress up in suits, get paid 6 figure salaries and plot their days work around overbilling your neighbour.

And I have written articles about Cricket. Yes, I love those ones. About Sachin and his fake illnesses and injuries. About Saurav and his fake pride and his fake control on cricket on bouncy pitches against short pitched bowling. About Anil Kumble and the art of bowling leg spin deliveries that spin from leg stump to off stump on a regular basis on a shirtfront wicket. About Dinesh Karthick and dying a silent death without doing anything wrong. About Virender Sehwag and Gautam Gambhir and their sweet short opening partnerships. About Chappell and his gesture of goodwill to Calcutta. About Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar and their many fifties and even more hundreds and their records and their brilliance and their single minded capitalistic aggression and a really short line about how many world cups they won their countries.

And I have written sentimental articles. Beautiful ones. About flowing rivers, and impressive mountains and green pastures and silver streams, and wonderful orchards, and round luscious apples and wicker gates and peasant girls dressed in designer torn gowns tending their flocks of sheep with artistically carved staffs of wood. About dying mothers and penitent sons. About bottles of expended glycerine and overflowing emotions. About tales of heroism, blood, toil, valour and honour. About sacrifice and dedication and girls from villages, who study by the light of their wicker lamps who score exceedingly well and get scholarships from otherwise blunt nosed corporate houses and become a success in their own right. About CRY and Akanksha and little known tales of great honesty and perseverance.

And I have written melancholy articles. That begin with a witticism and dramatically deteriorate into a mess of blurted out platitudes. About my teenage angst and my friends who stabbed my back with notorious regularity. About my girlfriends and the woman I yearned for, for almost 16 years. About my pimpled dreams and my scarring nightmares. About a soldier gazing into an empty piece of paper thinking what he would write to his sweetheart if he only knew how to. About a cow stuck in a wire mesh fence, screaming out in agony.

And I have written some other articles too. But you cannot read any of them. Because the path from my brain to my hands is a long and arduous one. None of the articles survive.


utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:04 PM 8 comments

3000 MILES FROM GRACELAND - Flash Fiction Entry

3000 MILES FROM GRACELAND

But sadly, she could not go.

Ann sighed, pulling herself up by the bedpost. If only, she could go out more. But, she could settle for having the house all to herself.

She busied herself with cleaning the bathing pots. She reached back for the soap, and she had almost turned back when she rubbed her eyes in surprise. Was that a broom and a pail doing the tango together? As if on cue, A slightly overweight, middle-aged lady, with an over-smooth skin complexion, walked in. A clap of her hands, retired the broom to its corner, and the pails stopped banging around.

"Are you an angel?", Ann asked in trepidation. "No, I'm just the fairy god mother. Call me Oprah.” She hurried on, "I'll cut to the chase. This is a flash fiction piece, and I don’t have time to make a big entrance.",

She continued, "I'm here because tonight is a very important date in your life; Your future is at stake. You are going to get LUCKY!! Tonight is your INDEPENDENCE night!!“

"Uh, well, oh, Why me?" Ann stuttered. "Oh that's simple dear. God saw you bathing yesterday and thought that you'll be quite the treat for him especially after he saw what that Nielsen fellow and you accomplished. We're quite excited about you."

"So Ann, whenever you're ready." Oprah waved her wand and Ann was sitting on a leather couch, inside a gleaming carriage drawn by 6 of the most beautiful white Arabian horses. Ann had been transformed into a figure of radiance, in an opulent silk-chiffon dress, with puf sleeves in the latest Vogue fashion with spangles, sequins, and glittering gold embroidery.

Ann looked down, and suddenly blurted out, "But Oprah, I know how this ends! I wow the crowds, dance with the prince, forget about the midnight deadline, and run off leaving a crystal shoe behind. And the next morning, he runs from home to home, fitting the shoe onto every girl's foot, but obviously it will fit only me, and soon enough I will be the 43 rd lucky woman to be had by the fat over-endowed Prince with the tight leather pants, the googoo hairdo, the soft gut and the sagging man-breasts." "But, I can't understand one thing… WHY ON EARTH are my shoes blue suede instead of crystal…..???", and before Oprah could respond, A bolt of lightning hit the carriage and burnt the girl to a cinder. And as she died, she heard a deep baritone singing mournfully, and Oprah sighing, "Now, look what you've done."

Priscilla sat up with a start, drenched in sweat. She was breathing heavily, and her bedclothes lay in disarray. She reached from the greyish-white pills on the bedside table and swallowed two, as she oriented herself. She peered out of the half-drawn curtains, and the neon glare of the Vegas Strip made her realise that she was 3000 Miles from Graceland. She turned over and was asleep before her drugged head hit the pillow.

(C) Pranay Srinivasan 2005
Word Count: 499 words :D

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 4:03 PM 2 comments

Style justaposed with substance

I am not stylish. Not even close. I dont even purport to appear stylish. At my very best, I am gauche.

But, every saturday night, I like to stretch up as tall as I can, and stare at myself in the mirror at 9.30 PM whilst deciding what to wear when I go out and party. I like to take time over what shoes I must wear, and what hairstyle I must employ, and which conditioner sticks less to my hair, and what is that elusive substance that will make my face look less grumpy than the 6th dwarf.

Ofcourse, I am urbane, and innately brilliant, and intelligent, and I can make conversation about anything under the sun, and I can make people laugh and I can understand complex metaphysical debates. But all that is hidden under a receding hairline and an advancing tummyline.

So, I feel that unless we are writing in a cocoon that caters to only the immediate self, it would be folly to disregard the garnish of the apt figure of speech, the topping of the appropriate example, the subtle after taste of a deeper meaning conveyed through simple sentences.
And, if we are to gain the apprecation of our fellow writers, our reading audience, and garner praise, success, and the approval of the masses, we must, we must try to present our literary offerings without the bogeys of typos dotting our clerical landscape.

For, I firmly believe that contrary to Ayn Rand's beliefs, without our peer approval, it is impossible for us to accomplish that which we have set out to achieve - literary greatness, and satisfaction of having written a sound piece of prose or poetry that will find a place among the upper echelons of writings.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 4:02 PM 0 comments

A Matter of Greed - Flash Fiction Entry

A matter of greed

On a deserted road, in a village about 65 miles from Kiev, a Rolls Royce drove down a dark lane.

Yuri rubbed his hands together through his woolen gloves, wondering why his boss had chosen this god-forsaken day for his adventure. He leaned out of the window and saw dark clouds, pregnant with an eminent snowstorm. The engine purred, emitting a stream of smoke as it worked overtime to keep the interior warm.

The car's owner, Alexei however seemed oblivious as he searched for the lamp-post that marked his final destination. As he caught sight of the gnarled remains of a lamp-post, he said,"Yuri. Right there, by that post." As the car stopped, it began to snow.

Alexei reached the lamppost and examined it carefully. He stepped into the third door down the road. Only half a batwing remained. He pulled out a torch from his overcoat pocket and walked in. He reached the bar, and ran his hand along under the bar, until he reached a packet taped to the inside, that held a large key. He raced across the bar to the large steel safe -vault, that lay exposed. He turned the key in the keyhole. The door opened slowly, creaking on it's hinges. As it opened, he shined his torchlight into it's interior. His expression slowly turned from a huge smile to shock to dismay to exasperation, his face aging 30 years in 30 seconds. The inside was wiped clean. A small note was attached to the back of the safe.

It said simply, " You shouldn’t trifle with Lili, young man." As he read the small note, he pictured an old, pale small woman, losing hair, curled up in pain on her hospital bed, battling the final stages of cancer, dying, telling him about her life’s savings held in a vault in a tavern near Chernobyl, now abandoned. How she wanted him to get it for her. How he had planned to keep it all.

He stormed out of the abandoned tavern, pushing through knee-deep snow towards the car. As he reached the lamppost, he looked about him but he saw no headlights around. He stomped about, looking for the car. As he returned to the lamppost, now only a stump above the snow, he pointed his torch and saw a note tacked to the lamppost, written in Yuri's crisp Cyrillic script.

Alexei, suddenly cold in his inadequate overcoat, shivered as he heard the bone-chilling cry of a wolf-pack.

Miles away, Yuri in his driving seat behind the wheel, heard the wolf's howl. He winced as the Rolls entered the outskirts of the city.

(word count: 491 words)
utekkare,
Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 2:59 PM 0 comments

A long weekend

And today is the 13th of August. Nothing momentous on its own (Actually anything with the number 13 in it is distinctly considered un-momentous), unless it is conjoint with the fact that it is also a Saturday. A second Saturday. And just 3 weeks after the rainiest of rainy days. And so, it is a day of occasion, since it heralds the beginning of a 3 day weekend. Yes, 3 complete holidays. 72 hours of sleeping, eating, watching Inane TV Shows, Amitabh Bachchan movies, Star Sports, NDTV Profit and KBC, and doing not much else.

When I was in school, I used to be in the NCC. No no, not the National Chappal Chors, but the National Cadet Corp. The days preceding August 15th usually were very hectic, in preparation of the Independence Day flag hoisting and the demonstrations we put up.I remember buying hacksaws from Sion Hardware Stores to make up machine guns from PVC Pipe so we could stage a fake India V/S Pakistan war. The Indians had machine guns and the pakistanis had twigs. A very good example of our military superiority. And our principal always took this opportunity to speak to the sparse crowd about National Heritage, and World Peace, and Honour for your Country, and Serving you Nation. And the boys were looking at the girls who had arrived and wondering if there was half a chance that they might get to go out for snacks after the speech was over. And the girls were preening for the guys, and were trying to decide which lucky guy to bestow the full glory of their attentions with. And the rest of us would just look at each other, surreptiously scratch our backs through the terry cloth material and yawn. Ofcourse the next morning, all the students who had slept in that morning, would look at us and snigger amongst their friends.

On other independence days, when the principal was feeling the effects of last night's whiskey, the school would look deserted and ex-students would turn up with their girlfriends to snuggle in nooks and crannies of the campus, and the basketball coach would call for extra practice in the morning, and we would be running around the basketball ground rather than parading on it. And then we would go home and take a bath, catch up on our homework, and watch "Gandhi" in hindi on DD-1. Surprising that a movie made by Sir David Attenborough and starring Ben Kingsley as Gandhi would be termed as nationalistic and patriotic. In a population of a billion people, a Britisher was asked to act as Gandhi. But these questions were taboo.

And watching films like Karma, and Mr India, and Bhagat Singh movies. And buying flags from street urchins with tachni pins to pin up on your clothes, and buying flag umbrellas to put up in your car, and watching RSS swayamsevaks hoist the flag in sheets of rain on the playground in their khaki shorts and white shirts.

Ofcourse, once you grow up, you are so much more aware of your responsibilities and your duties and your honour for your country and your nationalistic fervour is at its highest. And since you are working to contribute towards your country's GDP and you are a cog in the wheels that turn the nation's economy, it is but natural that you must take a break for a while from your back-breaking toil.

And some of us want to take off to Pune, and Lonavla and Khandala, and Matheran, with 3 day weekend packages, and newly wed couples and children jumping up and down with bright blue and shocking pink polyester-cotton shirts with teddy bears and swans printed on them, and plastic caps and plastic bags of sev, and chivda, and dabbas of achar and thepla and vegetarian resort hotels and mist covered mountains, and verdant greenery with empty packets of Ruffle Lays, and Uncle Chipps and Pickwicks Wafers, and Simba Chips peeking out of the verdant greenery and empty Frooti tetrapaks blending in with the verdant greenery and little ponies carrying big aunties and uncles huffing and puffing along the small muddy mountain paths, and cheap tennis shoes with nobbly soles and red mud sticking between the knobs, and using a stick to clean the mud from the knobs like treacle from teeth. And strawberry fudge, and mid chikki and water fountains with no water spouting from them and little toy trains and mungphali on quaint hillside stations and Neral Station flagstones and sitting on the floor without a care in the world.

And some of us want to just laze around the house and maybe go out into Mumbai when it isnt that crowded. And walk along the deserted footpaths from Mcdonalds (used to be Empire Restaurant) upto Khadi Emporium, and then back from American Bakery upto GPO and the Nepalis selling sweaters on the footpath. And walk across an empty parking lot across Flora Fountain, past Kay Davy's department store, opposite HSBC Bank, and Standard Chartered Bank, and past Khyber lane, where the rich and relaxed people from Cuffe Parade, and Marine Drive and Cumballa Hill and Churchgate come to spend the money they save from Rent Control on lunch. And past Kapoor Lamp Shades and past Rhythm House, and the roadside artists drawing large lifelike pictures of Sai Baba and Hanuman and Ganesha on which there are silver coins, and walking past Chiquitta's with their 32 rupee Chicken Patties and past the first ever Apna Bazaar, and onwards past Cecil Court with Texprocil offices on their top floor and other big important offices in the buildings and past Bade Miya, closed, waiting for the night to begin, and past the Victoria-wallahs past the bombing-wallah parking lot to Gateway of India populated by tourists and pigeons and postcard sellers and coin-operated telescope wallahs who allow you to peer out at oil tankers and Old Woman's Island and Elephanta, and Cargo Ships. And you could go for a ride on a launch to Elephanta and eat packed Kheema-Pav and watch the cuddling couples in the caves and run down the broad steps wildly and have your Frooti stolen by even more monkeys, and buy a stick to run in the water past the cargo ships and the oil tankers and lose the stick halfway. And walk past the twinkling lights of the half-evening to Churchgate Bus Depot and sit in the empty No.5 Double Decker right in front and let the rain, spray and the wind hit your hair as you go home.

Ofcourse, some of us would actually like to sleep through most of Saturday, wake up on Sunday in time for lunch, and then sleep some more, till it is time to greet Independence Day with a few shots of Vodka and Sprite.
And since August 15th is a dry day, we catch up on all our sleep, until it is Tuesday morning again and we can drag ourselves off to work again.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:52 PM 0 comments

A few points of view

And on a despondent wednesday evening, some points of view and ideas and mini-strategies (All my own work):

That the Indian cricket team has effectively proved that Saurav Ganguly and John Wright had nothing to do with their choking at over 10 finals since the last world cup.

Like two bowlers got 6 wickets in a match last week and both ended up on the losing side. Like two batsmen got 10,000 runs in One Day Cricket, and both were left handers. Like Saurav Ganguly scored 10,000 runs in 262 matches and is called a struggling stalwart of the Indian team while Sanath Jayasuriya scores 10,000 runs in 326 matches and is called a legend. Like India should always bat first and always choose heads. Like Virender Sehwag should be given a minimum of 2 lives per innings he plays to make a big score.

That on a rainy day, it is better to keep your laptop charged rather than discharge it early in the morning. that after everything said and done about broadband internet, only the dialup Internet VSNL lines worked during the entire flooding incident tragedy.

Like Page 3 regulars were commended on Page 1 for having the "humility" and the "compassion" to understand Mumbai's plight and Mr Kishen Mulchandani should be lauded for postponing his outlandish anniversary to celebrate 25 years of partying. Like maybe the events were cancelled less out of humanitarian values, and more out of the unavailibility of the guests.

Like Mr Amitabh Bachchan looked better on KBC in his suits rather than in his 70's floral shirts and leather jackets.

Like foreign-returned neighbours should be kept at arm's length.

Like all Mumbaikars agree that although we pay 58,000 crores as direct taxes but we deserve to receive Rs 1000 crore as compensation for our tryst with nature. And that it is only the norm that of all the relief money, only 10% should be distributed and the rest be appropriated by the interceding luminaries.

That 5000 rupees is supposed to be ample compensation for a hutment dweller who has lost his house, his papers, his family, his clothes, his savings, his entire life that was washed away in a torrent of rain water he had no idea about.

That DNA has hit me, but I am completely unswayed and I am unable to find the difference between DNA and Times of India.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:42 PM 0 comments

A funny feeling in my chest

Today I woke up and I had a funny feeling in my chest. I walked over to the wash basin and was making sense of which tube was toothpaste and which was shaving cream, and I knew I was unwell, because I squeezed shaving cream onto my toothbrush and it even tasted good.

I decided not to go to the Gym today. If I did indulge in strenuous physical exertions, maybe my illness would take a turn for the worse, and considering the kind of hospitals that exist in Chembur and how far it is from Mahim or Bandra, I decided to stay home.

And since I did not go to the Gym, I decided not to go to work today. Considering the events and all the rains of the last few weeks, I thought it might not be advisable to go out in the rain and attract all kinds of infections in my weakened state.

I sat down, relaxedly, to read the news papers, and the tabloids, and the broadsheets, and all their inserts and their plus pages and their supplements and their add-ons and their magazines and their advertisements, and maybe a little news in between. But I found myself unable to drool at the scantily clad Page 3 models, and the slipping clothes caught so expertly on the ace photographer's lenses, and the international bikini competition. I kept catching my breath and my chest was stuffy. I tried clearing my throat and heaving my chest a bit, and i dismissed it.

After a leisurely breakfast, and catching last night's highlights (India getting a sollid walloping from Sri Lanka), I decided I must go to the doctor. So I strolled down to the doctor, and on the way, I stopped by the carom club to play some carom since I hadn't done that in over a month. But I couldnt pocket a single coin, because I had a funny stuffy feeling in my chest.

When I reached the doctor, he checked me up and down, asked me if I had a fever (I did not), whether I had drunk water from outside my house (I had, but only bottled water), whether I had eaten something outside my house (I had not), and if I was feeling odd in any way.

He then checked my chest with his stethoscope, and pushed and prodded around my ribs. Finally, he put down his stethoscope and said, "You're absolutely fine." I replied, "what about the funny feeling in my chest? I was hoping it would be something kinda serious so I could stay home for a while." He said, "Theres nothing there. Its just your imagination."

I stomped home, snorting away at the 50 bucks he took to tell me I'm fine. He didnt know his job. What did he know about funny feelings in the chest. For all he knew, I might be dying and I might be at the terminal stage of a lifelong disease that would make me die in a single night.

Ha. That would teach him, wouldnt it. If I died the next day.

Since I had decided that I was to die of a funny feeling in my chest the next day, I decided that I was far behind in making a will and setting my matters in order.

So I went home, and laid out all my belongings in the world on the bed, and drew up my will.

The foozeball table, I give to my brother, partha. Now you can win all you want.
The laptop computer I give to my dad. You paid for it, it is only just that you inherit it.
The sports shoes, you can take, Peps. I suppose you must have already appropriated them.
My half empty tester bottles of perfume, I give to Vicky, Nishant, and Vijay Shetty.
My clothes, I donate to people on the street. Let them have some happiness too (and sorrow, especially when they wear that Polyester Shirt that bites into the back.)
My CD's I want destroyed. Nobody must have music in life after I am gone.

And with a heavy heart and a funny feeling in my chest, I called up all my friends to tell them the bad news. Some friends laughed and hung up since it was Friday and they couldnt hear me through all the noise at the discos; Some sagely heard it all and then asked who would pay them back after I was gone; Some did not even pick up the phone.

And then I went to sleep and cried a little. Because I had not done the things I promised myself I would do. Like building a business empire; like playing cricket on cross maidan in white flannels; like watching Iron Maiden or Black Sabbath or Pink Floyd or Metallica live in concert; like living alone; like finding a girlfriend; like having a house on a road, on a beach by the sea; like writing bestselling books and travelling all over the world to research the books.

But to my surprise, I woke up the next morning. And the funny feeling in my chest had gone.

I was on my way to the rickshaw stand when I met a friend of mine off to work. And I narrated my close brush with death to him, and all he replied was, "Yes, I know. I had chest congestion too.. Must be the weather."

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:08 PM 1 comments

The most exclusive Internet Club ever

There used to be a time when you needed to travel extensively, have a thriving business, earn potloads of money, and be well known, and well heeled to garner a mention on the social circuit, and wangle your way into a club.

There used to be a time when a club meant stone arches and gargoyles. And courtyards and fountains. And coats of arms and disdainful butlers. And morning tea and biscuits from Fortnum and Masons. And liveried servants, and armours kept in glass cubicles.

Well, not any more.

Virtually everyone I know is part of a club now. And none of the clubs can be found on terra firma. They all exist on the Internet. And they are all very very clannish, and they stick close to each other, in the shadows of cyberia, and nobody normal can find them.

And with most of these clubs, a few, if any members have ever met the rest of them, and they usually never meet up, in the fear that the club may disband because in reality they are actually much wierder than what they appear to be online. Ofcourse, when online, wierd is cool. Offline, well, wierd is just wierd.

And most of these clubs have a common thread or a target audience to target. Like followers of Sun Worship, or like Explorers looking for Atlantis, or like people who like Kobe Bryant's style of playing, or like people who have failed over 3 times in their final year of studies (Any level will do). Like people who only like the poetry written by a single posthumously published writer, who has been dead for over 100 years and who, when living, enjoyed a circulation of probably only a 100 daft fools who ever read his poetry. And like naturalists who revel in the comings and goings of nesting turtles on the Galapagos Islands. And like people who are trying to save the earth from solar radiations and piercing the ozone layer. Like people who love a certain genre of motorcycles and cars, and who can discuss mechanical parts of a moving machine with other similarly afflicted souls for the better part of an evening without stumbling. Like people who want to party in their very own coterie, and could just meet up with a few phone calls, but will bandy about their club to everyone and then make a big deal of how exclusive it is. Like people who watch Casablanca 2 hundred and 85 times, and people who know how to make a rocket fly with their bare hands, and people who know how to build bombs at home. Like people who can hack into supercomputers using their 1986 PC, and people who know what the difference between a rare stamp and a postage stamp is, and people who know what the difference between a haiku and a senryu is, and why Martin Luther King was famous (I also know that). Like people who want to fund their business, and people who want business, and people who want other people to do business, and people who dont want to do business, and people who want to retire early in life, and people who never want to retire, and people who want to write only, and people who want to read only, and people who will never understand films and people who understand only films, and people who live in New York and are single, and people who live in New York and are not single, and people who like sweets like Mango Souffle (I like it too) and people who dont like sweets, And people who live in apartments, and people who live in bungalows, and people who have a special breed of dog and people who hate dogs, and people who listen to the news and people who listen to alien vibrations, and people who can do complicated math, and people who hate math. All kinds of people who join all kinds of clubs.

And these people send messages online, and participate in online discussions, and meet people online, and fight with each other online, and send more messages online. And entry can be by invitation only, which can allow you to make people feel smaller than they already do, and you can decide to kick people out whenever you want and you can decide who is good enough and who isn't, and you can as inclusive as you like and as exclusive as you like.

I have decided that I shall start a club too. The Utekkare Blog-reader's club. And it shall be an club of one member only. The most exclusive club ever.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 8:31 PM 0 comments

Not my fault

Sometimes, I feel that I have a hard life. Yes, a really hard life.

I have to sleep on the floor. Well, not exactly. I sleep on a Dunlop mattress on the ground. But if I hurt my back by sliding off the mattress onto the floor during the night, it is not my fault, is it?

I have to wake up at the unearthly hour of 9 AM. I mean, after staying up late to watch that movie on HBO at 2 AM, and then flipping endlessly through channels on the telly, and surfing the Internet aimlessly, I dropped off to sleep at 4.30 AM. Ofcourse, I should have fallen asleep at 12.30 when I did decide to, but if I cannot sleep due to the lack of exercise and mental stimulation, and end up having Insomnia, that is not my fault is it?

I have to brush my soft, delicate, bleeding gums, and my sufficiently yellowed teeth with an abomination of a green speckled toothpaste from a leading Multinational Consumer goods company, that is so heavily involved with social causes, and upliftment of its executives, and the fattening of it's bottom line, that somewhere down the line, they deluded themselves into believing that they could fashion an aeroplane from toothpaste tubes. And then fill them with toothpaste, that flowers into foam the moment it hits saliva. I have to make use of a hard toothbrush to ensure that the white toothpaste refuse is laced liberally with flecks of blood from my weakening gums. But if I wanted to eat those gooey choclates, with icecream after indulging in a completely heavenly dinner of chicken curry and rice, that is not my fault, is it?

And I have to tone down the shower to make sure it is luke warm, because hot water scalds my sensitive skin. And cold water chills me to the bone. Because of this, it usually takes me between 30 and 40 minutes to prepare, begin, and complete my shower. Ofcourse, if it takes me over 15 minutes to work out what temperature I should be having a bath at, every day, it is not my fault, is it?

I have to make do with a mug of Complan/Tea/Coffee, or a bowl of Kellogg's wheat corn flakes or frosties, and then have a breakfast of either ham and eggs with toast, or probably just an omlette if I'm in a hurry. But then, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and it's not like me to ignore that tenet in a hurry.And because of this, if I am running late for work, then that is not my fault, is it?

I then have to work on a 1 year old Centrino laptop with just 512 MB RAM, and a 14" Screen and a DVD Player. It is very difficult for me to concentrate on work with my screen going off, my computer moving slowly, and my internet downloads not holding up. I would have been able to dispose of my work much better if I had a really state-of-the-art laptop. Ofcourse, the fact that I dont deserve it, is not my fault, is it?

I sit at a table that is less than 18" square, and on a stool that just about supports all that is needed to be supported. I dont have any back support and my back is bent and hunched, and doubled over from the effort of sitting so uncomfortably. Ofcourse, If I am unable to sit upright, and work on straightening my back, it is not my fault, is it?

I then proceed to eat lunch at my smallish kitchen that doubles as a dining room. Very cramped, if you ask me. A simple lunch of 4 Rotis, Bhaji, Dal, Chawal, and some raitha. and thats on Monday and Tuesday. On wednesdays, we have meat. On thursdays, we have an exotic vegetable. And friday, saturday and sunday, we usually have meat again. I try to maintain a balanced diet the best I can. But if I cannot keep off the fried papads, the oily achars, and the ghee, and the buttered breads, and the potatoes, and the egg yolks, it is not my fault, is it?

I usually put in a few hours of light work between lunch and closing time. But, if I have not slept last night, and I need to catch up on my sleep, it is not my fault, is it?

I am a net-savvy individual, and I feel it is imperative for me to keep up with the happenings worldwide through the Internet. So, I make it a point to check all my yahoogroups, my e-zines, my joke mail, my numerous email addresses, and I also make it a point to surf the Internet for about 3-4 hours during office hours so I can get a balanced view of the world - by day AND by night. And for this conscientous effort of keeping myself in touch with worldwide events, if I let my work slip slightly, it is not my fault, is it?

I work for my father, and our business is exporting garments. I sometimes wonder, if I would be happier working for someone else, rather than stay and watch (and someday, help) a business grow, mature, and flourish and rather than work my way through to financial success, I would rather aspire to a life of moderation, with a small 3 BHK flat in Thane (preferably Ghodbunder or Manpada), and a Maruti 800 (low on maintenance, you see), and probably just one child. Ofcourse, if I also want the goods things in life, and I cannot tolerate a superior authority pushing me around, and I am averse to risk taking, physical labour, and extension of my mental faculties, it is not my fault, is it?

I like new cars, and I especially liked the Hyundai Getz. So we bought one. Ofcourse, we needed to employ a driver, preferably one who can drive a Hyundai and can work late. So we employed one. And we have now fired that driver, I now use public transport. Ofcourse, if I do not know how to drive, and have never bothered to learn, it is not my fault, is it?

And finally, when I am tired of working so hard, I want to go out and party with whatever friend will come out with me. And I want to go to Enigma, at the Marriot, and I want to go to Insomnia at the Taj, and I want to go to the special Club section at all the new discos that are opening across town. But I end up going to 80's, and Cafe Coffee Day and Barista, and Independence Cafe. And if I wish to drown my inadequacy in a few drinks, and use my credit card to wipe my bills away, it is not my fault, is it?

And when i look at my life, and when I pass by the slums that are on the outskirts of our upmarket colony (nowadays they call these monstrosities, townships), I look at the children playing around with rabid stray dogs, in the gutters, and I see the women cooking their midday meal (and probably their only meal) on a open stove, with the rain playing spoilsport around them, and the menfolk, after a gruelling day in the damp, hot, humid conditions, having a cold bath at the neighbourhood handpump, I feel that maybe, if I could have had a little more money to spare, and had I been slightly better looking, and if I were in the films, as an actor, maybe I could have championed their cause. Ofcourse, if I am balding, and potbellied, and I cannot earn enough money to support even my own vices, it is not my fault, is it?

Yes, I know. It's a hard life. But I am working at making it better.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 6:07 PM 0 comments

A movement that is gathering momentum

When you are struck by an idea, it is not always possible to sit down and write that idea immediately. Conversely, when you sit down to write, it is not always possible to come up with ideas to write. So you should try and write down as many ideas as you can when you get them, for who knows when the next great idea is going to appear. Ofcourse, by the time you decide to write those ideas onto paper, those ideas appear so mangled and distasteful that you end up throwing them away, and run the risk of not writing anything at all.

But since this is a Sunday, and I can do whatever I please, this will be my second article for this day. Ofcourse, if someone asks me, I will say that it is because artistic brilliance waits for neither time nor tide (I read that somewhere), and since the creative energies that craved the writing of this article had to be satiated, I took the effort of turning my PC on, logging onto the internet, and start writing this article.

I will say that this is a moment that I have awaited a long time and it should be not just a collection of articles, but a movement, that is inspired by one of the most under-rated and overlooked columnists of Indian Journalism - Behram Contractor a.k.a. Busybee.

I will say that I have been deeply influenced by his writings and I have read as many of his articles on the bottom left hand corner of the last page of the Afternoon Despatch and Courier that I could (I was too young to be reading newspapers when he worked at the Mid-day) after I discovered his writing. That I bought the Mid-day for the Mid-day mate and the Afternoon DC for the Busybee. Also the easy crossword, that I usually solved in about 25 minutes (the time it takes to travel from VT to Chunabhatti), and feel good about myself.

I will say that his style is inmitable and it has the basic grandeur of an artist, wearing or not wearing slippers, and his brushstrokes on the canvas of Mumbai are rare masterpieces of loving care and affection he lavished on this city. That his writings are a treasure for all of us educated, reasonably sane, thinly-read people to cherish.

I will say that everyone and anyone could see the Mumbai he saw, and feel the Mumbai he saw, but noone and nobody could express the feelings in words like he could. And that his characters are like old friends now, and the nuances in their behaviour are as predictable as the monsoons. Which is to say, not in the least bit predictable.

I will say that I am selfless, and mindless of the challenges of getting myself and my movement to be noticed, and appreciated. And it will take a lot of hard work, and struggle, and popularisation of my writings for the world to take notice and start visiting and reading what I write. And it might be days, weeks, months, and even years before even a tiny fraction of the world who read his articles are aware that I am writing mine.

I will say that Yes, I know that this cannot even hold a candle to his literary exploits, and that I am very very lucky to be living in a time devoid of bottlenecks that hamper online publishing of my thoughts, and words. That I can write whenever I want, and on whatever I want, and that potentially, I can reach so many people and that I can influence so many minds to think like I do. Ofcourse, 'Potentially' is a very nice word that was invented to encourage people like me.

And I will say that the entire reason that I want to write this is because I will feel amazingly better when I write like this, and that I will be signing off each article with 'utekkare'.

Ofcourse, I want to be popular, and I want to reach a large audience of people and I want them to reach me, and I want to be appreciated by everybody. But this, we will not tell everyone. It is our private secret.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:33 PM 1 comments

I want to be 12 years old

And since it is Sunday, I can feel like I am 12 again. No working on Sunday, No staff to boss around, No buyers to take orders from, and No feeling bigger than I can be, and No visions of success, and No feeling my age, and No set expectations from life, and No full steam ahead and No positive thoughts only, and I can take just a pause. And feel like I am 12 again.

And wearing half pants, with buttons and zippers, that dont fit me without a belt, and faded t-shirts from Fashion Street that have lasted for over a year, and cleaning my Bata's Naughty Boy shoes and polishing them till they mirror my face, and packing my school bag with plastic to prevent the rain from entering, and fighting with Mom about carrying a water bottle, and losing an umbrella every month, and having lunch money to buy 2 samosas for one rupee fifty paise, and wearing black canvas shoes and feeling like I can chase down the steaming locomotive on the tracks, and riding a cycle to school and feeling cool about it, and wearing long pants in school for the first time and feeling all grown up about it, and growing my hair on purpose, and getting caught by the Principal, and cutting classes on any pretext at all, and having crushes on the cuter teachers, and sitting on the last bench and looking out towards Bandra, and carrying all my books because I am too lazy to set the books as per the timetable, and falling asleep on the kitchen table while doing my homework and listening to Binaca Geet Mala, And going to sleep, and hoping that the overnight rain floods the building so we dont have to go to school the next day, and calling up the school at 6.45 AM to see if the school is working or not, and counting the remarks made in my school calendar book, and counting the merit cards, and wondering which gift I will get this year (I didnt get any, I fell short by 1 merit card). And playing 'Hops' and 'Bets' in School, and hitting people I didnt like as hard as possible, and scribbling graffitti on toilet walls, and angling for the class monitor's post and then hating every minute of it, and playing basketball from 3 in the afternoon till 9 in the night, and filling whole notebooks with Royal Blue writing, and wiping China Pens on my hair to clean off the excess ink, and never learning to tie a knot when in school, and standing for School House President and getting only 6 votes, and going for class trips, and picnics and wearing a heavy schoolbag on the left shoulder and walking hunched for ever.

And nimbu-paani, and kaccha beri and pakka bor, and hara saunf and imli, and and rocks of kaala namak and churan and jeera goli and chatpat, and wada-pav for 1 rupee and 75 paise, and standing at the entrance of Sion Lunch Home asking for glasses of water to drink, and Neera from the STD booth, and 50 paise bus tickets and girls from Everard Nagar, and smal and big pepsi-colas, and plastic bags of juice, and milk pepsi, and Parle-G biscuits with water and Indrajal Comics, and wishing that I could be the Ghost who Walks for a single day.

And maybe I want to be 12 for as long as possible. Atleast until 9 PM tonight. Tomorrow, I can be 26 again.

utekkare,
Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 1:37 PM 0 comments

Dis-Ko-Thekela??

Have you ever wondered what its like to visit a discotheque on a weekend? Apparently, after suffering the rigours of a 6 day working week for the best part of a millenium, Mumbai is now appreciating the delicate charm of partying on a Friday night.

Ofcourse, the definition worldwide, of partying is 200 or more thoughtlessly scantily clad bodies crammed into a 350 sq feet dimly lit arena, that is littered with obstacles like chairs, tables, dj tables, dancing floors, railings, curtains, waiters, and other dancing people.

And that is applicable in abundance to Mumbai. Dimly lit bars, with well-meaning waiters, who are brilliant at maintaining individual tabs on tables, offering you refills at your most vulnerable (when your drink is near empty, and you're gazing at it hopefully, waiting for Bachchus, or even the crow with stones to fill it up), with loudly pounding music, that invariably turns to Punjabi Hip Hop and suspiciously resembles a cattle call for all those hopelessly shackled to their mundane lives and who are craving a release - any kind of release.

Ofcourse, the drinks are expensive. Not in the quantum that you might find abroad, but as expensive as a ride in a go-karting festival :)... Every time I go out to a bar in Mumbai, I read the menu (I always have to read the menu; 'Mera regular laana'is reserved for regulars), I try to compare the cost of a beer with what it costs at the bar with the Australian female bartender, on 15th and Lexington. Then I add the cost of a return air ticket, the cost of travelling by train from Ridgefield, and I end up projecting a much more snobbish image than I started out to portray. But, a 6 dollar beer on a 3000 dollar wage, and a 150 rupee beer on a 15000 rupee wage is kind of a no brainer.

Ofcourse, once you're out, you have to decide where you are gonna party. Depending on the company, you are partying southside (bye bye, petrol economy), or in the suburbs (bandra, here we come). Ofcourse, deciding on Which exact location you would like to reside in, for the best part of those 4 hours you will pay through your nose to be pounded with Punjabi music, screaming, raving lunatics who have just finished with their BPO shifts, and be shunted around while you try to balance 2 beers, one vodka, and a scotch on the rocks for the people who found you to make gullible's travel to the crowded bar and backm is tricky.

Hot and happening places are lucrative Page 3 investments, but ofcourse if you are worth less than a million dollars, dont have a botox in the right places, dont have flat abdomenal and pelvic muscles, and are not suitably promiscuous, you dont have a hope in hell of making it to the raggiest of rags. (Pun Intended).

Ofcourse, when this circus is parading through town twice a week, my only thoughts are about the time in college, when during stayovers, we would go to Sunlights or Lalits, and with 150 rupees between 4 of us, split 2 Romanov Vodka Quarter with Sprite, and free moongphalli and boiled channa, and loiter back to the hostel beds, feeling completely on top of the world and happy with life.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 2:27 AM 0 comments

The Best time of the day

Every time I try to sit to write Utekkare, I seem to almost go blank. Ofcourse it is no great help that I've almost always either just returned from the Gym, or almost falling asleep, or just cursing whatever problem beset me during the day.

Mr Contractor used to get up at 5 AM and write Busy bee between 7 and 7.30. AM. Now, unfortunately, I do not wake up that early. Nowhere close.

Actually, most of my brightest ideas for Utekkare usually occur between 9.15 and 9.45 when I'm in the bathroom. This is not just a trend that I am trying to start. Archimedes was the heraldor of the "inspiration in the bathroom" phenomenon. But, yes, I do know that if this were to be taken as a course of recommended action for all executives bereft of ideas to further their ambitions and acheive their set goals, all management meetings would take place in the loo. And that would spell the end of all those large expense accounts, and conveyance accounts, and commissions handed out for 'Re-novation' of corporate boardrooms.

But, I am faced with the adequately challenging quandary of finding both expression and inflection in equal amounts to purposefully put forth an account of my thoughts, lucidly and acerbically to continue the continuum of this exercise.

Early mornings are out, as detailed before. Mid-mornings, I devote solely to the contemplation of last nights dinner(s), and the mid-morning meal before me. And it is impossible to divert attention from 2 omlettes on toast, accompanied by tomatoes, cheese and sausages. Quite impossible.

Early afternoons are used to check my email, on all the various websites I have email ID's on. I try to extend this passage of time till mid-afternoon when lunch can be called for, but the very dearth of messages to read. Ofcourse, I receive over 50 messages a day from ''close and personal friends" of dead, retired and assasinated Central African heads of state. And I receive 35 last-action warning emails from close business associates who offer me mortgages at the greatly reduced rate of 3.5% PA (reducing).

Once these have been dealt with, mid-afternoons are used to pursue a leisurely lunch (30 chews to the bite), and assimilation of information gleaned from the Cartoon /Sports channels during lunch. Sometimes, the gravity of news and/or the pace of the event being followed, usually live on the Sports channel precludes the ending of lunch prematurely. Certain concessions, such as second helpings and ignoring pleas from other members of the office to fulfill demands may be offered to devote complete attention to the goings-on on TV. Yesterday, the object of my attentions for about 45 minutes was the absurdly simple and well-cut attire of Ms Maria Sharapova. What elegance! What style. Minimalistic brilliance at its fashionable best!!

Late afternoons may be spent in an agreeably more comfortable surrounding such as a makeshift bed or before the computer, checking email that may have accumulated during the intervening period since late mornings.

Early to mid evenings are used to sit around and catch up with current affairs, talk to people who never think of calling you, and think about calling people who might want to make sundry conversation with you, without gagging every 15 seconds.

And so, I am reduced to waiting, for the best part of 16 hours, before I can sit down calmly before the monitor, and the blinking cursor and swirl around the thoughts in my mind, choose the most pitiful of them and force them out onto paper, and hope that it is useful enough to pass muster.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:31 PM 1 comments

What else is on TV?

Video killed the radio star. That is one of the catchiest songs I have heard and also, one of the truths I like, because of it's simplicity and directness.

Like the old hollywood actor of the silent era, who could strike fear into the viewer's heart just by looking at him, who lost his job, ended up penniless and completely destitute because he had a squeaky voice that cost him his job once the talky era began.

I however, like radio. It's not hateable, because you can't see gaudily dressed women cavorting in their underwear. Neither can you see sombrely dressed newscasters broadcasting news from a News Station, owned by a News Corporation that is headed by an Australian, who has no scruples.

It's doesnt make you spend more on your laundry bills just because Pamela Andersen decided to run into the sea across your scene just at the precise moment that the curry-laden fingers were conveying food to your mouth.

Neither is it as large. You can carry it with you, and nowadays you can even stick it in your ears and block out the speeding truck heading towards you, the screams of your frantic friends waving out to you to move aside, and allows you to gesticulate wildly every time you realise that the Indians have hit a six., or that Saurav Ganguly has scored a fifty (which is very rare nowadays). I remember an ad for the newspaper with a guy sitting with a TV in his hands on a park bench. It made sense. So does a radio.

And I dont like TV. I dont like its smooth edges, and its grey-dark grey look, and its 3 wired inlets gaping at me, and I dont like having more than 3 channels to choose from, and I dont like it's blue screen, and I dont like having to choose what to see, and I dont like having no choice but to turn the TV off, and I dont like the plugged in games, and I dont like serials beginning with the alphabet K, and I dont like models trying to act, and Actors trying to model, and I dont like long long talk shows, and I dont like being able to see breaking news on the TV and I dont like wanting to know what else is on TV.

But then I reserve the right to change my mind.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:54 AM 0 comments

Books I have read

Nobody visits my blog. It seems to reside in a parallel 4th dimension beyond the reaches of normal visual faculties. And it's probably just as well. I keep reading all these blogs that are visited over and over by more than 20 people on a single day and they are full of book tagging exercises, that are designed to let the taggee (as in tagger, in the first part, and taggee in the second part) show off his literary acumen and list the books he has read.

And I keep getting intimidated by all these long book names, and even longer author names, and foreign authors and unheard-of authors, and one-hit-wonder authors and cult authors, and indian authors, and classical authors, and literary authors, and famous authors (Some of whom I have heard of, and even fewer I have read).

And unknown names like Muriel Spark, Julio Cortazar, and Jasper Fforde and slightly known authors like Douglas Adams, and Paulo Coelho, and names of books like Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood.

And nobody mentioning Enid Blyton, and Richard Scarry, and A.A.Milne, and JRR Tolkien and JK Rowling and the Brothers Grimm, and Hans Christian Andersen, and Archie Comics, and people mentioning books by Woody Allen who I thought, only made movies with beautiful women like Diane Keaton (I have seen one, and enjoyed it thoroughly).

And everybody nodding sagely in internet fora, and in coffee served dining rooms and at book launches, and book readings, and when sitting with famous poets and authors, and understanding complicated meanings of words, and deciphering sentences that begin at the first page and end on the last one and carrying on long discussions with people on balconies and balustrades about authors that inspire them,

And laughing at jokes referred to from books that I have not read, and quote characters from books that I have not read, and following philosphies and lifestyles from books that I have not read, and discussing technologies from books that I have not read, and acting superior and smug about people about whom I have not read, and thanking god for the value systems they have because of the classics that they read in school that I have not read.

And nobody willing to talk about Gandalf the Grey, and Hagrid, and Bigglesworth, and The Soldier with the Tinder Box, and the 7 Chinese brothers, and Little Red Riding Hood, and Dirk Pitt, and Tweed, and Paula Grey, and Frodo Baggins, and Shadowfax.

And I am glad that my blog is isolated and not visited otherwise everyone else in the world will know that I do not read too many books.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 11:08 PM 1 comments

National Integration

When I was in school, I practised National Integration, and Cohesive Unity between Communities.

Conrad Gonsalves, a Goan Roman Catholic, who regularly referred to all boys, girls, and adults as "hi men, kaisa hai?".Pratik Bali, a semi spoilt Punjabi with a penchant for older women's bosoms, and younger women's pigtails. Gitesh Kambli, a self confessed vernac, who regularly laboured through special after school sessions with Navneet Guide to English to pass muster in class. Mohammedi Lakdawalla, whose mom sat us down on their earthen floor in their house in Dharavi and fed us sevaiyan 1 month before some very inconsiderate people burnt their house down because they were on the wrong side of the road. Richie Matthew, a Keralite Christian who stole Lego figurines and Hot wheels cars from me when he came over, because he couldnt afford them. Dhruv Patel who was a pint sized runt, a precocious upstart who liked to pick fights just because he could. Sharad Sankaran, who was picked on in Scouts Camp because he wore a white thread around his torso. Hozefa Poonawalla, who was suspended for shaving his head on purpose. Esmero Figuerado Jr, who thought he was the next best thing to Larry Bird (this was at a time when I did not know who Larry Bird was - for the best part of my life, I thought it was Larry Boyd). Farah Siddiqui who shared the last bench with me in 6th standard, and taught me that there were 2 types of Muslims - a Sunni and a Shia. Vikrant Dukande, who wore his Marathi heritage on his sleeve, and showed that a man with conviction can get through life with conviction and determination alone. Stanley Louis, whose family was a complete study in how to bring a Goan family into a Railway Quarters room.

And I didnt need an NGO. Or a political platform. Or Riots. Or a natural calamity. Or a bomb blast. Or a Rath yatra. It just happened. And thats how it should be.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:56 PM 0 comments

Dekho Baarish ho rahi hai??

I like the rainy season. Especially the Mumbai Rains. And all that precedes and accompanies it. Ofcourse the aftermath is slightly jarring.

I love the pink and blue clouds that precede every sunset in the rains. Also the blacks and grey that precede a downpour. The gushing storm drains, and the floating debris. The colorful umbrellas and the swishing raincoats.

I love the puddles of water that accumulate on different parts of a seemingly flat road. And the splashes little children make while they prance through the puddles.

An uncommonly common feature about the monsoons in Mumbai, is the regularity with which it catches you off guard. Motorcyclists taking refuge under a flyover bridge during an unexpected shower. Salesmen and labourers hurrying along in the faint hope of reaching an empty awning as their clothes and wallets get soggy.

The monsoons are also amongst the most intelligent natural life forms I have seen. They lie in wait for an unsuspecting target and will seldom miss one with a well placed and timed deluge. They target members of the general public who are ill-equipped to handle their might either due to time constraints or due to over confidence in a bright blue sky.

I love the seas crashing against the parapets during the monsoons. It reminds me of Alan Delon in an old english film slapping 5 men standing in a row, backhanded, like dominoes falling over. I love being able to be drenched in grey, brackish sea water on the far pavement of Marine Drive. And I love the wild seas overtaking Suniel Shetty's pier for Water Sports and stopping hovercraft services to Belapur and deciding who's boss and keeping it that way.

I also love the wildlife, flora and faune that emerges during this time. Earthworms from excavation sites left helpfully uncovered by the requisite government authorities; Snails who decide to test their athletic skills against more of their own kind; Lizards running up and down your slick building walls glaring and staring at all that moves around them; Flies buzzing around those morsels of food you have left on your plate; Ferns growing out of drainage pipes on walls, Moss growing on your driveway expressly to make you slip and your car skid; Grass on the different grounds and waste lands that hide their inherent nakedness.

Today I was meeting some friends at Bandstand, for coffee. I was wearing a decent pair of clothes after ages and I was carrying this flimsy wind cheater that succeeded at only cheating itself into the idea that it could offer my torso substantial protection from the ravages of the rain.

I was sitting at an outdoor cafe on the promenade right in front of the raging sea and the wind was howling through and through. And then I got up, strolled down the road, past Rekha's house, up Mount Mary approach, past Sachin Tendulkar's house, and Jackie Shroff's house, and past the circle outside Mehboob Studios, and into a rickshaw and onto the piece of Great Road for Driving upto Reclamation signal, and then onto home.

And the rain missed me. I love the rain.

utekkare,

Pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 12:52 AM 0 comments

Hindi Chini Bhai Bhai

And finally, they have split up. And contrary to popular fears, both brothers have behaved reasonably rationally. The elder one, as befitting his seniority had promptly thrashed and completely outdone his younger brother, with panache, wisdom, and silence.

Instead of rowing upstream or downstream, the entire river has ended up with one brother.. I suppose he likes fish for breakfast... and the younger brother has climbed onto the rooftop, and was last seen clinging to one of their many spires that look like the wierd flying saucer towers in Central park as shown in Men In Black.

Unlike most siblings, they are quite different. The older brother is paunchy, buck-toothed smiling (like by default), and affable. The younger brother is lithe, projects a cool, hep, 'Youth Icon of the Year' image that could almost be true, until he opens his mouth.

The older brother will speak 2 words where the public media expects five. Most definitely he is completely at ease at a manufacturing industry where there are no explanations asked-for, only brown envelopes filled with crisp currency notes passing under their teak wood conference tables with amazing ease, before the right hand smoothly made its way back into the finely tailored pant pocket.

The younger brother is the media's darling, because he gives them the reason to earn their money - Grist for the Mill. He is the first diver to emerge from the green layer of opacity that covers the ever growing Reliance pool, and in doing so, he has brought attention to himself, and by running round and round the countryside (literally, and rhetorically), he has done something that was long considered taboo in the Maker Chambers orbits - he chose sides. And this is possibly was, as the Americans so aptly call "The Smoking Gun"....

But all said and done, I must say that it is finally the mother, who is sitting on that porch swing outside her house, quitely, with a grandson on her knee, rocking away, who brought down the curtain on perceivably the most illustrious, Hindu Undivided Family.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 9:05 PM 1 comments

Exhibit A

I was supposed to visit Siddhi vinayak last night. It was Tuesday and I have been reliably informed that Ganesha takes time off from his hectic schedule to visit Prabhadevi on that day for a few moments at least.

Since yesterday it was raining like cats and dogs, I suppose he may have been delayed. Consequently, so were all the devotees with the inside knowledge on his whereabouts... like the time TOI ran a story on a mad crazy fan of Karishma Kapoor's... With some pride, and great incredulity, the tabloidsheet reported that he knew Karishma's whereabouts better than they did.. and sure enough, his information checked out.

Methinks that maybe my brother knew something too.. otherwise why would he delay going to the temple by 2 hours when on normal Tuesdays he is chafing to get to the temple??

Back to me. After all this is about me. I was supposed to go to SiddhiVinayak yesterday. But I didnt go.

It rained last night and this morning whilst Frisca was taking me for a walk... As we passed the large ground, she casually tried to urge me towards splashing in the large pools of tepid muddy water that regularly accumulate inside the ground this time of the year. I refused.

Frisca is a very intelligent creature, who is supremely aware of exactly how spoilt and pampered she is. Everything pales in significance to her ego. No, I wouldnt say ego. But a refusal to toe her padded line would be a gross affront to her.

I met one of my oldest friends again after a gap of almost 4 years... He's lost hair at the crown and I've lost hair at the temples. Between us we're like a complete baldy or a complete hairy.. whichever way you want to look at it :D. As my bro says, if it gets sparse, he'll turn to the ultimate hair management guru - Tirupathi Balaji for the complete hair care solution - uda ke haso... Who says just hairy heroes get all the stares?

more tomorrow.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 2:12 PM 0 comments

Utekkare - Debut

Hello.

I am Pranay Srinivasan, of Mumbai, India. Not to be confused with any and every other Pranay Srinivasan from any and every other nook and cranny from this megalithic edifice built on the platform of the largest monument of them all... A hugely under developed, under nourished, over abused secular democracy. Oh, and definitely not to be confused with the Pranavs, the Prannoys, the Praniths, the Ganeshs (every tried pronouncing Pranay in a hurry over the phone??), the Pranay Shahs, the Pranay Chhotanis, the Pranay Singhs, the Pranay Sharmas, and all those sundry Pranays dotting the Indian landscape since the day my illustrious parents worked out the inmitable fact that the name Pranay is an amazing study in the act of unpronouncability, and repetition all at once, without taking away from the commonness... As a consolation gift I was left with an elephantine mountain of a surname that snaked from the Vindhyas to Kanyakumari...

No, Not to be confuddled with any of those names. Not at all.

And what is utekkare? I suppose during the debut of such a completely irreverent conjoint of words that come together with such fluidity and inventiveness to form the crux of my entire current blogging fixation, I would be grossly derelict in my duty if I did not expound on the meaning of this seemingly innocuous and ungainly word.

Well, it is a form made up chiefly of these 3 word components: "You", "Take", "Care". Note, gentle reader, that the focus of this entire exercise, as also the word, is on you. I am exhorting you to cease, desist, and avoid all possible means of self flagellation, simply because I am asking you to Take Care.

It is exactly this missive that I will try to project through my blog. Through a woven intricate web of deceit, libel, irreverence, disjointedness, irrelevance, I shall weld all my idiosyncrasies into a gripping, nay, laughable account of my take on Mumbai, Myself and all those items of presentable interest that cross my path from day to day.

phew. that was a lot for one day.

utekkare,

pranay

posted by Pranay the Srinivasan @ 10:59 PM 1 comments