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
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
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
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
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
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
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
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
Saturday, August 13, 2005
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
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
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
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
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
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
Friday, July 08, 2005
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
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
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
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
Sunday, July 03, 2005
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
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
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
Saturday, July 02, 2005
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
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
Thursday, June 30, 2005
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
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
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
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
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
Monday, June 27, 2005
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
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
Sunday, June 26, 2005
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
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
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
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
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
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
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
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
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
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
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
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
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
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
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