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
Thursday, June 30, 2005
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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