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

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