If you are not winning at life..
If you have been rejected by that special someone..
If you are just looking to end your life..
Visit US!!
We stock the very latest in suicide equipment, ranging from:
Easy-to-digest(TM) poisons in various flavours - Most popular selling flavours are Red Wine and Vanilla Vodka.. Naturally extracted poisons from the root of the Dead Poets Societal Tree, Artificially sweetened with the natural goodness of deathly wines, and balanced to perfection with vanilla pods laced with the spice of fermented weed-potatoes.
Rotor-Expansion Neck Crushers - One size fits all Neck Chokers made from barbed wire of the finest quality steel, procured from the local bhangar-wallah, rusted by age, and septically treated to offer a greater chance of infection in case of unforeseen survival and subsequent hospitalisation. These expand and contract to fit your neck.
Self-Impaling Knife-Blades - Usually very efficient when used with a sweeping motion from left to right, using your neck as resistance to ensure smooth elimination of offending soul. These are used by warriors and are not for the faint hearted.
The Suicide Shop prides itself on offering cutting edge suicide solutions for all character types.
Our motto is "If you gotta kill yourself, we've got the tools!"
Now, moving on to our latest range of free-fallers, ice-cutters, and surgical implements.
Free Faller Ver MUMHIGH2006: A latest range of new sky scraper terraces in viewing range of the Tower of Silence, the Matunga Shamshaan, the Jogeshwari graveyard, and commercial terraces overlooking the Mahalaxmi graveyard offer great free falling options for all races, and religions. Caste no bar. Lax security offered for added ease of usage.
Ice-Cutters: Made famous by the character of Catherine Tramell, they come in points, varying lengths, and are stylishly decorated with carved mother of pearl handles.
Printed Dupattas: Popular with salwar kameezes, worn by the burgeoning middle class in Mumbai. Used in conjunction with a cross bar or fan or some type of structural cross-beam that supports weight of individual acquiring our services.
Please look for our special deals on Empty syringes, Aids Infected condoms, Shark Deaths, Piranha MunchFests, Euthanasia Undressals.
We are situated at the corner of Depresshe Lane and End Ave.
Use this flyer to get a premature death signal on the ECG monitor using our proprietory Heart Stopping Valve.
yours in death,
The Suicide Shop
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Filing my returns
And since the fifteenth approaches, with a week of holidays, I think I will file my returns for July.
And July was quiet. All of Mumbai was bleeding. And Mahim was bleeding. And Khar was bleeding. And the road was bleeding, and the traffic was bleeding. And the railway tracks were bleeding. And everyone was sympathetic. And everyone was jingoistic. Everyone that is, outside Mumbai. And Mumbai's spirit was saluted. With 7 bombs and about 200 dead bodies.
And the cleansing came before the wounds. And Mumbai bobbed its head above the polluted rain water that clogged its drains, and that snaked into the ground floor houses. And the BMC asked us to wait another 3 years for the water to recede from our terror-striken brains. Mr Jonny Joseph is an honourable man.
And Mr Bharadwaj has done what no man has done before. He has made the Censor Board understand what an "A" rating is. Unapologetically. Without begging with politicians. And cabinet secretaries. And media houses. And pressure groups. And producers. And he has got the film he wanted to be shown the way he wanted.
And Mr Natwar Singh is singing like a canary. But to the wrong people about the wrong things. Like a deer in the cross lights of an approaching SUV, he looks stranded.
Like Maybe Sonia Gandhi should join the Samajwadi Party. Then none of the gangsters will have anything to fear. And the common man will be sent to jail for paying his taxes on time.
Like maybe Karan Johar should now delve deeper into the grays of the human pysche and try making a movie on split personalities.
Maybe road travel in Mumbai will soon resemble a stampede in the Serengeti. The deterioration of an entire people from a manageable, coherent, alert, non interfering, caring law abiding group to a lawless unethical, selfish, derogatory rabble of careless humanity.
And I saw it begin right in front of me. With an utter disdain for traffic law. Flouted in the face of a feeble-minded traffice pandu. Instigated by those out-of-towners.
utekkare,
pranay
And July was quiet. All of Mumbai was bleeding. And Mahim was bleeding. And Khar was bleeding. And the road was bleeding, and the traffic was bleeding. And the railway tracks were bleeding. And everyone was sympathetic. And everyone was jingoistic. Everyone that is, outside Mumbai. And Mumbai's spirit was saluted. With 7 bombs and about 200 dead bodies.
And the cleansing came before the wounds. And Mumbai bobbed its head above the polluted rain water that clogged its drains, and that snaked into the ground floor houses. And the BMC asked us to wait another 3 years for the water to recede from our terror-striken brains. Mr Jonny Joseph is an honourable man.
And Mr Bharadwaj has done what no man has done before. He has made the Censor Board understand what an "A" rating is. Unapologetically. Without begging with politicians. And cabinet secretaries. And media houses. And pressure groups. And producers. And he has got the film he wanted to be shown the way he wanted.
And Mr Natwar Singh is singing like a canary. But to the wrong people about the wrong things. Like a deer in the cross lights of an approaching SUV, he looks stranded.
Like Maybe Sonia Gandhi should join the Samajwadi Party. Then none of the gangsters will have anything to fear. And the common man will be sent to jail for paying his taxes on time.
Like maybe Karan Johar should now delve deeper into the grays of the human pysche and try making a movie on split personalities.
Maybe road travel in Mumbai will soon resemble a stampede in the Serengeti. The deterioration of an entire people from a manageable, coherent, alert, non interfering, caring law abiding group to a lawless unethical, selfish, derogatory rabble of careless humanity.
And I saw it begin right in front of me. With an utter disdain for traffic law. Flouted in the face of a feeble-minded traffice pandu. Instigated by those out-of-towners.
utekkare,
pranay
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
And it is raining. As usual.
And it is just another monsoon day in Mumbai.
And King Circle is flooded. Just like in 1995, and 1998, and 2002, and 2004, and 2005 and 1974 and all those years before and in between. Only this time there are cameras, and vans, and microphones, and people wearing all sorts of protective rain gear peering earnestly into cameras, discussing the size of the pothole opposite Don Bosco High School and the level of murky water on Char-Rasta with the kind of fervour you normally associate with war correspondents.
And since before I can remember, we have been walking home in knee-deep water. And trains have been running slowly. And people have been crammed into uncomfortable bogies like sardines. And electricity has been coming and going. And schools and colleges have been declared shut. And buses have not moved for hours on end. And people have stayed at friend's places. And airports have been shut and people have been given bread and sambar to eat in transit lounges.
And Matunga has been flooded. And Lal Dongar has been flooded. And water has built up in Marol. And in Tardeo. And the Sion railway tracks have always been waterlogged. And it has always shut down train services between Kurla and Dadar. And people have walked home along the middle of the road for ages. And I can remember when we walked home from VT to home, during college. And it was an adventure and an escapist fantastical release from the daily humdrum of work, home, and reliving the same routine every day. And the airports delayed flights for longer than 15 to 20 minutes.
But the CM did not need to answer the media people. And viewers did not send in sensational pictures of ankle deep water and floating debris. And people living in the ground floor of Railway colonies did not have people poking cameras and microphones into their living rooms. And people smiling genially into cameras portraying them as martyrs and heroes and crusaders against the unyielding rains.
And discussions about high tides and disaster management and preparedness and the Mithi River above danger mark and even more discussions about the Mumbai spirit and the Police Commissioner gravely condemning all rumour-mongering and requesting cellular companies to spread generalised messages about "Heavy to Very Heavy rains expected in the next 48 hours". And the Met department forecasting perennial rains for the next 7 hundred and 22 hours.
And NDTV and Aaj-Tak and CNBC and Zee News and Star News putting out correspondents in Chembur and Kurla and Andheri and on the highway and the expressway. And grave faces and even more grave predictions, and newspeople telling their reporters to "tough it out" and "brave the elements" and they will "keep us updated" of the "situation". Ofcourse even 4 hours later, the trains are still crawling, and the buses are still moving, and people are still wading through water, and it is still raining in Mumbai.
And I cannot understand where these media people were all these years. When we were playing antakshari in the candle light at 8 in the evening. When we were wading through waist deep water at Parel. When those slum dwellers in Asalpha lamented the death of their families when their wall fell over. When office commuters sat and discussed cricket and politics and social issues while perched on the window sill of a VT local stranded between Sion and Matunga for the better part of a day. When people got up every morning and decided to go to work and were not dependent on souped-up reports of 100 mm of rainfall in Santacruz for their daily programs.
And I feel the need for a 24 Hrs Weather Channel who can agonise painfully and convulse in raptures over each and every deviation from the mean and median performance of the weather.
Then maybe these news channels can go back to reporting the news. And NOT the weather.
utekkare,
pranay
And King Circle is flooded. Just like in 1995, and 1998, and 2002, and 2004, and 2005 and 1974 and all those years before and in between. Only this time there are cameras, and vans, and microphones, and people wearing all sorts of protective rain gear peering earnestly into cameras, discussing the size of the pothole opposite Don Bosco High School and the level of murky water on Char-Rasta with the kind of fervour you normally associate with war correspondents.
And since before I can remember, we have been walking home in knee-deep water. And trains have been running slowly. And people have been crammed into uncomfortable bogies like sardines. And electricity has been coming and going. And schools and colleges have been declared shut. And buses have not moved for hours on end. And people have stayed at friend's places. And airports have been shut and people have been given bread and sambar to eat in transit lounges.
And Matunga has been flooded. And Lal Dongar has been flooded. And water has built up in Marol. And in Tardeo. And the Sion railway tracks have always been waterlogged. And it has always shut down train services between Kurla and Dadar. And people have walked home along the middle of the road for ages. And I can remember when we walked home from VT to home, during college. And it was an adventure and an escapist fantastical release from the daily humdrum of work, home, and reliving the same routine every day. And the airports delayed flights for longer than 15 to 20 minutes.
But the CM did not need to answer the media people. And viewers did not send in sensational pictures of ankle deep water and floating debris. And people living in the ground floor of Railway colonies did not have people poking cameras and microphones into their living rooms. And people smiling genially into cameras portraying them as martyrs and heroes and crusaders against the unyielding rains.
And discussions about high tides and disaster management and preparedness and the Mithi River above danger mark and even more discussions about the Mumbai spirit and the Police Commissioner gravely condemning all rumour-mongering and requesting cellular companies to spread generalised messages about "Heavy to Very Heavy rains expected in the next 48 hours". And the Met department forecasting perennial rains for the next 7 hundred and 22 hours.
And NDTV and Aaj-Tak and CNBC and Zee News and Star News putting out correspondents in Chembur and Kurla and Andheri and on the highway and the expressway. And grave faces and even more grave predictions, and newspeople telling their reporters to "tough it out" and "brave the elements" and they will "keep us updated" of the "situation". Ofcourse even 4 hours later, the trains are still crawling, and the buses are still moving, and people are still wading through water, and it is still raining in Mumbai.
And I cannot understand where these media people were all these years. When we were playing antakshari in the candle light at 8 in the evening. When we were wading through waist deep water at Parel. When those slum dwellers in Asalpha lamented the death of their families when their wall fell over. When office commuters sat and discussed cricket and politics and social issues while perched on the window sill of a VT local stranded between Sion and Matunga for the better part of a day. When people got up every morning and decided to go to work and were not dependent on souped-up reports of 100 mm of rainfall in Santacruz for their daily programs.
And I feel the need for a 24 Hrs Weather Channel who can agonise painfully and convulse in raptures over each and every deviation from the mean and median performance of the weather.
Then maybe these news channels can go back to reporting the news. And NOT the weather.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Bad First Date Foundation and You
And since I am wallowing right now, from great challenges spring great ideas. And millionaires and orators, and politicians and strong-willed people fashion such debacles into footboards to long and winding staircases to the heights of achievement - a brownstone apartment in Brooklyn...
And I will start a movement. I will build a non-profit foundation called the "Bad First Date Experience and You".
And I will write a book on these experiences. And the proceeds I receive by publishing this book, will be employed to screen each and every propspective first date contirbutors possibly will embark upon before they actually embark upon the date.
And I will start a blog. Specially for this. By invitation only. And I will get written about. In papers. In newspapers. On toilet paper. I will be interviewed. On radio. On FM even. And on TV. I will extol the vices of staying single for too long, and I will caution against plunging into a bad first date that can nullify any and all longings for familiar human companionship of the sexual kind. Eventually.
And I will conduct seminars, and events, and I will inspire youngsters everywhere. And I will find everyone listening to me with a frown on their face. And colleges will ask me to lecture to students. And I will offer employment to out of work detective agencies. And offer normal people a shot at greatness. By writing their stories.
And there will be parts 2. Maybe even parts 3 and 4. And I will start more foundations. And I will go abroad. And I will be hailed as a genius. And people will donate. Generously. Ofcourse Cheques are not accepted. Cash only.
And then one day, I will offer a "heart-to-heart" interview with Arnab Goswami and I will thank my failed first date. Maybe I should thank her now before everything starts.
Maybe I will be too busy to remember her then. Thank you.
utekkare,
pranay
And I will start a movement. I will build a non-profit foundation called the "Bad First Date Experience and You".
And I will write a book on these experiences. And the proceeds I receive by publishing this book, will be employed to screen each and every propspective first date contirbutors possibly will embark upon before they actually embark upon the date.
And I will start a blog. Specially for this. By invitation only. And I will get written about. In papers. In newspapers. On toilet paper. I will be interviewed. On radio. On FM even. And on TV. I will extol the vices of staying single for too long, and I will caution against plunging into a bad first date that can nullify any and all longings for familiar human companionship of the sexual kind. Eventually.
And I will conduct seminars, and events, and I will inspire youngsters everywhere. And I will find everyone listening to me with a frown on their face. And colleges will ask me to lecture to students. And I will offer employment to out of work detective agencies. And offer normal people a shot at greatness. By writing their stories.
And there will be parts 2. Maybe even parts 3 and 4. And I will start more foundations. And I will go abroad. And I will be hailed as a genius. And people will donate. Generously. Ofcourse Cheques are not accepted. Cash only.
And then one day, I will offer a "heart-to-heart" interview with Arnab Goswami and I will thank my failed first date. Maybe I should thank her now before everything starts.
Maybe I will be too busy to remember her then. Thank you.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Australians can't play gully cricket for nuts
The other day, Sharad Pawar invited Punter, Gilly, Brad, Pigeon, and Clarkey to play gully cricket with us in our backyard near the garages in Andheri. After exchange of autographs, we invited them to a game of gully cricket. They agreed.
So we were 6 a side, and we tossed for batting / fielding. They won the toss and decided to bat first. Gilly took first strike and started looking for the stumps. We politely showed him the wall on which 3 lines were drawn by brick. "These are the stumps?? You must be crazy, mate!!". But we assured him these were the stumps. This way we didnt need to worry about french cuts, and wicket keepers, and slips, and backward point and third man, and fine leg, and leg slip and hitting the wicket keepers helmet and conceding 8 runs.... plus there were more fielders to put in catching positions this way. He tried to take guard but the hard concrete refused to give way. So we brought over a piece of red brick and drew his guard for him - Arre boss, humour them na. TP thoda toh chahiye na... He looked for the bowling wicket and we showed him the large stone that doubled as the bowling wicket. The batting crease was shown too to him. Just in case he decided he wanted to counter the spin and stand outside the crease.
Just as he was about to start batting, we decided to make things a little more easier to him. I asked the boss's son to go and explain all the rules to him. So the far wall was 2-D, if the ball bounced and went behind the wall it was 1-D, and if it went into the passage to the building it was 1-D. No running at all! easy, na? Also we drew the box line. When he saw this he asked why were cutting the already small pitch into half. We explained that as per box cricket rules (to avoid him breaking any glasses - with aerial shots yaar!), anything he hit had to bounce within that line before going anywhere. Or else he was out.
And so I bowled the first over. After the trial ball over arm, I bowled the first ball, he played down, and it came back to me. No run. He immediately came and said that Mr Chappel's tactics would not work for every ball. Thats when Punter told him that gully cricket was actually underarm. And only spin, no pace. Ofcourse there was no question of line and length so Pigeon looked quite sad. Hmm, they actually are intelligent! Just 5 mins and he understood everything. The very next ball, he hit into the ground, and it sailed into the air on the first bounce, and into the boss's sons's hands. OUT!!
Gilly didnt move though. We thought it was really bad sport of him, especially since the bat and ball was ours and he was in no position to bargain for an extra life. We were nice though and yanked the bat away from him and told him he was out. One-tuppie out, na!!!
Next in was Punter. He didnt bother taking guard, and started batting. I bowled a finger spin legspinner to him, that he played to the 2D area. Nice. I then bowled a ball at his legs, and spinned it away from him. He asked for it to be declared a wide. We didnt know what he was talking about. So we continued bowling as if we hadnt heard him. The next ball, he got really angry and hit it high into the air and it hit the 3rd floor landing before coming down and bouncing away. Ofcourse he was out too! I mean, dont they know that hitting the building full toss is out???
Then came Clarkey. Now this guy had learnt from his predecessor's idiocy, and he just pushed and prodded the next 3 balls for 1D away.
The boss's son bowled the next over, and He bowls a nice offspinner on the second bounce. And when clarkey came to play the ball, just when his bat was going to connect, the ball bounced again and hit the wicket lines. They protested that the delivery had bounced twice, but we reasoned that they had not clarified the ghasar-gundi rule before batting.. By default, shooters along the ground were allowed.
The tail did not put up too much of a fight and they were out for 23 runs.
Then we batted, and got 6 extra runs for the fast balls they threw at us. Not bowled, threw. We told them this was not softball, it was cricket and fast fulltoss was not allowed. But they wouldnt listen.
So then we hit 3 sixes. Apparently they did not know that chikki-run and box rules did not apply when you hit the ball full toss into the next compound. Then it was 6. The art of placing the ball without hitting the building or the cars earned you a 6.
Post match press conference:
Us: Ofcourse we won because we were the better team and we used the rules and conditions better. All the guys were disappointed because they thought Australia would kick their ass at this competition. I mean if you lose by a hundred runs to Dharavi 6 and to Bhoiwada, then i suppose expecting to win against Australia is too much.
Them: This is a new innovation to cricket and we will take a few years to adapt to this. Im sure we will win the major world championship in about 5-6 years. We will start grooming young gully cricketers immediately. I will speak with our Selection Panel to start a grassroots gully cricket program to help nurture the best talent. We will build awkward buildings, park cars indiscriminately, provide awful training facilities, forget about proper cricket gear, and make sure there are no other places to practice except your own building compound.
ICC: Im sure that they will not get invited for the next All-India night box cricket tournament to be held in our colony. About 10 teams from Andheri are participating but we wont call them. Australia are a young team at gully cricket and we dont want them to compete without gaining in confidence. The teams we will invite are Kenya, Somalia, Central America, Brazil, Thailand, Malaysia, and Malegaon.
utekkare,
pranay
So we were 6 a side, and we tossed for batting / fielding. They won the toss and decided to bat first. Gilly took first strike and started looking for the stumps. We politely showed him the wall on which 3 lines were drawn by brick. "These are the stumps?? You must be crazy, mate!!". But we assured him these were the stumps. This way we didnt need to worry about french cuts, and wicket keepers, and slips, and backward point and third man, and fine leg, and leg slip and hitting the wicket keepers helmet and conceding 8 runs.... plus there were more fielders to put in catching positions this way. He tried to take guard but the hard concrete refused to give way. So we brought over a piece of red brick and drew his guard for him - Arre boss, humour them na. TP thoda toh chahiye na... He looked for the bowling wicket and we showed him the large stone that doubled as the bowling wicket. The batting crease was shown too to him. Just in case he decided he wanted to counter the spin and stand outside the crease.
Just as he was about to start batting, we decided to make things a little more easier to him. I asked the boss's son to go and explain all the rules to him. So the far wall was 2-D, if the ball bounced and went behind the wall it was 1-D, and if it went into the passage to the building it was 1-D. No running at all! easy, na? Also we drew the box line. When he saw this he asked why were cutting the already small pitch into half. We explained that as per box cricket rules (to avoid him breaking any glasses - with aerial shots yaar!), anything he hit had to bounce within that line before going anywhere. Or else he was out.
And so I bowled the first over. After the trial ball over arm, I bowled the first ball, he played down, and it came back to me. No run. He immediately came and said that Mr Chappel's tactics would not work for every ball. Thats when Punter told him that gully cricket was actually underarm. And only spin, no pace. Ofcourse there was no question of line and length so Pigeon looked quite sad. Hmm, they actually are intelligent! Just 5 mins and he understood everything. The very next ball, he hit into the ground, and it sailed into the air on the first bounce, and into the boss's sons's hands. OUT!!
Gilly didnt move though. We thought it was really bad sport of him, especially since the bat and ball was ours and he was in no position to bargain for an extra life. We were nice though and yanked the bat away from him and told him he was out. One-tuppie out, na!!!
Next in was Punter. He didnt bother taking guard, and started batting. I bowled a finger spin legspinner to him, that he played to the 2D area. Nice. I then bowled a ball at his legs, and spinned it away from him. He asked for it to be declared a wide. We didnt know what he was talking about. So we continued bowling as if we hadnt heard him. The next ball, he got really angry and hit it high into the air and it hit the 3rd floor landing before coming down and bouncing away. Ofcourse he was out too! I mean, dont they know that hitting the building full toss is out???
Then came Clarkey. Now this guy had learnt from his predecessor's idiocy, and he just pushed and prodded the next 3 balls for 1D away.
The boss's son bowled the next over, and He bowls a nice offspinner on the second bounce. And when clarkey came to play the ball, just when his bat was going to connect, the ball bounced again and hit the wicket lines. They protested that the delivery had bounced twice, but we reasoned that they had not clarified the ghasar-gundi rule before batting.. By default, shooters along the ground were allowed.
The tail did not put up too much of a fight and they were out for 23 runs.
Then we batted, and got 6 extra runs for the fast balls they threw at us. Not bowled, threw. We told them this was not softball, it was cricket and fast fulltoss was not allowed. But they wouldnt listen.
So then we hit 3 sixes. Apparently they did not know that chikki-run and box rules did not apply when you hit the ball full toss into the next compound. Then it was 6. The art of placing the ball without hitting the building or the cars earned you a 6.
Post match press conference:
Us: Ofcourse we won because we were the better team and we used the rules and conditions better. All the guys were disappointed because they thought Australia would kick their ass at this competition. I mean if you lose by a hundred runs to Dharavi 6 and to Bhoiwada, then i suppose expecting to win against Australia is too much.
Them: This is a new innovation to cricket and we will take a few years to adapt to this. Im sure we will win the major world championship in about 5-6 years. We will start grooming young gully cricketers immediately. I will speak with our Selection Panel to start a grassroots gully cricket program to help nurture the best talent. We will build awkward buildings, park cars indiscriminately, provide awful training facilities, forget about proper cricket gear, and make sure there are no other places to practice except your own building compound.
ICC: Im sure that they will not get invited for the next All-India night box cricket tournament to be held in our colony. About 10 teams from Andheri are participating but we wont call them. Australia are a young team at gully cricket and we dont want them to compete without gaining in confidence. The teams we will invite are Kenya, Somalia, Central America, Brazil, Thailand, Malaysia, and Malegaon.
utekkare,
pranay
The Boss's Son
And today I will introduce you to the boss's son.
He lives in an apartment, but can do nothing by himself. This is because he lives with his parents and has been pampered silly. Maids to wait on him hand and foot; Drivers to chauffeur him around; Gardeners to keep the roses in bloom; Computers, and Television Sets, and Cupboards, and a surfeit of laptops, and gadgets, and soft warm beds, and even a lovable adorable golden retriever. With no maintenance whatsoever.
The boss's son can wake up at almost any time he likes. Consequently he can sleep at any time he likes. He has a gym membership he does not use. He stocks Fruit juice in the refrigerator, but he doesnt drink juice. He keeps eggs and cereal and milk, and butter and cheese, and ham, but he will have none of it if it was not cooked for him.
The boss's son does not need to work. All he needs to do is show up to office in a chauffer-driven car, stride lazily into his cabin, and appear engrossed in front of his expensive laptop screen. Coffee runs cold and water warms up while he concentrates on writing inane emails to people across the globe, while trying to look busy.
The boss's son likes to party. He loves to go out to clubs, pubs, discos, restaurants, coffee houses, dinner parties, and he is always planning to meet with these gorgeous and intelligent women. Ofcourse they never show up and he is always going out alone. But he never fails to get drunk.
The boss's son has had an excellent education. The best. But you would never know that from the language he employs. Some of the crappiest.
The boss's son travels abroad, and sometimes when he is in a good mood he will let me tag along. He stays at expensive hotels, and uses the taxi to get everywhere. He is too snooty to rent a car and spends money on the most idiotic merchandise.
And The boss's son will never get fired though. That's my job.
utekkare,
Pranay
He lives in an apartment, but can do nothing by himself. This is because he lives with his parents and has been pampered silly. Maids to wait on him hand and foot; Drivers to chauffeur him around; Gardeners to keep the roses in bloom; Computers, and Television Sets, and Cupboards, and a surfeit of laptops, and gadgets, and soft warm beds, and even a lovable adorable golden retriever. With no maintenance whatsoever.
The boss's son can wake up at almost any time he likes. Consequently he can sleep at any time he likes. He has a gym membership he does not use. He stocks Fruit juice in the refrigerator, but he doesnt drink juice. He keeps eggs and cereal and milk, and butter and cheese, and ham, but he will have none of it if it was not cooked for him.
The boss's son does not need to work. All he needs to do is show up to office in a chauffer-driven car, stride lazily into his cabin, and appear engrossed in front of his expensive laptop screen. Coffee runs cold and water warms up while he concentrates on writing inane emails to people across the globe, while trying to look busy.
The boss's son likes to party. He loves to go out to clubs, pubs, discos, restaurants, coffee houses, dinner parties, and he is always planning to meet with these gorgeous and intelligent women. Ofcourse they never show up and he is always going out alone. But he never fails to get drunk.
The boss's son has had an excellent education. The best. But you would never know that from the language he employs. Some of the crappiest.
The boss's son travels abroad, and sometimes when he is in a good mood he will let me tag along. He stays at expensive hotels, and uses the taxi to get everywhere. He is too snooty to rent a car and spends money on the most idiotic merchandise.
And The boss's son will never get fired though. That's my job.
utekkare,
Pranay
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The first date
And today I received THE phone call. She decided she would go out to dinner with me.
And since it was my first date in months, I thought I would give it my best shot. So I went out and bought an expensive shirt. And trousers to go with it. And since you never know where these evenings end up, I decided to buy new underwear. And that new Bvlgari parfum.
And I asked the driver to stay back late. For the first time in months, I decided I would go home from office at 7.30 - The boss's son wasn't too happy about it (I dont remember when he last had a date), but I didnt care. For once.
And since I did not want my ubiquitous BO to rear it's ugly head, I scrubbed myself extra hard, with the scrubber. For once.
And I shampoo-ed and conditioned my hair with the special Special Fragile Hair Formula, so I wouldnt lose more hair that day. And I air-dryed my hair and smoothed over the patches that recede, and I brushed my hair softly, and set it so I would look cooler than I was. So I could make a good impression. For once.
And I used the specially purchased Scope Mouthwash (TM), and I packed my pocket full of Chlor mints, and hoped that she would not notice me popping a chlormint at regular intervals. And more optimistically, that my halitosis would stay away for 5 hours. For once.
And I wore my special shirt, and I sucked in my tummy, and hoped that it wouldnt sag that night. And I wore my trousers, and wore my lucky belt. And buckled it a little loosely. In case the dinner was good. And if I overate. Just in case.
And then, I borrowed 2000 bucks from my mother, so I would not have to think twice about going to a club if dinner went well, or to offer her an expensive drink, or if she wanted to have a sumptious dinner followed by a sinful dessert. And I checked on my Emergency funds to ensure I had enough.
And then I left. I reached the place we were supposed to meet, and she suggested we go to a Seafood Restaurant that just happened to be in a 5 star hotel.
And just as the conversation was warming up, and I felt we were getting somewhere, and maybe this might just be the first of many more dates, it ended.
It happened just after we ordered the drinks. I ordered a beer, and she ordered a Mojito. And then, as we were making general conversation, the maitre d' came up and enquired if we might want to order. And innocently enough my date asked about the specials.
And the maitre d' said," There's a decent sized lobster you might want to order tonight, ma'am."
And as my date nodded her head vigorously, I sadly looked into my empty plate and smiled.
If only they didnt order the lobster. For once.
utekkare,
pranay
And since it was my first date in months, I thought I would give it my best shot. So I went out and bought an expensive shirt. And trousers to go with it. And since you never know where these evenings end up, I decided to buy new underwear. And that new Bvlgari parfum.
And I asked the driver to stay back late. For the first time in months, I decided I would go home from office at 7.30 - The boss's son wasn't too happy about it (I dont remember when he last had a date), but I didnt care. For once.
And since I did not want my ubiquitous BO to rear it's ugly head, I scrubbed myself extra hard, with the scrubber. For once.
And I shampoo-ed and conditioned my hair with the special Special Fragile Hair Formula, so I wouldnt lose more hair that day. And I air-dryed my hair and smoothed over the patches that recede, and I brushed my hair softly, and set it so I would look cooler than I was. So I could make a good impression. For once.
And I used the specially purchased Scope Mouthwash (TM), and I packed my pocket full of Chlor mints, and hoped that she would not notice me popping a chlormint at regular intervals. And more optimistically, that my halitosis would stay away for 5 hours. For once.
And I wore my special shirt, and I sucked in my tummy, and hoped that it wouldnt sag that night. And I wore my trousers, and wore my lucky belt. And buckled it a little loosely. In case the dinner was good. And if I overate. Just in case.
And then, I borrowed 2000 bucks from my mother, so I would not have to think twice about going to a club if dinner went well, or to offer her an expensive drink, or if she wanted to have a sumptious dinner followed by a sinful dessert. And I checked on my Emergency funds to ensure I had enough.
And then I left. I reached the place we were supposed to meet, and she suggested we go to a Seafood Restaurant that just happened to be in a 5 star hotel.
And just as the conversation was warming up, and I felt we were getting somewhere, and maybe this might just be the first of many more dates, it ended.
It happened just after we ordered the drinks. I ordered a beer, and she ordered a Mojito. And then, as we were making general conversation, the maitre d' came up and enquired if we might want to order. And innocently enough my date asked about the specials.
And the maitre d' said," There's a decent sized lobster you might want to order tonight, ma'am."
And as my date nodded her head vigorously, I sadly looked into my empty plate and smiled.
If only they didnt order the lobster. For once.
utekkare,
pranay
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Blame it on the Rains
And since the rains are here, we can blame the rains for all the problems that would otherwise plague our life..
Like waking up late, and reaching school late, and missing the schoolbus, and getting your clothes wet, and losing your water bottle, and reaching class late, and coming home late, and getting your shoes dirty and mucky.
And for people like us, like if you want to miss office for a cricket match, or if you want to miss going to a dull party at night, or if you want to spend some more time with your girlfriend before returning to your wife, or if you are required to email an important presentation from home, or if you are caught sleeping with your girlfriend's best friend because you shared and incredibly romantic moment by the seaside where the rain drenched her and showed you the tender side of her cleavage...
Ofcourse, there are advantages to being caught by the rain too...
Like wearing shorts, and drying your hair without a hair dryer, and getting a crush on the really hot girl in the inadequate salwar kameez, and fighting the rain in a rickshaw with flapping rainguards, and wearing gumboots, and eating hot vada-pav under a polythene roof, and putting out buckets under the leaking roof, and wading in knee deep water (only knee-deep), and drinking hot choclate, and making sailing boats from paper, and missing school officially, and also college, and wearing trench coats, and honing your Antakshari skills by candlelight, playing football in the rain, and listening to the old radio, and searching for batteries to power it, and watching insects coming out of their holes, and smelling freshly crushed caterpillars, and smelling the nice new earth.
And following rainbows to see if they have pots of gold at the end.
utekkare,
pranay
Like waking up late, and reaching school late, and missing the schoolbus, and getting your clothes wet, and losing your water bottle, and reaching class late, and coming home late, and getting your shoes dirty and mucky.
And for people like us, like if you want to miss office for a cricket match, or if you want to miss going to a dull party at night, or if you want to spend some more time with your girlfriend before returning to your wife, or if you are required to email an important presentation from home, or if you are caught sleeping with your girlfriend's best friend because you shared and incredibly romantic moment by the seaside where the rain drenched her and showed you the tender side of her cleavage...
Ofcourse, there are advantages to being caught by the rain too...
Like wearing shorts, and drying your hair without a hair dryer, and getting a crush on the really hot girl in the inadequate salwar kameez, and fighting the rain in a rickshaw with flapping rainguards, and wearing gumboots, and eating hot vada-pav under a polythene roof, and putting out buckets under the leaking roof, and wading in knee deep water (only knee-deep), and drinking hot choclate, and making sailing boats from paper, and missing school officially, and also college, and wearing trench coats, and honing your Antakshari skills by candlelight, playing football in the rain, and listening to the old radio, and searching for batteries to power it, and watching insects coming out of their holes, and smelling freshly crushed caterpillars, and smelling the nice new earth.
And following rainbows to see if they have pots of gold at the end.
utekkare,
pranay
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The day I died and went to heaven. Almost.
And so I decided the other day that I might think of commiting suicide.
And since I decided to think about suicide, I automatically thought about the reasons I wanted to commit suicide. Well, heaven, ofcourse is the most important reason to commit suicide. God is always quite lenient on self-murderers. He understands the value of a single human life and consequently the reasons for extinguishing the life.
And since life is not so much fun right now, death seems so much more appealing. And Sharon might call on my cellphone after a week to see if I'm in Mulund on a Monday night to have coffee. And my mother will tell her I am currently sightseeing in Samarra. So she will write about me. And she will tell her friends that I died. And Smita will probably never find out. Because she was busy and assumed I might be busy too. And maybe she will give me a missed call. But floating souls have pathetic motor skills. And no strength to return missed calls. And Trevor will call up to make plans to meet. And when he finds out that I am dead, he will come to meet Mom and Dad. He is a good friend. My generation's answer to Yeh dosti hum nahin chhodenge. And Ryze messages will pile up. And requests for friday night meetings will go unanswered. But I will not care. And life will go on. and on. And Sonia will celebrate her birthday and go to Canada and sell her piano.
And when I die, people in the gym will think about the boy who made too many bad jokes. And why he decided to quit life. And people will try to connect with me. And maybe people will read my blog. Utekkare. And people will understand the brilliance of Utekkare. As a word. As a paraphrase. As a movement. And people will compliment the subtle delicacy of my articles.And they will reprint my articles. In newspapers. And magazines. And people will interview my father. And my mother. And my friends.
And women will express their hidden love for me. And they will grieve. And all my dreams will come true. Such optimism emerges only from morbidity.
But it would be nice if I would be alive to experience all of this.
So marna cancel.
utekkare,
pranay
And since I decided to think about suicide, I automatically thought about the reasons I wanted to commit suicide. Well, heaven, ofcourse is the most important reason to commit suicide. God is always quite lenient on self-murderers. He understands the value of a single human life and consequently the reasons for extinguishing the life.
And since life is not so much fun right now, death seems so much more appealing. And Sharon might call on my cellphone after a week to see if I'm in Mulund on a Monday night to have coffee. And my mother will tell her I am currently sightseeing in Samarra. So she will write about me. And she will tell her friends that I died. And Smita will probably never find out. Because she was busy and assumed I might be busy too. And maybe she will give me a missed call. But floating souls have pathetic motor skills. And no strength to return missed calls. And Trevor will call up to make plans to meet. And when he finds out that I am dead, he will come to meet Mom and Dad. He is a good friend. My generation's answer to Yeh dosti hum nahin chhodenge. And Ryze messages will pile up. And requests for friday night meetings will go unanswered. But I will not care. And life will go on. and on. And Sonia will celebrate her birthday and go to Canada and sell her piano.
And when I die, people in the gym will think about the boy who made too many bad jokes. And why he decided to quit life. And people will try to connect with me. And maybe people will read my blog. Utekkare. And people will understand the brilliance of Utekkare. As a word. As a paraphrase. As a movement. And people will compliment the subtle delicacy of my articles.And they will reprint my articles. In newspapers. And magazines. And people will interview my father. And my mother. And my friends.
And women will express their hidden love for me. And they will grieve. And all my dreams will come true. Such optimism emerges only from morbidity.
But it would be nice if I would be alive to experience all of this.
So marna cancel.
utekkare,
pranay
Aap Kataar mein hain
You are in queue. Please wait.
There are lines for everything in life. Grocery lines, Ration lines, Civil lines, Tan lines, Straight lines, Immigration lines, Fishing lines, Ant lines, Hairlines, Waistlines, Clotheslines, Fashion lines, Credit lines, Pickup lines....
But we are in line. All our life is one big line. And we are all queued up to get to somewhere.
Like We are in line to go abroad. And some people get to the head of the line when they're 14. And some when they're 40. I got to the head of the "foreign-travelling" line when I was 25. Some just make it by default because they are on someone else's arm.
Like we are in line to complete our education. Some of us are jostling for space with others, and frequently, we are pushed out of the line for a year just because we are too busy jawing with someone , or trying to pick up a chick from the line next to us. Or because we fell asleep while standing and all those young kids with a superior intellect pushed us to the back of the class, and elbowed their way through.
Like we are in line to fall in love. And when we reach the counter, and meet the woman we want to fall in love with, we become speechless, and are sent away to the back of the line to work on our communication skills. And this time there might not be the perfect woman at the counter. And because it is too late in life to go to the back of the line once again, you have to make do with the woman that came with the counter, and make it count all your life. Because you were speechless the first time round.
Like we are in line to earn money. And there are so many lines running concurrently to earn money. And we must choose which line we must join. And there are fast moving lines that end up god knows where. And there are slow moving lines. And most of them are extremely slow lines. And all of them end up in a vacation condo with a middle aged secretary smiling like a cheshire cat while the greying middle level executive who was standing in line once upon a time with visions of a home in the country, and a pension, and a dog lying in the porch, is caught with his pants down.
Like there are man-eating lines. Where you could be standing in line, and instead of looking forward, you have to be looking over your shoulder. Because they will slash, and cut, and maim, and gouge, and bomb, and shoot, and spear, and bind you down in ropes of thorns till you have bled the blood of the healthy. Best to avoid those lines.
And there are lines with storm clouds hovering above them. With hypothermia, and cold feet, and no couches, and bloodshot eyes and glazed looks and uncomfortable silences. And there are lines with creeping insects and scurrying rats and gridlocked conversations and frustrations, and aggression, and insults. And racial insults. And inequality. Where you are thrown to the back of the line just because you are ill. Or you have AIDS. Or you are a particular skin color. Or a particular surname. Best to avoid those lines too. Like the plague.
Like we wait in line for fame. Our 15 seconds. Ofcourse, this line is the most ragged and disorganised. Because the counter could open where you are standing. And it could stay there for 10 minutes. Or for 5 hours. Make the most of it.
And 2 weeks ago we are all in line to meet with God. And here there are no shortcuts. Everyone is as important. And it doesn't matter if you are rich or poor or crippled or famous or intelligent or badly dressed. God is always smiling, and he is waiting to meet you. Ofcourse the conversation is tremendously short and it is always one-sided.
And there is a very small, special, select line. For those whose prayers are heard.
I wonder if I am in that line.
utekkare,
pranay
There are lines for everything in life. Grocery lines, Ration lines, Civil lines, Tan lines, Straight lines, Immigration lines, Fishing lines, Ant lines, Hairlines, Waistlines, Clotheslines, Fashion lines, Credit lines, Pickup lines....
But we are in line. All our life is one big line. And we are all queued up to get to somewhere.
Like We are in line to go abroad. And some people get to the head of the line when they're 14. And some when they're 40. I got to the head of the "foreign-travelling" line when I was 25. Some just make it by default because they are on someone else's arm.
Like we are in line to complete our education. Some of us are jostling for space with others, and frequently, we are pushed out of the line for a year just because we are too busy jawing with someone , or trying to pick up a chick from the line next to us. Or because we fell asleep while standing and all those young kids with a superior intellect pushed us to the back of the class, and elbowed their way through.
Like we are in line to fall in love. And when we reach the counter, and meet the woman we want to fall in love with, we become speechless, and are sent away to the back of the line to work on our communication skills. And this time there might not be the perfect woman at the counter. And because it is too late in life to go to the back of the line once again, you have to make do with the woman that came with the counter, and make it count all your life. Because you were speechless the first time round.
Like we are in line to earn money. And there are so many lines running concurrently to earn money. And we must choose which line we must join. And there are fast moving lines that end up god knows where. And there are slow moving lines. And most of them are extremely slow lines. And all of them end up in a vacation condo with a middle aged secretary smiling like a cheshire cat while the greying middle level executive who was standing in line once upon a time with visions of a home in the country, and a pension, and a dog lying in the porch, is caught with his pants down.
Like there are man-eating lines. Where you could be standing in line, and instead of looking forward, you have to be looking over your shoulder. Because they will slash, and cut, and maim, and gouge, and bomb, and shoot, and spear, and bind you down in ropes of thorns till you have bled the blood of the healthy. Best to avoid those lines.
And there are lines with storm clouds hovering above them. With hypothermia, and cold feet, and no couches, and bloodshot eyes and glazed looks and uncomfortable silences. And there are lines with creeping insects and scurrying rats and gridlocked conversations and frustrations, and aggression, and insults. And racial insults. And inequality. Where you are thrown to the back of the line just because you are ill. Or you have AIDS. Or you are a particular skin color. Or a particular surname. Best to avoid those lines too. Like the plague.
Like we wait in line for fame. Our 15 seconds. Ofcourse, this line is the most ragged and disorganised. Because the counter could open where you are standing. And it could stay there for 10 minutes. Or for 5 hours. Make the most of it.
And 2 weeks ago we are all in line to meet with God. And here there are no shortcuts. Everyone is as important. And it doesn't matter if you are rich or poor or crippled or famous or intelligent or badly dressed. God is always smiling, and he is waiting to meet you. Ofcourse the conversation is tremendously short and it is always one-sided.
And there is a very small, special, select line. For those whose prayers are heard.
I wonder if I am in that line.
utekkare,
pranay
Monday, May 15, 2006
I don't like beggars
I don't like beggars. I think they stink and they're dirty and rotten, and I think they are a stigma to society. A slur on mankind. A curse on the upper middle class urbanite.
These beggars are extremely inquisitive. They want to know where you've been, who you've been talking to, and what you eat. They want to know where you stay, and how you travel and how fit you are. And they want to be paid handsomely for all the services you obtain. Compulsorily. If you dont pay them, they want to know why. They want to know why you paid them a little less last year, and how much you'll pay them next year. And then want to know today. They take your money and make it look like a favour by accepting it.
And I dont like beggars invading my office, and my home, and breaking down the glass of my new imported car, and throwing me out of it and charging me for the privilege.
And these beggars will rummage through all my old papers, and charge me with not having papers even I did not know I would need. And I definitely do not like them coming home for dinner and breaking down my moulded ceilings that hold up my chandeliers. Yes, JUST my chandeliers. Imported from St Petersburg.
And when you politely ask what they did with your money, they will rave and rant, and go on strike, and beat you up, and throw a bunch of mildewed papers they have labelled "Official Secrets Act" in your face and you will suddenly have to be conversant with the twisted meaning of the phrase "need to know".
And their chief beggar stands up every year on the 28th of February in front of 500 odd other buffoons, and extols their virtues of insolvency, greed, debt and economic insecurity before the populace of this country. And people applaud, and grandstand, and are making all kinds of intelligent statements. But everyone knows that these are beggars, who are the lowest form of humanity.
And the chief beggar will tell you how he "plans" to divide your money amongst all those 500 buffoons. And you can count on the fact that a your money will be divided amongst all the buffoons. And each buffoon will take some of that money and use it to line his pockets, redecorate his house, pay his bills, send his son abroad, and marry off his daughter.
And he will use the money left over to evade beggars. Successfully.
utekkare,
Pranay
These beggars are extremely inquisitive. They want to know where you've been, who you've been talking to, and what you eat. They want to know where you stay, and how you travel and how fit you are. And they want to be paid handsomely for all the services you obtain. Compulsorily. If you dont pay them, they want to know why. They want to know why you paid them a little less last year, and how much you'll pay them next year. And then want to know today. They take your money and make it look like a favour by accepting it.
And I dont like beggars invading my office, and my home, and breaking down the glass of my new imported car, and throwing me out of it and charging me for the privilege.
And these beggars will rummage through all my old papers, and charge me with not having papers even I did not know I would need. And I definitely do not like them coming home for dinner and breaking down my moulded ceilings that hold up my chandeliers. Yes, JUST my chandeliers. Imported from St Petersburg.
And when you politely ask what they did with your money, they will rave and rant, and go on strike, and beat you up, and throw a bunch of mildewed papers they have labelled "Official Secrets Act" in your face and you will suddenly have to be conversant with the twisted meaning of the phrase "need to know".
And their chief beggar stands up every year on the 28th of February in front of 500 odd other buffoons, and extols their virtues of insolvency, greed, debt and economic insecurity before the populace of this country. And people applaud, and grandstand, and are making all kinds of intelligent statements. But everyone knows that these are beggars, who are the lowest form of humanity.
And the chief beggar will tell you how he "plans" to divide your money amongst all those 500 buffoons. And you can count on the fact that a your money will be divided amongst all the buffoons. And each buffoon will take some of that money and use it to line his pockets, redecorate his house, pay his bills, send his son abroad, and marry off his daughter.
And he will use the money left over to evade beggars. Successfully.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, May 14, 2006
The Great Gamble(r)
I would like to think that I am an inveterate gambler.
But I hate gambling. I think it's wasteful, and tempting, and wrong, and an adam's-appley type activity. I never went to those slot machines. I never tried my hand at the computer poker games. I never got addicted to card games (except for a brief passage of time when I was 5 - but I was too young to bet it all). I never liked casinos, and their flashy neon signboards. Ofcourse it helped that gambling is illegal in most parts of Bombay. In Mumbai, its now allowed in select areas that are taxed a gazillion percent.
Yes, I hate gambling. I'm using the word 'hate' here. I do not like twists of fate, and I do not like roulette, and I do not like Blackjack. And I do not like Slot Machines. And I do not like Horsing Around. Especially in a three piece suit in the middle of April on a scorcher, amidst really cute women who are supressing a smile as I drippingly stroll by, desperately trying to loook nonchalant as I place my minimum bet.
I also do not understand newspaper listings of horses, and I cannot understand how odds are placed, and how much I would win if I placed my bet on a short animal and if I placed it on a long one. I suppose the longer one had the edge if it came to a photo finish. If only.
I simply do not like the fact that my life could be changed by the simple rolling of a dice. Or the placing of a bet.
But I tempt life everyday. I cross the road in the face of speeding cars without a care in the world... I climb mountains for fun. I run on treadmills and I push weights. I shave myself looking in the mirror, and I step out of my house, and I wake up from sleep, and I brush my teeth and I wear my clothes, and I predict my future, in the expectation of living my immediate future exactly the way I plan it.
Now, If you are like me, playing a slot machine is something you wouldnt lay odds on.
But crossing the road is something you could lay odds on, and most probably come out a winner. But not always. Since it is common knowledge that crossing the road kills more people every year than terrorists, air crashes, and predatory second wives put together, I would say you're taking a bold step with your life.
And remember, when you gamble, you are betting your money. When you cross the road, you are betting your life against a few stolen moments to add to your seemingly relevant and hectic day.
And it is a one in a million chance that you could wake up and be surprised by an earthquake. Or that you could walk out your house and be struck by lightning. Or you could slip onto a road and be run over. Or you could meet someone seemingly special and end up counting the days that you have spent lamenting your fate when you're 40. Or you could get stuck in the life and die of suffocation. Or you could have an accident and be run off the road by a madman. Or you could be caught in a fight and sustain injuries. You could get caught in a hailstorm in May in Mumbai and be pelted to death. You could catch a cold, contract pneumonia and die.
Nature has many queer and wierd ways of killing you off.
Ofcourse none of this could happen. Life could go on as planned and it could stretch into tomorrow and the next week and the next month. Ofcourse it could happen too. You could also live a 100 years through 3 world wars and the bombing of berlin and live to tell the tale.
But I gamble. Every day. And I tempt fate. And I use the greatest prize of all to play with. My insignificant life.
utekkare,
pranay
But I hate gambling. I think it's wasteful, and tempting, and wrong, and an adam's-appley type activity. I never went to those slot machines. I never tried my hand at the computer poker games. I never got addicted to card games (except for a brief passage of time when I was 5 - but I was too young to bet it all). I never liked casinos, and their flashy neon signboards. Ofcourse it helped that gambling is illegal in most parts of Bombay. In Mumbai, its now allowed in select areas that are taxed a gazillion percent.
Yes, I hate gambling. I'm using the word 'hate' here. I do not like twists of fate, and I do not like roulette, and I do not like Blackjack. And I do not like Slot Machines. And I do not like Horsing Around. Especially in a three piece suit in the middle of April on a scorcher, amidst really cute women who are supressing a smile as I drippingly stroll by, desperately trying to loook nonchalant as I place my minimum bet.
I also do not understand newspaper listings of horses, and I cannot understand how odds are placed, and how much I would win if I placed my bet on a short animal and if I placed it on a long one. I suppose the longer one had the edge if it came to a photo finish. If only.
I simply do not like the fact that my life could be changed by the simple rolling of a dice. Or the placing of a bet.
But I tempt life everyday. I cross the road in the face of speeding cars without a care in the world... I climb mountains for fun. I run on treadmills and I push weights. I shave myself looking in the mirror, and I step out of my house, and I wake up from sleep, and I brush my teeth and I wear my clothes, and I predict my future, in the expectation of living my immediate future exactly the way I plan it.
Now, If you are like me, playing a slot machine is something you wouldnt lay odds on.
But crossing the road is something you could lay odds on, and most probably come out a winner. But not always. Since it is common knowledge that crossing the road kills more people every year than terrorists, air crashes, and predatory second wives put together, I would say you're taking a bold step with your life.
And remember, when you gamble, you are betting your money. When you cross the road, you are betting your life against a few stolen moments to add to your seemingly relevant and hectic day.
And it is a one in a million chance that you could wake up and be surprised by an earthquake. Or that you could walk out your house and be struck by lightning. Or you could slip onto a road and be run over. Or you could meet someone seemingly special and end up counting the days that you have spent lamenting your fate when you're 40. Or you could get stuck in the life and die of suffocation. Or you could have an accident and be run off the road by a madman. Or you could be caught in a fight and sustain injuries. You could get caught in a hailstorm in May in Mumbai and be pelted to death. You could catch a cold, contract pneumonia and die.
Nature has many queer and wierd ways of killing you off.
Ofcourse none of this could happen. Life could go on as planned and it could stretch into tomorrow and the next week and the next month. Ofcourse it could happen too. You could also live a 100 years through 3 world wars and the bombing of berlin and live to tell the tale.
But I gamble. Every day. And I tempt fate. And I use the greatest prize of all to play with. My insignificant life.
utekkare,
pranay
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Turning over a new leaf...
Dear Aunt Jezebel,
I am sorry. very sorry. I am sorry about all those things I thought of you. that you are rude. and uncouth. and irritating. and flippant. and flighty.
That you do not know my life. not at all. that you set the standards so high that I cannot reach them. As it is, I have a weight problem. its so difficult moving forward in a straight line that I cannot even imagine reaching up. I suppose the grapes can be labelled as sour. If they aren't sour today, they will be some day. Because nobody can reach them.
Yes. I know that you are beautiful, and people seek your company. And people are interested in you. And they get excited if you touch them. That they feel its good luck even if they see you around them.
I also know that you are depending on me. To stand up and be counted. To fulfil my destiny. To become like you. Tall. Graceful. Fashionable. Desirable. Yes, I also want those things. I would love it.
But it is far more difficult to change myself. I cannot see into the future. I just cannot.
I am fat, and round and shapeless. I cannot sit in one place for too long, and I cannot travel too far. I get tired very easily. I would have loved to laze around all day, but my appetite belies my size. After all I am trying to fit all the food I would need for an entire life in a few short weeks.
I just want to curl up in a corner and not be noticed. If my luck is good, I will be like you.
No. I am tired of hiding, and running, and being scared. If Robin wants me, let him come and get me. No more retreats, and camouflage, and no more subterfuge.
If the leaf is there to be eaten, I will eat it.
And maybe, just maybe, I will be a social butterfly some day.
utekkare,
Pranay
I am sorry. very sorry. I am sorry about all those things I thought of you. that you are rude. and uncouth. and irritating. and flippant. and flighty.
That you do not know my life. not at all. that you set the standards so high that I cannot reach them. As it is, I have a weight problem. its so difficult moving forward in a straight line that I cannot even imagine reaching up. I suppose the grapes can be labelled as sour. If they aren't sour today, they will be some day. Because nobody can reach them.
Yes. I know that you are beautiful, and people seek your company. And people are interested in you. And they get excited if you touch them. That they feel its good luck even if they see you around them.
I also know that you are depending on me. To stand up and be counted. To fulfil my destiny. To become like you. Tall. Graceful. Fashionable. Desirable. Yes, I also want those things. I would love it.
But it is far more difficult to change myself. I cannot see into the future. I just cannot.
I am fat, and round and shapeless. I cannot sit in one place for too long, and I cannot travel too far. I get tired very easily. I would have loved to laze around all day, but my appetite belies my size. After all I am trying to fit all the food I would need for an entire life in a few short weeks.
I just want to curl up in a corner and not be noticed. If my luck is good, I will be like you.
No. I am tired of hiding, and running, and being scared. If Robin wants me, let him come and get me. No more retreats, and camouflage, and no more subterfuge.
If the leaf is there to be eaten, I will eat it.
And maybe, just maybe, I will be a social butterfly some day.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, May 06, 2006
User Manual for the Human Body - Part Deux
Dear Consumer Spirit,
A thousand apologies for cutting you off that day. We were sidetracked by a sudden inflow of bodies from an earthquake. We were called onto urgent sorting duty by the God-who-never-talks-but-points-obliquely-at-what-we-should-be-doing.
Well, no, as a rule we do not recycle human bodies. Each human shell is unique and is especially designed for the spirit it carries within. We design human bodies based on the stringent parameters laid down by the Elders Guiding Council based on past sins, future progress on the path to Nirvana, and all affecting factors, namely parenthood, previous mishandling of human bodies, premature disposal of the human shell on some trivial mishap (e.g.suicide). The guiding council lays down parameters when a spirit approaches conception, and decides on the broad outlines of how the human shell is to be constructed:
A. The morphology of the body: Whether it is superficially normal or deficient in some physical respect - i.e. a missing or deformed toe, or finger. Or it could also have additional fingers "added on", although these could also be rare manufacturing defects that usually cause no harm and are not usually important in determining a human shell's karma. e.g. Hritik Roshan.
B. The internal workings of the body: Whether there is some kind of inbuilt allergy discoverable later, and that can be used as a stern test of the spirit's character, and is usually employed when the spirit is trying to break into the next level of karma.
C. Grave physical defect: This state of human shell is used either to punish an errant spirit (But not so much punishment that it is relegated to a lower life form), for past misdeeds and exceeding its brief in a single life, or for misusing a human shell in a previous life - too much smoking, drinking, womanising, and / or drug abuse could lead to this. The only other reason a physical defect is implanted is to offer the human spirit a chance to jump 2 levels of karma towards Nirvana. This is therefore considered a double edged sword, and dear consumer spirit, be very careful whilst spending your celestial dollars on a human shell from us. If your brief this life is to lie back and enjoy the ride, you might be rudely surprised.
In very rare cases, where there is a malfunctioning human shell, we have instituted ways to deal with it. You could apply for a miscarriage or for a still birth. Both proceedures are frowned upon (although it is due to no fault of your own), the Guiding Council's stipulations clearly mention that on acceptance of a human shell, you are bound by their rules and you must try to make optimum use of the human shell alloted to you for that life. These means of returning to the counter could prove dangerous as it closes out an entry into life for that particular cycle, unless you find another slot to fill, which is not guaranteed, given our long waiting list waiting to enter this ultra modern world.
Note: For miscarriage, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XII.
For still birth, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XIII.
Our representatives from the hard luck and consolation division are standing by to take your calls and offer you free counselling if you should get a bad deal.
Now back to the further analysis of the new and improved Human Bodies on spirits nowadays:
As detailed earlier, the brain is extremely updated, and now with increased levels of fitness, medical training, we have employed spirits with good karma to be able to work wonders with small errors in brain configuration even in the middle of a life.
Now we shall enumerate the features of our central pumping station - the heart:
The heart was placed, after much debate on the left side of the human shell. We use some of the raw ends from your soul to connect into this organ. That way you have control (or atleast communication) with both, the brain and the heart. These are the most important decision enhancing centres of your body. Always remember that because there is a lot of energy being utilised by the heart, the decisions offered through this organ may save on energy and appear simplistic. However these short cuts have the ability to make your life difficult. We are working on making the heart more rational, but however, we have been cautioned that this may trigger a drop in romanticism across the board, which will cause our factory sales to slow down.
Although it is an ethical issue, we are doing our best to strike a healthy balance between a rational heart and an impulsive heart. However, diverting the heart from these decisions also has an effect on the basic working, and causes sudden pains, and chest pains caused by the erratic pumping of the living fluids - in this case, blood.
Watch this space as we talk in more detail about the heart and expound on the other features that go into the making of a human body. Your Human Body.
Live smart. Choose the Celestial Human Body Shop.
utekkare
A thousand apologies for cutting you off that day. We were sidetracked by a sudden inflow of bodies from an earthquake. We were called onto urgent sorting duty by the God-who-never-talks-but-points-obliquely-at-what-we-should-be-doing.
Well, no, as a rule we do not recycle human bodies. Each human shell is unique and is especially designed for the spirit it carries within. We design human bodies based on the stringent parameters laid down by the Elders Guiding Council based on past sins, future progress on the path to Nirvana, and all affecting factors, namely parenthood, previous mishandling of human bodies, premature disposal of the human shell on some trivial mishap (e.g.suicide). The guiding council lays down parameters when a spirit approaches conception, and decides on the broad outlines of how the human shell is to be constructed:
A. The morphology of the body: Whether it is superficially normal or deficient in some physical respect - i.e. a missing or deformed toe, or finger. Or it could also have additional fingers "added on", although these could also be rare manufacturing defects that usually cause no harm and are not usually important in determining a human shell's karma. e.g. Hritik Roshan.
B. The internal workings of the body: Whether there is some kind of inbuilt allergy discoverable later, and that can be used as a stern test of the spirit's character, and is usually employed when the spirit is trying to break into the next level of karma.
C. Grave physical defect: This state of human shell is used either to punish an errant spirit (But not so much punishment that it is relegated to a lower life form), for past misdeeds and exceeding its brief in a single life, or for misusing a human shell in a previous life - too much smoking, drinking, womanising, and / or drug abuse could lead to this. The only other reason a physical defect is implanted is to offer the human spirit a chance to jump 2 levels of karma towards Nirvana. This is therefore considered a double edged sword, and dear consumer spirit, be very careful whilst spending your celestial dollars on a human shell from us. If your brief this life is to lie back and enjoy the ride, you might be rudely surprised.
In very rare cases, where there is a malfunctioning human shell, we have instituted ways to deal with it. You could apply for a miscarriage or for a still birth. Both proceedures are frowned upon (although it is due to no fault of your own), the Guiding Council's stipulations clearly mention that on acceptance of a human shell, you are bound by their rules and you must try to make optimum use of the human shell alloted to you for that life. These means of returning to the counter could prove dangerous as it closes out an entry into life for that particular cycle, unless you find another slot to fill, which is not guaranteed, given our long waiting list waiting to enter this ultra modern world.
Note: For miscarriage, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XII.
For still birth, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XIII.
Our representatives from the hard luck and consolation division are standing by to take your calls and offer you free counselling if you should get a bad deal.
Now back to the further analysis of the new and improved Human Bodies on spirits nowadays:
As detailed earlier, the brain is extremely updated, and now with increased levels of fitness, medical training, we have employed spirits with good karma to be able to work wonders with small errors in brain configuration even in the middle of a life.
Now we shall enumerate the features of our central pumping station - the heart:
The heart was placed, after much debate on the left side of the human shell. We use some of the raw ends from your soul to connect into this organ. That way you have control (or atleast communication) with both, the brain and the heart. These are the most important decision enhancing centres of your body. Always remember that because there is a lot of energy being utilised by the heart, the decisions offered through this organ may save on energy and appear simplistic. However these short cuts have the ability to make your life difficult. We are working on making the heart more rational, but however, we have been cautioned that this may trigger a drop in romanticism across the board, which will cause our factory sales to slow down.
Although it is an ethical issue, we are doing our best to strike a healthy balance between a rational heart and an impulsive heart. However, diverting the heart from these decisions also has an effect on the basic working, and causes sudden pains, and chest pains caused by the erratic pumping of the living fluids - in this case, blood.
Watch this space as we talk in more detail about the heart and expound on the other features that go into the making of a human body. Your Human Body.
Live smart. Choose the Celestial Human Body Shop.
utekkare
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
The Serial Kisser
I have not seen any films starring Emraan Hashmi. or is it Imran Hashmee (pronounced EEM-RAAAN HUSH-ME).
But I have seen promos. And footage. And interviews. And I have read Page 3. And I see posters. And music videos. And once, I have even seen Emran Hashmi in his Honda Accord listening to noise canceling headphones in the front seat. (Maybe the multi-thousand rupee honda stereo system was not working.) More plausible is that perhaps he needed the music penetration straight into his ears, since his ears must have been ringing from the resounding slap he must have received from that woman who rebuffed his advancing tongue.
And so I will write about what I feel is Emran Hashmi. He is the protege of the Bhatt camp. Mukesh Bhatt. Mahesh Bhatt. Pooja Bhatt. Koi bhi Dooja Bhatt. I suppose he does films "zara bhattke"...bad joke.
His films have a heroine. Whom he kisses with unfailing regularity. Rumours abound that he pays scriptwriters, and screenplay writers, to write in "tastefully handled" kissing scenes.
His films have popular music. And he is always the hero. And always the central figure. He and Himesh Reshammiya are destiny's children. They have been given iconic status within a very short period of time.
I think that Mr Hashmi enjoys kissing women. His facial expressions are geared around looking sincere just after kissing a woman.
Mr Hashmi is getting married. I wonder if his wife will be present at the sets for future scenes. I suppose you have some kind of a guarantee of satisfactory performance when you marry Mr Hashmi. (How many women have you kissed in life: A-More than 20 B-More than 40 C-More than 100 - All of the above!)
Well, I have been invited to watch "Gangster - A Love story" - it deals with the rehabilitation of murderous mafia dons, and the exceedingly optimistic attitude of a drunk and an Indian bar room crooner.
And after Saturday, I will not be able to say that I have not seen any of Mr Hashmi's films.
Ofcourse I am hoping I forget the tickets at home, that I find traffic on the way, and that the electricity goes away for a while.
utekkare,
Pranay
But I have seen promos. And footage. And interviews. And I have read Page 3. And I see posters. And music videos. And once, I have even seen Emran Hashmi in his Honda Accord listening to noise canceling headphones in the front seat. (Maybe the multi-thousand rupee honda stereo system was not working.) More plausible is that perhaps he needed the music penetration straight into his ears, since his ears must have been ringing from the resounding slap he must have received from that woman who rebuffed his advancing tongue.
And so I will write about what I feel is Emran Hashmi. He is the protege of the Bhatt camp. Mukesh Bhatt. Mahesh Bhatt. Pooja Bhatt. Koi bhi Dooja Bhatt. I suppose he does films "zara bhattke"...bad joke.
His films have a heroine. Whom he kisses with unfailing regularity. Rumours abound that he pays scriptwriters, and screenplay writers, to write in "tastefully handled" kissing scenes.
His films have popular music. And he is always the hero. And always the central figure. He and Himesh Reshammiya are destiny's children. They have been given iconic status within a very short period of time.
I think that Mr Hashmi enjoys kissing women. His facial expressions are geared around looking sincere just after kissing a woman.
Mr Hashmi is getting married. I wonder if his wife will be present at the sets for future scenes. I suppose you have some kind of a guarantee of satisfactory performance when you marry Mr Hashmi. (How many women have you kissed in life: A-More than 20 B-More than 40 C-More than 100 - All of the above!)
Well, I have been invited to watch "Gangster - A Love story" - it deals with the rehabilitation of murderous mafia dons, and the exceedingly optimistic attitude of a drunk and an Indian bar room crooner.
And after Saturday, I will not be able to say that I have not seen any of Mr Hashmi's films.
Ofcourse I am hoping I forget the tickets at home, that I find traffic on the way, and that the electricity goes away for a while.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Shireen
Shireen lived at Marine Lines.
A dingy semi-victorian one room apartment. with a 'mori', and a small square window that looked out onto Queen's road, Marine Lines, and then Police Gymkhana and finally Marine Drive. On a good day you could see the foliage surrounding the Governor's bungalow. On a bad day, well you could see just Marine Lines. If you opened the window, that is.
There was a bed. A four poster, no less. with assorted bedding, blankets, razais, and pillows. A mosquito net was draped over the frame made by the 4 pillars that rose from the bed posts. Opposite was a chest of drawers. Wood again. On top of it was a round desk mirror and an old black analog telephone covered by a white embroidered cloth. and a yellowed calendar on the wall behind showing dates of November 2003. A dull frosted glass lamp housing a 40 W bulb glowed unconvincingly from the top of the wall illuminating the room in a pale yellow halo. A cello was placed behind the bed in its dusty cover. Blackish-Grey.
A printed curtain seperated the mori from the main room. Next to it was the kitchen. A single ledge with shelves in black cuddapah stone underneath and pots and pans and rice containers, and dal containers, and bowls and spoons and forks and knives. Above was an open cabinet with tea, and utensils. And some Bourbon biscuits. An old cupboard sat in the last corner of the room. Blackened mirrors scowled back at you if you mistakenly happened to demand a reflection. 2 old suitcases and a grey hatbox sat on top of the cupboard. A couple of spiders had woven their homes in the crevices between the hatbox and the suitcases.Next to the cupboard was one chair. A wooden upright cane seat chair. Above it was a book case - open wooden shelves with books on them right upto the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a walnut wood rocking chair. With a carved back, and a delicate arch. With smooth polished rockers, the wood looked almost black. A tartan cushion sat in the seat, and the back was slats of wood held by a frame. A rosary hung by one handle. A half empty bowl of water was kept by the window. If you looked up, you saw rafters. Great big pink painted rafters. Steepling from the edge of the room and meeting the wall. A few pigeons coo-ed and you could see marks of pigeon droppings on the window sill. A ceiling fan rotated creakingly, suspended from one of the rafters.
Shireen was of indeterminate age. She had pinched sallow cheeks, black curly hair with streaks of grey in them, a pointed nose, and a creased forehead. Her neck was taut, and her lips were perennially pursed. She had a rake thin body, and she wasnt too tall. or too short. In fact in a crowded place, you might miss Shireenif you blinked. She wore blouses - whether they were polyester or silk, noone knew. Some days she wore cotton. Always the same pullover, come rain or shine. And skirts. Always pleated and always below the knee. Nobody knew where she had her clothes tailored. They were so nondescript that ready-to-wear was ruled out. She usually wore severe black or grey shoes. No garish colors. No style statements. No coiffeured looks. After all, for whom did she need to do all this? She was happy with what she looked like. Shireen was not too tough to please. Especially when it came to Shireen. She wore thick framed glasses. The kind that were in vogue in the 60s when nothing else was available.
Shireen worked in a Marwari export firm 10 minutes walking distance from her building. The export firm had been in business since pre-Independence days. But rioting, errant sons, splits in the family, eroding market share, competition, laziness, and plain ineptitude had kept the company in exactly the same place it had been, with the same people visiting it day in and day out. A loser company, kept in business by its owner, who frequented casinos, the races, went abroad frequently, had a high maintenance wife, and 2 bratty children, who kept their launderers busy. Until they squandered their inheritance, they kept Shireen in employment. Sometimes the boss brushed her bottom on his way across the office. Shireen just bit her lip, and continued on her way. It was not so often that she would have to do something about it. But not so infrequent that she forgot about it. It was something she submitted to, only because it happened rarely.
Shireen lived in a continuum, where days were words, and dates were numbers, and all life was a single cycle. Every day, she got up at 7 AM, answered the door for the milkman. Heated the milk, and had her regulation one cup of tea. She then poured out a little milk into the bowl, and added equal parts of water to it for the cat. She then turned on the Antique iron geyser and waited for the water to boil. She then filled up a clanking iron pail with 50% hot water, 50% cold water, and had a bath. She never washed her hair. Neither did she comb it. It was always bunched up. She would leave for office precisely at 9 AM. She shut the two doors and padlocked the outer door. And then pulled the chain across. Just to make sure.
One day, when she returned back from work, she saw the Mehta children from the 2nd floor tying a string of cans to her cat's tail. The cat was obviously scared and as it ran away from the children, mewing horrendously, the clattering cans made a louder racket, frightening her even more. Shireen was shaking with anger and irritation when she stopped the cat and gently untied the cans. She then stroked the cat gently, and let it go. She strode up the stairs, muttering under her breath. When she reached the 2nd floor, she began to stride down the long hallway to the double doored Gujju household of Mr Mehta, Bania; Mrs Mehta, Henpecking Bitchy Housewife; Aunty Mehta, returned from Kenya; and the Mehta brood - 2 to the Bitchy, and 2 to the Aunty. And their ghanti-toting Grandmother. Up at 5 AM reciting mantras at the top of her voice. As she approached the door, it opened, with loud gujarati voices condemning the existence of Muslims in their neighbourhood, the rising prices of onions, and the school systems that made private tuitions for English compulsory.
Shireen hesitated as she contemplated yet another inequal argument between her pidgin hindi and Mrs Mehta's articulate gujarati. She stood, poised for a split second. Then she turned around and walked away swiftly, and turned up the stairway, before they came out.
That night, the gujjus were troubled by a stringed instrument, soulfully howling out into the night.
utekkare,
pranay
A dingy semi-victorian one room apartment. with a 'mori', and a small square window that looked out onto Queen's road, Marine Lines, and then Police Gymkhana and finally Marine Drive. On a good day you could see the foliage surrounding the Governor's bungalow. On a bad day, well you could see just Marine Lines. If you opened the window, that is.
There was a bed. A four poster, no less. with assorted bedding, blankets, razais, and pillows. A mosquito net was draped over the frame made by the 4 pillars that rose from the bed posts. Opposite was a chest of drawers. Wood again. On top of it was a round desk mirror and an old black analog telephone covered by a white embroidered cloth. and a yellowed calendar on the wall behind showing dates of November 2003. A dull frosted glass lamp housing a 40 W bulb glowed unconvincingly from the top of the wall illuminating the room in a pale yellow halo. A cello was placed behind the bed in its dusty cover. Blackish-Grey.
A printed curtain seperated the mori from the main room. Next to it was the kitchen. A single ledge with shelves in black cuddapah stone underneath and pots and pans and rice containers, and dal containers, and bowls and spoons and forks and knives. Above was an open cabinet with tea, and utensils. And some Bourbon biscuits. An old cupboard sat in the last corner of the room. Blackened mirrors scowled back at you if you mistakenly happened to demand a reflection. 2 old suitcases and a grey hatbox sat on top of the cupboard. A couple of spiders had woven their homes in the crevices between the hatbox and the suitcases.Next to the cupboard was one chair. A wooden upright cane seat chair. Above it was a book case - open wooden shelves with books on them right upto the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a walnut wood rocking chair. With a carved back, and a delicate arch. With smooth polished rockers, the wood looked almost black. A tartan cushion sat in the seat, and the back was slats of wood held by a frame. A rosary hung by one handle. A half empty bowl of water was kept by the window. If you looked up, you saw rafters. Great big pink painted rafters. Steepling from the edge of the room and meeting the wall. A few pigeons coo-ed and you could see marks of pigeon droppings on the window sill. A ceiling fan rotated creakingly, suspended from one of the rafters.
Shireen was of indeterminate age. She had pinched sallow cheeks, black curly hair with streaks of grey in them, a pointed nose, and a creased forehead. Her neck was taut, and her lips were perennially pursed. She had a rake thin body, and she wasnt too tall. or too short. In fact in a crowded place, you might miss Shireenif you blinked. She wore blouses - whether they were polyester or silk, noone knew. Some days she wore cotton. Always the same pullover, come rain or shine. And skirts. Always pleated and always below the knee. Nobody knew where she had her clothes tailored. They were so nondescript that ready-to-wear was ruled out. She usually wore severe black or grey shoes. No garish colors. No style statements. No coiffeured looks. After all, for whom did she need to do all this? She was happy with what she looked like. Shireen was not too tough to please. Especially when it came to Shireen. She wore thick framed glasses. The kind that were in vogue in the 60s when nothing else was available.
Shireen worked in a Marwari export firm 10 minutes walking distance from her building. The export firm had been in business since pre-Independence days. But rioting, errant sons, splits in the family, eroding market share, competition, laziness, and plain ineptitude had kept the company in exactly the same place it had been, with the same people visiting it day in and day out. A loser company, kept in business by its owner, who frequented casinos, the races, went abroad frequently, had a high maintenance wife, and 2 bratty children, who kept their launderers busy. Until they squandered their inheritance, they kept Shireen in employment. Sometimes the boss brushed her bottom on his way across the office. Shireen just bit her lip, and continued on her way. It was not so often that she would have to do something about it. But not so infrequent that she forgot about it. It was something she submitted to, only because it happened rarely.
Shireen lived in a continuum, where days were words, and dates were numbers, and all life was a single cycle. Every day, she got up at 7 AM, answered the door for the milkman. Heated the milk, and had her regulation one cup of tea. She then poured out a little milk into the bowl, and added equal parts of water to it for the cat. She then turned on the Antique iron geyser and waited for the water to boil. She then filled up a clanking iron pail with 50% hot water, 50% cold water, and had a bath. She never washed her hair. Neither did she comb it. It was always bunched up. She would leave for office precisely at 9 AM. She shut the two doors and padlocked the outer door. And then pulled the chain across. Just to make sure.
One day, when she returned back from work, she saw the Mehta children from the 2nd floor tying a string of cans to her cat's tail. The cat was obviously scared and as it ran away from the children, mewing horrendously, the clattering cans made a louder racket, frightening her even more. Shireen was shaking with anger and irritation when she stopped the cat and gently untied the cans. She then stroked the cat gently, and let it go. She strode up the stairs, muttering under her breath. When she reached the 2nd floor, she began to stride down the long hallway to the double doored Gujju household of Mr Mehta, Bania; Mrs Mehta, Henpecking Bitchy Housewife; Aunty Mehta, returned from Kenya; and the Mehta brood - 2 to the Bitchy, and 2 to the Aunty. And their ghanti-toting Grandmother. Up at 5 AM reciting mantras at the top of her voice. As she approached the door, it opened, with loud gujarati voices condemning the existence of Muslims in their neighbourhood, the rising prices of onions, and the school systems that made private tuitions for English compulsory.
Shireen hesitated as she contemplated yet another inequal argument between her pidgin hindi and Mrs Mehta's articulate gujarati. She stood, poised for a split second. Then she turned around and walked away swiftly, and turned up the stairway, before they came out.
That night, the gujjus were troubled by a stringed instrument, soulfully howling out into the night.
utekkare,
pranay
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Obsolete
I sit there. At the big wooden desk. I watch everyone come and go. Day and night. Big people. Small people. Male people. Female people. Kind people. Harsh people. Intelligent people. Dumb people. Rich people. Poor people.
And I told some of them what to do. And where to go. And what their future was. And some of them took my advice. Actually a lot of them took my advice. Some of them ignored me.
And I grew in confidence. And I became stronger. And wiser. And I grew powerful. And the world listened to me. While I sat there. I began to see things that I did not see before. I saw ordinary people bestowed with extraordinary opportunity as they frittered it away. I saw extraordinary people trapped in ordinary lives because a few key choices in their life went astray. I saw mediocre people sitting in positions of power, misusing it to their heart's content. And I grew angry. And frustrated.
And I lost old friends. And I made new friends. And enemies. Ofcourse I still have my old enemies. And I found love. And I found hate. And I began scorning existentialism. Which is a nice way of saying I chased materialism. And I liked. Hedonistic pursuits of capitalistic pleasures.
But then I needed help. I decided to share my success. And my achievements. And I thought I would find happiness. And togetherness. And I would be building a legacy. Carried forward on able shoulders.
But I was wrong.
I sit here. But I dont tell the time any more. After all noone wants to read a clock that has stopped.
utekkare,
Pranay
And I told some of them what to do. And where to go. And what their future was. And some of them took my advice. Actually a lot of them took my advice. Some of them ignored me.
And I grew in confidence. And I became stronger. And wiser. And I grew powerful. And the world listened to me. While I sat there. I began to see things that I did not see before. I saw ordinary people bestowed with extraordinary opportunity as they frittered it away. I saw extraordinary people trapped in ordinary lives because a few key choices in their life went astray. I saw mediocre people sitting in positions of power, misusing it to their heart's content. And I grew angry. And frustrated.
And I lost old friends. And I made new friends. And enemies. Ofcourse I still have my old enemies. And I found love. And I found hate. And I began scorning existentialism. Which is a nice way of saying I chased materialism. And I liked. Hedonistic pursuits of capitalistic pleasures.
But then I needed help. I decided to share my success. And my achievements. And I thought I would find happiness. And togetherness. And I would be building a legacy. Carried forward on able shoulders.
But I was wrong.
I sit here. But I dont tell the time any more. After all noone wants to read a clock that has stopped.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, April 22, 2006
2 mynahs
Every day, when I wake up, and step out of my house, a part of me is always filled with trepidation. About whether I will see 2 mynahs or 1 mynah.
Oh, by the by, today is blog deluge day. When I am able to write what I think, and think about what I am going to write, and I am blocked by neither time nor laziness.
And now, back to the mynahs. The old woman's rhyme goes:
"1 for sorrow, 2 for joy, 3 for letter, 4 for (boy/girl), 5 for silver, 6 for gold, 7 for a secret never to be told." Well now, this was presumably years and years and years ago. And I am quite sure it was written in a part of the world where mynahs are few and far between. And sighting 30 of 40 of them together is not so common. Ofcourse you will find these mynahs everywhere. Literally everywhere. in the world even.
And woe is me, because i was afflicted with stupidstitionitis from a young age. Bordering on compulsive obsessive disorder, I am unable to discount day to day events as happenstance or even a happy coincidence. There are always factors - hidden, unseen factors at work that ensure the passage of time as it does pass..
And it is these pieces of good luck (or bad) that determine whether the day is good or bad. Never mind that it will influence my thought process. Or that it will create a disconcerting presence of the fear of the illogical in my mind. No, ofcourse I am as rational as the day is long, but is it my fault that I mentally live not in a tropical country, but rather in a ice covered northern waste, where it winters for months, and is summer day for but a fleeting passage of time.
And I am wary. Of looking out of the window when showering. Of looking out of the window of the car when travelling. Of strolling to the broken window by the lift and staring into the blank distance. Of lifting the blinds of my 5th floor window. Of hearing a single shrieking call of the single mynah out to fill my day with bad luck, and forgotten appointments, and mislaid tasks, and unheeded advice, and backlash. Fierce, retributional backlash.
And on days, where I challenge my luck. And I see the pair of mynahs sitting on a lampost. Flying across the road. pecking at the ground. Chirping and fighting with a crow. I am happy, and I feel lucky. And things still go badly.
After all nobody likes a cocky arrogant son of the boss who thinks nothing can go wrong just because he saw 2 mynahs together.
utekkare,
Pranay
Oh, by the by, today is blog deluge day. When I am able to write what I think, and think about what I am going to write, and I am blocked by neither time nor laziness.
And now, back to the mynahs. The old woman's rhyme goes:
"1 for sorrow, 2 for joy, 3 for letter, 4 for (boy/girl), 5 for silver, 6 for gold, 7 for a secret never to be told." Well now, this was presumably years and years and years ago. And I am quite sure it was written in a part of the world where mynahs are few and far between. And sighting 30 of 40 of them together is not so common. Ofcourse you will find these mynahs everywhere. Literally everywhere. in the world even.
And woe is me, because i was afflicted with stupidstitionitis from a young age. Bordering on compulsive obsessive disorder, I am unable to discount day to day events as happenstance or even a happy coincidence. There are always factors - hidden, unseen factors at work that ensure the passage of time as it does pass..
And it is these pieces of good luck (or bad) that determine whether the day is good or bad. Never mind that it will influence my thought process. Or that it will create a disconcerting presence of the fear of the illogical in my mind. No, ofcourse I am as rational as the day is long, but is it my fault that I mentally live not in a tropical country, but rather in a ice covered northern waste, where it winters for months, and is summer day for but a fleeting passage of time.
And I am wary. Of looking out of the window when showering. Of looking out of the window of the car when travelling. Of strolling to the broken window by the lift and staring into the blank distance. Of lifting the blinds of my 5th floor window. Of hearing a single shrieking call of the single mynah out to fill my day with bad luck, and forgotten appointments, and mislaid tasks, and unheeded advice, and backlash. Fierce, retributional backlash.
And on days, where I challenge my luck. And I see the pair of mynahs sitting on a lampost. Flying across the road. pecking at the ground. Chirping and fighting with a crow. I am happy, and I feel lucky. And things still go badly.
After all nobody likes a cocky arrogant son of the boss who thinks nothing can go wrong just because he saw 2 mynahs together.
utekkare,
Pranay
1 minute and 30 seconds on a traffic island.
And so We were stranded. The signal behind us turned green even as we turned to retreat onto the pavement. And the signal before us was green already. Served us right for braving the wrath of a thoroughfare.
Careful, no. Dont want those superspeedy idiotic double deckers to run over your feet. Retreat a few inches. not too far back. Your ass is vulnerable to a rear guard action.
Looking around. An old american with wrinkled skin, a straw hat, Sun City Bermudas, a loose dirty snot colored Polo and ridiculuous aquamarine flipflops that begged to be stamped on. Well, not me today. A young petite chinese / HongKonginese woman. Actually you can never make out the age on these oriental women. Firstly they dress like its christmas every day. And they never seem to age. It seems like they're 16 till they're 55. And then suddenly they're looking like a 100. And for the life of me, I cannot distinguish between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, Taiwanese, and other Indonesians. Although I am told they are as different as chalk and cheese. Ofcourse it bothers me that if a chink can outsmart another chink, then a japanese or an indian should be easy meat. Me? easy meat? Sure... Well there's Brian. ex-Marine. Married. Businessman. Golfer. Cigar baron. well not quite a cigar "baron". but close enough. and just about 25. Damn. And a bangladeshi suit - middleaged, gleaming balding pate, striped suit, hand in pocket, eyeing the wrinkled American. Bloody darzi. These bangladeshis, pakistanis, sri lankans, sindhis, and filipinos had cornered the secret art of surviving in developed nations en famille.
Reminds me of a conversation I had at a street corner about 25 mins ago. Looking for chinese silk shirts. I ran into an indian subcontinental featured pair of gentlemen. So I asked where I could find Silk Shirts. Turned out one was a Pakistani and one was Bangladeshi. Presently, an Indonesian strolled up to join the discussion about where one could purchase Silk Shirts. Ofcourse, after a protracted argument, tried to hustle me into buying tailored suits. Cheap ones. Only 1000 HK. When I told them my flight was in 5 hours, they lost interest, the argument dissipated, people stomped off, and one of them pointed across the street in the vague direction of a shopping mall before he snorted and took off.
Well, now back to the denizens of the traffic island. One American oldie, One bangladeshi well preserved oldie, One ex-Marine, one Asian looking cute chick, and an overeager overdressed Indian budding entrepreneur accounted for. In the balance were a Caucasian stock broker type, supercilious and spectacled; a companion for the old American, equally wrinkled and attired in flipflops; and a surprise addition to the group - a daschund on a leash, leading a tired looking British dowager.
And I felt we shared a bond - an oasis in the middle of a honking and beeping and traffic laden desert; that we were connecting beyond all stereotypes, and all races and cultures; That this was a tale of passion, togetherness, and human survival; That this was the most momentous humanised occasion of my short trip; and that it showed that humans are capable of loving, and that I could maybe, just maybe get that woman's telephone number just by willing it. Ok, even if she looked at me, I suppose it would be enough for my mind to metamorphose into a short fling we enjoyed together.
But just when I was getting to know everyone, the signal turned and everyone scooted off.
utekkare,
Pranay
Careful, no. Dont want those superspeedy idiotic double deckers to run over your feet. Retreat a few inches. not too far back. Your ass is vulnerable to a rear guard action.
Looking around. An old american with wrinkled skin, a straw hat, Sun City Bermudas, a loose dirty snot colored Polo and ridiculuous aquamarine flipflops that begged to be stamped on. Well, not me today. A young petite chinese / HongKonginese woman. Actually you can never make out the age on these oriental women. Firstly they dress like its christmas every day. And they never seem to age. It seems like they're 16 till they're 55. And then suddenly they're looking like a 100. And for the life of me, I cannot distinguish between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, Taiwanese, and other Indonesians. Although I am told they are as different as chalk and cheese. Ofcourse it bothers me that if a chink can outsmart another chink, then a japanese or an indian should be easy meat. Me? easy meat? Sure... Well there's Brian. ex-Marine. Married. Businessman. Golfer. Cigar baron. well not quite a cigar "baron". but close enough. and just about 25. Damn. And a bangladeshi suit - middleaged, gleaming balding pate, striped suit, hand in pocket, eyeing the wrinkled American. Bloody darzi. These bangladeshis, pakistanis, sri lankans, sindhis, and filipinos had cornered the secret art of surviving in developed nations en famille.
Reminds me of a conversation I had at a street corner about 25 mins ago. Looking for chinese silk shirts. I ran into an indian subcontinental featured pair of gentlemen. So I asked where I could find Silk Shirts. Turned out one was a Pakistani and one was Bangladeshi. Presently, an Indonesian strolled up to join the discussion about where one could purchase Silk Shirts. Ofcourse, after a protracted argument, tried to hustle me into buying tailored suits. Cheap ones. Only 1000 HK. When I told them my flight was in 5 hours, they lost interest, the argument dissipated, people stomped off, and one of them pointed across the street in the vague direction of a shopping mall before he snorted and took off.
Well, now back to the denizens of the traffic island. One American oldie, One bangladeshi well preserved oldie, One ex-Marine, one Asian looking cute chick, and an overeager overdressed Indian budding entrepreneur accounted for. In the balance were a Caucasian stock broker type, supercilious and spectacled; a companion for the old American, equally wrinkled and attired in flipflops; and a surprise addition to the group - a daschund on a leash, leading a tired looking British dowager.
And I felt we shared a bond - an oasis in the middle of a honking and beeping and traffic laden desert; that we were connecting beyond all stereotypes, and all races and cultures; That this was a tale of passion, togetherness, and human survival; That this was the most momentous humanised occasion of my short trip; and that it showed that humans are capable of loving, and that I could maybe, just maybe get that woman's telephone number just by willing it. Ok, even if she looked at me, I suppose it would be enough for my mind to metamorphose into a short fling we enjoyed together.
But just when I was getting to know everyone, the signal turned and everyone scooted off.
utekkare,
Pranay
Bean Counted!
We are not people. Not human beings. Not insolent living creatures who challenge the limits of nature's patience with every passing day. No. In our man-made world, of convoluted and complex human idiosyncrasies, we are all numbers.
And if we are the right number in the right place, we have right of passage. Otherwise, we're out of the loop and we will be stranded. After all its nothing personal. We're supposed to be the right number. Its just a numbers game.
So at school you are your rank, you are your percentage, accompanied by a full stop preceding decimals that could sometimes decide the future of your life. At the medical checkup, you are the right weight for the right height, the right chest size and the right chest expanded size for the right age, and the right heartbeat for the right type of activity. Otherwise, you are a loser, a failure, a has-been, an obese couch potato, and a slacker. In that precise order of judgement.
At school, you will always be the wrong shoe size, the wrong chest size, the wrong shoulder size, the wrong sock size, the wrong height, and the wrong waist size till you stop growing. And your parents will always be worried about buying you too many clothes before they grow out of them. Especially that lovely Osh Kosh B'Gosh Overall you wore when you were 4. But ofcourse you were the right age then, and now any age under 25 and over 6 is the wrong age.
And in class you are your roll number, and if you are the right roll number, you are placed with the coolest dude in class and so you will be able to hang out and get cooler. But if you are the wrong roll number, you will be with neither the geeks nor the dudes and will end up being the cat who walks alone, best favourite friend.
And in college, you are first a form number, then a fees receipt number, then an interview number, and finally a class number. If you start early, you might get some kind cute chick's telephone number, and that is always the best numbers to have. As you move on, ATKT numbers, hall ticket numbers, and travel pass numbers, and even more roll numbers, and black list numbers, and protecting your parents' phone numbers, and basketball jersey numbers, and NBA superstar's numbers. And remember, that without the right number at the right time, you will end up being called a dude, an ass, a chemistry handicap, a candidate, a lucky rich kid, an arrogant sports scholarship holder, a future basketball star, and a has-been basketball discard.
And as you progress through life, you are a PAN Card number, a Passport number, a Visa number, a bank account number, a credit card number, a vendor number, a boyfriend number, an office number, a telephone number, a gym membership number, a mobile number.
And yes, you are important. When these numbers are punched by strange fingers on foreign keyboards, doors of countries open for you, banks open their lockers for you, companies invest their money in you, governments assess taxes from you, janitors demand diwali bakshish from you, women demand attention from you because you just might be the one, and cell phone companies offer you more cell phones and more airtime, and gyms offer you extended memberships.
And its not because you are funny. Or because you are good looking. Or famous. Or intelligent. Or because you are rich. Or successful. or happy. Or obedient. Or friendly. No, in fact it even has nothing to do with your scoring rate with women. Or that you can bench press 400 pounds. Or that you can run 30 mins on a treadmill at 10 miles an hour. Or that you have a bad left knee. Or because they felt sorry for you.
No. We are offered all this importance because we are the right number in the right screen at the right time.
I can only hope that luck continues.
utekkare,
Pranay
And if we are the right number in the right place, we have right of passage. Otherwise, we're out of the loop and we will be stranded. After all its nothing personal. We're supposed to be the right number. Its just a numbers game.
So at school you are your rank, you are your percentage, accompanied by a full stop preceding decimals that could sometimes decide the future of your life. At the medical checkup, you are the right weight for the right height, the right chest size and the right chest expanded size for the right age, and the right heartbeat for the right type of activity. Otherwise, you are a loser, a failure, a has-been, an obese couch potato, and a slacker. In that precise order of judgement.
At school, you will always be the wrong shoe size, the wrong chest size, the wrong shoulder size, the wrong sock size, the wrong height, and the wrong waist size till you stop growing. And your parents will always be worried about buying you too many clothes before they grow out of them. Especially that lovely Osh Kosh B'Gosh Overall you wore when you were 4. But ofcourse you were the right age then, and now any age under 25 and over 6 is the wrong age.
And in class you are your roll number, and if you are the right roll number, you are placed with the coolest dude in class and so you will be able to hang out and get cooler. But if you are the wrong roll number, you will be with neither the geeks nor the dudes and will end up being the cat who walks alone, best favourite friend.
And in college, you are first a form number, then a fees receipt number, then an interview number, and finally a class number. If you start early, you might get some kind cute chick's telephone number, and that is always the best numbers to have. As you move on, ATKT numbers, hall ticket numbers, and travel pass numbers, and even more roll numbers, and black list numbers, and protecting your parents' phone numbers, and basketball jersey numbers, and NBA superstar's numbers. And remember, that without the right number at the right time, you will end up being called a dude, an ass, a chemistry handicap, a candidate, a lucky rich kid, an arrogant sports scholarship holder, a future basketball star, and a has-been basketball discard.
And as you progress through life, you are a PAN Card number, a Passport number, a Visa number, a bank account number, a credit card number, a vendor number, a boyfriend number, an office number, a telephone number, a gym membership number, a mobile number.
And yes, you are important. When these numbers are punched by strange fingers on foreign keyboards, doors of countries open for you, banks open their lockers for you, companies invest their money in you, governments assess taxes from you, janitors demand diwali bakshish from you, women demand attention from you because you just might be the one, and cell phone companies offer you more cell phones and more airtime, and gyms offer you extended memberships.
And its not because you are funny. Or because you are good looking. Or famous. Or intelligent. Or because you are rich. Or successful. or happy. Or obedient. Or friendly. No, in fact it even has nothing to do with your scoring rate with women. Or that you can bench press 400 pounds. Or that you can run 30 mins on a treadmill at 10 miles an hour. Or that you have a bad left knee. Or because they felt sorry for you.
No. We are offered all this importance because we are the right number in the right screen at the right time.
I can only hope that luck continues.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
3 points of view - delayed inordinately
Should have been posted 31-Jul-2005.
And on a day devoid of electricity, water, sunlight, warmth, happiness, and relaxation, a few points of view on things that get my goat.
I dont like the rains. They think they are completely superior to us, and will go to any lengths to prove their superiority. When contacted for an opinion, I came away drenched to the bone, and JUST to spite me, they submerged my nice 1 year and 9 month old car in 7 feet of water. Poor car. Caught in the crossfire between me and the raingods. Ofcourse, since they are supposed to be a benevolent raingod, they spared my other 5 month old car and allowed my brave driver and me to bask in the collective heroics that we employed to emerge unscathed from the Tuesday deluge.
I think that most people dont actually get how privileged they are. Imagine living on the surface on a simultaneously rotating and revolving tennis ball, composed of a burning liquid centre, covered by a thin wafer cover on which over 70% of the surface is water, some of which extends upto the beginning of the centre. Imagine that the tennis ball is suspended in a vacuum covered in a faint, very very flimsy mist is ultimately only hot, very very hot air. Imagine walking on the tennis ball without falling off, and not stepping onto the water. Imagine that even if the tennis ball shifted by 1-2 inches in the vacuum, and if it wobbled a little excessively, the liquid centre would make it roll sideways like a small dory in an ocean swell, and the tin soldiers in the dory would probably be thrown over.
Imagine small stone pellets being thrown at the tennis ball in large swerving motions by crazy, impish schoolboys from afar, that end up becoming balls of fire that the tennis ball can do nothing about but just sit there and wait to be hit.
I dont like the new cell phone craze. Time was when you used a cell phone to make calls, receive calls, and look important before the aam public because they couldnt afford it and you could. And the women would croon and cajole and talk sweetly to your cellphone. But now, its not enough. You have cellphones that can talk back to you, that can play songs, and play the radio, and can replace your music system and that can replace your computer and that can replace your cameras and your video cameras and that can replace your secretary, and that have more storage that your old black and white PC, and that can communicate with computers, and other mobile phones and that can let you stop waiting for the cablewallah to get happy after 12.30 am on saturday night/sunday morning. Oh, and sometimes you can make and receive calls. The latest craze is Bluetooth, supposedly named after a Nordic prince who brought tribes together. A friend of mine recently bought a phone that had a bluetooth headset included with it as a Special price, and he was extremely happy that suddenly he could look like an extension of the Star Wars generation with a space-like orb glowing blue over his ear. He can listen to the radio, listen to MP3's and he can take pictures. But his phone is always unreachable when I want to talk to him.
utekkare,
pranay
And on a day devoid of electricity, water, sunlight, warmth, happiness, and relaxation, a few points of view on things that get my goat.
I dont like the rains. They think they are completely superior to us, and will go to any lengths to prove their superiority. When contacted for an opinion, I came away drenched to the bone, and JUST to spite me, they submerged my nice 1 year and 9 month old car in 7 feet of water. Poor car. Caught in the crossfire between me and the raingods. Ofcourse, since they are supposed to be a benevolent raingod, they spared my other 5 month old car and allowed my brave driver and me to bask in the collective heroics that we employed to emerge unscathed from the Tuesday deluge.
I think that most people dont actually get how privileged they are. Imagine living on the surface on a simultaneously rotating and revolving tennis ball, composed of a burning liquid centre, covered by a thin wafer cover on which over 70% of the surface is water, some of which extends upto the beginning of the centre. Imagine that the tennis ball is suspended in a vacuum covered in a faint, very very flimsy mist is ultimately only hot, very very hot air. Imagine walking on the tennis ball without falling off, and not stepping onto the water. Imagine that even if the tennis ball shifted by 1-2 inches in the vacuum, and if it wobbled a little excessively, the liquid centre would make it roll sideways like a small dory in an ocean swell, and the tin soldiers in the dory would probably be thrown over.
Imagine small stone pellets being thrown at the tennis ball in large swerving motions by crazy, impish schoolboys from afar, that end up becoming balls of fire that the tennis ball can do nothing about but just sit there and wait to be hit.
I dont like the new cell phone craze. Time was when you used a cell phone to make calls, receive calls, and look important before the aam public because they couldnt afford it and you could. And the women would croon and cajole and talk sweetly to your cellphone. But now, its not enough. You have cellphones that can talk back to you, that can play songs, and play the radio, and can replace your music system and that can replace your computer and that can replace your cameras and your video cameras and that can replace your secretary, and that have more storage that your old black and white PC, and that can communicate with computers, and other mobile phones and that can let you stop waiting for the cablewallah to get happy after 12.30 am on saturday night/sunday morning. Oh, and sometimes you can make and receive calls. The latest craze is Bluetooth, supposedly named after a Nordic prince who brought tribes together. A friend of mine recently bought a phone that had a bluetooth headset included with it as a Special price, and he was extremely happy that suddenly he could look like an extension of the Star Wars generation with a space-like orb glowing blue over his ear. He can listen to the radio, listen to MP3's and he can take pictures. But his phone is always unreachable when I want to talk to him.
utekkare,
pranay
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Pak-pak-pak-pak-Pakkak!!!!
And now, since we have a pandemic amongst us, no more chicken makkhanwala. No more chicken tangdi at Bade Miya.
And no more chicken tandoori in Chembur Camp. And no more Chicken Shredded Poutine (pronounced "foo-tay-ne") in Mocha's. And no more chicken steaks and no chicken legs, and no chicken mixed fried rice and no more chicken mixed steamed hakka noodles with boiled chicken and prawns and MSG sprinkled upar-se from our local Chinese thele-wala.
And goodbye to chicken desi and broiler and english by the kilo, and chicken curry, and chicken stroganoff and chicken masala and chicken burgers at Mcdonalds and no more chicken kadhai at Khyber.
And tata to Venky's Chicken-in-Minutes and Godrej Chicken, and Maggi's Chicken Clear Soup, and Knorr's Sweet Corn Chicken Soup.
And no more Chicken Luncheon Meat, and no more Chicken Loaf, and no Chicken Shashlik at Kobe's or at Yoko's.
And no more saying "Murga ban" to NCC cadets, and no more cocks on the weatherpanes, and no more squawking chickens in dirty chicken trucks and no more chickens crossing the road "simbly" or "to reach the other side" or "to cross over" or any such jokes. And no more business for Narayan Rane. No more chicken business at any rate.
And since there are no chickens, there can not be eggs too. No andelal eggathons, and no eight annas hard-boiled eggs and soft-boiled eggs, and no eggcups, and no egg-white omlettes and no sunny-side-up and no kheema ghotala and no more midnight egg-bhurji opp Dadar station and no more pudding in Kyaani's and no more egg pastries and no more "egging on" people and no more spoilt eggs.
And the goats are bleating. And the pigs are squealing. And the fish are even more slippery than ever. And the prawns and the crabs and the lobsters are biting the hand that catches them more than ever. And those who live, but for a spinal cord and a nervous system - those who grow tall and short and underground and above it will get eaten with disdain and regret.
Until a virus comes along that makes them all stars of the day. And we have to subsist on pills.
utekkare,
pranay
And no more chicken tandoori in Chembur Camp. And no more Chicken Shredded Poutine (pronounced "foo-tay-ne") in Mocha's. And no more chicken steaks and no chicken legs, and no chicken mixed fried rice and no more chicken mixed steamed hakka noodles with boiled chicken and prawns and MSG sprinkled upar-se from our local Chinese thele-wala.
And goodbye to chicken desi and broiler and english by the kilo, and chicken curry, and chicken stroganoff and chicken masala and chicken burgers at Mcdonalds and no more chicken kadhai at Khyber.
And tata to Venky's Chicken-in-Minutes and Godrej Chicken, and Maggi's Chicken Clear Soup, and Knorr's Sweet Corn Chicken Soup.
And no more Chicken Luncheon Meat, and no more Chicken Loaf, and no Chicken Shashlik at Kobe's or at Yoko's.
And no more saying "Murga ban" to NCC cadets, and no more cocks on the weatherpanes, and no more squawking chickens in dirty chicken trucks and no more chickens crossing the road "simbly" or "to reach the other side" or "to cross over" or any such jokes. And no more business for Narayan Rane. No more chicken business at any rate.
And since there are no chickens, there can not be eggs too. No andelal eggathons, and no eight annas hard-boiled eggs and soft-boiled eggs, and no eggcups, and no egg-white omlettes and no sunny-side-up and no kheema ghotala and no more midnight egg-bhurji opp Dadar station and no more pudding in Kyaani's and no more egg pastries and no more "egging on" people and no more spoilt eggs.
And the goats are bleating. And the pigs are squealing. And the fish are even more slippery than ever. And the prawns and the crabs and the lobsters are biting the hand that catches them more than ever. And those who live, but for a spinal cord and a nervous system - those who grow tall and short and underground and above it will get eaten with disdain and regret.
Until a virus comes along that makes them all stars of the day. And we have to subsist on pills.
utekkare,
pranay
Friday, March 03, 2006
The World is flat. Mind it!
lying down, in response to a migraine
close my eyes to prevent them from descending down to my knees;
bend them quickly. tilt your head up, watch your sweat pour down.
pull in your soggy tummy, and see the fat rearrange itself.
clench your jaws, or your teeth will fall off.
one by one.
run your hair through your hair. no, wait. on second thoughts, dont. its all the hair you have left.
pull your right earlobe to look happy.
now look what you've gone and done. your right one, not your left. so thats why you look like an ass.
from the Rann of Kutch. no, i dont know why the kutchie rann. maybe because kutches win mutches.
get up slowly or your brain will go into shock because of newton's 1st law - persistence of inertia.
and yes, the world is round. hold on tight. or you might just slip into the mariana trench one fine day.
hey, dont con me into this. I'm just a goldfish. I live in a round bowl all day. and sometimes at night too. i dont remember yesterday. that was today wasnt it?
staring at the stars. twinkling fireflies that dwindle not.
scratch your head. maybe it's lice. maybe it's an itch. maybe your scalp is trying to feel your finger up. naughty scalp.
slap your right knee. was that the bad one? no, its the left knee. yes, my dear mutating mosquitoes, come and feast on the most vulnerable knee in my body...
balderdash to you, but infinitely intelligent conversation i am capable of.
complete coherence and sanity.
but not now. later.
utekkare,
pranay
close my eyes to prevent them from descending down to my knees;
bend them quickly. tilt your head up, watch your sweat pour down.
pull in your soggy tummy, and see the fat rearrange itself.
clench your jaws, or your teeth will fall off.
one by one.
run your hair through your hair. no, wait. on second thoughts, dont. its all the hair you have left.
pull your right earlobe to look happy.
now look what you've gone and done. your right one, not your left. so thats why you look like an ass.
from the Rann of Kutch. no, i dont know why the kutchie rann. maybe because kutches win mutches.
get up slowly or your brain will go into shock because of newton's 1st law - persistence of inertia.
and yes, the world is round. hold on tight. or you might just slip into the mariana trench one fine day.
hey, dont con me into this. I'm just a goldfish. I live in a round bowl all day. and sometimes at night too. i dont remember yesterday. that was today wasnt it?
staring at the stars. twinkling fireflies that dwindle not.
scratch your head. maybe it's lice. maybe it's an itch. maybe your scalp is trying to feel your finger up. naughty scalp.
slap your right knee. was that the bad one? no, its the left knee. yes, my dear mutating mosquitoes, come and feast on the most vulnerable knee in my body...
balderdash to you, but infinitely intelligent conversation i am capable of.
complete coherence and sanity.
but not now. later.
utekkare,
pranay
Friday, February 24, 2006
One flu over the cuckoo's nest!
And since it was a saturday, I looked forward to my email eagerly, hoping that someone might invite me for a party. Surprisingly, since I had been relatively illness-free for a long period of time, an invite awaited me - from WHO and the Pharma Council of india. An invitation to interview Bird Flu at the social diseased party of the year at the garbage dump in Worli near Love Grove Sewer.
And since I couldnt refuse, I got togged up in a cotton suit, and tie and trudged along to the party.
To my surprise, the who's who of the illness world had shown up in all their splendour - Chicken Pox, Jaundice, Cholera, Typhoid, Malaria, Dengue Fever and even Leptospirosis had arrived, looking their virulent best, cloistered with their own pet patients. Evidently nobody wanted to be left out on the arrival of Bird Flu on the global stage. Chronic party crashers like Spondilitis, Arthritis, Rheumatism, Asthma, and Obesity had turned up (some even sitting together on a single patient?!), and were seen hero worshipping the industry bigwigs like AIDS, Cancer, Angina, Heart Blockage, and Renal Failure who was hanging around by the bar sipping on Hapless Mortals and Unknown Patients, counting out his pending dialysis sittings and sipping his blood nervously looking around.
Just as the party began losing steam, and the patients started recovering, Bird Flu walked in, like a giant cake being brought in - with Glaxo, Cipla, Ranbaxy, and SKB trailing behind like sycophants, applauding as Bird Flu made it's way towards the dais.
As Bird Flu walked, rumours and murmurs flew about the kind of growth he had accomplished in such a short time, and how with just a few deaths, Bird Flu had grown in stature to an international epidemic. About how skilfully it had operated and the beautiful coup de grace it delivered to unready administrations. About where it had struck so far - Far East, USA, Europe and now India. Sicknesses whispered, "it was only a matter of time before he came to India - with such a large population and consumer base, it would have been hara-kiri to ignore the indian public.
In a corner of the party, sat a small bent deformed demented person, who called himself small pox sat quietly, sipping on a cheap bowl of soup and crackers. Illnesses whispered that he'd blown up the machines to get out. And that IAF had been red in the face trying to deny the stray case and that small pox and its head honchos had been passe - eradicated by the health police for years.
I shouldered my way across the dance floor where Dettol was dancing the forbidden dance of disinfection - alluring but untouchable, and walked towards where Bird Flu was chatting with the health minister, and Cipla's CMD. I coughed quietly to attract its attention, and Bird Flu turned around to greet me as if I was a long lost old pal. "Arre, Its great to finally meet the disease free Utekkare! so you are here to share in my moment of triumph when I will spell disaster for the Indian chicken industry! You shall see me raise Ranbaxy from its recent debacle in UK and USA, you shall see Cipla ride this wave of grief to greater profits, and you will see the Indians eat more fish than ever before - until the government eats Turkey and makes the medicine / vaccines subsidised... Then I shall turn my attention to some other countries!" All this time, AIDS and Cancer sniggered - since they were atleast uncurables - and would never be out of business no matter how subsidised their medicines were... Let this johnny-come-lately hog the limelight for now.. We are the real killers and we will never be out of favour...
Bird Flur continued to crow about his waxing zenith of his powers... about how the chicken farmers lobby had come to his doorstep to negotiate an agreement - and requested him to bypass India. He said that he wouldnt have infected India if they hadnt reneged on the deal to offer him unlimited access to the chickens in Africa...
And all I could think of was why only Chickens? Why not these stupid pestilential common crows???? And so I asked him, why not crows? After all these creatures were everywhere and could spread the disease much faster than a clucking chicken...
Suddenly there was pin drop silence. Bird Flu turned slowly and the color drained from his face.. He lifted one wing and slapped me across the face. "Dobara mat puchna!!!! Damn fool!" and he turned away.
Malaria and Jaundice took me by the hand and threw me out of the party. I walked home, replaying the events over in my head, thinking that maybe it was for the best and that I have had the opportunity to get close to these diseases.. without getting infected.
As I turned into the dark lane leading to my home, Common Cold, along with Body Ache, Cough, and and Head Ache and Runny Nose jumped out of the darkness and threw me down. As they infected me, they screamed,"That'll teach you to suck up to foreign illnesses.. We demand Poorna Swadeshi!!!!"
utekkare,
Pranay
And since I couldnt refuse, I got togged up in a cotton suit, and tie and trudged along to the party.
To my surprise, the who's who of the illness world had shown up in all their splendour - Chicken Pox, Jaundice, Cholera, Typhoid, Malaria, Dengue Fever and even Leptospirosis had arrived, looking their virulent best, cloistered with their own pet patients. Evidently nobody wanted to be left out on the arrival of Bird Flu on the global stage. Chronic party crashers like Spondilitis, Arthritis, Rheumatism, Asthma, and Obesity had turned up (some even sitting together on a single patient?!), and were seen hero worshipping the industry bigwigs like AIDS, Cancer, Angina, Heart Blockage, and Renal Failure who was hanging around by the bar sipping on Hapless Mortals and Unknown Patients, counting out his pending dialysis sittings and sipping his blood nervously looking around.
Just as the party began losing steam, and the patients started recovering, Bird Flu walked in, like a giant cake being brought in - with Glaxo, Cipla, Ranbaxy, and SKB trailing behind like sycophants, applauding as Bird Flu made it's way towards the dais.
As Bird Flu walked, rumours and murmurs flew about the kind of growth he had accomplished in such a short time, and how with just a few deaths, Bird Flu had grown in stature to an international epidemic. About how skilfully it had operated and the beautiful coup de grace it delivered to unready administrations. About where it had struck so far - Far East, USA, Europe and now India. Sicknesses whispered, "it was only a matter of time before he came to India - with such a large population and consumer base, it would have been hara-kiri to ignore the indian public.
In a corner of the party, sat a small bent deformed demented person, who called himself small pox sat quietly, sipping on a cheap bowl of soup and crackers. Illnesses whispered that he'd blown up the machines to get out. And that IAF had been red in the face trying to deny the stray case and that small pox and its head honchos had been passe - eradicated by the health police for years.
I shouldered my way across the dance floor where Dettol was dancing the forbidden dance of disinfection - alluring but untouchable, and walked towards where Bird Flu was chatting with the health minister, and Cipla's CMD. I coughed quietly to attract its attention, and Bird Flu turned around to greet me as if I was a long lost old pal. "Arre, Its great to finally meet the disease free Utekkare! so you are here to share in my moment of triumph when I will spell disaster for the Indian chicken industry! You shall see me raise Ranbaxy from its recent debacle in UK and USA, you shall see Cipla ride this wave of grief to greater profits, and you will see the Indians eat more fish than ever before - until the government eats Turkey and makes the medicine / vaccines subsidised... Then I shall turn my attention to some other countries!" All this time, AIDS and Cancer sniggered - since they were atleast uncurables - and would never be out of business no matter how subsidised their medicines were... Let this johnny-come-lately hog the limelight for now.. We are the real killers and we will never be out of favour...
Bird Flur continued to crow about his waxing zenith of his powers... about how the chicken farmers lobby had come to his doorstep to negotiate an agreement - and requested him to bypass India. He said that he wouldnt have infected India if they hadnt reneged on the deal to offer him unlimited access to the chickens in Africa...
And all I could think of was why only Chickens? Why not these stupid pestilential common crows???? And so I asked him, why not crows? After all these creatures were everywhere and could spread the disease much faster than a clucking chicken...
Suddenly there was pin drop silence. Bird Flu turned slowly and the color drained from his face.. He lifted one wing and slapped me across the face. "Dobara mat puchna!!!! Damn fool!" and he turned away.
Malaria and Jaundice took me by the hand and threw me out of the party. I walked home, replaying the events over in my head, thinking that maybe it was for the best and that I have had the opportunity to get close to these diseases.. without getting infected.
As I turned into the dark lane leading to my home, Common Cold, along with Body Ache, Cough, and and Head Ache and Runny Nose jumped out of the darkness and threw me down. As they infected me, they screamed,"That'll teach you to suck up to foreign illnesses.. We demand Poorna Swadeshi!!!!"
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, February 19, 2006
The Human Body - A user manual
Dear Consumer Spirit,
Thank you for choosing a human body as your preferred means of travel in this specific astral period of travel. As a discerning source of living energy and as a committed traveller of the 3 worlds spanning many millennia, we are pleased that you felt a human body would best propel forward your journey towards Nirvana.
We have a superiorly evolved Human Body series - product name Homo Sapiens series 2006. It has been perfected through trial and error over millions of centuries, and has been subtly refined to what it is today. Ofcourse, we continue to keep ourselves updated in the field of research and if we find superior refinements required we shall update the human shell - But this is a time consuming process and we do conduct experiments with product launches some of which fail, while other succeed. We like to term these as deformities until properly patented and replicable. Examples include hyperextension of elbows to promote off-spin bowling / fast bowling in Cricket, increase bodily hair to resemble bears, sharper reflexes to counter growing requirements of international espionage / terrorism, superior recognition software in the brain functions to aid quicker development, and earlier participation in adult activities.
Now, we would like to introduce you to the key features of this human shell you have decided to purchase for your astral journey.
1. Brain: Showing massive reconfiguration, we have interpolated the thought and action areas, and seperated the grey and white cortical masses. We have provided superb cushioning for the sensitive parts of the brain, and have encased in a titanium equivalent of enmeshed boneplate built covering called the skull. Often used as the symbol of evil and power when combined with 2 rather rudimentary crossbones, these skulls usually survive the harshest of injuries unless treated with utter disdain. We have tried and tested these skulls and we can proudly say that they come with a lifetime warranty. If these should be split or cracked or broken in the course of regular use during this astral journey, we will replace this human shell FREE OF COST with a second human shell in your next astral life.
The human brain is state of the art and is completely filled with features to make your life a living wonder of ease :-
- Unlimited Memory storage (limited by only your imagination!),
- Ease of compartmentalisation (imagine the processing power of a million supercomputers at your disposal!),
contd
Thank you for choosing a human body as your preferred means of travel in this specific astral period of travel. As a discerning source of living energy and as a committed traveller of the 3 worlds spanning many millennia, we are pleased that you felt a human body would best propel forward your journey towards Nirvana.
We have a superiorly evolved Human Body series - product name Homo Sapiens series 2006. It has been perfected through trial and error over millions of centuries, and has been subtly refined to what it is today. Ofcourse, we continue to keep ourselves updated in the field of research and if we find superior refinements required we shall update the human shell - But this is a time consuming process and we do conduct experiments with product launches some of which fail, while other succeed. We like to term these as deformities until properly patented and replicable. Examples include hyperextension of elbows to promote off-spin bowling / fast bowling in Cricket, increase bodily hair to resemble bears, sharper reflexes to counter growing requirements of international espionage / terrorism, superior recognition software in the brain functions to aid quicker development, and earlier participation in adult activities.
Now, we would like to introduce you to the key features of this human shell you have decided to purchase for your astral journey.
1. Brain: Showing massive reconfiguration, we have interpolated the thought and action areas, and seperated the grey and white cortical masses. We have provided superb cushioning for the sensitive parts of the brain, and have encased in a titanium equivalent of enmeshed boneplate built covering called the skull. Often used as the symbol of evil and power when combined with 2 rather rudimentary crossbones, these skulls usually survive the harshest of injuries unless treated with utter disdain. We have tried and tested these skulls and we can proudly say that they come with a lifetime warranty. If these should be split or cracked or broken in the course of regular use during this astral journey, we will replace this human shell FREE OF COST with a second human shell in your next astral life.
The human brain is state of the art and is completely filled with features to make your life a living wonder of ease :-
- Unlimited Memory storage (limited by only your imagination!),
- Ease of compartmentalisation (imagine the processing power of a million supercomputers at your disposal!),
contd
Sunday, February 12, 2006
To the right of what is Left.
I wanted to understand whether it was better being a capitalist or a communist.
So I went to the rally conducted by one of our very illustrious left-party leaders. It was the CPI or the CPI(M) - I cannot remember which. The sickle and the star were everywhere and it blurred my currently myopic vision somewhat.
I reached the venue, and it turned out to be a huge rally. Security goondas for the party had gone to nearby villages and had returned with truckloads of hapless mortals to attend this rally. However, they were superb actors, and raised their hands on cue, and screamed "ki jai" on cue and never dropped the ball. Superb. Just superb.
And I waited to hear the leader talk about communism. I waited to hear them talk about common ownership of the means of production. And a stateless lawful society. And a means to eradicate poverty. And a means to stop corruption. And a way to serve the poor and the homeless and the illiterate to stand on their own feet.
And I waited to hear about the rationalising of labour laws. And about increasing India's footprint in the global world. And about pushing reforms forward. And creating jobs for more people by concentrating on Infrastructure. Like Telecom. Like Roads. Like Airports. Like Pipelines. And waterways. And electricity. And pollution control. And cleaning up our rivers. And our lakes. And our seas. And I waited to hear about competing against the best of the world. And winning. And making our competitive edge better. And about boosting revenues by intelligence, not blind stumbling. About reducing expenditure. And corruption. Destroying corruption and the malaise that fills our system. From top to bottom. And about revamping all those babus that eat the 80% of the 100% sanction and why only 15-20% percent works.
And I waited to hear about strengthening our people's resolve to fight back against terrorism. And bigotry. And oppression. And about building out opportunities for the common man to earn his daily bread. Earn it.
And I waited to hear about a stable government. And a stable decision making parliament. And I waited to hear about support. Not puppet strings.
But I heard about Aanganwadis, and Balwadis, and free handouts, and rerationing food to villagers. And I heard about free power. And more load shedding. And load shedding in Mumbai. And I heard about Worker unions. And strikes. and rasta rokos. And vile and juvenile rebukes aimed about just about anyone.
I heard about government sponsored insurance companies. And road building companies. And I heard about unused MP's funds. And about airport refurbishments. And about evil stock markets. And about no disinvestment. And about choosing what is right for our country from within. And not aping the west.
And I also heard about their angst towards George W Bush. And USA. and UK. and Italy. And their friendship with the erstwhile Soviet Union. And Iran. and Iraq.
And I heard about introducing inheritance tax, and a special tax on rich special consumption. And I heard about widening FBT. And about how foreign scandinavian countries have adopted the foreign tax. And about how rationalising Drawback incentives. And how to mop up another 45,000-50,000 crore.
And the leader then ended the speech by warning that a tug of the strings was all that this government would need to collapse.
Then he got off the podium. He got into a BMW 7 series, while talking on a NOkia 9500 communicator. He took off his neta topi as he sat in the car. The faintest words I could here was :Buy Infosys and hold till the markets start dropping.
I smiled to myself and left.
utekkare,
Pranay
So I went to the rally conducted by one of our very illustrious left-party leaders. It was the CPI or the CPI(M) - I cannot remember which. The sickle and the star were everywhere and it blurred my currently myopic vision somewhat.
I reached the venue, and it turned out to be a huge rally. Security goondas for the party had gone to nearby villages and had returned with truckloads of hapless mortals to attend this rally. However, they were superb actors, and raised their hands on cue, and screamed "ki jai" on cue and never dropped the ball. Superb. Just superb.
And I waited to hear the leader talk about communism. I waited to hear them talk about common ownership of the means of production. And a stateless lawful society. And a means to eradicate poverty. And a means to stop corruption. And a way to serve the poor and the homeless and the illiterate to stand on their own feet.
And I waited to hear about the rationalising of labour laws. And about increasing India's footprint in the global world. And about pushing reforms forward. And creating jobs for more people by concentrating on Infrastructure. Like Telecom. Like Roads. Like Airports. Like Pipelines. And waterways. And electricity. And pollution control. And cleaning up our rivers. And our lakes. And our seas. And I waited to hear about competing against the best of the world. And winning. And making our competitive edge better. And about boosting revenues by intelligence, not blind stumbling. About reducing expenditure. And corruption. Destroying corruption and the malaise that fills our system. From top to bottom. And about revamping all those babus that eat the 80% of the 100% sanction and why only 15-20% percent works.
And I waited to hear about strengthening our people's resolve to fight back against terrorism. And bigotry. And oppression. And about building out opportunities for the common man to earn his daily bread. Earn it.
And I waited to hear about a stable government. And a stable decision making parliament. And I waited to hear about support. Not puppet strings.
But I heard about Aanganwadis, and Balwadis, and free handouts, and rerationing food to villagers. And I heard about free power. And more load shedding. And load shedding in Mumbai. And I heard about Worker unions. And strikes. and rasta rokos. And vile and juvenile rebukes aimed about just about anyone.
I heard about government sponsored insurance companies. And road building companies. And I heard about unused MP's funds. And about airport refurbishments. And about evil stock markets. And about no disinvestment. And about choosing what is right for our country from within. And not aping the west.
And I also heard about their angst towards George W Bush. And USA. and UK. and Italy. And their friendship with the erstwhile Soviet Union. And Iran. and Iraq.
And I heard about introducing inheritance tax, and a special tax on rich special consumption. And I heard about widening FBT. And about how foreign scandinavian countries have adopted the foreign tax. And about how rationalising Drawback incentives. And how to mop up another 45,000-50,000 crore.
And the leader then ended the speech by warning that a tug of the strings was all that this government would need to collapse.
Then he got off the podium. He got into a BMW 7 series, while talking on a NOkia 9500 communicator. He took off his neta topi as he sat in the car. The faintest words I could here was :Buy Infosys and hold till the markets start dropping.
I smiled to myself and left.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Things I will never do
And today when I did things I had promised I would never do, like going to Siddhivinayak, and turning my cell phone off, and bragging about a vacation to Mauritius and chatting in the middle of the day, and talking about my brother's girlfriend, I will talk about things I will never do:
Like feeling superior when a small boy comes up and begs. Like shaving with a shaving brush, and Palmolive Shaving Cream and a Gillette Razor. Like walking up to make friends with strange women in nightclubs. Like asking strange women "would you like to make friendship with me?". Like going to first day first show. Like spending 35,000 bucks on the newest latest cell phone. Like going to Singapore (or Malaysia or Thailand or Mauritius) for a holiday. Like going to a stadium to watch a cricket match. Like going anywhere to watch a football or hockey match. Like travelling to Virar (or Vasai or Naigaon). Like walking upto Siddhivinayak.
Like getting a suit stitched to my size. Like getting anything stitched to wear. Like wearing ultraviolet hair gel. Like wearing yellow trousers. Like wearing white shoes. Like wearing sunglasses in a gym. Like "pumping" weights in the gym for 4 hours straight. Like parading myself in front of an actor's house. Even Amitabh Bachchan's house.
Like marry a Gujarati. Like liking to eat karela. Like live in Dahisar. or Mira Road. or Kalyan. or Kasara. Like own a farmhouse.
And things I will never be able to do:
Like make friends with Abhisheik Bachchan. Like play the guitar. Like drive a car. Like take a day off to go attend a writing workshop. Like take a 'sabbatical'.
Like start a film project or write a film script or a film anything.
Like writing a good script for Darna Mana Hai. Like remembering to use the proper figures of speech and use the dots and commas and full stops where they are supposed to be used in a poem; a story; a script; a sentence. etc etc. Like win a music quiz. Like win a bollywood quiz.
And things that will never happen to me:
Like inheriting a lot of money from someone I never knew. Like receiving a love letter written in some deewani's blood. Like owning a make-up van. Like being asked to sing on screen. or off it. or being asked to do a voice over. or to dub for someone. or to scream "I love the Globus Sale" on radio. and expect to be paid for it. Like winning a prize for answering 3 correct questions on Sholay. or Deewar. or Golmaal. Like having children sitting on a sofa next to me on a stage with a large backdrop at my own reception. Like sitting on a horse for my marriage.
more later,
utekkare,
pranay
Like feeling superior when a small boy comes up and begs. Like shaving with a shaving brush, and Palmolive Shaving Cream and a Gillette Razor. Like walking up to make friends with strange women in nightclubs. Like asking strange women "would you like to make friendship with me?". Like going to first day first show. Like spending 35,000 bucks on the newest latest cell phone. Like going to Singapore (or Malaysia or Thailand or Mauritius) for a holiday. Like going to a stadium to watch a cricket match. Like going anywhere to watch a football or hockey match. Like travelling to Virar (or Vasai or Naigaon). Like walking upto Siddhivinayak.
Like getting a suit stitched to my size. Like getting anything stitched to wear. Like wearing ultraviolet hair gel. Like wearing yellow trousers. Like wearing white shoes. Like wearing sunglasses in a gym. Like "pumping" weights in the gym for 4 hours straight. Like parading myself in front of an actor's house. Even Amitabh Bachchan's house.
Like marry a Gujarati. Like liking to eat karela. Like live in Dahisar. or Mira Road. or Kalyan. or Kasara. Like own a farmhouse.
And things I will never be able to do:
Like make friends with Abhisheik Bachchan. Like play the guitar. Like drive a car. Like take a day off to go attend a writing workshop. Like take a 'sabbatical'.
Like start a film project or write a film script or a film anything.
Like writing a good script for Darna Mana Hai. Like remembering to use the proper figures of speech and use the dots and commas and full stops where they are supposed to be used in a poem; a story; a script; a sentence. etc etc. Like win a music quiz. Like win a bollywood quiz.
And things that will never happen to me:
Like inheriting a lot of money from someone I never knew. Like receiving a love letter written in some deewani's blood. Like owning a make-up van. Like being asked to sing on screen. or off it. or being asked to do a voice over. or to dub for someone. or to scream "I love the Globus Sale" on radio. and expect to be paid for it. Like winning a prize for answering 3 correct questions on Sholay. or Deewar. or Golmaal. Like having children sitting on a sofa next to me on a stage with a large backdrop at my own reception. Like sitting on a horse for my marriage.
more later,
utekkare,
pranay
Monday, February 06, 2006
Monday blues
11:55 AM: Just walked into office. We just have to get into a routine. Wake up at 7, reach Gym by 7.30, come home by 9.00, get ready for office by 9.45, reach office by 10.30 work till 2.30, eat lunch, work till 7.30, come home by 8.15, watch tv and work till 9.30, eat dinner, and collapse by 10.00.
hmm, sounds good. but what about all those US buyers you need to kiss ass with. Im sure they can wait. After all the routine should be god, right.
irfan pathan is out, tendulkar is doing his best to get out, but why dont these pakistani bowlers understand that? all they need to do is bowl legitimate deliveries around his knee roll and hey presto, one less indian legend to worry about.
peshawar is such an amazing word. it conjures up images of john rambo, the CIA, the plain of 4 lions, 5 rivers, 6 pathans, and women who get married into harems.
wish i could write a book on peshawar and the life and times of the affluent and not so affluent living and working there
sort of like a diary. but i need to be white skinned and rich for that, i suppose.
hmm, sounds good. but what about all those US buyers you need to kiss ass with. Im sure they can wait. After all the routine should be god, right.
irfan pathan is out, tendulkar is doing his best to get out, but why dont these pakistani bowlers understand that? all they need to do is bowl legitimate deliveries around his knee roll and hey presto, one less indian legend to worry about.
peshawar is such an amazing word. it conjures up images of john rambo, the CIA, the plain of 4 lions, 5 rivers, 6 pathans, and women who get married into harems.
wish i could write a book on peshawar and the life and times of the affluent and not so affluent living and working there
sort of like a diary. but i need to be white skinned and rich for that, i suppose.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Sunday ka Gyaan - Pranay ki zubaani
And so here I am again on a Sunday double poster (borrowed from the NBA ishtyle double header). Some new points of observation and comment. Also some thoughts for food and intelligent sentences.
Like Narayan Rane should never be allowed to be made Chief Minister. He will make all the bar girls to be re-elected from their constituency, and the national symbol for the Congress will be made a chicken. Gade murge ukhadne nahin chahiye.
Black Horse Festival is on. So is Siddhi Vinayak Maghi Mahotsav. So is One Tree Music Festival. I wonder if I will make it to any of these. Just like I wondered if I would make it to the Banganga festival, the Mumbai festival, the Shopping festival, the Diwali festival, the M.F.Hussain festival, the Upper Classes art festival, the Middle Classes Ambarnath local bhajan festival, and the Shivaji Mitra Mandal carom festival. But I didnt make it to any of those.
Like this is one of those free Sundays there is never a Caferati readmeet on. Like I am always free on a non read meet sunday and always busy on a read meet sunday. Maybe one of these days I will learn the art of not thinking about a readmeet. Planning is futile.
Like AAI should be given the "theka" to make worldclass airports. Let them start with Agartala or Kanyakumari. Maybe we can think of Chennai and Kolkata then.
Like Anil Ambani is realising soon that kicking up his feet and throwing a tantrum will get him nowhere in the real world. Like he is understanding that the Congress is giving out the tenders and contracts for the Airport modernisation, not the Samajwadi party.
Like Rang De Basanti has restored fame to Aamir Khan and that he should always wear his hair short. Like he should understand that any film that calls for a handle bar moustache and flowing tresses should be avoided like wildfire.
Like I got a new phone that has a 1.3 MP, and hotswap, and MMS, and RS-MMC, and MP3 and AAC and GPRS and WAP and XHTML and HTTP and Email and Voicemail and MS-Office. And it is lighter than my earlier phone.
Like Rahul Dravid should stay at No.3. VVS Laxman should retire to Sydney, Australia. And Sachin Tendulkar should become Assistant Coach. This is one of my considered opinions.
Like the Indian cricket team hates chasing. They cannot think of batting more than 30 overs on a 4th innings pitch that is bouncing stump high and is moving more towards the covers than the wicket keeper.
Like Mahindra Singh Dhoni and Virender Sehwag should be given a handicap of 2 each before they come out to bat. Otherwise they will never make a hundred.
And finally, Soaps on Indian TV are existential and optimistically fantastical. It is my way of saying they are crap without saying it directly. Hopefully noone will find and quote my blog when I am rich, famous and writing scripts for consumption.
Like Narayan Rane should never be allowed to be made Chief Minister. He will make all the bar girls to be re-elected from their constituency, and the national symbol for the Congress will be made a chicken. Gade murge ukhadne nahin chahiye.
Black Horse Festival is on. So is Siddhi Vinayak Maghi Mahotsav. So is One Tree Music Festival. I wonder if I will make it to any of these. Just like I wondered if I would make it to the Banganga festival, the Mumbai festival, the Shopping festival, the Diwali festival, the M.F.Hussain festival, the Upper Classes art festival, the Middle Classes Ambarnath local bhajan festival, and the Shivaji Mitra Mandal carom festival. But I didnt make it to any of those.
Like this is one of those free Sundays there is never a Caferati readmeet on. Like I am always free on a non read meet sunday and always busy on a read meet sunday. Maybe one of these days I will learn the art of not thinking about a readmeet. Planning is futile.
Like AAI should be given the "theka" to make worldclass airports. Let them start with Agartala or Kanyakumari. Maybe we can think of Chennai and Kolkata then.
Like Anil Ambani is realising soon that kicking up his feet and throwing a tantrum will get him nowhere in the real world. Like he is understanding that the Congress is giving out the tenders and contracts for the Airport modernisation, not the Samajwadi party.
Like Rang De Basanti has restored fame to Aamir Khan and that he should always wear his hair short. Like he should understand that any film that calls for a handle bar moustache and flowing tresses should be avoided like wildfire.
Like I got a new phone that has a 1.3 MP, and hotswap, and MMS, and RS-MMC, and MP3 and AAC and GPRS and WAP and XHTML and HTTP and Email and Voicemail and MS-Office. And it is lighter than my earlier phone.
Like Rahul Dravid should stay at No.3. VVS Laxman should retire to Sydney, Australia. And Sachin Tendulkar should become Assistant Coach. This is one of my considered opinions.
Like the Indian cricket team hates chasing. They cannot think of batting more than 30 overs on a 4th innings pitch that is bouncing stump high and is moving more towards the covers than the wicket keeper.
Like Mahindra Singh Dhoni and Virender Sehwag should be given a handicap of 2 each before they come out to bat. Otherwise they will never make a hundred.
And finally, Soaps on Indian TV are existential and optimistically fantastical. It is my way of saying they are crap without saying it directly. Hopefully noone will find and quote my blog when I am rich, famous and writing scripts for consumption.
Main aa gaya hoon Teja
"It's not fair. It's just not fair, yaar." I fumed and raged and ranted on and on about the unfairness of the situation.
Aashit seemed to just ignore me. "Chhod na yaar, jaane de. It's just a stupid contest. Prize wize bhi nahin tha. Just 3000 bucks." He chewed contently on the two boomers he seamlessly merged into a coheSive mass of bubblegum, by the persuasive combination of saliva, his upper and lower jaws. "Agli baar dekh lenge. Study karke aana.", he concluded, as if to denote the conversation was over.
We were walking along Flora Fountain, after the stupid Black Horse festival. Ofcourse a few hours earlier it hadn't seemed so stupid. Surprising, how not winning at a fiction contest can make everything seem so trivial suddenly.
"You know, I can appeal against this in a court of law. A consumer court even. I can take them to court!!! I will take them to high court! to Supreme Court! I will khatkhatao the doors of parliament!" Now, I was in my element as a courtroom barrister, fighting imaginary courtroom duels, with robe and all. I was eloquent, and smart, and scoring points. I was getting confessions 'bhari adalat mein', and I was dancing like Akshay Kumar and singing like Kishore Kumar as we walked past the Sessions Court.
"Bas bas, ab band kar. Ghadi ghadi drama karta rehta hai. Stop acting like Utpal dutt in Golmaal."
"Ek ek ko chun chun ke maaroonga! chun chun ke !!!"
Well ok, I know I was acting a little hyper about the whole thing, but being disqualified rankled. OFcourse, and the morbid atmosphere around Cama hospital didnt help either.
"You know, I knew they had it out for me. I knew it when I saw that writer judge hobnobbing with that ex-RJ I used to hang out with. I know he always hated me. On the other hand, it could have been that cute judge I hit on about a year and a half ago.. Wonder why she still has a problem with me. But kya karega, must be my cute irresistable charm. Can't switch it off once I've turned it on!", I mused.
"But yaar, tu toh, you don't understand at all!! It's not about the money! Remember woh kya kehte the Esmero Sir? It's not whether you won or lost but how the game was played. And this was absolute cheating yaar!!", I said.
"And remember what Sangram Singh told him when he said that? Winning is not everything, it is the Only thing."
Strong Xavierite teachings still hold good after 7 years. They never wear off. The man can wear off but the teachings won't.
Aashit was trying hard not to control his own laughter. As he looked at me with derision, and tried to make sense enough to string an entire sentence together, I continued:
"Ofcourse, the entire thing could have been rigged and the finalists and winners pre-decided. Bloody networkers! bottom feeders! Saala, Angrezi ka A bhi nahin aata hai! I could teach them a thing or two about racy prose! What was wrong with my story? What was it? Poora within the limits tha! In English, with a trigger and everything. Even a black horse for good measure. I even added a villain and kept it within 300 words!"
Aashit narrowly missed stepping into a grate covered with old and smelly cabbage leaves, and we wound our way between parked trucks outside Crawford Market. "Yea, yea. Your story was good. In fact it was great. There was suspense, drama, trauma, humanity, truck drivers and school children, there was a hero and a villain. Even a couple of songs. Hmm, I wonder why they trashed it." As he spoke, he jauntily stepped into an old basket kept there. His foot went through the basket, disturbing the little home there. Squawking and screaming, 2 extremely irate chickens retreated rapidly into the shadows of the vegetable market.
"Unka bhi time aayega", I thought. "Chickens are brought to Crawford Market to be eaten. Bachke kahaan jaayenge?"
And I went on, " This is a gross injustice to the scriptwriting youth of our country!! Maybe I should have asked the co-ordinator out. Perhaps that would have helped?"
Aashit laughed and snorted nastily, "She wouldn't even look at you in your wildest dreams!"
"What about that cute chick writing earnestly in the front row? Maybe she didn't win also, did she?"
"You would have known if you'd waited till the end. You shouldn't have tossed the chair aside and left in dramatic fashion!"
"Haan, yaar. But that was so filmy, na? Ekdum Angry young man types."
"Ofcourse, ofcourse. Everyone was so happy to see you leave without breaking any more "props". Producer paise dega na." He said, pointing towards himself.
"So what yaar. Izzat is more important than some 100-200 bucks. And I was going to return the money I owe you. Just that I didn't win this stupid contest na...", I trailed off.
As we entered Badshah, I headed straight for the AC section. "Saab, Dus baje ke baad AC seksun band hai. Idhar baithna padenga." The miyan at the counter yelled.
After we ordered our faloodas, I returned to the topic of the day - Story No.1 by Pranay Srinivasan.
"Kaise fail hua? Now I know how Sanjay Kapoor feels every Friday when he goes out to see his new release. Flop.Flop.FLOP."
Aashit chewed noisily as he took out another Boomer. "Yea, boss. Next time karna. Ekdum fielding karke, reading vagaira karke write a nice story."
"But this was the No.1 story yaar! After this all will be No.2 or downwards. What to do yaar, I can't write anymore. This is too tough!"
Aashit said, "chal I'll talk to Peter on the phone. Abhi tak he must be on the train home." He took out his phone and dialled Peter Griffin. When he got through, he got up and walked out. I got up to accompany him, but he motioned me to wait. Cupping the receiver, he said "Idhar hi ruk. Aata hoon."
The faloodas arrived - predictably superb. I slurped mine down and looked at Aashit's temptingly. I took his glass and thought, "If I were to mix his falooda, that wouldnt be so bad would it? Otherwise it would settle to the bottom. Bechaara, he's trying to talk for me, I can do this much for him." So I mixed the vermicelli, the icecream, the rose, the milk and the subja into the falooda.
After a while and still no sign of Aashit. I thought to myself, "The top portion is getting warm. I should mix it a bit more". So I mixed it and whilst doing so, I saw some melting icecream down the side of the glass. "Must keep it clean", and I licked off the icecream. "Now see what you've done!". "no, no", Another voice said. "Take the top off and pour out the top 1/3rd into your glass. That way it'll stay at the bottom and stay cold." So I poured out the top half and the icecream. "Abhi toh it has become jhoota. Might as well drink it up." So I drank it up.
It was turning 12 and still no Aashit. So I thought, "It’s nearing 12’o’clock. These guys are gonna throw us out anyways. Might as well finish his falooda off. I'd be doing him a favour." So 15 seconds later, I was licking my lips and wiping my mouth with some cheap paper tissues.
As I was getting up to leave, Aashit came in. "Abey kidhar tha tu??" I asked him. "What did Peter say?"
"Peter? Nothing yaar. We finished in 15 seconds. Then my girlfriend called and I was talking to her. Yaar, she's not well. She went out and actually just sneezed. It's pretty serious. I offered to go over to her place, but she said she'll be OK."
"Ya, ya ok. What about the story???" I was impatient. Here I was waiting for him in this sadela Badshah Coldrink House, and he was talking to his GF. Asshole. Prick. Stunted Humanoid.
"Oh, that? Peter said that Zanjeer was already written before by Salim-Javed, and that Zanjeer had a white horse, not a black one. He said, tell Pranay to read the rules."
Aashit was looking around him.
"Wasn't there a falooda here when I left?"
The End.
Aashit seemed to just ignore me. "Chhod na yaar, jaane de. It's just a stupid contest. Prize wize bhi nahin tha. Just 3000 bucks." He chewed contently on the two boomers he seamlessly merged into a coheSive mass of bubblegum, by the persuasive combination of saliva, his upper and lower jaws. "Agli baar dekh lenge. Study karke aana.", he concluded, as if to denote the conversation was over.
We were walking along Flora Fountain, after the stupid Black Horse festival. Ofcourse a few hours earlier it hadn't seemed so stupid. Surprising, how not winning at a fiction contest can make everything seem so trivial suddenly.
"You know, I can appeal against this in a court of law. A consumer court even. I can take them to court!!! I will take them to high court! to Supreme Court! I will khatkhatao the doors of parliament!" Now, I was in my element as a courtroom barrister, fighting imaginary courtroom duels, with robe and all. I was eloquent, and smart, and scoring points. I was getting confessions 'bhari adalat mein', and I was dancing like Akshay Kumar and singing like Kishore Kumar as we walked past the Sessions Court.
"Bas bas, ab band kar. Ghadi ghadi drama karta rehta hai. Stop acting like Utpal dutt in Golmaal."
"Ek ek ko chun chun ke maaroonga! chun chun ke !!!"
Well ok, I know I was acting a little hyper about the whole thing, but being disqualified rankled. OFcourse, and the morbid atmosphere around Cama hospital didnt help either.
"You know, I knew they had it out for me. I knew it when I saw that writer judge hobnobbing with that ex-RJ I used to hang out with. I know he always hated me. On the other hand, it could have been that cute judge I hit on about a year and a half ago.. Wonder why she still has a problem with me. But kya karega, must be my cute irresistable charm. Can't switch it off once I've turned it on!", I mused.
"But yaar, tu toh, you don't understand at all!! It's not about the money! Remember woh kya kehte the Esmero Sir? It's not whether you won or lost but how the game was played. And this was absolute cheating yaar!!", I said.
"And remember what Sangram Singh told him when he said that? Winning is not everything, it is the Only thing."
Strong Xavierite teachings still hold good after 7 years. They never wear off. The man can wear off but the teachings won't.
Aashit was trying hard not to control his own laughter. As he looked at me with derision, and tried to make sense enough to string an entire sentence together, I continued:
"Ofcourse, the entire thing could have been rigged and the finalists and winners pre-decided. Bloody networkers! bottom feeders! Saala, Angrezi ka A bhi nahin aata hai! I could teach them a thing or two about racy prose! What was wrong with my story? What was it? Poora within the limits tha! In English, with a trigger and everything. Even a black horse for good measure. I even added a villain and kept it within 300 words!"
Aashit narrowly missed stepping into a grate covered with old and smelly cabbage leaves, and we wound our way between parked trucks outside Crawford Market. "Yea, yea. Your story was good. In fact it was great. There was suspense, drama, trauma, humanity, truck drivers and school children, there was a hero and a villain. Even a couple of songs. Hmm, I wonder why they trashed it." As he spoke, he jauntily stepped into an old basket kept there. His foot went through the basket, disturbing the little home there. Squawking and screaming, 2 extremely irate chickens retreated rapidly into the shadows of the vegetable market.
"Unka bhi time aayega", I thought. "Chickens are brought to Crawford Market to be eaten. Bachke kahaan jaayenge?"
And I went on, " This is a gross injustice to the scriptwriting youth of our country!! Maybe I should have asked the co-ordinator out. Perhaps that would have helped?"
Aashit laughed and snorted nastily, "She wouldn't even look at you in your wildest dreams!"
"What about that cute chick writing earnestly in the front row? Maybe she didn't win also, did she?"
"You would have known if you'd waited till the end. You shouldn't have tossed the chair aside and left in dramatic fashion!"
"Haan, yaar. But that was so filmy, na? Ekdum Angry young man types."
"Ofcourse, ofcourse. Everyone was so happy to see you leave without breaking any more "props". Producer paise dega na." He said, pointing towards himself.
"So what yaar. Izzat is more important than some 100-200 bucks. And I was going to return the money I owe you. Just that I didn't win this stupid contest na...", I trailed off.
As we entered Badshah, I headed straight for the AC section. "Saab, Dus baje ke baad AC seksun band hai. Idhar baithna padenga." The miyan at the counter yelled.
After we ordered our faloodas, I returned to the topic of the day - Story No.1 by Pranay Srinivasan.
"Kaise fail hua? Now I know how Sanjay Kapoor feels every Friday when he goes out to see his new release. Flop.Flop.FLOP."
Aashit chewed noisily as he took out another Boomer. "Yea, boss. Next time karna. Ekdum fielding karke, reading vagaira karke write a nice story."
"But this was the No.1 story yaar! After this all will be No.2 or downwards. What to do yaar, I can't write anymore. This is too tough!"
Aashit said, "chal I'll talk to Peter on the phone. Abhi tak he must be on the train home." He took out his phone and dialled Peter Griffin. When he got through, he got up and walked out. I got up to accompany him, but he motioned me to wait. Cupping the receiver, he said "Idhar hi ruk. Aata hoon."
The faloodas arrived - predictably superb. I slurped mine down and looked at Aashit's temptingly. I took his glass and thought, "If I were to mix his falooda, that wouldnt be so bad would it? Otherwise it would settle to the bottom. Bechaara, he's trying to talk for me, I can do this much for him." So I mixed the vermicelli, the icecream, the rose, the milk and the subja into the falooda.
After a while and still no sign of Aashit. I thought to myself, "The top portion is getting warm. I should mix it a bit more". So I mixed it and whilst doing so, I saw some melting icecream down the side of the glass. "Must keep it clean", and I licked off the icecream. "Now see what you've done!". "no, no", Another voice said. "Take the top off and pour out the top 1/3rd into your glass. That way it'll stay at the bottom and stay cold." So I poured out the top half and the icecream. "Abhi toh it has become jhoota. Might as well drink it up." So I drank it up.
It was turning 12 and still no Aashit. So I thought, "It’s nearing 12’o’clock. These guys are gonna throw us out anyways. Might as well finish his falooda off. I'd be doing him a favour." So 15 seconds later, I was licking my lips and wiping my mouth with some cheap paper tissues.
As I was getting up to leave, Aashit came in. "Abey kidhar tha tu??" I asked him. "What did Peter say?"
"Peter? Nothing yaar. We finished in 15 seconds. Then my girlfriend called and I was talking to her. Yaar, she's not well. She went out and actually just sneezed. It's pretty serious. I offered to go over to her place, but she said she'll be OK."
"Ya, ya ok. What about the story???" I was impatient. Here I was waiting for him in this sadela Badshah Coldrink House, and he was talking to his GF. Asshole. Prick. Stunted Humanoid.
"Oh, that? Peter said that Zanjeer was already written before by Salim-Javed, and that Zanjeer had a white horse, not a black one. He said, tell Pranay to read the rules."
Aashit was looking around him.
"Wasn't there a falooda here when I left?"
The End.
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