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
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)