Stolen from Travelphabet:
The first thing you notice about Agra is it's inaccessibility. It is situated about an hour's drive from Mathura, 2 days stinky train ride away from Mumbai, 4 hours away from Delhi, and has no airports to speak of. Funny, how the mighty have fallen.
From the capital of the Indian Empire from Burma to Iran, it has plummeted to greater depths than the heights it was capable of scaling. It threatened to be a world centre of civilisation, culture, art, crafts, literature, and learning, but never delivered on it's promise. The truth is Agra was manufactured out of a nothingness that doubled as a military advantage. The Indian Army will smile when you say that as they flaunt their cantonment.
But vast numbers of tourists from across the globe, and across our great nation journey their way, braving some of the worst roads, and even coarser tongues to behold the greatest monument ever erected, now falling prey to that other great monument of modernity.. pollution on the yamuna. It is so easy to miss the river altogether, as you marvel at the yellowed marble, you gaze mesmerisingly at the chipped statues, and the intricately damaged carving in the windows, and the grinning guards as they escort you to the fake mummified remains of Mumtaz and Shahjahan. Yes, it is tragic.
And when you have seen the decaying vegetation in the gardens of the non-working fountains, and the tottering gates at the entrance to the great halls, and the hastily scribbled graffiti that proclaim Nasir's undying love for Anjali, and those telephone numbers that will offer you physical gratification instantly on connection, and all those lewd lyrics that would put the great Akbar's bards to shame, you wonder what other great monuments are left to sully in this once-venerated city.
And you are beseeched by agents, and agents of agents, and their rickshaw wallahs, and tanga-wallahs, and the carpet shops, and the jewellery shops, and the artifacts, and the stone shops, and the overpriced handicrafts stores, and you have survived the crowds in the only Pizza Hut that is brave enough to open in Agra, and still serve decent pizza, you are faced with the problem of time. How much more time can I spend here, without reaching for my wallet every 15 minutes?
And so you decide to head for the hotel you booked on the internet.. the proudly Victorian hotel that screams its Anglicised name at you from the Hotel Website Bookings Page - "5 star facilities at 3 star price"; "Newly renovated hotel with old English charm"; "self operated travel agency"; "doctor on call"; "24 hours room service"; "Suites available".... You step through the arches of what was probably once the outhouse of a middle level British government servant, as you glance at the badly trimmed lawns, and avoid the lethal spray of the sprinkler, that seems to be suffering from an overdose of steroids. You walk through the hallway, that reeks of that old mouldy smell that comes from damp, unwashed, fading carpets, and from dust webs that stare down from their vantage point in the corner of the ceiling.
But the real reason you should visit Agra, is not in the city itself but about 50 kms away (about 30 miles), Akbar's walled city of Fatehpur Sikri. It is an amazing amalgamation of unsurpassed military strategy, and artistic brilliance, never before seen. This was the seat of the Mughal Empire, and the sheer magnitude of the city built to be self sufficient for a year or more in case of a seige, takes your breath away. The Indian government has done a commendable job of keeping graffiti artists and other assholes-that-be at bay by cordoning off certain sections of the city that are accessible only to the Archaeological Survey of India. Even after the mahals and the rooms have been stripped of all their grandeur, treasures, and their tapestries and furnishings, you can still sense the power that these rooms were witness to, and it is a surreal feeling to stand on top of the ramparts that command a view of the open plains upto Rajasthan.
And so I say, in this highly incomplete and extremely subjective prognosis, Visit Agra for Fatehpur Sikri. The carpets you get fleeced for while buying are just a bonus.
utekkare,
Pranay
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Dancing the Dance
And we are back. To dancing the dance.
We twirl. And pirouette. And we bow. half-shyly. As if apologetic of our skill. As if we are uncaring of how adept we have become at this dance.
In full view. We gyrate, and smile, and move our body, sometimes marvellously in tune, sometimes hopelessly trying to keep up with the beat, trying always to catch their attention.
It is a familiar kind of uneasiness, restlessness, and the hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach, the same kind we feel when we rush down from the top of a ferris wheel, plunging down at the mercy of 4 pinions and a small enclosure from 1000 feet above earth. And we like it. We thrive on it, and get all giddy and excited.
And our faces sparkle, and our eyes glitter, and we are always out of breath, and we are chirpy again, and we are bright and positive, and the world looks clean and nice and happy again. And our enemies dont seem so harsh anymore, and our friends dont seem close anymore, and nothing seems the same.
And the dance is addictive. We keep twirling around ourselves, as if trying to tie ourselves into knots, always keeping in mind that the audience should enjoy the spectacle, without making abject fools of ourselves. Some compromise between privacy and allegory is reached, as we symphonize our life's achievements into a long and intensely personal ballad.
Yes, we are dancing. As much for the other person as we are for ourselves. We dance as if our life depends on it, because who knows, this could be the last dance we have to do. We dance because the thrill of the dance envelops us all, and it allows us a suspension of disbelief. It makes us believe in coincidence, and fate, and time, and god, and karma, and attempts to make us understand how many strings are being pulled by someone else.
And we are as scared of the dance to stop, as we are of having to dance again. We worry about the dance, and all its moves are dissected threadbare, to check for any overt gestures of desperation or looking needy, and to make sure it does not look covertly cocky or pushy. No negative signals must be sent out.
And each dance is customised to the audience it is intended for. So some dances are garish, and full of color and style. Others are silent, non moving studies in composure and pain. Some dances are symbolic of their end-use, while others are a just a sham to cover the true nature of the audience. Others are an appeasement of the senses, while others are like fencing matches and shadow boxing. Some dances run for years, and years, while others end almost before they begin. But nobody tires of the dance. It is intrinsic to life, and it is intrinsic to happiness.
If we dont dance, we will never find happiness. And even if we dance, we are not sure we will find happiness. For most, it leads to a shimmering oasis of temporary madness and hedonistic pleasure. But, it is those precious few, those chosen few in the world who dance the dance, and are rewarded with a lifetime of rest. It is the ultimate goal, and the final destination for all dancers. Even if some are in love with the dance, and not the audience, they are all looking for that shimmering oasis to be the watering hole they need not leave for ever.
And the dance, even though it is public, is by invitation only. For your eyes only. And it feels good to dance the dance again.
utekkare,
Pranay
We twirl. And pirouette. And we bow. half-shyly. As if apologetic of our skill. As if we are uncaring of how adept we have become at this dance.
In full view. We gyrate, and smile, and move our body, sometimes marvellously in tune, sometimes hopelessly trying to keep up with the beat, trying always to catch their attention.
It is a familiar kind of uneasiness, restlessness, and the hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach, the same kind we feel when we rush down from the top of a ferris wheel, plunging down at the mercy of 4 pinions and a small enclosure from 1000 feet above earth. And we like it. We thrive on it, and get all giddy and excited.
And our faces sparkle, and our eyes glitter, and we are always out of breath, and we are chirpy again, and we are bright and positive, and the world looks clean and nice and happy again. And our enemies dont seem so harsh anymore, and our friends dont seem close anymore, and nothing seems the same.
And the dance is addictive. We keep twirling around ourselves, as if trying to tie ourselves into knots, always keeping in mind that the audience should enjoy the spectacle, without making abject fools of ourselves. Some compromise between privacy and allegory is reached, as we symphonize our life's achievements into a long and intensely personal ballad.
Yes, we are dancing. As much for the other person as we are for ourselves. We dance as if our life depends on it, because who knows, this could be the last dance we have to do. We dance because the thrill of the dance envelops us all, and it allows us a suspension of disbelief. It makes us believe in coincidence, and fate, and time, and god, and karma, and attempts to make us understand how many strings are being pulled by someone else.
And we are as scared of the dance to stop, as we are of having to dance again. We worry about the dance, and all its moves are dissected threadbare, to check for any overt gestures of desperation or looking needy, and to make sure it does not look covertly cocky or pushy. No negative signals must be sent out.
And each dance is customised to the audience it is intended for. So some dances are garish, and full of color and style. Others are silent, non moving studies in composure and pain. Some dances are symbolic of their end-use, while others are a just a sham to cover the true nature of the audience. Others are an appeasement of the senses, while others are like fencing matches and shadow boxing. Some dances run for years, and years, while others end almost before they begin. But nobody tires of the dance. It is intrinsic to life, and it is intrinsic to happiness.
If we dont dance, we will never find happiness. And even if we dance, we are not sure we will find happiness. For most, it leads to a shimmering oasis of temporary madness and hedonistic pleasure. But, it is those precious few, those chosen few in the world who dance the dance, and are rewarded with a lifetime of rest. It is the ultimate goal, and the final destination for all dancers. Even if some are in love with the dance, and not the audience, they are all looking for that shimmering oasis to be the watering hole they need not leave for ever.
And the dance, even though it is public, is by invitation only. For your eyes only. And it feels good to dance the dance again.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
My God, the Professional Procrastinater
So God walked sleepily into his cubicle 25 minutes late on Monday morning, cursing monday morning tempests, and assinine heavenly spirits who were sleeping while Neptune had his way.
"I've got to create the world this week...", He grumbled as his tie got caught in his stubble as he folded his hands in obeisance at the mirror kept on the pedestal opposite his workdesk. The worst part about working for the Multinational Corporation of the Heavenly Abode (MCHA), was Monday mornings.
He walked down the aisle to the water cooler, and waved his fingers idly at the machine to make him some coffee... As he reached for the cup, he was distracted by the new receptionist, from Hell. She was there on the student exchange program that traded souls between heaven and hell for 2 months to learn about each other's cultures... He took his cup of coffee back to his desk as he stirred sugar into the coffee with an imaginary stirrer...And pondered how to go about the task of creating a world in one working week... while trying to push it off to the next week. As he sipped his coffee, and cursed himself for trusting a water cooler to do a job of a cappucino machine, he noticed that he'd wasted as much time as he could have, legally, before starting work, without being reprimanded by the creator. Nasty thing, that third eye thingy...
Well God decided that no large task could be accomplished without a plan of action being laid out in detail. So he spent about an hour and a half looking for a suitable pad, and then another 35 minutes looking for a pen that wrote well, before he could sit before it, make an impressive headline that read "The making of the World - by God!" and started studying the blank piece of paper with a thoughtful expression till lunch.
Post lunch, God scratched his head and decided that he really needed to show some work, and thought about the easiest ways to create Earth without too much work, and headache. Thats when, after he had chewed through about 4/10ths of the pencil, he hit upon the idea of templates. Templates for men, women, children, grasslands, marshes, rocks, stones, water, oceans, sand, mud, air, clouds, stars, Bangladesh, trees, animals, rabbits, possums, landladies, authors, designers, furniture, Bollywood songs, middle aged American women, kashmiri terrorists, Chilean Sea Bass, Texan Oil Magnates, Pakistani Army Chiefs, seals, snakes, tigers, elephants, cameramen, bootpolish-wallahs, shy muslim girls, dancing peacocks, rain, dust, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, jack frost, santa claus, radio jockies, school principals, and all that the world would contain. HE took about 28 minutes to list down all this and about 10,437,892,135,067,112.43283333333 (recurring) more entries.
And then he sighed. Now that he'd got half the hard part done, he needed to create Diversity now. And it wasn't even 4.00 PM.
God, I hate Monday mornings.
utekkare,
Pranay
"I've got to create the world this week...", He grumbled as his tie got caught in his stubble as he folded his hands in obeisance at the mirror kept on the pedestal opposite his workdesk. The worst part about working for the Multinational Corporation of the Heavenly Abode (MCHA), was Monday mornings.
He walked down the aisle to the water cooler, and waved his fingers idly at the machine to make him some coffee... As he reached for the cup, he was distracted by the new receptionist, from Hell. She was there on the student exchange program that traded souls between heaven and hell for 2 months to learn about each other's cultures... He took his cup of coffee back to his desk as he stirred sugar into the coffee with an imaginary stirrer...And pondered how to go about the task of creating a world in one working week... while trying to push it off to the next week. As he sipped his coffee, and cursed himself for trusting a water cooler to do a job of a cappucino machine, he noticed that he'd wasted as much time as he could have, legally, before starting work, without being reprimanded by the creator. Nasty thing, that third eye thingy...
Well God decided that no large task could be accomplished without a plan of action being laid out in detail. So he spent about an hour and a half looking for a suitable pad, and then another 35 minutes looking for a pen that wrote well, before he could sit before it, make an impressive headline that read "The making of the World - by God!" and started studying the blank piece of paper with a thoughtful expression till lunch.
Post lunch, God scratched his head and decided that he really needed to show some work, and thought about the easiest ways to create Earth without too much work, and headache. Thats when, after he had chewed through about 4/10ths of the pencil, he hit upon the idea of templates. Templates for men, women, children, grasslands, marshes, rocks, stones, water, oceans, sand, mud, air, clouds, stars, Bangladesh, trees, animals, rabbits, possums, landladies, authors, designers, furniture, Bollywood songs, middle aged American women, kashmiri terrorists, Chilean Sea Bass, Texan Oil Magnates, Pakistani Army Chiefs, seals, snakes, tigers, elephants, cameramen, bootpolish-wallahs, shy muslim girls, dancing peacocks, rain, dust, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, jack frost, santa claus, radio jockies, school principals, and all that the world would contain. HE took about 28 minutes to list down all this and about 10,437,892,135,067,112.43283333333 (recurring) more entries.
And then he sighed. Now that he'd got half the hard part done, he needed to create Diversity now. And it wasn't even 4.00 PM.
God, I hate Monday mornings.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, December 16, 2007
A lot to catch up on
And since I am in a half decent mood today, I shall try to dig up all those thoughts I should have blogged when I thought them, where I thought them. But since I am a lazy bum, I will try to regurgitate them here...
So I have been travelling. From Mumbai to Delhi to Tirupur to Coimbatore to Delhi to Goa, and back to Tirupur and then to Mumbai. But the longest journey I made was from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex. And the biggest culture shock is going from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex.
Like I have finally realised the pleasure of nonchalantly ordering a "double large", and cocking a snook at the waiter when he asked if I wanted ice to fill up the glass in absence of a suitable beverage to mask the taste of the undiluted alcohol poured into my glass.
Like I found and experienced all the things people dont like about Delhi. Like noisy people, and combative irritating people, and expensive food with no taste, and cocky waiters, and horrible traffic, and mindnumbingly vast distances between places, and meetings, and getting confused between vihars, and ganjs, and nagars, and enclaves, and layouts, and kunjs, and baugs, and phases, and roads, and places, and circles, and gurgaon, and noida, and okhla, and cold winters, and roasting summers, and high hotel prices, and even higher alcohol prices, and snooty punjabi women with vacant expressions and buxom bosoms, who look for gold rings on your fingers, and gold chains round your neck, and expensive watches, and who know the difference between silver and platinum but not the difference between pearl jam and linkin park. And people speaking like they know how to speak English, but use behenchod liberally, with a lot of dude, man, yaar, saale, chutiya, and some assorted phrases like chill yaar, to make up for their completely indecipherable pronounciation of sentences.
And I have not experienced the things that people like about Delhi. Like the new Metro.
Like the alcohol prices in Delhi, make me want to hide my pain in South Goa. Until the rates in Goa rise.
Like South Goa is like Calangute in 1996. But now the Russians are there, I think it will take less than 11 months to make South Goa crowded, and irritating, and unpleasant, and commercial, and crass and Gujju for Holiday.
And All small towns in India look the same when you are slightly sleepy, and the streets are whizzing past you. The cows look the same, and the rickshaws look the same and the trucks look the same, and the LCV's trying to wedge themselves in your face in the street meant for 3 people to walk shoulder to shoulder, look the same. And walled cities, and small shops, and old carved edifices of erstwhile successful establishments gone to seed, and small trinkets sold outside colleges, and new gaudy electronics stores with branches, and localised promotions, and international bank branches, and ATMS, and aditya hitkari smiling down at you benignly from Peter England posters exhorting you to be like Mumbai and buy the honest shirt.
And I have seen coconut groves in interior Tamilnadu, and wheat plains in coastal Goa.
Like Anil Kumble is the only man who can kick anyone's ass from the top to the bottom. Hell, hes so senior he could probably kick Sharad Pawar's ass too. Like his wings are now unfurling. Like Saurav Dada and Viru and Sachin and Dravid and Yuvraj and Mahi and Irfan and Wasim Jaffer and Gautam Gambhir and Dinesh Karthik and all the kings batsmen cannot put together 20 wickets for Mr Kumble.
And the ICL came and went. And nobody bothered about it. Sorry, Kapil Paaji, but Kapil Dev da Jawaab finally hai.
And Airports are now fun. And Airport lounges are fun. Watching people look important, tired, happy, sad, united, fighting, unhappy, lonely, busy, creatively irritating, bored, nonchalant, interested, vacuous, alert, unimportant, and silent is always fun.
utekkare,
pranay
So I have been travelling. From Mumbai to Delhi to Tirupur to Coimbatore to Delhi to Goa, and back to Tirupur and then to Mumbai. But the longest journey I made was from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex. And the biggest culture shock is going from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex.
Like I have finally realised the pleasure of nonchalantly ordering a "double large", and cocking a snook at the waiter when he asked if I wanted ice to fill up the glass in absence of a suitable beverage to mask the taste of the undiluted alcohol poured into my glass.
Like I found and experienced all the things people dont like about Delhi. Like noisy people, and combative irritating people, and expensive food with no taste, and cocky waiters, and horrible traffic, and mindnumbingly vast distances between places, and meetings, and getting confused between vihars, and ganjs, and nagars, and enclaves, and layouts, and kunjs, and baugs, and phases, and roads, and places, and circles, and gurgaon, and noida, and okhla, and cold winters, and roasting summers, and high hotel prices, and even higher alcohol prices, and snooty punjabi women with vacant expressions and buxom bosoms, who look for gold rings on your fingers, and gold chains round your neck, and expensive watches, and who know the difference between silver and platinum but not the difference between pearl jam and linkin park. And people speaking like they know how to speak English, but use behenchod liberally, with a lot of dude, man, yaar, saale, chutiya, and some assorted phrases like chill yaar, to make up for their completely indecipherable pronounciation of sentences.
And I have not experienced the things that people like about Delhi. Like the new Metro.
Like the alcohol prices in Delhi, make me want to hide my pain in South Goa. Until the rates in Goa rise.
Like South Goa is like Calangute in 1996. But now the Russians are there, I think it will take less than 11 months to make South Goa crowded, and irritating, and unpleasant, and commercial, and crass and Gujju for Holiday.
And All small towns in India look the same when you are slightly sleepy, and the streets are whizzing past you. The cows look the same, and the rickshaws look the same and the trucks look the same, and the LCV's trying to wedge themselves in your face in the street meant for 3 people to walk shoulder to shoulder, look the same. And walled cities, and small shops, and old carved edifices of erstwhile successful establishments gone to seed, and small trinkets sold outside colleges, and new gaudy electronics stores with branches, and localised promotions, and international bank branches, and ATMS, and aditya hitkari smiling down at you benignly from Peter England posters exhorting you to be like Mumbai and buy the honest shirt.
And I have seen coconut groves in interior Tamilnadu, and wheat plains in coastal Goa.
Like Anil Kumble is the only man who can kick anyone's ass from the top to the bottom. Hell, hes so senior he could probably kick Sharad Pawar's ass too. Like his wings are now unfurling. Like Saurav Dada and Viru and Sachin and Dravid and Yuvraj and Mahi and Irfan and Wasim Jaffer and Gautam Gambhir and Dinesh Karthik and all the kings batsmen cannot put together 20 wickets for Mr Kumble.
And the ICL came and went. And nobody bothered about it. Sorry, Kapil Paaji, but Kapil Dev da Jawaab finally hai.
And Airports are now fun. And Airport lounges are fun. Watching people look important, tired, happy, sad, united, fighting, unhappy, lonely, busy, creatively irritating, bored, nonchalant, interested, vacuous, alert, unimportant, and silent is always fun.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Things I have to say; Things I have to do; Things I've been thinking of
And I have been travelling around India, in a round circle, that starts from Mumbai, goes to Bangalore, then to Coimbatore, and then Tirupur, then moves to Delhi, comes to Goa, then goes to Tirupur again, then back to Delhi and finally back to Mumbai. It is like a big wheel of India with Mumbai as the hub, and Jetlite flights, and Go Air flights, and Indigo flights, and Spicejet flights, and Air India flights and Indian Airlines flights are the spokes in this big wheel.
And while I was away from Mumbai, I have been visiting Mumbai. I have been travelling to Napean Sea Road, Bandra, Jogeshwari, Mira Road, Bombay Central, the Sapphire Bar, the hospital in Juhu for slashed wrists, and to Amitabh Bachchan's home in Juhu, and to the Police Commissioner's Office in Colaba, and to Panchratna in Charni Road, and to Gujarat, and Dahisar, and to Madanpura, and to Dubai and to Karachi, and to Bandra East to Kalanagar to meet Tigers, and to Arthur Road Jail. Thank you Mr Mehta.
And I did all this while thinking about how much fun it was. Without sweating or getting harassed or being threatened with my life, I did it all. Before I was 40.
And I want to travel even further. To New York, and Florida, and Orlando and Disneyland and to Madrid and Barcelona and to Paris and to Holland, and to Rome and Milan and to Athens, and to the boot of Sicily, and to the South of France and to Israel, and to Ibiza, and to Liverpool, and to Baltimore, and to Australia to Sydney and Melbourne, and to make sure that my company and its garments are plastered across every shop from sea to shining sea. Every day of the week. And twice on sunday.
And I want to do so many things. Like I want to take up screenwriting even if it doesnt pay me even a pittance. I want to make successful famous movies and TV Serials, and I want to learn to promote and sell these ventures and learn make my producer his money even before the movie has been released or has hit the box office. I want to sell my script and ideas and passion to Shahrukh Khan. Because I think he knows what passion is all about. I didnt believe this earlier. But I do now. And I want to live in an apartment in Brooklyn or in New York and walk down cobblestones and sit on pavement cafes and have Saturday brunches as a routine. I want to be able to own a small piece of land in the Caribbean from where I can go snorkelling, or fishing or go swimming whenever I feel like. And I want to be able to travel to wherever I want to go, and It should be on business so I can feel good about it.
Like I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy, my parents, my acting coach, and all those crocodile tears that my Gucci wallet cannot conceal while I climb the stairs to take the mike and blast out all those no-good, incompetent, asinine, dimwitted, fucking misfits of friends that I entertained all these years. I am cutting off vestigal limbs. And I am learning catharsis. And I am gaining in self belief. That I am not a bad person. And that I am not inadequate. or unintelligent. or insensitive. I am being that non-needy person I always looked up to.
And I am not putting in effort where it will bring me nothing but hurt, pain, rejection, introspection, depression and unhappiness. And I want to talk about a lot of things. And I want to write about a lot of things. And I want to travel. Travel a lot.
I want to eat Sushi all the time. And I want to go snorkelling in the Andamans. And I want to expand my business. And I want to learn to drive. And I want to bring down my waist to 32 inches by February 3rd.
I am taking a departure to normally written posts. But I am at liberty to do so now. Because this is my blog. And I am unapologetic about it.
I can feel alone and not feel that it is a bad thing. But a positive thing. An attribute to thrive on. That cannot hurt me or harm me in any way. That is not a quest for validation in any way, shape or form.
This is a deeply personal post. But I am now a deeply personal person. I am serving the emotional needs of a person we all know as Pranay, first.
I will succeed. Not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not then, there's always next week.
utekkare,
Pranay
And while I was away from Mumbai, I have been visiting Mumbai. I have been travelling to Napean Sea Road, Bandra, Jogeshwari, Mira Road, Bombay Central, the Sapphire Bar, the hospital in Juhu for slashed wrists, and to Amitabh Bachchan's home in Juhu, and to the Police Commissioner's Office in Colaba, and to Panchratna in Charni Road, and to Gujarat, and Dahisar, and to Madanpura, and to Dubai and to Karachi, and to Bandra East to Kalanagar to meet Tigers, and to Arthur Road Jail. Thank you Mr Mehta.
And I did all this while thinking about how much fun it was. Without sweating or getting harassed or being threatened with my life, I did it all. Before I was 40.
And I want to travel even further. To New York, and Florida, and Orlando and Disneyland and to Madrid and Barcelona and to Paris and to Holland, and to Rome and Milan and to Athens, and to the boot of Sicily, and to the South of France and to Israel, and to Ibiza, and to Liverpool, and to Baltimore, and to Australia to Sydney and Melbourne, and to make sure that my company and its garments are plastered across every shop from sea to shining sea. Every day of the week. And twice on sunday.
And I want to do so many things. Like I want to take up screenwriting even if it doesnt pay me even a pittance. I want to make successful famous movies and TV Serials, and I want to learn to promote and sell these ventures and learn make my producer his money even before the movie has been released or has hit the box office. I want to sell my script and ideas and passion to Shahrukh Khan. Because I think he knows what passion is all about. I didnt believe this earlier. But I do now. And I want to live in an apartment in Brooklyn or in New York and walk down cobblestones and sit on pavement cafes and have Saturday brunches as a routine. I want to be able to own a small piece of land in the Caribbean from where I can go snorkelling, or fishing or go swimming whenever I feel like. And I want to be able to travel to wherever I want to go, and It should be on business so I can feel good about it.
Like I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy, my parents, my acting coach, and all those crocodile tears that my Gucci wallet cannot conceal while I climb the stairs to take the mike and blast out all those no-good, incompetent, asinine, dimwitted, fucking misfits of friends that I entertained all these years. I am cutting off vestigal limbs. And I am learning catharsis. And I am gaining in self belief. That I am not a bad person. And that I am not inadequate. or unintelligent. or insensitive. I am being that non-needy person I always looked up to.
And I am not putting in effort where it will bring me nothing but hurt, pain, rejection, introspection, depression and unhappiness. And I want to talk about a lot of things. And I want to write about a lot of things. And I want to travel. Travel a lot.
I want to eat Sushi all the time. And I want to go snorkelling in the Andamans. And I want to expand my business. And I want to learn to drive. And I want to bring down my waist to 32 inches by February 3rd.
I am taking a departure to normally written posts. But I am at liberty to do so now. Because this is my blog. And I am unapologetic about it.
I can feel alone and not feel that it is a bad thing. But a positive thing. An attribute to thrive on. That cannot hurt me or harm me in any way. That is not a quest for validation in any way, shape or form.
This is a deeply personal post. But I am now a deeply personal person. I am serving the emotional needs of a person we all know as Pranay, first.
I will succeed. Not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not then, there's always next week.
utekkare,
Pranay
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Old is Gold
And on a listless wednesday, some points of view, and assorted pieces of non-news..
and all my own work.
As my parents never fail to remind me, purane gaane are amazing. Not like today's songs that lack empathy, feeling, emotion, audible and/or decent lyrics, and "lilting, soulful" music scores. I am reminded of classic old songs that had intelligent meaningful lyrics, like "Eena Meena Dika, Dai Dama Nika", "Lal Chhadi Maidan Khadi", "Andar se koi baahar na ja sake", "Julie, I love you", "Hum Kaale hain toh kya hua dilwale hain", "Yahoo! Chahe koi mujhe junglee kahe", "I am a Disco dancer"...
A newspaper rag recently did not report the following: "Preeti and Pinky, Beaters, Falguni Pathak and other dandiya artistes recently formed an association that approached the government, the workers unions, the danidya organisers, Bharat Shah, film producers, Vijay Mallya, the Hore racing association of india, CRY, Medha Patkar, Anupam Kher, Yash Chopra, Shahrukh Khan, Karan Johar, the Phantom, Mandrake, The Western Railway Commuters Yojna, Chinchpokali Kreeda Mandal, The Lalbaug Ganpati Organisers Chit Fund, and started an SMS Campaign parallel to the Indian Idol shows. They requested all these individuals and organisations to make a dandiya coliseum where marriages, film shootings, mass pregnancies, gymnastics, and most importantly, DandiyaRaas that can be played till atleast 2.45 AM could happen like any other discotheque. Anti pregnancy pill companies rushed to sponsor different parts of the said complex as the hype grew."
When contacted, the artistes denied the allegations, saying they were either :
a) chasing the organisers for their money
b) raising a second mortgage on their home to pay for their mercedes
c) practising for a fund raiser for Gujarati under privileged women, hosted by Narendra Modi and Mallika Sarabhai"
As the cricket team prepares to get slammered in Mumbai (One Day Match tickets Rs 1000.00; T20 Match Tickets Rs 3000.00), All I ask myself is: Have monkeys evolved?
I like John Grisham novels. They are all a work in grey. No black and white heroes. All complicated tangled webs of the American Legal system. Where a single word can make a case win or lose. Where juries, and audiences are synonymous. I especially like the part where they retire to the Caribbean. Where the hero escapes from the legal system and lives it up in Europe. There was one where the hero escapes everything and his girlfriend cheats him. Even John Grisham doesnt trust intelligent beautiful women.
utekkare,
Pranay
and all my own work.
As my parents never fail to remind me, purane gaane are amazing. Not like today's songs that lack empathy, feeling, emotion, audible and/or decent lyrics, and "lilting, soulful" music scores. I am reminded of classic old songs that had intelligent meaningful lyrics, like "Eena Meena Dika, Dai Dama Nika", "Lal Chhadi Maidan Khadi", "Andar se koi baahar na ja sake", "Julie, I love you", "Hum Kaale hain toh kya hua dilwale hain", "Yahoo! Chahe koi mujhe junglee kahe", "I am a Disco dancer"...
A newspaper rag recently did not report the following: "Preeti and Pinky, Beaters, Falguni Pathak and other dandiya artistes recently formed an association that approached the government, the workers unions, the danidya organisers, Bharat Shah, film producers, Vijay Mallya, the Hore racing association of india, CRY, Medha Patkar, Anupam Kher, Yash Chopra, Shahrukh Khan, Karan Johar, the Phantom, Mandrake, The Western Railway Commuters Yojna, Chinchpokali Kreeda Mandal, The Lalbaug Ganpati Organisers Chit Fund, and started an SMS Campaign parallel to the Indian Idol shows. They requested all these individuals and organisations to make a dandiya coliseum where marriages, film shootings, mass pregnancies, gymnastics, and most importantly, DandiyaRaas that can be played till atleast 2.45 AM could happen like any other discotheque. Anti pregnancy pill companies rushed to sponsor different parts of the said complex as the hype grew."
When contacted, the artistes denied the allegations, saying they were either :
a) chasing the organisers for their money
b) raising a second mortgage on their home to pay for their mercedes
c) practising for a fund raiser for Gujarati under privileged women, hosted by Narendra Modi and Mallika Sarabhai"
As the cricket team prepares to get slammered in Mumbai (One Day Match tickets Rs 1000.00; T20 Match Tickets Rs 3000.00), All I ask myself is: Have monkeys evolved?
I like John Grisham novels. They are all a work in grey. No black and white heroes. All complicated tangled webs of the American Legal system. Where a single word can make a case win or lose. Where juries, and audiences are synonymous. I especially like the part where they retire to the Caribbean. Where the hero escapes from the legal system and lives it up in Europe. There was one where the hero escapes everything and his girlfriend cheats him. Even John Grisham doesnt trust intelligent beautiful women.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Festi-vali
So, yesterday I met a bank employee, who was really disgruntled.
He said that there is too much stress and tension in the Indian corporate working environment, and we need more holidays.
To this, I pointed out that he had Saturdays/Sundays off. Thats 8 days a month, and 96 days a year of relaxation. Then I showed him that he had 3 days for Ganesh Utsav, 3 days for Durga Pooja / Navratri / Dussehra, 5 days for Diwali, 2 days for Eid, 2 days for Christmas and New Year, and additional 18 such bank holidays for secularly celebrated religious holidays across all faiths, such as Gudi Padva, Moharram, Parsi New Year, Guru Nanak Jayanti, Buddha Purnima, Mahavir Jayanti, Good Friday.
I then also happened to mention that he had about 25 Casual Paid Leave Days, that he could use in combination with any or all of the above holidays and weekends to get almost a week off on occasion.
And since he worked for an MNC bank, he was scheduled to attend atleast 7-8 3-days seminars, training, holiday "character-building" camps, with paint guns, rock climbing, rappelling, and trekking, to enhance his "team building" skills. And 4 inspections outstation every month, so thats 48 days in a year.
Then, I mentioned the bandhs, the rasta-rokos, the rainy days when the trains broke down, the days when we were mourning a dead politician's death, or the day when his wife was giving birth. I also tactfully slipped in those 4 days when India was playing Pakistan during office hours.
He just smiled, and said, "Time kaise pass ho jaata hai, pata hi nahin chalta... :)"
utekkare,
Pranay
He said that there is too much stress and tension in the Indian corporate working environment, and we need more holidays.
To this, I pointed out that he had Saturdays/Sundays off. Thats 8 days a month, and 96 days a year of relaxation. Then I showed him that he had 3 days for Ganesh Utsav, 3 days for Durga Pooja / Navratri / Dussehra, 5 days for Diwali, 2 days for Eid, 2 days for Christmas and New Year, and additional 18 such bank holidays for secularly celebrated religious holidays across all faiths, such as Gudi Padva, Moharram, Parsi New Year, Guru Nanak Jayanti, Buddha Purnima, Mahavir Jayanti, Good Friday.
I then also happened to mention that he had about 25 Casual Paid Leave Days, that he could use in combination with any or all of the above holidays and weekends to get almost a week off on occasion.
And since he worked for an MNC bank, he was scheduled to attend atleast 7-8 3-days seminars, training, holiday "character-building" camps, with paint guns, rock climbing, rappelling, and trekking, to enhance his "team building" skills. And 4 inspections outstation every month, so thats 48 days in a year.
Then, I mentioned the bandhs, the rasta-rokos, the rainy days when the trains broke down, the days when we were mourning a dead politician's death, or the day when his wife was giving birth. I also tactfully slipped in those 4 days when India was playing Pakistan during office hours.
He just smiled, and said, "Time kaise pass ho jaata hai, pata hi nahin chalta... :)"
utekkare,
Pranay
Friday, October 05, 2007
Toy Story
And when a toy breaks, it hurts. You can love a toy to bits. Watch it take baby steps, wind it up and watch it clap its hands in perfect harmony with the key unwinding in its side. You can see it give you that big smile when you make it stand on your mantelpiece as all your friends marvel at how well behaved it is.
It smiled on cue, laughed on cue, and was extremely respectful of all that moved around it. It never uttered a single word in anger or ever turned on its masters.
It was very quiet when it's batteries ran out, but it did not raise the roof or demand servicing too often. It quietly stood in a corner when you found something new to concentrate your affections on. It beamed generously when you went back to it and lavished your attentions on it. When you painted it's arms, and bought it small little accessories, you felt gratified when it bore your new accessory proudly and strutted around like a new-born toy.
It did not give you joint problems during the winter, and it did not swelter in the heat. It came with you on all your travels and gave you endless hours of pleasure after hours of hard work. You shared your toy "selflessly" with all your friends, and you even made it get all social, by buying it more toys to play with when you were unable to play with it. You got it the latest in pets, in soft toys, cutting edge technology in toy-pleasing machinery. You always made sure that it was kept in the right cupboard, and that it was clearly marked "For Greater Things".
And when the toy got older, you got it repaired at the best technicians, and you made sure it was oiled, and greased and kept in shape, as far as possible. After all, a toy cannot be kept forever, but this particular toy has great sentimental value. It was going to see you through your old age, and be the emotional crutch you could lean on. It was going to put all those other toys your friends own, into shame.
Until one day, you took your toy to play at the neighbour's. And your neighbour loved your toy far more than you could. And that neighbour decided to ask you for the toy. After all it was an old toy, and the neighbour was lonely. Suddenly, you couldnt think why someone else would love your toy as much as you did. You got all resentful, and angry. You started wondering whether that toy was actually two-timing you. Whether the toy actually meant it when it beamed at you when you made it walk up and down your mantelpiece. You no longer take out your toy to show off to your friends. You dont like to play with it anymore. Every time you take out your toy now, you think of that stupid neighbour who thought your toy was worth asking for.
And slowly, but surely, you began hating your toy. Every time it grinned at you, you got angry, and irritated, and you no longer get the time to dust the toy. All this while, it just stood there in the dark cupboard, wondering when it would see the light. You stopped playing with your neighbour, and moved to another city.
It's not your fault. You broke your toy in transit.
utekkare,
Pranay
It smiled on cue, laughed on cue, and was extremely respectful of all that moved around it. It never uttered a single word in anger or ever turned on its masters.
It was very quiet when it's batteries ran out, but it did not raise the roof or demand servicing too often. It quietly stood in a corner when you found something new to concentrate your affections on. It beamed generously when you went back to it and lavished your attentions on it. When you painted it's arms, and bought it small little accessories, you felt gratified when it bore your new accessory proudly and strutted around like a new-born toy.
It did not give you joint problems during the winter, and it did not swelter in the heat. It came with you on all your travels and gave you endless hours of pleasure after hours of hard work. You shared your toy "selflessly" with all your friends, and you even made it get all social, by buying it more toys to play with when you were unable to play with it. You got it the latest in pets, in soft toys, cutting edge technology in toy-pleasing machinery. You always made sure that it was kept in the right cupboard, and that it was clearly marked "For Greater Things".
And when the toy got older, you got it repaired at the best technicians, and you made sure it was oiled, and greased and kept in shape, as far as possible. After all, a toy cannot be kept forever, but this particular toy has great sentimental value. It was going to see you through your old age, and be the emotional crutch you could lean on. It was going to put all those other toys your friends own, into shame.
Until one day, you took your toy to play at the neighbour's. And your neighbour loved your toy far more than you could. And that neighbour decided to ask you for the toy. After all it was an old toy, and the neighbour was lonely. Suddenly, you couldnt think why someone else would love your toy as much as you did. You got all resentful, and angry. You started wondering whether that toy was actually two-timing you. Whether the toy actually meant it when it beamed at you when you made it walk up and down your mantelpiece. You no longer take out your toy to show off to your friends. You dont like to play with it anymore. Every time you take out your toy now, you think of that stupid neighbour who thought your toy was worth asking for.
And slowly, but surely, you began hating your toy. Every time it grinned at you, you got angry, and irritated, and you no longer get the time to dust the toy. All this while, it just stood there in the dark cupboard, wondering when it would see the light. You stopped playing with your neighbour, and moved to another city.
It's not your fault. You broke your toy in transit.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
On a C-rickety wicket
Cricket is not a suitable career for young men. No, it is not. The odds of being chosen in the Indian team is about 250 million to 15. And the fact that 40% of India's population is between 23 and 45 is not helping either.
So if you did a little bit of backpage math, you would realise that you need to start showing signs of being a cricketer at the age of 3 or 4, be recognised by your parents or a coach, or an elder brother or an uncle at the age of 5 or 6, find your first coach under whom you can find success in school by the age of 8, and start getting runs, and into a decent college team by the age of 14. Unless you're Tendulkar. Which, sadly, 999 million, 999 thousand, 999 of us are not. So then, you need to get into college, and start sucking up to the Ranji scouts who are slinking around MSSA and Inter College cricket teams, hoping to find some decent talent.
Then you need to be in the Ranji team and need to have scored atleast a million gazillion runs to be noticed for the Indian team. And even then there is no logic or pattern to that. You might have scored 50 runs in an important match where someone happened to have dropped you at the individual score of 4 but let you get a fortuituous 50 which saved the match and you got picked into a provisional A team squad. On the other hand you might have scored hundreds of thousands of runs for 10 years running, and while it is tough to run a family on just 500,000 rupees a year, half of which is spent on cricket gear and travelling, you have to thank your stars and hope that some day the Indian selection panel will happen to go ahead; make your day. Punk.
And ofcourse, you have to eat shit, and suck up to match officials, and team coaches, and senior players, and India players, and BCCI referees, and Match referees, and politicians, and selectors, and Zonal selectors, and groundsmen, and scorers, and umpires, and managers, and still more managers, and endorsement companies, and employing companies like Indian Oil, and Bharat Petroleum, and Indian Railways, because you never know when you will need regular employment. And you must kiss ass with retired famous players, and test discards, and treasurers, and secretaries, and joint secretaries, and under secretaries, and notable members of the board, and the regional board, and the central board, and county scouts, and county managers, because you would love to live in England for a year or so.
But all this is not enough to guarantee you a place in the Indian team. Depending on who likes you, and how much they like you, if you fail in your first game, or even if you score highly in your first game, you are liable to be dropped, or be "persisted with". You could be selected for a 3 month tour and never see the playing field except when you carry water out to the batsmen who are the stars. You could be selected for a one day tournament, and be forced to play at Number Six and be sent in to win the match with an asking rate of 8 per over. And you have opened all your life.
And you could have all the talent. And the luck. And the blessings. And the scores to back them up. And you could have the opportunity. And the occasion. And the spirit. And the aggro to back it up. But you could be playing football during a training session, and trip over the ball, and break your ankle, and have to spend 4 months on the bed, and in rehab. And in that four months, someone else took your spot. And an old has-been got a test recall. And all you could do is watch as someone else took your place in the world. And noone remembers you. And noone cares.
And being captain of the Indian cricket team is even worse. Ofcourse you should have the best team in the world, and you should beat everyone in the world. And when you query how this is possible, its because you are paid to stand in front of a camera and tell the world that your favourite brand of cola or biscuit or sweet or luggage or watch or fabric or shampoo is the best. That is the reason you must win. Not because you have no training on bouncy pitches. Or because you were so busy protecting your place, you forgot about the match and the team and winning. Or because you could not figure out who ran the team. You or some bureaucrat in delhi.
But on some days, it is all worth it. When the world is at your feet, and when everyone is a fan. And the world is a happy place where it rains money, and friends, and supporters, and happiness, and ticker tape parades and accolades and promise, and positive thoughts.
Yesterday was one such day.
utekkare,
Pranay
So if you did a little bit of backpage math, you would realise that you need to start showing signs of being a cricketer at the age of 3 or 4, be recognised by your parents or a coach, or an elder brother or an uncle at the age of 5 or 6, find your first coach under whom you can find success in school by the age of 8, and start getting runs, and into a decent college team by the age of 14. Unless you're Tendulkar. Which, sadly, 999 million, 999 thousand, 999 of us are not. So then, you need to get into college, and start sucking up to the Ranji scouts who are slinking around MSSA and Inter College cricket teams, hoping to find some decent talent.
Then you need to be in the Ranji team and need to have scored atleast a million gazillion runs to be noticed for the Indian team. And even then there is no logic or pattern to that. You might have scored 50 runs in an important match where someone happened to have dropped you at the individual score of 4 but let you get a fortuituous 50 which saved the match and you got picked into a provisional A team squad. On the other hand you might have scored hundreds of thousands of runs for 10 years running, and while it is tough to run a family on just 500,000 rupees a year, half of which is spent on cricket gear and travelling, you have to thank your stars and hope that some day the Indian selection panel will happen to go ahead; make your day. Punk.
And ofcourse, you have to eat shit, and suck up to match officials, and team coaches, and senior players, and India players, and BCCI referees, and Match referees, and politicians, and selectors, and Zonal selectors, and groundsmen, and scorers, and umpires, and managers, and still more managers, and endorsement companies, and employing companies like Indian Oil, and Bharat Petroleum, and Indian Railways, because you never know when you will need regular employment. And you must kiss ass with retired famous players, and test discards, and treasurers, and secretaries, and joint secretaries, and under secretaries, and notable members of the board, and the regional board, and the central board, and county scouts, and county managers, because you would love to live in England for a year or so.
But all this is not enough to guarantee you a place in the Indian team. Depending on who likes you, and how much they like you, if you fail in your first game, or even if you score highly in your first game, you are liable to be dropped, or be "persisted with". You could be selected for a 3 month tour and never see the playing field except when you carry water out to the batsmen who are the stars. You could be selected for a one day tournament, and be forced to play at Number Six and be sent in to win the match with an asking rate of 8 per over. And you have opened all your life.
And you could have all the talent. And the luck. And the blessings. And the scores to back them up. And you could have the opportunity. And the occasion. And the spirit. And the aggro to back it up. But you could be playing football during a training session, and trip over the ball, and break your ankle, and have to spend 4 months on the bed, and in rehab. And in that four months, someone else took your spot. And an old has-been got a test recall. And all you could do is watch as someone else took your place in the world. And noone remembers you. And noone cares.
And being captain of the Indian cricket team is even worse. Ofcourse you should have the best team in the world, and you should beat everyone in the world. And when you query how this is possible, its because you are paid to stand in front of a camera and tell the world that your favourite brand of cola or biscuit or sweet or luggage or watch or fabric or shampoo is the best. That is the reason you must win. Not because you have no training on bouncy pitches. Or because you were so busy protecting your place, you forgot about the match and the team and winning. Or because you could not figure out who ran the team. You or some bureaucrat in delhi.
But on some days, it is all worth it. When the world is at your feet, and when everyone is a fan. And the world is a happy place where it rains money, and friends, and supporters, and happiness, and ticker tape parades and accolades and promise, and positive thoughts.
Yesterday was one such day.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Cheap at Double the Price
I think I want to buy an apartment.
So my friend and I went to look at this apartment complex, who boasts an astoundingly low rate of Rs 4000.00 per square foot, and says it is in Mulund. East, but still Mulund.
And it was a reputed Builder, renowned for its quality construction, luxury lifestyle apartments, and large towers.
So we went looking for the apartment complex. We went past Nahur station, and turned left on the highway. We passed the signal before the Toll Naka. Then we passed the Toll Naka. (After we paid the Toll). Then we took a U-turn just before the Octroi Naka where someone had thoughtfully pulled out the dividing section of concrete between the 2 opposing lanes, to ensure we could take a U-turn before entering Thane. Then we took a left on a dirt track that boasted the entry to the BMC Dumping Ground. The road took a sharp right in front of the dirty black BMC gate and we were suddenly confronted by 2 security guards who wanted to know why our lowly Innova wanted to enter their hallowed premises. When we assured them that we bore no ill-will, they smiled and directed us with their grimey hands and blackened teeth.
We were suitably impressed by the height of the towers; The progress of the construction; The bright blue swimming pool. Actually real! And we were whisked into a sterile meeting room with the Sales Officer. Mr Important. And he regarded us carefully.
This property is top of the line. 27 storey towers. With views of the garden in front and the green belt in the back. Green belt? The future green belt. Currently known as the landfill that had green organic matter growing on it. But no no no, Sir, you have nothing to worry about. There is no burning here and it is no health hazard. And besides, they are building a new bridge that is on the Development Plan but does not exist. So please do not look for that bridge. And ofcourse, you are 15 minutes walk from Thane Station, but make no mistake Sir. You are in Mulund, NOT Thane. You may have to pay toll every time you want to take a pee. And everytime you want to bring a package home from the station you will have to pay octroi. But what is that minor harrassment and expense when you can see what you have in front of you!!!
27 storeyed towers. E3 flats, also known as 2 1/2 BHK flats. Not 2. Not 3. 2 1/2 BHKs. You know, for that inconveniently unplanned second kid?? And Free Dry Balconies. Yes!! Free. Ofcourse, we have 30% loading on Built Up. So you can use only 850 sq feet in a billed space of 1225 sq feet. Never mind that when you load 30% on 850 sq feet it adds up to 1105, not 1225 sq feet. But defensive builders are the foundation of reverse mathematics. So the cost of the Flat is Rs 51.65 lakhs plus Stamp Duty and Registration of Rs 2.75 lakhs, so your total is Rs 54.40 lakhs. Cheap, no?
Oh and sorry sir, there is an additional cost of Rs 15 per floor rise. Oh, and parking costs Rs 3.50 lakhs if you want to put your car under the building. If you want to leave it open to the elements, it will cost you Rs 2.00 lakhs. Very reasonable. The society and other deposits are only RS 2.50 lakhs. Not much at all.
We cannot negotiate the rate you know sir. Ofcourse if you can bring your booking amount of Rs 51,000 to the table, we can take a spot approval for rate from my superiors. Can we do that?
Oh, and last of all. We can only show 3400 rs per sq foot in the agreement. If you dont have Rs 7.50 lakhs in black money to give us, dont even waste our time.
I'm sorry but this does not seem to suit our budget.
I'm so sorry to hear that. You know, you should have come in here 16 months ago. The price was 2000 Rs per sq foot then. Have a good day.
utekkare,
Pranay
So my friend and I went to look at this apartment complex, who boasts an astoundingly low rate of Rs 4000.00 per square foot, and says it is in Mulund. East, but still Mulund.
And it was a reputed Builder, renowned for its quality construction, luxury lifestyle apartments, and large towers.
So we went looking for the apartment complex. We went past Nahur station, and turned left on the highway. We passed the signal before the Toll Naka. Then we passed the Toll Naka. (After we paid the Toll). Then we took a U-turn just before the Octroi Naka where someone had thoughtfully pulled out the dividing section of concrete between the 2 opposing lanes, to ensure we could take a U-turn before entering Thane. Then we took a left on a dirt track that boasted the entry to the BMC Dumping Ground. The road took a sharp right in front of the dirty black BMC gate and we were suddenly confronted by 2 security guards who wanted to know why our lowly Innova wanted to enter their hallowed premises. When we assured them that we bore no ill-will, they smiled and directed us with their grimey hands and blackened teeth.
We were suitably impressed by the height of the towers; The progress of the construction; The bright blue swimming pool. Actually real! And we were whisked into a sterile meeting room with the Sales Officer. Mr Important. And he regarded us carefully.
This property is top of the line. 27 storey towers. With views of the garden in front and the green belt in the back. Green belt? The future green belt. Currently known as the landfill that had green organic matter growing on it. But no no no, Sir, you have nothing to worry about. There is no burning here and it is no health hazard. And besides, they are building a new bridge that is on the Development Plan but does not exist. So please do not look for that bridge. And ofcourse, you are 15 minutes walk from Thane Station, but make no mistake Sir. You are in Mulund, NOT Thane. You may have to pay toll every time you want to take a pee. And everytime you want to bring a package home from the station you will have to pay octroi. But what is that minor harrassment and expense when you can see what you have in front of you!!!
27 storeyed towers. E3 flats, also known as 2 1/2 BHK flats. Not 2. Not 3. 2 1/2 BHKs. You know, for that inconveniently unplanned second kid?? And Free Dry Balconies. Yes!! Free. Ofcourse, we have 30% loading on Built Up. So you can use only 850 sq feet in a billed space of 1225 sq feet. Never mind that when you load 30% on 850 sq feet it adds up to 1105, not 1225 sq feet. But defensive builders are the foundation of reverse mathematics. So the cost of the Flat is Rs 51.65 lakhs plus Stamp Duty and Registration of Rs 2.75 lakhs, so your total is Rs 54.40 lakhs. Cheap, no?
Oh and sorry sir, there is an additional cost of Rs 15 per floor rise. Oh, and parking costs Rs 3.50 lakhs if you want to put your car under the building. If you want to leave it open to the elements, it will cost you Rs 2.00 lakhs. Very reasonable. The society and other deposits are only RS 2.50 lakhs. Not much at all.
We cannot negotiate the rate you know sir. Ofcourse if you can bring your booking amount of Rs 51,000 to the table, we can take a spot approval for rate from my superiors. Can we do that?
Oh, and last of all. We can only show 3400 rs per sq foot in the agreement. If you dont have Rs 7.50 lakhs in black money to give us, dont even waste our time.
I'm sorry but this does not seem to suit our budget.
I'm so sorry to hear that. You know, you should have come in here 16 months ago. The price was 2000 Rs per sq foot then. Have a good day.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Getting too old for this
So I went out today. After all it was Saturday night. And I definitely did not want it to be the loneliest night of the week. And since I met Trevor, we decided we wanted to go out, party, go crazy, and generally have a great time.
And since my simple goddess was unavailable, and all the other maidens were bowled over, by potato-deprived maharashtrians, and punjabi horses of iron, we decided to make it a boy's night out.
And to begin with, I thought, what the hell, since I work on Sundays as well, I might as well work hard, and party harder. And so I managed to close up by 8.30 PM.
Then we thought, we would go to this awesome nightclub where I would be able to wangle an entry on the guest list. Never mind that it is free entry before 10 PM, and never mind that the nightclub was in the mall 4 storeys below my office.
But we had to take the dog home in the car, and the driver needed to be sent home early if we were to get to work on Sunday. So we ended up at my place, dropped off the dog, and started discussing prices of real estate, interiors, shelf placements, and the cost of double bedsheets.
But since I was not to be deterred, I changed my shoes, and wore funky light brown sports shoes, and sidestepped all efforts to sit down to dinner, and discuss wall colors, varnish, polish, and cabinets.
We left, and generally congratulated each other as I made elaborate plans to get sloshed. And since we were in College again, we discussed how foolish it would be to go to Leopold's since the price would be too high. Instead we could even go to Lalit's and enjoy the quarter system. Like old times.
And we could have gone to Lower Parel, Bowling Company, and bowled a few games, and had a few beers, and struck up a conversation with the all girls team bowling alongside us. But we didnt. After all who needs a sore right arm the next morning?
And we could have called a couple of friends, and gone dancing and drinking in a nightclub. But my knees are not OK yet, and Trevor didnt want to risk breaking his leg again. So we didnt. After all who needs more complications in body parts?
And we could have gone for a movie at IMAX, and enjoyed the late night show thoroughly. But we needed our sleep, and since we didnt want to bleary eyed the next day, we didnt. After all who likes a crotchety Pranay at 10 AM on a Sunday morning?
And then we decided that we were men, and we went to shoot some Pool. We smirked at the kids playing there, atleast 10 years our junior. And 2 kids cockily came up and asked if we would play Doubles, we nervously looked at each other, and I stuttered, "No LP"... After all the last thing we need on a Macho Saturday night is a reality check before 2 kids.
And we talked about our trips abroad, and compared notes on how the white house looked, and reminisced about what we used to do when we were in college, and how years had passed. And we continued playing mediocre Pool and feeling good about ourselves.
And after 2 drinks, we decided to head home, and hailed a taxi. As we drove down Mahapalika Marg, I exclaimed that we should go back to College once.. For old times sake. As we passed it I realised that most kids we would pass in that college hadn't even been born when we were in college. I held my counsel thereafter.
And I dropped Trev off, and the cabbie took me meandering along Foras Road. And I could have jumped off the cab, and walked to Delhi Darbar, and explored those gallis, and observed, and taken a cab home later. But I was unsure of who might jump me, and drug me and force intercourse on me. And I kept thinking, I'm too old for this.
And then I reached home, took my medicine for a scratchy throat, an aching back, a pulled muscle, a headache, and checked my hair loss in the mirror.
Sigh. I'm going to have to get a hair cut sometime soon. I'm too old for this.
utekkare,
Pranay
And since my simple goddess was unavailable, and all the other maidens were bowled over, by potato-deprived maharashtrians, and punjabi horses of iron, we decided to make it a boy's night out.
And to begin with, I thought, what the hell, since I work on Sundays as well, I might as well work hard, and party harder. And so I managed to close up by 8.30 PM.
Then we thought, we would go to this awesome nightclub where I would be able to wangle an entry on the guest list. Never mind that it is free entry before 10 PM, and never mind that the nightclub was in the mall 4 storeys below my office.
But we had to take the dog home in the car, and the driver needed to be sent home early if we were to get to work on Sunday. So we ended up at my place, dropped off the dog, and started discussing prices of real estate, interiors, shelf placements, and the cost of double bedsheets.
But since I was not to be deterred, I changed my shoes, and wore funky light brown sports shoes, and sidestepped all efforts to sit down to dinner, and discuss wall colors, varnish, polish, and cabinets.
We left, and generally congratulated each other as I made elaborate plans to get sloshed. And since we were in College again, we discussed how foolish it would be to go to Leopold's since the price would be too high. Instead we could even go to Lalit's and enjoy the quarter system. Like old times.
And we could have gone to Lower Parel, Bowling Company, and bowled a few games, and had a few beers, and struck up a conversation with the all girls team bowling alongside us. But we didnt. After all who needs a sore right arm the next morning?
And we could have called a couple of friends, and gone dancing and drinking in a nightclub. But my knees are not OK yet, and Trevor didnt want to risk breaking his leg again. So we didnt. After all who needs more complications in body parts?
And we could have gone for a movie at IMAX, and enjoyed the late night show thoroughly. But we needed our sleep, and since we didnt want to bleary eyed the next day, we didnt. After all who likes a crotchety Pranay at 10 AM on a Sunday morning?
And then we decided that we were men, and we went to shoot some Pool. We smirked at the kids playing there, atleast 10 years our junior. And 2 kids cockily came up and asked if we would play Doubles, we nervously looked at each other, and I stuttered, "No LP"... After all the last thing we need on a Macho Saturday night is a reality check before 2 kids.
And we talked about our trips abroad, and compared notes on how the white house looked, and reminisced about what we used to do when we were in college, and how years had passed. And we continued playing mediocre Pool and feeling good about ourselves.
And after 2 drinks, we decided to head home, and hailed a taxi. As we drove down Mahapalika Marg, I exclaimed that we should go back to College once.. For old times sake. As we passed it I realised that most kids we would pass in that college hadn't even been born when we were in college. I held my counsel thereafter.
And I dropped Trev off, and the cabbie took me meandering along Foras Road. And I could have jumped off the cab, and walked to Delhi Darbar, and explored those gallis, and observed, and taken a cab home later. But I was unsure of who might jump me, and drug me and force intercourse on me. And I kept thinking, I'm too old for this.
And then I reached home, took my medicine for a scratchy throat, an aching back, a pulled muscle, a headache, and checked my hair loss in the mirror.
Sigh. I'm going to have to get a hair cut sometime soon. I'm too old for this.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Generalisations, and Accusations, and Insinuations, and Suchlike
So on a saturday morning, in the middle of the desert, some general mindless meandering thoughts, and points of view, and interesting observations (All my own work)..
Like I found out that I'm not the only pretender who apes Behram Contractor. And that there are those who are given reams and reams of newsprint so they may sully their reader's eyes with mediocre Busybee-ish "Like"s and dis"Like"s... and is it coincidental, or is it completely intended that these mediocre observations should accompany mediocre cricket?
And that I am getting to write again. And that when the spirit is willing, the body is conveniently misplaced at some other location.
Like Karma is easy come easy go.
Like Mind blowing lines, and Slick copy accompanying equally intelligent thoughts, and round about sentences in mildly suggestive assertiveness, describing situations that bring on heady bouts of anger, distaste, opinions, salty prose, and irritation, should be written down and noted down for posterity's sake.
And I visited Panvel in an ST Bus. It was a quick journey there. That is the only adjective I can generously use in favour of the ST Bus. And contrary to popular perception, the driver was safe. Ofcourse, that is a subjective point of view, since I, the subject was sitting on the inside, and the seats were Definitely greener on my side of the fence.
And I saw that the small village once was famous for its Ramakant Vada-Pav, and its Bhajiya and Chai and Waterfalls, and nature treks, and small paths, and panthers in its greenery, and being on the way to Karnala, and Goa, and Pune, and Khopoli, and Karjat, is no longer on the way but is the end on the map.
And all traces of the that old village have been obliterated, and now assembly-line townships, and buildings, and roads, and post offices, and ICICI Banks, and HDFC Banks, and Mahesh Tutorials, and McDonalds, and foresighted individuals, once in decrepit rickshaws, now in Sumos and Scorpios, preening around their 50,000 Rs per meter foot land, never mind that it is in the mangroves, and that it is in a swamp, and that the roads look like the Moon's Surface, and that there are no street lights, and that your nearest neighbours are snakes and crabs.
And builders, and investors, and gujjus, and sindhis and Mr and Mrs Moneybags from Andheri and Juhu, and Bandra, and Santacruz, investing and hungrily staring at their property prices doubling and then tripling, rubbing their hands in glee.
Ofcourse, all this humbled me, so I returned by ST Bus, and (although I was suitably irritated by the ST bus), I returned in 1 piece and far earlier than a train or a car would reach me.
And now I must go. Or my flight will offload me.
utekkare,
Pranay
Like I found out that I'm not the only pretender who apes Behram Contractor. And that there are those who are given reams and reams of newsprint so they may sully their reader's eyes with mediocre Busybee-ish "Like"s and dis"Like"s... and is it coincidental, or is it completely intended that these mediocre observations should accompany mediocre cricket?
And that I am getting to write again. And that when the spirit is willing, the body is conveniently misplaced at some other location.
Like Karma is easy come easy go.
Like Mind blowing lines, and Slick copy accompanying equally intelligent thoughts, and round about sentences in mildly suggestive assertiveness, describing situations that bring on heady bouts of anger, distaste, opinions, salty prose, and irritation, should be written down and noted down for posterity's sake.
And I visited Panvel in an ST Bus. It was a quick journey there. That is the only adjective I can generously use in favour of the ST Bus. And contrary to popular perception, the driver was safe. Ofcourse, that is a subjective point of view, since I, the subject was sitting on the inside, and the seats were Definitely greener on my side of the fence.
And I saw that the small village once was famous for its Ramakant Vada-Pav, and its Bhajiya and Chai and Waterfalls, and nature treks, and small paths, and panthers in its greenery, and being on the way to Karnala, and Goa, and Pune, and Khopoli, and Karjat, is no longer on the way but is the end on the map.
And all traces of the that old village have been obliterated, and now assembly-line townships, and buildings, and roads, and post offices, and ICICI Banks, and HDFC Banks, and Mahesh Tutorials, and McDonalds, and foresighted individuals, once in decrepit rickshaws, now in Sumos and Scorpios, preening around their 50,000 Rs per meter foot land, never mind that it is in the mangroves, and that it is in a swamp, and that the roads look like the Moon's Surface, and that there are no street lights, and that your nearest neighbours are snakes and crabs.
And builders, and investors, and gujjus, and sindhis and Mr and Mrs Moneybags from Andheri and Juhu, and Bandra, and Santacruz, investing and hungrily staring at their property prices doubling and then tripling, rubbing their hands in glee.
Ofcourse, all this humbled me, so I returned by ST Bus, and (although I was suitably irritated by the ST bus), I returned in 1 piece and far earlier than a train or a car would reach me.
And now I must go. Or my flight will offload me.
utekkare,
Pranay
Friday, March 30, 2007
All in a day's work....
what is memory? just the hopeful synaptic climax of one tragically hysterical effort after another to recreate nostalgia.
even if it happened a moment ago.
this is one cupboard that will stay untidy. and no matter how much you go rotting around in your brain, you will not find the answer to happiness. Just pray that the next time, the motorist is too drunk to notice you wander across the expressway.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
the threat of life
the bane of pleasure
the depths of desire
and expectations.
the pain of satisfaction
the chill of comfort
the surreal optimism
the instinctively hopeful
will be
the scourge of you.
and Yes.
Torn you are.
____________________________________________________________________________
sigh. yes, sigh.
desire. pain. warmth. wind.
sunshine. rain. undeniable happiness.
a window of hope. a ray of sparkling glory.
silence.
if only there were words.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
flights of fancy
fanciful expeditions
of the vengeful mind
mindless delusions of
the vagaries of dissent
entombed in disaster
return to the fold
venture not, not far, not close
lost in time, in space, in vain
regretfully yours
Progress? Nil.
QED.
____________________________________________________________________________
running into walls of time
clashing with memories of a bygone era
when i was naive. and headstrong.
silent masses of thoughts colliding
gathering into a cohesive unit
entrancing even the sublimely outspoken
ensnaring, endearing, entrapment
sorrow, plight, darkness,
plunging headlong into tomorrow.
let me sleep some more.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
the autumn of life.. full of falling leaves..
the most foolish of fools.. will call this gold.
but gold it is.. the treasure of windfalls.
made of madness, and of hope.
of optimism, and of desperation.
chase them till they fall. never to rise again.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
i speak less. hissing is a language.
i have no leanings. the absence of choice becomes an option.
i float in thin air. my feet are light and my heart is heavy.
i laugh in the face of danger.
and i light my own fires.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
ah, the plate glass barriers, shielding the vulnerable, and the eminently anguished...
arms at the ready, poised to strike.
shields at the shoulder, bent over, peering down the glint of your spear.
strengthen your armour, and tighten your noose.
hear the sound of the twig cracking? it is the disheartened cry of your own will, breaking. silently.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
utekkare.
even if it happened a moment ago.
this is one cupboard that will stay untidy. and no matter how much you go rotting around in your brain, you will not find the answer to happiness. Just pray that the next time, the motorist is too drunk to notice you wander across the expressway.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
the threat of life
the bane of pleasure
the depths of desire
and expectations.
the pain of satisfaction
the chill of comfort
the surreal optimism
the instinctively hopeful
will be
the scourge of you.
and Yes.
Torn you are.
____________________________________________________________________________
sigh. yes, sigh.
desire. pain. warmth. wind.
sunshine. rain. undeniable happiness.
a window of hope. a ray of sparkling glory.
silence.
if only there were words.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
flights of fancy
fanciful expeditions
of the vengeful mind
mindless delusions of
the vagaries of dissent
entombed in disaster
return to the fold
venture not, not far, not close
lost in time, in space, in vain
regretfully yours
Progress? Nil.
QED.
____________________________________________________________________________
running into walls of time
clashing with memories of a bygone era
when i was naive. and headstrong.
silent masses of thoughts colliding
gathering into a cohesive unit
entrancing even the sublimely outspoken
ensnaring, endearing, entrapment
sorrow, plight, darkness,
plunging headlong into tomorrow.
let me sleep some more.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
the autumn of life.. full of falling leaves..
the most foolish of fools.. will call this gold.
but gold it is.. the treasure of windfalls.
made of madness, and of hope.
of optimism, and of desperation.
chase them till they fall. never to rise again.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
i speak less. hissing is a language.
i have no leanings. the absence of choice becomes an option.
i float in thin air. my feet are light and my heart is heavy.
i laugh in the face of danger.
and i light my own fires.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
ah, the plate glass barriers, shielding the vulnerable, and the eminently anguished...
arms at the ready, poised to strike.
shields at the shoulder, bent over, peering down the glint of your spear.
strengthen your armour, and tighten your noose.
hear the sound of the twig cracking? it is the disheartened cry of your own will, breaking. silently.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
utekkare.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The day I died and went to Heaven. Almost.
So the other day I got tired of living. Yes, it can happen sometimes. So I decided to do that great twirly whirly thing and die. You know, kaput, the end, sayonara, shalom, etc etc. So I walked up to the terrace on the highest floor of my building, and stepped out onto the parapit, and stared down. But my life did not flash before my face. Only a pigeon did. Not very encouraging, I saw. I avoided all the mini satellite dishes, and a smile crept across my face as I thought of all that satellite disruption I was causing... Or maybe not. But atleast I felt evil. Atleast that was a thought.
I carefully avoided all the wires, and the ropes and the bamboos and the decorative lights from the recent wedding reception that had been held there. After all you do not want to get tripped while trying to die. It's so gauche.
So I tiptoed to the edge and turned around. And then I smiled. A million dollar smile. One that would have made Renuka Shahane proud. And I spread my arms exactly the way I had imagined and I lunged backwards into the vast pool of cool air. As I hurtled down, I wondered about whether I had turned the Air Conditioner off in my room, and if I had left my wallet out in the open again. And whether the door had been closed. There would be mosquitoes again in the... THWACK. I hit Joy's Alto ass-up and as i felt the blood oozing out of my ears, I closed my eyes and died. Well my heart stopped and my vitals were killed. My brain was still ticking over but it had nothing to talk with. My body was smashed. Since It didnt want to be lonely, it decided to Die as well.
I started looking for a way to exit the body. The mouth was closed. The eyes were bulging open but it would take a while to ooze past the whites of the eyes. And those flies are so worrisome.. Always trying to get a taste or two... Oh wait there are people coming to see what that big THUD was.. hmm, this should be better. I'll exit from the bloody backside.. It's such a pain to hang around in a stinky body, I tell you.
But I got out. Eventually. And I needed directions. I haven't died in 28 years and a bit you see.. Add another 9 months gestation before that and it's been about 30 years since I bit the bullet the last time. So I needed directions..
I wandered around a bit near Kemp's Corner.. wandered down Marine Drive.. See, when you're a free spirit, you can do whatever you want, wherever you want. I always wanted to go to the Niagara Falls.. BOOM, I was there. While I was playing "lean-over-the-scaffolding", a portly young man came to me and said, "Spirit, here is your ticket to the sorting station." And he handed me an icecream cone. Reach the station before it melts or you'll miss your ride. And then he looked at me. Peered, rather. Rather rudely, I might add. Almost microscopic. And then he winced and walked away, muttering, "these out-of-turners.. why wont they just make a fist of it while they're alive.. make a mess of the system.."
Well, when you have an icecream in your hand, especially a spiritual icecream, you shouldnt let it melt, so I started licking it, and eating it, and making sure I had the stickiest spirit fingers I could get. Suddenly I looked up and I saw I was in a waiting room. A table and a chair was at the far end, and the official-looking creature behind the table looked.. well, he looked Bihari, and spoke with a Mid-Atlantic twang.
I walked up to him and handed over my now-empty cone. By now, the old ways had come back to me, and I knew what the drill was now. Icecream was such an eternal icon.
So anyways, he looked at my cone, and then at me, and then at the cone again. He growled in Bhojpuri, and dumped the cone into a disposal by his side. One of those celestial bottomless regurgitative recyclers, you know. Then he looked at me, and cursed, and looked at his register, and then looked up at me and growled again. Then he said, "You're out of turn. You're not in the register. Wait."
All this time, spirits came in and out of the room, waltzed in, and floated out onto the platform. I heard trains coming and going but I couldnt see what was happening behind the thick curtains of the exit door. Sort of like Egyptian Immigration. Only dirtier, less ornate and ruder.
Then he gestured like a telephone dialled 3 digits on the make-believe handset and listened. Intently. He then spoke into thin air, and kept babbling on and on about irregularities and how he was a part-timer and why he wasn't cut out for this kind of work. After a while, he calmed down, and then hung up. He made a kind of gesture with his hand to denote an incoming fax paper and out of nowhere, a paper with writing on it materialised. He read the page, looked satisfied, and then beckoned to me.
He "Come here, you". I walked up. "Fill this". I stared at the printed form. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to die after all.
..Part 2 follows
utekkare,
pranay
I carefully avoided all the wires, and the ropes and the bamboos and the decorative lights from the recent wedding reception that had been held there. After all you do not want to get tripped while trying to die. It's so gauche.
So I tiptoed to the edge and turned around. And then I smiled. A million dollar smile. One that would have made Renuka Shahane proud. And I spread my arms exactly the way I had imagined and I lunged backwards into the vast pool of cool air. As I hurtled down, I wondered about whether I had turned the Air Conditioner off in my room, and if I had left my wallet out in the open again. And whether the door had been closed. There would be mosquitoes again in the... THWACK. I hit Joy's Alto ass-up and as i felt the blood oozing out of my ears, I closed my eyes and died. Well my heart stopped and my vitals were killed. My brain was still ticking over but it had nothing to talk with. My body was smashed. Since It didnt want to be lonely, it decided to Die as well.
I started looking for a way to exit the body. The mouth was closed. The eyes were bulging open but it would take a while to ooze past the whites of the eyes. And those flies are so worrisome.. Always trying to get a taste or two... Oh wait there are people coming to see what that big THUD was.. hmm, this should be better. I'll exit from the bloody backside.. It's such a pain to hang around in a stinky body, I tell you.
But I got out. Eventually. And I needed directions. I haven't died in 28 years and a bit you see.. Add another 9 months gestation before that and it's been about 30 years since I bit the bullet the last time. So I needed directions..
I wandered around a bit near Kemp's Corner.. wandered down Marine Drive.. See, when you're a free spirit, you can do whatever you want, wherever you want. I always wanted to go to the Niagara Falls.. BOOM, I was there. While I was playing "lean-over-the-scaffolding", a portly young man came to me and said, "Spirit, here is your ticket to the sorting station." And he handed me an icecream cone. Reach the station before it melts or you'll miss your ride. And then he looked at me. Peered, rather. Rather rudely, I might add. Almost microscopic. And then he winced and walked away, muttering, "these out-of-turners.. why wont they just make a fist of it while they're alive.. make a mess of the system.."
Well, when you have an icecream in your hand, especially a spiritual icecream, you shouldnt let it melt, so I started licking it, and eating it, and making sure I had the stickiest spirit fingers I could get. Suddenly I looked up and I saw I was in a waiting room. A table and a chair was at the far end, and the official-looking creature behind the table looked.. well, he looked Bihari, and spoke with a Mid-Atlantic twang.
I walked up to him and handed over my now-empty cone. By now, the old ways had come back to me, and I knew what the drill was now. Icecream was such an eternal icon.
So anyways, he looked at my cone, and then at me, and then at the cone again. He growled in Bhojpuri, and dumped the cone into a disposal by his side. One of those celestial bottomless regurgitative recyclers, you know. Then he looked at me, and cursed, and looked at his register, and then looked up at me and growled again. Then he said, "You're out of turn. You're not in the register. Wait."
All this time, spirits came in and out of the room, waltzed in, and floated out onto the platform. I heard trains coming and going but I couldnt see what was happening behind the thick curtains of the exit door. Sort of like Egyptian Immigration. Only dirtier, less ornate and ruder.
Then he gestured like a telephone dialled 3 digits on the make-believe handset and listened. Intently. He then spoke into thin air, and kept babbling on and on about irregularities and how he was a part-timer and why he wasn't cut out for this kind of work. After a while, he calmed down, and then hung up. He made a kind of gesture with his hand to denote an incoming fax paper and out of nowhere, a paper with writing on it materialised. He read the page, looked satisfied, and then beckoned to me.
He "Come here, you". I walked up. "Fill this". I stared at the printed form. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to die after all.
..Part 2 follows
utekkare,
pranay
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The trappings of success
Yes, I agree. I do have all the trappings of success.
I am fat. Not obese, but just the right amount of fat, that shows that I'm fat, but not that much that I feel I cannot get away with wearing tight clothes. So I look fat in the tight clothes I feel I could get away in. The big illusion.
I am losing hair. It grows in patches, but when you will look at me, it is evident that I am losing hair. It is growing alright but not in all the places it is supposed to. And someday soon even that will stop growing.
I am stressed out most of the time. Although my sugar levels are normal, and my blood pressure is ok, and my body is not looking like a mis-shapen lump of diabetic dysfunction, I can feel it. My inheritance includes high BP and atleast one heart attack. Maybe it will happen by the time I'm 40. Another trapping of success.
I have an awful digestive system. I hurry my breakfast, delay my lunch, and ingest my dinner with absent-minded numbed-out desensitisation. I do not eat on time, and when I eat, I either eat too less or too much, and it is always of the wrong thing. I can digest a lot, but I cannot control my bodily cycles with the random precision that a completely tuned individual manages. I am a helpless bystander, and my body exclaims its helplessness in the most inopportune places with the most inappropriate gestures..
I travel in a car that is too big for me. And I sit alone in it. I stare out of the window at all those people travelling by Bus, by Train, by Auto, by Taxi, and all those people stare back at me.
I sit with people who I fondly think of as my friends. I drink expensive liquor, pay for it with my expensive credit card, and then i say goodbye, go home, and sit and work till 3 in the morning. Then i fall asleep in front of the TV.
I no longer have the time to read books, to listen to music, to travel, to roam about the city, to visit book fairs, to look up old friends, to sit and chat or read a book over endless cup of coffee, to walk up and down Carter Road and Bandstand, to write what goes around in my head, to write down what I feel like, and to do what most normal people do. Laze around on a Sunday.
People bitch about me behind my back, and to my face, and people do not like me, and people think I am arrogant, and aggressive, and idiotic, and completely crazy. People do not think I have a chance in hell of making it big, and sometimes I believe them too.
These are the trappings of success.
Now all that is left for me to do, is to be successful. And that does not seem to be happening any time soon.
utekkare,
Pranay
I am fat. Not obese, but just the right amount of fat, that shows that I'm fat, but not that much that I feel I cannot get away with wearing tight clothes. So I look fat in the tight clothes I feel I could get away in. The big illusion.
I am losing hair. It grows in patches, but when you will look at me, it is evident that I am losing hair. It is growing alright but not in all the places it is supposed to. And someday soon even that will stop growing.
I am stressed out most of the time. Although my sugar levels are normal, and my blood pressure is ok, and my body is not looking like a mis-shapen lump of diabetic dysfunction, I can feel it. My inheritance includes high BP and atleast one heart attack. Maybe it will happen by the time I'm 40. Another trapping of success.
I have an awful digestive system. I hurry my breakfast, delay my lunch, and ingest my dinner with absent-minded numbed-out desensitisation. I do not eat on time, and when I eat, I either eat too less or too much, and it is always of the wrong thing. I can digest a lot, but I cannot control my bodily cycles with the random precision that a completely tuned individual manages. I am a helpless bystander, and my body exclaims its helplessness in the most inopportune places with the most inappropriate gestures..
I travel in a car that is too big for me. And I sit alone in it. I stare out of the window at all those people travelling by Bus, by Train, by Auto, by Taxi, and all those people stare back at me.
I sit with people who I fondly think of as my friends. I drink expensive liquor, pay for it with my expensive credit card, and then i say goodbye, go home, and sit and work till 3 in the morning. Then i fall asleep in front of the TV.
I no longer have the time to read books, to listen to music, to travel, to roam about the city, to visit book fairs, to look up old friends, to sit and chat or read a book over endless cup of coffee, to walk up and down Carter Road and Bandstand, to write what goes around in my head, to write down what I feel like, and to do what most normal people do. Laze around on a Sunday.
People bitch about me behind my back, and to my face, and people do not like me, and people think I am arrogant, and aggressive, and idiotic, and completely crazy. People do not think I have a chance in hell of making it big, and sometimes I believe them too.
These are the trappings of success.
Now all that is left for me to do, is to be successful. And that does not seem to be happening any time soon.
utekkare,
Pranay
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Festival of Mumbai
And since it is the Mumbai festival, let us celebrate those things that are truly Mumbaikar in nature. And in deference to my orkutkar friends, let us be celebratory of those things that are truly Bombayite..
Like fisherwomen at Bhau-cha-Dhakka at 5.30 in the morning, jingling their jewellery, and their starched colorful saris. Like BEST bus drivers driving the last bus at 1.45 AM and the first bus at 4.30 AM. Like Harbour line train drivers. Like Sandwich wallahs, and bhel wallahs, and dabeli-wallahs, and chana-wallahs, and Marine drive coffee,chai-wallahs.
Like Icecream at K Rustoms, and chinese food at Kamling, and Beer at Mocambo's and Mondegars, and Icecream at Snowmans, and Guru Kripa Samosas, and Tibbs Frankies opposite the American Consulate and at Hill road (no longer), and Horniman Circle, and the peeking hand at the odd place on the statue outside the BMC office opposite VT Station. And the Cooperage, and Cross Maidan, and AZad Maidan, and Queens Road, and University Pavilion, and the Matchbox building outside Elphinstone Rd Station.
Like jaljeera and kathi kababs at Samovar. And Samovar. And roadside art used to attract coins. And Fashion Street, and the Nimbu paani wallah at the junction of Khau gully and Fashion street. And the Ganna walla at the beginning of Azad Maidan, and at Sion Circle, and at King Circle and at Andheri east opposite Geet Gunjan.
And Rang Bhavan, and the canteen inside Rang Bhavan that serves the greatest dal-chaawal. And the canteen in GT hospital. And Round Building, and getting pushed through Churchgate subway. And travelling faster than a moving car in Kalbadevi.
And one sort of lit up kandeels at the colony at Mahim Causeway that look so bright during Diwali, when you are coming into Mumbai, like sentinels that greet you at the gates of a great fortress. And kreeda mandals in Chinchpokali, and in Worli, and in BDD Chawls, and in Sewri, and in prabhadevi, and in Police Colonies, and in Nehru nagar, and in BPT Colony, that celebrate diwali, and ganpati, and sankranti, and navratri, and holi with the same fervour, and togetherness that their parents used to.
And quarter bars, that serve you exactly the amount of alcohol you want to drink, and make sure you feel good about the alcohol, and dont feel bad about the money you pay. And the bhurji-wallah opposite Dadar Station east, and the pav-bhaji wallah opposite dadar Station West, and Bade Miya's Dhaba, and Sardar Pav Bhaji for late night food.
And Heera Panna, and Manish Market, and Zhaveri Bazaar, and Tulsiwadi, and Kapolwadi, and Teen Hath Naka, and Teen batti, and Khotachiwadi, and Matharpakadi, and Tankpakhadi and Gundavli, and Kapoor-Bawdi, and the Thane creek, and the Vasai creek.
And snacks from Hearsch's bakery, and not making too much noise there, and sitting at Mocha's, and wafers opposite Andrews College, and wafers from A-1 and OK wafers. And chilya food from mahim, and worli naka at Cafe City, and Biryani from Noorani's and Dabba Ghosht from Delhi Darbar.
These are the truly Bombayite things that make my festivities.. Perhaps you have noticed the overwhelming majority of foodie things to do. Well if it is a festival, you must do that which makes you happy. And all Bombayites are almost always hungry.
utekkare,
Pranay
Like fisherwomen at Bhau-cha-Dhakka at 5.30 in the morning, jingling their jewellery, and their starched colorful saris. Like BEST bus drivers driving the last bus at 1.45 AM and the first bus at 4.30 AM. Like Harbour line train drivers. Like Sandwich wallahs, and bhel wallahs, and dabeli-wallahs, and chana-wallahs, and Marine drive coffee,chai-wallahs.
Like Icecream at K Rustoms, and chinese food at Kamling, and Beer at Mocambo's and Mondegars, and Icecream at Snowmans, and Guru Kripa Samosas, and Tibbs Frankies opposite the American Consulate and at Hill road (no longer), and Horniman Circle, and the peeking hand at the odd place on the statue outside the BMC office opposite VT Station. And the Cooperage, and Cross Maidan, and AZad Maidan, and Queens Road, and University Pavilion, and the Matchbox building outside Elphinstone Rd Station.
Like jaljeera and kathi kababs at Samovar. And Samovar. And roadside art used to attract coins. And Fashion Street, and the Nimbu paani wallah at the junction of Khau gully and Fashion street. And the Ganna walla at the beginning of Azad Maidan, and at Sion Circle, and at King Circle and at Andheri east opposite Geet Gunjan.
And Rang Bhavan, and the canteen inside Rang Bhavan that serves the greatest dal-chaawal. And the canteen in GT hospital. And Round Building, and getting pushed through Churchgate subway. And travelling faster than a moving car in Kalbadevi.
And one sort of lit up kandeels at the colony at Mahim Causeway that look so bright during Diwali, when you are coming into Mumbai, like sentinels that greet you at the gates of a great fortress. And kreeda mandals in Chinchpokali, and in Worli, and in BDD Chawls, and in Sewri, and in prabhadevi, and in Police Colonies, and in Nehru nagar, and in BPT Colony, that celebrate diwali, and ganpati, and sankranti, and navratri, and holi with the same fervour, and togetherness that their parents used to.
And quarter bars, that serve you exactly the amount of alcohol you want to drink, and make sure you feel good about the alcohol, and dont feel bad about the money you pay. And the bhurji-wallah opposite Dadar Station east, and the pav-bhaji wallah opposite dadar Station West, and Bade Miya's Dhaba, and Sardar Pav Bhaji for late night food.
And Heera Panna, and Manish Market, and Zhaveri Bazaar, and Tulsiwadi, and Kapolwadi, and Teen Hath Naka, and Teen batti, and Khotachiwadi, and Matharpakadi, and Tankpakhadi and Gundavli, and Kapoor-Bawdi, and the Thane creek, and the Vasai creek.
And snacks from Hearsch's bakery, and not making too much noise there, and sitting at Mocha's, and wafers opposite Andrews College, and wafers from A-1 and OK wafers. And chilya food from mahim, and worli naka at Cafe City, and Biryani from Noorani's and Dabba Ghosht from Delhi Darbar.
These are the truly Bombayite things that make my festivities.. Perhaps you have noticed the overwhelming majority of foodie things to do. Well if it is a festival, you must do that which makes you happy. And all Bombayites are almost always hungry.
utekkare,
Pranay
Not sorry at all
I am not sorry. No. Not at all. Not sorry.
I am not sorry for littering my city. For sleeping till 9 am every morning. For working too late, or not working at all, or for pretending to work all the time. For not relaxing on sundays. For staying up till 2 am on a saturday night, flipping through channels on TV.I am not sorry for forgetting people's names, their birthdays, their likes and dislikes, For falling asleep in a car. On a desk. at the computer. For breaking peoples hearts. For joining them again. For not helping out in the kitchen. For not keeping my room clean. For not watching what I say. and acting without thinking. And getting excited. And getting confused. And getting agitated. And getting enthusiastic.
I am not sorry. For Pluto being relegated. For George Bush and the Iraqis. and Saddam Hussein. and Margaret Thatcher. Also I am not sorry for my country's political situation. And for Bihar and UP and Jharkand and political murders, and murdered politicians, and for just politicians and for even just murders. I am not sorry for Manu Sharma and for Nitish Katara's girlfriend, and for those designers in the broken down mall in Delhi.
I am not sorry for eating sloppily. And for snarling at the sweet little beggar at my window. And for slurping down the last drops of peach ice tea in my glass. And for pushing my way ahead in a crowd. And I do not want to be sorry for slapping errant rickshaw wallahs.
And I am not sorry for screwing up at work. And for demanding less working hours, and for claiming amnesia. I am not sorry for wanting a break a week after I have had a break. And I am also not sorry for taking the break and returning as stressed as I was. And I am not sorry for wanting to run away from it all, and I am not sorry for thinking uncharitable thoughts about all of humanity. And I am not sorry for not wanting to adjust.
And I am not sorry for paying less at a shop and forgetting to return to pay the balance. And I am not sorry for not tipping a waiter. And I am not sorry for not being nice to stray dogs.
And I can be nice. And I can be sorry. But I am not sorry for not being sorry.
utekkare,
Pranay
I am not sorry for littering my city. For sleeping till 9 am every morning. For working too late, or not working at all, or for pretending to work all the time. For not relaxing on sundays. For staying up till 2 am on a saturday night, flipping through channels on TV.I am not sorry for forgetting people's names, their birthdays, their likes and dislikes, For falling asleep in a car. On a desk. at the computer. For breaking peoples hearts. For joining them again. For not helping out in the kitchen. For not keeping my room clean. For not watching what I say. and acting without thinking. And getting excited. And getting confused. And getting agitated. And getting enthusiastic.
I am not sorry. For Pluto being relegated. For George Bush and the Iraqis. and Saddam Hussein. and Margaret Thatcher. Also I am not sorry for my country's political situation. And for Bihar and UP and Jharkand and political murders, and murdered politicians, and for just politicians and for even just murders. I am not sorry for Manu Sharma and for Nitish Katara's girlfriend, and for those designers in the broken down mall in Delhi.
I am not sorry for eating sloppily. And for snarling at the sweet little beggar at my window. And for slurping down the last drops of peach ice tea in my glass. And for pushing my way ahead in a crowd. And I do not want to be sorry for slapping errant rickshaw wallahs.
And I am not sorry for screwing up at work. And for demanding less working hours, and for claiming amnesia. I am not sorry for wanting a break a week after I have had a break. And I am also not sorry for taking the break and returning as stressed as I was. And I am not sorry for wanting to run away from it all, and I am not sorry for thinking uncharitable thoughts about all of humanity. And I am not sorry for not wanting to adjust.
And I am not sorry for paying less at a shop and forgetting to return to pay the balance. And I am not sorry for not tipping a waiter. And I am not sorry for not being nice to stray dogs.
And I can be nice. And I can be sorry. But I am not sorry for not being sorry.
utekkare,
Pranay
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