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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
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
Saturday, November 11, 2006
A shop to end all things
If you are not winning at life..
If you have been rejected by that special someone..
If you are just looking to end your life..
Visit US!!
We stock the very latest in suicide equipment, ranging from:
Easy-to-digest(TM) poisons in various flavours - Most popular selling flavours are Red Wine and Vanilla Vodka.. Naturally extracted poisons from the root of the Dead Poets Societal Tree, Artificially sweetened with the natural goodness of deathly wines, and balanced to perfection with vanilla pods laced with the spice of fermented weed-potatoes.
Rotor-Expansion Neck Crushers - One size fits all Neck Chokers made from barbed wire of the finest quality steel, procured from the local bhangar-wallah, rusted by age, and septically treated to offer a greater chance of infection in case of unforeseen survival and subsequent hospitalisation. These expand and contract to fit your neck.
Self-Impaling Knife-Blades - Usually very efficient when used with a sweeping motion from left to right, using your neck as resistance to ensure smooth elimination of offending soul. These are used by warriors and are not for the faint hearted.
The Suicide Shop prides itself on offering cutting edge suicide solutions for all character types.
Our motto is "If you gotta kill yourself, we've got the tools!"
Now, moving on to our latest range of free-fallers, ice-cutters, and surgical implements.
Free Faller Ver MUMHIGH2006: A latest range of new sky scraper terraces in viewing range of the Tower of Silence, the Matunga Shamshaan, the Jogeshwari graveyard, and commercial terraces overlooking the Mahalaxmi graveyard offer great free falling options for all races, and religions. Caste no bar. Lax security offered for added ease of usage.
Ice-Cutters: Made famous by the character of Catherine Tramell, they come in points, varying lengths, and are stylishly decorated with carved mother of pearl handles.
Printed Dupattas: Popular with salwar kameezes, worn by the burgeoning middle class in Mumbai. Used in conjunction with a cross bar or fan or some type of structural cross-beam that supports weight of individual acquiring our services.
Please look for our special deals on Empty syringes, Aids Infected condoms, Shark Deaths, Piranha MunchFests, Euthanasia Undressals.
We are situated at the corner of Depresshe Lane and End Ave.
Use this flyer to get a premature death signal on the ECG monitor using our proprietory Heart Stopping Valve.
yours in death,
The Suicide Shop
If you have been rejected by that special someone..
If you are just looking to end your life..
Visit US!!
We stock the very latest in suicide equipment, ranging from:
Easy-to-digest(TM) poisons in various flavours - Most popular selling flavours are Red Wine and Vanilla Vodka.. Naturally extracted poisons from the root of the Dead Poets Societal Tree, Artificially sweetened with the natural goodness of deathly wines, and balanced to perfection with vanilla pods laced with the spice of fermented weed-potatoes.
Rotor-Expansion Neck Crushers - One size fits all Neck Chokers made from barbed wire of the finest quality steel, procured from the local bhangar-wallah, rusted by age, and septically treated to offer a greater chance of infection in case of unforeseen survival and subsequent hospitalisation. These expand and contract to fit your neck.
Self-Impaling Knife-Blades - Usually very efficient when used with a sweeping motion from left to right, using your neck as resistance to ensure smooth elimination of offending soul. These are used by warriors and are not for the faint hearted.
The Suicide Shop prides itself on offering cutting edge suicide solutions for all character types.
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Sunday, August 13, 2006
Filing my returns
And since the fifteenth approaches, with a week of holidays, I think I will file my returns for July.
And July was quiet. All of Mumbai was bleeding. And Mahim was bleeding. And Khar was bleeding. And the road was bleeding, and the traffic was bleeding. And the railway tracks were bleeding. And everyone was sympathetic. And everyone was jingoistic. Everyone that is, outside Mumbai. And Mumbai's spirit was saluted. With 7 bombs and about 200 dead bodies.
And the cleansing came before the wounds. And Mumbai bobbed its head above the polluted rain water that clogged its drains, and that snaked into the ground floor houses. And the BMC asked us to wait another 3 years for the water to recede from our terror-striken brains. Mr Jonny Joseph is an honourable man.
And Mr Bharadwaj has done what no man has done before. He has made the Censor Board understand what an "A" rating is. Unapologetically. Without begging with politicians. And cabinet secretaries. And media houses. And pressure groups. And producers. And he has got the film he wanted to be shown the way he wanted.
And Mr Natwar Singh is singing like a canary. But to the wrong people about the wrong things. Like a deer in the cross lights of an approaching SUV, he looks stranded.
Like Maybe Sonia Gandhi should join the Samajwadi Party. Then none of the gangsters will have anything to fear. And the common man will be sent to jail for paying his taxes on time.
Like maybe Karan Johar should now delve deeper into the grays of the human pysche and try making a movie on split personalities.
Maybe road travel in Mumbai will soon resemble a stampede in the Serengeti. The deterioration of an entire people from a manageable, coherent, alert, non interfering, caring law abiding group to a lawless unethical, selfish, derogatory rabble of careless humanity.
And I saw it begin right in front of me. With an utter disdain for traffic law. Flouted in the face of a feeble-minded traffice pandu. Instigated by those out-of-towners.
utekkare,
pranay
And July was quiet. All of Mumbai was bleeding. And Mahim was bleeding. And Khar was bleeding. And the road was bleeding, and the traffic was bleeding. And the railway tracks were bleeding. And everyone was sympathetic. And everyone was jingoistic. Everyone that is, outside Mumbai. And Mumbai's spirit was saluted. With 7 bombs and about 200 dead bodies.
And the cleansing came before the wounds. And Mumbai bobbed its head above the polluted rain water that clogged its drains, and that snaked into the ground floor houses. And the BMC asked us to wait another 3 years for the water to recede from our terror-striken brains. Mr Jonny Joseph is an honourable man.
And Mr Bharadwaj has done what no man has done before. He has made the Censor Board understand what an "A" rating is. Unapologetically. Without begging with politicians. And cabinet secretaries. And media houses. And pressure groups. And producers. And he has got the film he wanted to be shown the way he wanted.
And Mr Natwar Singh is singing like a canary. But to the wrong people about the wrong things. Like a deer in the cross lights of an approaching SUV, he looks stranded.
Like Maybe Sonia Gandhi should join the Samajwadi Party. Then none of the gangsters will have anything to fear. And the common man will be sent to jail for paying his taxes on time.
Like maybe Karan Johar should now delve deeper into the grays of the human pysche and try making a movie on split personalities.
Maybe road travel in Mumbai will soon resemble a stampede in the Serengeti. The deterioration of an entire people from a manageable, coherent, alert, non interfering, caring law abiding group to a lawless unethical, selfish, derogatory rabble of careless humanity.
And I saw it begin right in front of me. With an utter disdain for traffic law. Flouted in the face of a feeble-minded traffice pandu. Instigated by those out-of-towners.
utekkare,
pranay
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
And it is raining. As usual.
And it is just another monsoon day in Mumbai.
And King Circle is flooded. Just like in 1995, and 1998, and 2002, and 2004, and 2005 and 1974 and all those years before and in between. Only this time there are cameras, and vans, and microphones, and people wearing all sorts of protective rain gear peering earnestly into cameras, discussing the size of the pothole opposite Don Bosco High School and the level of murky water on Char-Rasta with the kind of fervour you normally associate with war correspondents.
And since before I can remember, we have been walking home in knee-deep water. And trains have been running slowly. And people have been crammed into uncomfortable bogies like sardines. And electricity has been coming and going. And schools and colleges have been declared shut. And buses have not moved for hours on end. And people have stayed at friend's places. And airports have been shut and people have been given bread and sambar to eat in transit lounges.
And Matunga has been flooded. And Lal Dongar has been flooded. And water has built up in Marol. And in Tardeo. And the Sion railway tracks have always been waterlogged. And it has always shut down train services between Kurla and Dadar. And people have walked home along the middle of the road for ages. And I can remember when we walked home from VT to home, during college. And it was an adventure and an escapist fantastical release from the daily humdrum of work, home, and reliving the same routine every day. And the airports delayed flights for longer than 15 to 20 minutes.
But the CM did not need to answer the media people. And viewers did not send in sensational pictures of ankle deep water and floating debris. And people living in the ground floor of Railway colonies did not have people poking cameras and microphones into their living rooms. And people smiling genially into cameras portraying them as martyrs and heroes and crusaders against the unyielding rains.
And discussions about high tides and disaster management and preparedness and the Mithi River above danger mark and even more discussions about the Mumbai spirit and the Police Commissioner gravely condemning all rumour-mongering and requesting cellular companies to spread generalised messages about "Heavy to Very Heavy rains expected in the next 48 hours". And the Met department forecasting perennial rains for the next 7 hundred and 22 hours.
And NDTV and Aaj-Tak and CNBC and Zee News and Star News putting out correspondents in Chembur and Kurla and Andheri and on the highway and the expressway. And grave faces and even more grave predictions, and newspeople telling their reporters to "tough it out" and "brave the elements" and they will "keep us updated" of the "situation". Ofcourse even 4 hours later, the trains are still crawling, and the buses are still moving, and people are still wading through water, and it is still raining in Mumbai.
And I cannot understand where these media people were all these years. When we were playing antakshari in the candle light at 8 in the evening. When we were wading through waist deep water at Parel. When those slum dwellers in Asalpha lamented the death of their families when their wall fell over. When office commuters sat and discussed cricket and politics and social issues while perched on the window sill of a VT local stranded between Sion and Matunga for the better part of a day. When people got up every morning and decided to go to work and were not dependent on souped-up reports of 100 mm of rainfall in Santacruz for their daily programs.
And I feel the need for a 24 Hrs Weather Channel who can agonise painfully and convulse in raptures over each and every deviation from the mean and median performance of the weather.
Then maybe these news channels can go back to reporting the news. And NOT the weather.
utekkare,
pranay
And King Circle is flooded. Just like in 1995, and 1998, and 2002, and 2004, and 2005 and 1974 and all those years before and in between. Only this time there are cameras, and vans, and microphones, and people wearing all sorts of protective rain gear peering earnestly into cameras, discussing the size of the pothole opposite Don Bosco High School and the level of murky water on Char-Rasta with the kind of fervour you normally associate with war correspondents.
And since before I can remember, we have been walking home in knee-deep water. And trains have been running slowly. And people have been crammed into uncomfortable bogies like sardines. And electricity has been coming and going. And schools and colleges have been declared shut. And buses have not moved for hours on end. And people have stayed at friend's places. And airports have been shut and people have been given bread and sambar to eat in transit lounges.
And Matunga has been flooded. And Lal Dongar has been flooded. And water has built up in Marol. And in Tardeo. And the Sion railway tracks have always been waterlogged. And it has always shut down train services between Kurla and Dadar. And people have walked home along the middle of the road for ages. And I can remember when we walked home from VT to home, during college. And it was an adventure and an escapist fantastical release from the daily humdrum of work, home, and reliving the same routine every day. And the airports delayed flights for longer than 15 to 20 minutes.
But the CM did not need to answer the media people. And viewers did not send in sensational pictures of ankle deep water and floating debris. And people living in the ground floor of Railway colonies did not have people poking cameras and microphones into their living rooms. And people smiling genially into cameras portraying them as martyrs and heroes and crusaders against the unyielding rains.
And discussions about high tides and disaster management and preparedness and the Mithi River above danger mark and even more discussions about the Mumbai spirit and the Police Commissioner gravely condemning all rumour-mongering and requesting cellular companies to spread generalised messages about "Heavy to Very Heavy rains expected in the next 48 hours". And the Met department forecasting perennial rains for the next 7 hundred and 22 hours.
And NDTV and Aaj-Tak and CNBC and Zee News and Star News putting out correspondents in Chembur and Kurla and Andheri and on the highway and the expressway. And grave faces and even more grave predictions, and newspeople telling their reporters to "tough it out" and "brave the elements" and they will "keep us updated" of the "situation". Ofcourse even 4 hours later, the trains are still crawling, and the buses are still moving, and people are still wading through water, and it is still raining in Mumbai.
And I cannot understand where these media people were all these years. When we were playing antakshari in the candle light at 8 in the evening. When we were wading through waist deep water at Parel. When those slum dwellers in Asalpha lamented the death of their families when their wall fell over. When office commuters sat and discussed cricket and politics and social issues while perched on the window sill of a VT local stranded between Sion and Matunga for the better part of a day. When people got up every morning and decided to go to work and were not dependent on souped-up reports of 100 mm of rainfall in Santacruz for their daily programs.
And I feel the need for a 24 Hrs Weather Channel who can agonise painfully and convulse in raptures over each and every deviation from the mean and median performance of the weather.
Then maybe these news channels can go back to reporting the news. And NOT the weather.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Bad First Date Foundation and You
And since I am wallowing right now, from great challenges spring great ideas. And millionaires and orators, and politicians and strong-willed people fashion such debacles into footboards to long and winding staircases to the heights of achievement - a brownstone apartment in Brooklyn...
And I will start a movement. I will build a non-profit foundation called the "Bad First Date Experience and You".
And I will write a book on these experiences. And the proceeds I receive by publishing this book, will be employed to screen each and every propspective first date contirbutors possibly will embark upon before they actually embark upon the date.
And I will start a blog. Specially for this. By invitation only. And I will get written about. In papers. In newspapers. On toilet paper. I will be interviewed. On radio. On FM even. And on TV. I will extol the vices of staying single for too long, and I will caution against plunging into a bad first date that can nullify any and all longings for familiar human companionship of the sexual kind. Eventually.
And I will conduct seminars, and events, and I will inspire youngsters everywhere. And I will find everyone listening to me with a frown on their face. And colleges will ask me to lecture to students. And I will offer employment to out of work detective agencies. And offer normal people a shot at greatness. By writing their stories.
And there will be parts 2. Maybe even parts 3 and 4. And I will start more foundations. And I will go abroad. And I will be hailed as a genius. And people will donate. Generously. Ofcourse Cheques are not accepted. Cash only.
And then one day, I will offer a "heart-to-heart" interview with Arnab Goswami and I will thank my failed first date. Maybe I should thank her now before everything starts.
Maybe I will be too busy to remember her then. Thank you.
utekkare,
pranay
And I will start a movement. I will build a non-profit foundation called the "Bad First Date Experience and You".
And I will write a book on these experiences. And the proceeds I receive by publishing this book, will be employed to screen each and every propspective first date contirbutors possibly will embark upon before they actually embark upon the date.
And I will start a blog. Specially for this. By invitation only. And I will get written about. In papers. In newspapers. On toilet paper. I will be interviewed. On radio. On FM even. And on TV. I will extol the vices of staying single for too long, and I will caution against plunging into a bad first date that can nullify any and all longings for familiar human companionship of the sexual kind. Eventually.
And I will conduct seminars, and events, and I will inspire youngsters everywhere. And I will find everyone listening to me with a frown on their face. And colleges will ask me to lecture to students. And I will offer employment to out of work detective agencies. And offer normal people a shot at greatness. By writing their stories.
And there will be parts 2. Maybe even parts 3 and 4. And I will start more foundations. And I will go abroad. And I will be hailed as a genius. And people will donate. Generously. Ofcourse Cheques are not accepted. Cash only.
And then one day, I will offer a "heart-to-heart" interview with Arnab Goswami and I will thank my failed first date. Maybe I should thank her now before everything starts.
Maybe I will be too busy to remember her then. Thank you.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Australians can't play gully cricket for nuts
The other day, Sharad Pawar invited Punter, Gilly, Brad, Pigeon, and Clarkey to play gully cricket with us in our backyard near the garages in Andheri. After exchange of autographs, we invited them to a game of gully cricket. They agreed.
So we were 6 a side, and we tossed for batting / fielding. They won the toss and decided to bat first. Gilly took first strike and started looking for the stumps. We politely showed him the wall on which 3 lines were drawn by brick. "These are the stumps?? You must be crazy, mate!!". But we assured him these were the stumps. This way we didnt need to worry about french cuts, and wicket keepers, and slips, and backward point and third man, and fine leg, and leg slip and hitting the wicket keepers helmet and conceding 8 runs.... plus there were more fielders to put in catching positions this way. He tried to take guard but the hard concrete refused to give way. So we brought over a piece of red brick and drew his guard for him - Arre boss, humour them na. TP thoda toh chahiye na... He looked for the bowling wicket and we showed him the large stone that doubled as the bowling wicket. The batting crease was shown too to him. Just in case he decided he wanted to counter the spin and stand outside the crease.
Just as he was about to start batting, we decided to make things a little more easier to him. I asked the boss's son to go and explain all the rules to him. So the far wall was 2-D, if the ball bounced and went behind the wall it was 1-D, and if it went into the passage to the building it was 1-D. No running at all! easy, na? Also we drew the box line. When he saw this he asked why were cutting the already small pitch into half. We explained that as per box cricket rules (to avoid him breaking any glasses - with aerial shots yaar!), anything he hit had to bounce within that line before going anywhere. Or else he was out.
And so I bowled the first over. After the trial ball over arm, I bowled the first ball, he played down, and it came back to me. No run. He immediately came and said that Mr Chappel's tactics would not work for every ball. Thats when Punter told him that gully cricket was actually underarm. And only spin, no pace. Ofcourse there was no question of line and length so Pigeon looked quite sad. Hmm, they actually are intelligent! Just 5 mins and he understood everything. The very next ball, he hit into the ground, and it sailed into the air on the first bounce, and into the boss's sons's hands. OUT!!
Gilly didnt move though. We thought it was really bad sport of him, especially since the bat and ball was ours and he was in no position to bargain for an extra life. We were nice though and yanked the bat away from him and told him he was out. One-tuppie out, na!!!
Next in was Punter. He didnt bother taking guard, and started batting. I bowled a finger spin legspinner to him, that he played to the 2D area. Nice. I then bowled a ball at his legs, and spinned it away from him. He asked for it to be declared a wide. We didnt know what he was talking about. So we continued bowling as if we hadnt heard him. The next ball, he got really angry and hit it high into the air and it hit the 3rd floor landing before coming down and bouncing away. Ofcourse he was out too! I mean, dont they know that hitting the building full toss is out???
Then came Clarkey. Now this guy had learnt from his predecessor's idiocy, and he just pushed and prodded the next 3 balls for 1D away.
The boss's son bowled the next over, and He bowls a nice offspinner on the second bounce. And when clarkey came to play the ball, just when his bat was going to connect, the ball bounced again and hit the wicket lines. They protested that the delivery had bounced twice, but we reasoned that they had not clarified the ghasar-gundi rule before batting.. By default, shooters along the ground were allowed.
The tail did not put up too much of a fight and they were out for 23 runs.
Then we batted, and got 6 extra runs for the fast balls they threw at us. Not bowled, threw. We told them this was not softball, it was cricket and fast fulltoss was not allowed. But they wouldnt listen.
So then we hit 3 sixes. Apparently they did not know that chikki-run and box rules did not apply when you hit the ball full toss into the next compound. Then it was 6. The art of placing the ball without hitting the building or the cars earned you a 6.
Post match press conference:
Us: Ofcourse we won because we were the better team and we used the rules and conditions better. All the guys were disappointed because they thought Australia would kick their ass at this competition. I mean if you lose by a hundred runs to Dharavi 6 and to Bhoiwada, then i suppose expecting to win against Australia is too much.
Them: This is a new innovation to cricket and we will take a few years to adapt to this. Im sure we will win the major world championship in about 5-6 years. We will start grooming young gully cricketers immediately. I will speak with our Selection Panel to start a grassroots gully cricket program to help nurture the best talent. We will build awkward buildings, park cars indiscriminately, provide awful training facilities, forget about proper cricket gear, and make sure there are no other places to practice except your own building compound.
ICC: Im sure that they will not get invited for the next All-India night box cricket tournament to be held in our colony. About 10 teams from Andheri are participating but we wont call them. Australia are a young team at gully cricket and we dont want them to compete without gaining in confidence. The teams we will invite are Kenya, Somalia, Central America, Brazil, Thailand, Malaysia, and Malegaon.
utekkare,
pranay
So we were 6 a side, and we tossed for batting / fielding. They won the toss and decided to bat first. Gilly took first strike and started looking for the stumps. We politely showed him the wall on which 3 lines were drawn by brick. "These are the stumps?? You must be crazy, mate!!". But we assured him these were the stumps. This way we didnt need to worry about french cuts, and wicket keepers, and slips, and backward point and third man, and fine leg, and leg slip and hitting the wicket keepers helmet and conceding 8 runs.... plus there were more fielders to put in catching positions this way. He tried to take guard but the hard concrete refused to give way. So we brought over a piece of red brick and drew his guard for him - Arre boss, humour them na. TP thoda toh chahiye na... He looked for the bowling wicket and we showed him the large stone that doubled as the bowling wicket. The batting crease was shown too to him. Just in case he decided he wanted to counter the spin and stand outside the crease.
Just as he was about to start batting, we decided to make things a little more easier to him. I asked the boss's son to go and explain all the rules to him. So the far wall was 2-D, if the ball bounced and went behind the wall it was 1-D, and if it went into the passage to the building it was 1-D. No running at all! easy, na? Also we drew the box line. When he saw this he asked why were cutting the already small pitch into half. We explained that as per box cricket rules (to avoid him breaking any glasses - with aerial shots yaar!), anything he hit had to bounce within that line before going anywhere. Or else he was out.
And so I bowled the first over. After the trial ball over arm, I bowled the first ball, he played down, and it came back to me. No run. He immediately came and said that Mr Chappel's tactics would not work for every ball. Thats when Punter told him that gully cricket was actually underarm. And only spin, no pace. Ofcourse there was no question of line and length so Pigeon looked quite sad. Hmm, they actually are intelligent! Just 5 mins and he understood everything. The very next ball, he hit into the ground, and it sailed into the air on the first bounce, and into the boss's sons's hands. OUT!!
Gilly didnt move though. We thought it was really bad sport of him, especially since the bat and ball was ours and he was in no position to bargain for an extra life. We were nice though and yanked the bat away from him and told him he was out. One-tuppie out, na!!!
Next in was Punter. He didnt bother taking guard, and started batting. I bowled a finger spin legspinner to him, that he played to the 2D area. Nice. I then bowled a ball at his legs, and spinned it away from him. He asked for it to be declared a wide. We didnt know what he was talking about. So we continued bowling as if we hadnt heard him. The next ball, he got really angry and hit it high into the air and it hit the 3rd floor landing before coming down and bouncing away. Ofcourse he was out too! I mean, dont they know that hitting the building full toss is out???
Then came Clarkey. Now this guy had learnt from his predecessor's idiocy, and he just pushed and prodded the next 3 balls for 1D away.
The boss's son bowled the next over, and He bowls a nice offspinner on the second bounce. And when clarkey came to play the ball, just when his bat was going to connect, the ball bounced again and hit the wicket lines. They protested that the delivery had bounced twice, but we reasoned that they had not clarified the ghasar-gundi rule before batting.. By default, shooters along the ground were allowed.
The tail did not put up too much of a fight and they were out for 23 runs.
Then we batted, and got 6 extra runs for the fast balls they threw at us. Not bowled, threw. We told them this was not softball, it was cricket and fast fulltoss was not allowed. But they wouldnt listen.
So then we hit 3 sixes. Apparently they did not know that chikki-run and box rules did not apply when you hit the ball full toss into the next compound. Then it was 6. The art of placing the ball without hitting the building or the cars earned you a 6.
Post match press conference:
Us: Ofcourse we won because we were the better team and we used the rules and conditions better. All the guys were disappointed because they thought Australia would kick their ass at this competition. I mean if you lose by a hundred runs to Dharavi 6 and to Bhoiwada, then i suppose expecting to win against Australia is too much.
Them: This is a new innovation to cricket and we will take a few years to adapt to this. Im sure we will win the major world championship in about 5-6 years. We will start grooming young gully cricketers immediately. I will speak with our Selection Panel to start a grassroots gully cricket program to help nurture the best talent. We will build awkward buildings, park cars indiscriminately, provide awful training facilities, forget about proper cricket gear, and make sure there are no other places to practice except your own building compound.
ICC: Im sure that they will not get invited for the next All-India night box cricket tournament to be held in our colony. About 10 teams from Andheri are participating but we wont call them. Australia are a young team at gully cricket and we dont want them to compete without gaining in confidence. The teams we will invite are Kenya, Somalia, Central America, Brazil, Thailand, Malaysia, and Malegaon.
utekkare,
pranay
The Boss's Son
And today I will introduce you to the boss's son.
He lives in an apartment, but can do nothing by himself. This is because he lives with his parents and has been pampered silly. Maids to wait on him hand and foot; Drivers to chauffeur him around; Gardeners to keep the roses in bloom; Computers, and Television Sets, and Cupboards, and a surfeit of laptops, and gadgets, and soft warm beds, and even a lovable adorable golden retriever. With no maintenance whatsoever.
The boss's son can wake up at almost any time he likes. Consequently he can sleep at any time he likes. He has a gym membership he does not use. He stocks Fruit juice in the refrigerator, but he doesnt drink juice. He keeps eggs and cereal and milk, and butter and cheese, and ham, but he will have none of it if it was not cooked for him.
The boss's son does not need to work. All he needs to do is show up to office in a chauffer-driven car, stride lazily into his cabin, and appear engrossed in front of his expensive laptop screen. Coffee runs cold and water warms up while he concentrates on writing inane emails to people across the globe, while trying to look busy.
The boss's son likes to party. He loves to go out to clubs, pubs, discos, restaurants, coffee houses, dinner parties, and he is always planning to meet with these gorgeous and intelligent women. Ofcourse they never show up and he is always going out alone. But he never fails to get drunk.
The boss's son has had an excellent education. The best. But you would never know that from the language he employs. Some of the crappiest.
The boss's son travels abroad, and sometimes when he is in a good mood he will let me tag along. He stays at expensive hotels, and uses the taxi to get everywhere. He is too snooty to rent a car and spends money on the most idiotic merchandise.
And The boss's son will never get fired though. That's my job.
utekkare,
Pranay
He lives in an apartment, but can do nothing by himself. This is because he lives with his parents and has been pampered silly. Maids to wait on him hand and foot; Drivers to chauffeur him around; Gardeners to keep the roses in bloom; Computers, and Television Sets, and Cupboards, and a surfeit of laptops, and gadgets, and soft warm beds, and even a lovable adorable golden retriever. With no maintenance whatsoever.
The boss's son can wake up at almost any time he likes. Consequently he can sleep at any time he likes. He has a gym membership he does not use. He stocks Fruit juice in the refrigerator, but he doesnt drink juice. He keeps eggs and cereal and milk, and butter and cheese, and ham, but he will have none of it if it was not cooked for him.
The boss's son does not need to work. All he needs to do is show up to office in a chauffer-driven car, stride lazily into his cabin, and appear engrossed in front of his expensive laptop screen. Coffee runs cold and water warms up while he concentrates on writing inane emails to people across the globe, while trying to look busy.
The boss's son likes to party. He loves to go out to clubs, pubs, discos, restaurants, coffee houses, dinner parties, and he is always planning to meet with these gorgeous and intelligent women. Ofcourse they never show up and he is always going out alone. But he never fails to get drunk.
The boss's son has had an excellent education. The best. But you would never know that from the language he employs. Some of the crappiest.
The boss's son travels abroad, and sometimes when he is in a good mood he will let me tag along. He stays at expensive hotels, and uses the taxi to get everywhere. He is too snooty to rent a car and spends money on the most idiotic merchandise.
And The boss's son will never get fired though. That's my job.
utekkare,
Pranay
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The first date
And today I received THE phone call. She decided she would go out to dinner with me.
And since it was my first date in months, I thought I would give it my best shot. So I went out and bought an expensive shirt. And trousers to go with it. And since you never know where these evenings end up, I decided to buy new underwear. And that new Bvlgari parfum.
And I asked the driver to stay back late. For the first time in months, I decided I would go home from office at 7.30 - The boss's son wasn't too happy about it (I dont remember when he last had a date), but I didnt care. For once.
And since I did not want my ubiquitous BO to rear it's ugly head, I scrubbed myself extra hard, with the scrubber. For once.
And I shampoo-ed and conditioned my hair with the special Special Fragile Hair Formula, so I wouldnt lose more hair that day. And I air-dryed my hair and smoothed over the patches that recede, and I brushed my hair softly, and set it so I would look cooler than I was. So I could make a good impression. For once.
And I used the specially purchased Scope Mouthwash (TM), and I packed my pocket full of Chlor mints, and hoped that she would not notice me popping a chlormint at regular intervals. And more optimistically, that my halitosis would stay away for 5 hours. For once.
And I wore my special shirt, and I sucked in my tummy, and hoped that it wouldnt sag that night. And I wore my trousers, and wore my lucky belt. And buckled it a little loosely. In case the dinner was good. And if I overate. Just in case.
And then, I borrowed 2000 bucks from my mother, so I would not have to think twice about going to a club if dinner went well, or to offer her an expensive drink, or if she wanted to have a sumptious dinner followed by a sinful dessert. And I checked on my Emergency funds to ensure I had enough.
And then I left. I reached the place we were supposed to meet, and she suggested we go to a Seafood Restaurant that just happened to be in a 5 star hotel.
And just as the conversation was warming up, and I felt we were getting somewhere, and maybe this might just be the first of many more dates, it ended.
It happened just after we ordered the drinks. I ordered a beer, and she ordered a Mojito. And then, as we were making general conversation, the maitre d' came up and enquired if we might want to order. And innocently enough my date asked about the specials.
And the maitre d' said," There's a decent sized lobster you might want to order tonight, ma'am."
And as my date nodded her head vigorously, I sadly looked into my empty plate and smiled.
If only they didnt order the lobster. For once.
utekkare,
pranay
And since it was my first date in months, I thought I would give it my best shot. So I went out and bought an expensive shirt. And trousers to go with it. And since you never know where these evenings end up, I decided to buy new underwear. And that new Bvlgari parfum.
And I asked the driver to stay back late. For the first time in months, I decided I would go home from office at 7.30 - The boss's son wasn't too happy about it (I dont remember when he last had a date), but I didnt care. For once.
And since I did not want my ubiquitous BO to rear it's ugly head, I scrubbed myself extra hard, with the scrubber. For once.
And I shampoo-ed and conditioned my hair with the special Special Fragile Hair Formula, so I wouldnt lose more hair that day. And I air-dryed my hair and smoothed over the patches that recede, and I brushed my hair softly, and set it so I would look cooler than I was. So I could make a good impression. For once.
And I used the specially purchased Scope Mouthwash (TM), and I packed my pocket full of Chlor mints, and hoped that she would not notice me popping a chlormint at regular intervals. And more optimistically, that my halitosis would stay away for 5 hours. For once.
And I wore my special shirt, and I sucked in my tummy, and hoped that it wouldnt sag that night. And I wore my trousers, and wore my lucky belt. And buckled it a little loosely. In case the dinner was good. And if I overate. Just in case.
And then, I borrowed 2000 bucks from my mother, so I would not have to think twice about going to a club if dinner went well, or to offer her an expensive drink, or if she wanted to have a sumptious dinner followed by a sinful dessert. And I checked on my Emergency funds to ensure I had enough.
And then I left. I reached the place we were supposed to meet, and she suggested we go to a Seafood Restaurant that just happened to be in a 5 star hotel.
And just as the conversation was warming up, and I felt we were getting somewhere, and maybe this might just be the first of many more dates, it ended.
It happened just after we ordered the drinks. I ordered a beer, and she ordered a Mojito. And then, as we were making general conversation, the maitre d' came up and enquired if we might want to order. And innocently enough my date asked about the specials.
And the maitre d' said," There's a decent sized lobster you might want to order tonight, ma'am."
And as my date nodded her head vigorously, I sadly looked into my empty plate and smiled.
If only they didnt order the lobster. For once.
utekkare,
pranay
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Blame it on the Rains
And since the rains are here, we can blame the rains for all the problems that would otherwise plague our life..
Like waking up late, and reaching school late, and missing the schoolbus, and getting your clothes wet, and losing your water bottle, and reaching class late, and coming home late, and getting your shoes dirty and mucky.
And for people like us, like if you want to miss office for a cricket match, or if you want to miss going to a dull party at night, or if you want to spend some more time with your girlfriend before returning to your wife, or if you are required to email an important presentation from home, or if you are caught sleeping with your girlfriend's best friend because you shared and incredibly romantic moment by the seaside where the rain drenched her and showed you the tender side of her cleavage...
Ofcourse, there are advantages to being caught by the rain too...
Like wearing shorts, and drying your hair without a hair dryer, and getting a crush on the really hot girl in the inadequate salwar kameez, and fighting the rain in a rickshaw with flapping rainguards, and wearing gumboots, and eating hot vada-pav under a polythene roof, and putting out buckets under the leaking roof, and wading in knee deep water (only knee-deep), and drinking hot choclate, and making sailing boats from paper, and missing school officially, and also college, and wearing trench coats, and honing your Antakshari skills by candlelight, playing football in the rain, and listening to the old radio, and searching for batteries to power it, and watching insects coming out of their holes, and smelling freshly crushed caterpillars, and smelling the nice new earth.
And following rainbows to see if they have pots of gold at the end.
utekkare,
pranay
Like waking up late, and reaching school late, and missing the schoolbus, and getting your clothes wet, and losing your water bottle, and reaching class late, and coming home late, and getting your shoes dirty and mucky.
And for people like us, like if you want to miss office for a cricket match, or if you want to miss going to a dull party at night, or if you want to spend some more time with your girlfriend before returning to your wife, or if you are required to email an important presentation from home, or if you are caught sleeping with your girlfriend's best friend because you shared and incredibly romantic moment by the seaside where the rain drenched her and showed you the tender side of her cleavage...
Ofcourse, there are advantages to being caught by the rain too...
Like wearing shorts, and drying your hair without a hair dryer, and getting a crush on the really hot girl in the inadequate salwar kameez, and fighting the rain in a rickshaw with flapping rainguards, and wearing gumboots, and eating hot vada-pav under a polythene roof, and putting out buckets under the leaking roof, and wading in knee deep water (only knee-deep), and drinking hot choclate, and making sailing boats from paper, and missing school officially, and also college, and wearing trench coats, and honing your Antakshari skills by candlelight, playing football in the rain, and listening to the old radio, and searching for batteries to power it, and watching insects coming out of their holes, and smelling freshly crushed caterpillars, and smelling the nice new earth.
And following rainbows to see if they have pots of gold at the end.
utekkare,
pranay
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The day I died and went to heaven. Almost.
And so I decided the other day that I might think of commiting suicide.
And since I decided to think about suicide, I automatically thought about the reasons I wanted to commit suicide. Well, heaven, ofcourse is the most important reason to commit suicide. God is always quite lenient on self-murderers. He understands the value of a single human life and consequently the reasons for extinguishing the life.
And since life is not so much fun right now, death seems so much more appealing. And Sharon might call on my cellphone after a week to see if I'm in Mulund on a Monday night to have coffee. And my mother will tell her I am currently sightseeing in Samarra. So she will write about me. And she will tell her friends that I died. And Smita will probably never find out. Because she was busy and assumed I might be busy too. And maybe she will give me a missed call. But floating souls have pathetic motor skills. And no strength to return missed calls. And Trevor will call up to make plans to meet. And when he finds out that I am dead, he will come to meet Mom and Dad. He is a good friend. My generation's answer to Yeh dosti hum nahin chhodenge. And Ryze messages will pile up. And requests for friday night meetings will go unanswered. But I will not care. And life will go on. and on. And Sonia will celebrate her birthday and go to Canada and sell her piano.
And when I die, people in the gym will think about the boy who made too many bad jokes. And why he decided to quit life. And people will try to connect with me. And maybe people will read my blog. Utekkare. And people will understand the brilliance of Utekkare. As a word. As a paraphrase. As a movement. And people will compliment the subtle delicacy of my articles.And they will reprint my articles. In newspapers. And magazines. And people will interview my father. And my mother. And my friends.
And women will express their hidden love for me. And they will grieve. And all my dreams will come true. Such optimism emerges only from morbidity.
But it would be nice if I would be alive to experience all of this.
So marna cancel.
utekkare,
pranay
And since I decided to think about suicide, I automatically thought about the reasons I wanted to commit suicide. Well, heaven, ofcourse is the most important reason to commit suicide. God is always quite lenient on self-murderers. He understands the value of a single human life and consequently the reasons for extinguishing the life.
And since life is not so much fun right now, death seems so much more appealing. And Sharon might call on my cellphone after a week to see if I'm in Mulund on a Monday night to have coffee. And my mother will tell her I am currently sightseeing in Samarra. So she will write about me. And she will tell her friends that I died. And Smita will probably never find out. Because she was busy and assumed I might be busy too. And maybe she will give me a missed call. But floating souls have pathetic motor skills. And no strength to return missed calls. And Trevor will call up to make plans to meet. And when he finds out that I am dead, he will come to meet Mom and Dad. He is a good friend. My generation's answer to Yeh dosti hum nahin chhodenge. And Ryze messages will pile up. And requests for friday night meetings will go unanswered. But I will not care. And life will go on. and on. And Sonia will celebrate her birthday and go to Canada and sell her piano.
And when I die, people in the gym will think about the boy who made too many bad jokes. And why he decided to quit life. And people will try to connect with me. And maybe people will read my blog. Utekkare. And people will understand the brilliance of Utekkare. As a word. As a paraphrase. As a movement. And people will compliment the subtle delicacy of my articles.And they will reprint my articles. In newspapers. And magazines. And people will interview my father. And my mother. And my friends.
And women will express their hidden love for me. And they will grieve. And all my dreams will come true. Such optimism emerges only from morbidity.
But it would be nice if I would be alive to experience all of this.
So marna cancel.
utekkare,
pranay
Aap Kataar mein hain
You are in queue. Please wait.
There are lines for everything in life. Grocery lines, Ration lines, Civil lines, Tan lines, Straight lines, Immigration lines, Fishing lines, Ant lines, Hairlines, Waistlines, Clotheslines, Fashion lines, Credit lines, Pickup lines....
But we are in line. All our life is one big line. And we are all queued up to get to somewhere.
Like We are in line to go abroad. And some people get to the head of the line when they're 14. And some when they're 40. I got to the head of the "foreign-travelling" line when I was 25. Some just make it by default because they are on someone else's arm.
Like we are in line to complete our education. Some of us are jostling for space with others, and frequently, we are pushed out of the line for a year just because we are too busy jawing with someone , or trying to pick up a chick from the line next to us. Or because we fell asleep while standing and all those young kids with a superior intellect pushed us to the back of the class, and elbowed their way through.
Like we are in line to fall in love. And when we reach the counter, and meet the woman we want to fall in love with, we become speechless, and are sent away to the back of the line to work on our communication skills. And this time there might not be the perfect woman at the counter. And because it is too late in life to go to the back of the line once again, you have to make do with the woman that came with the counter, and make it count all your life. Because you were speechless the first time round.
Like we are in line to earn money. And there are so many lines running concurrently to earn money. And we must choose which line we must join. And there are fast moving lines that end up god knows where. And there are slow moving lines. And most of them are extremely slow lines. And all of them end up in a vacation condo with a middle aged secretary smiling like a cheshire cat while the greying middle level executive who was standing in line once upon a time with visions of a home in the country, and a pension, and a dog lying in the porch, is caught with his pants down.
Like there are man-eating lines. Where you could be standing in line, and instead of looking forward, you have to be looking over your shoulder. Because they will slash, and cut, and maim, and gouge, and bomb, and shoot, and spear, and bind you down in ropes of thorns till you have bled the blood of the healthy. Best to avoid those lines.
And there are lines with storm clouds hovering above them. With hypothermia, and cold feet, and no couches, and bloodshot eyes and glazed looks and uncomfortable silences. And there are lines with creeping insects and scurrying rats and gridlocked conversations and frustrations, and aggression, and insults. And racial insults. And inequality. Where you are thrown to the back of the line just because you are ill. Or you have AIDS. Or you are a particular skin color. Or a particular surname. Best to avoid those lines too. Like the plague.
Like we wait in line for fame. Our 15 seconds. Ofcourse, this line is the most ragged and disorganised. Because the counter could open where you are standing. And it could stay there for 10 minutes. Or for 5 hours. Make the most of it.
And 2 weeks ago we are all in line to meet with God. And here there are no shortcuts. Everyone is as important. And it doesn't matter if you are rich or poor or crippled or famous or intelligent or badly dressed. God is always smiling, and he is waiting to meet you. Ofcourse the conversation is tremendously short and it is always one-sided.
And there is a very small, special, select line. For those whose prayers are heard.
I wonder if I am in that line.
utekkare,
pranay
There are lines for everything in life. Grocery lines, Ration lines, Civil lines, Tan lines, Straight lines, Immigration lines, Fishing lines, Ant lines, Hairlines, Waistlines, Clotheslines, Fashion lines, Credit lines, Pickup lines....
But we are in line. All our life is one big line. And we are all queued up to get to somewhere.
Like We are in line to go abroad. And some people get to the head of the line when they're 14. And some when they're 40. I got to the head of the "foreign-travelling" line when I was 25. Some just make it by default because they are on someone else's arm.
Like we are in line to complete our education. Some of us are jostling for space with others, and frequently, we are pushed out of the line for a year just because we are too busy jawing with someone , or trying to pick up a chick from the line next to us. Or because we fell asleep while standing and all those young kids with a superior intellect pushed us to the back of the class, and elbowed their way through.
Like we are in line to fall in love. And when we reach the counter, and meet the woman we want to fall in love with, we become speechless, and are sent away to the back of the line to work on our communication skills. And this time there might not be the perfect woman at the counter. And because it is too late in life to go to the back of the line once again, you have to make do with the woman that came with the counter, and make it count all your life. Because you were speechless the first time round.
Like we are in line to earn money. And there are so many lines running concurrently to earn money. And we must choose which line we must join. And there are fast moving lines that end up god knows where. And there are slow moving lines. And most of them are extremely slow lines. And all of them end up in a vacation condo with a middle aged secretary smiling like a cheshire cat while the greying middle level executive who was standing in line once upon a time with visions of a home in the country, and a pension, and a dog lying in the porch, is caught with his pants down.
Like there are man-eating lines. Where you could be standing in line, and instead of looking forward, you have to be looking over your shoulder. Because they will slash, and cut, and maim, and gouge, and bomb, and shoot, and spear, and bind you down in ropes of thorns till you have bled the blood of the healthy. Best to avoid those lines.
And there are lines with storm clouds hovering above them. With hypothermia, and cold feet, and no couches, and bloodshot eyes and glazed looks and uncomfortable silences. And there are lines with creeping insects and scurrying rats and gridlocked conversations and frustrations, and aggression, and insults. And racial insults. And inequality. Where you are thrown to the back of the line just because you are ill. Or you have AIDS. Or you are a particular skin color. Or a particular surname. Best to avoid those lines too. Like the plague.
Like we wait in line for fame. Our 15 seconds. Ofcourse, this line is the most ragged and disorganised. Because the counter could open where you are standing. And it could stay there for 10 minutes. Or for 5 hours. Make the most of it.
And 2 weeks ago we are all in line to meet with God. And here there are no shortcuts. Everyone is as important. And it doesn't matter if you are rich or poor or crippled or famous or intelligent or badly dressed. God is always smiling, and he is waiting to meet you. Ofcourse the conversation is tremendously short and it is always one-sided.
And there is a very small, special, select line. For those whose prayers are heard.
I wonder if I am in that line.
utekkare,
pranay
Monday, May 15, 2006
I don't like beggars
I don't like beggars. I think they stink and they're dirty and rotten, and I think they are a stigma to society. A slur on mankind. A curse on the upper middle class urbanite.
These beggars are extremely inquisitive. They want to know where you've been, who you've been talking to, and what you eat. They want to know where you stay, and how you travel and how fit you are. And they want to be paid handsomely for all the services you obtain. Compulsorily. If you dont pay them, they want to know why. They want to know why you paid them a little less last year, and how much you'll pay them next year. And then want to know today. They take your money and make it look like a favour by accepting it.
And I dont like beggars invading my office, and my home, and breaking down the glass of my new imported car, and throwing me out of it and charging me for the privilege.
And these beggars will rummage through all my old papers, and charge me with not having papers even I did not know I would need. And I definitely do not like them coming home for dinner and breaking down my moulded ceilings that hold up my chandeliers. Yes, JUST my chandeliers. Imported from St Petersburg.
And when you politely ask what they did with your money, they will rave and rant, and go on strike, and beat you up, and throw a bunch of mildewed papers they have labelled "Official Secrets Act" in your face and you will suddenly have to be conversant with the twisted meaning of the phrase "need to know".
And their chief beggar stands up every year on the 28th of February in front of 500 odd other buffoons, and extols their virtues of insolvency, greed, debt and economic insecurity before the populace of this country. And people applaud, and grandstand, and are making all kinds of intelligent statements. But everyone knows that these are beggars, who are the lowest form of humanity.
And the chief beggar will tell you how he "plans" to divide your money amongst all those 500 buffoons. And you can count on the fact that a your money will be divided amongst all the buffoons. And each buffoon will take some of that money and use it to line his pockets, redecorate his house, pay his bills, send his son abroad, and marry off his daughter.
And he will use the money left over to evade beggars. Successfully.
utekkare,
Pranay
These beggars are extremely inquisitive. They want to know where you've been, who you've been talking to, and what you eat. They want to know where you stay, and how you travel and how fit you are. And they want to be paid handsomely for all the services you obtain. Compulsorily. If you dont pay them, they want to know why. They want to know why you paid them a little less last year, and how much you'll pay them next year. And then want to know today. They take your money and make it look like a favour by accepting it.
And I dont like beggars invading my office, and my home, and breaking down the glass of my new imported car, and throwing me out of it and charging me for the privilege.
And these beggars will rummage through all my old papers, and charge me with not having papers even I did not know I would need. And I definitely do not like them coming home for dinner and breaking down my moulded ceilings that hold up my chandeliers. Yes, JUST my chandeliers. Imported from St Petersburg.
And when you politely ask what they did with your money, they will rave and rant, and go on strike, and beat you up, and throw a bunch of mildewed papers they have labelled "Official Secrets Act" in your face and you will suddenly have to be conversant with the twisted meaning of the phrase "need to know".
And their chief beggar stands up every year on the 28th of February in front of 500 odd other buffoons, and extols their virtues of insolvency, greed, debt and economic insecurity before the populace of this country. And people applaud, and grandstand, and are making all kinds of intelligent statements. But everyone knows that these are beggars, who are the lowest form of humanity.
And the chief beggar will tell you how he "plans" to divide your money amongst all those 500 buffoons. And you can count on the fact that a your money will be divided amongst all the buffoons. And each buffoon will take some of that money and use it to line his pockets, redecorate his house, pay his bills, send his son abroad, and marry off his daughter.
And he will use the money left over to evade beggars. Successfully.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, May 14, 2006
The Great Gamble(r)
I would like to think that I am an inveterate gambler.
But I hate gambling. I think it's wasteful, and tempting, and wrong, and an adam's-appley type activity. I never went to those slot machines. I never tried my hand at the computer poker games. I never got addicted to card games (except for a brief passage of time when I was 5 - but I was too young to bet it all). I never liked casinos, and their flashy neon signboards. Ofcourse it helped that gambling is illegal in most parts of Bombay. In Mumbai, its now allowed in select areas that are taxed a gazillion percent.
Yes, I hate gambling. I'm using the word 'hate' here. I do not like twists of fate, and I do not like roulette, and I do not like Blackjack. And I do not like Slot Machines. And I do not like Horsing Around. Especially in a three piece suit in the middle of April on a scorcher, amidst really cute women who are supressing a smile as I drippingly stroll by, desperately trying to loook nonchalant as I place my minimum bet.
I also do not understand newspaper listings of horses, and I cannot understand how odds are placed, and how much I would win if I placed my bet on a short animal and if I placed it on a long one. I suppose the longer one had the edge if it came to a photo finish. If only.
I simply do not like the fact that my life could be changed by the simple rolling of a dice. Or the placing of a bet.
But I tempt life everyday. I cross the road in the face of speeding cars without a care in the world... I climb mountains for fun. I run on treadmills and I push weights. I shave myself looking in the mirror, and I step out of my house, and I wake up from sleep, and I brush my teeth and I wear my clothes, and I predict my future, in the expectation of living my immediate future exactly the way I plan it.
Now, If you are like me, playing a slot machine is something you wouldnt lay odds on.
But crossing the road is something you could lay odds on, and most probably come out a winner. But not always. Since it is common knowledge that crossing the road kills more people every year than terrorists, air crashes, and predatory second wives put together, I would say you're taking a bold step with your life.
And remember, when you gamble, you are betting your money. When you cross the road, you are betting your life against a few stolen moments to add to your seemingly relevant and hectic day.
And it is a one in a million chance that you could wake up and be surprised by an earthquake. Or that you could walk out your house and be struck by lightning. Or you could slip onto a road and be run over. Or you could meet someone seemingly special and end up counting the days that you have spent lamenting your fate when you're 40. Or you could get stuck in the life and die of suffocation. Or you could have an accident and be run off the road by a madman. Or you could be caught in a fight and sustain injuries. You could get caught in a hailstorm in May in Mumbai and be pelted to death. You could catch a cold, contract pneumonia and die.
Nature has many queer and wierd ways of killing you off.
Ofcourse none of this could happen. Life could go on as planned and it could stretch into tomorrow and the next week and the next month. Ofcourse it could happen too. You could also live a 100 years through 3 world wars and the bombing of berlin and live to tell the tale.
But I gamble. Every day. And I tempt fate. And I use the greatest prize of all to play with. My insignificant life.
utekkare,
pranay
But I hate gambling. I think it's wasteful, and tempting, and wrong, and an adam's-appley type activity. I never went to those slot machines. I never tried my hand at the computer poker games. I never got addicted to card games (except for a brief passage of time when I was 5 - but I was too young to bet it all). I never liked casinos, and their flashy neon signboards. Ofcourse it helped that gambling is illegal in most parts of Bombay. In Mumbai, its now allowed in select areas that are taxed a gazillion percent.
Yes, I hate gambling. I'm using the word 'hate' here. I do not like twists of fate, and I do not like roulette, and I do not like Blackjack. And I do not like Slot Machines. And I do not like Horsing Around. Especially in a three piece suit in the middle of April on a scorcher, amidst really cute women who are supressing a smile as I drippingly stroll by, desperately trying to loook nonchalant as I place my minimum bet.
I also do not understand newspaper listings of horses, and I cannot understand how odds are placed, and how much I would win if I placed my bet on a short animal and if I placed it on a long one. I suppose the longer one had the edge if it came to a photo finish. If only.
I simply do not like the fact that my life could be changed by the simple rolling of a dice. Or the placing of a bet.
But I tempt life everyday. I cross the road in the face of speeding cars without a care in the world... I climb mountains for fun. I run on treadmills and I push weights. I shave myself looking in the mirror, and I step out of my house, and I wake up from sleep, and I brush my teeth and I wear my clothes, and I predict my future, in the expectation of living my immediate future exactly the way I plan it.
Now, If you are like me, playing a slot machine is something you wouldnt lay odds on.
But crossing the road is something you could lay odds on, and most probably come out a winner. But not always. Since it is common knowledge that crossing the road kills more people every year than terrorists, air crashes, and predatory second wives put together, I would say you're taking a bold step with your life.
And remember, when you gamble, you are betting your money. When you cross the road, you are betting your life against a few stolen moments to add to your seemingly relevant and hectic day.
And it is a one in a million chance that you could wake up and be surprised by an earthquake. Or that you could walk out your house and be struck by lightning. Or you could slip onto a road and be run over. Or you could meet someone seemingly special and end up counting the days that you have spent lamenting your fate when you're 40. Or you could get stuck in the life and die of suffocation. Or you could have an accident and be run off the road by a madman. Or you could be caught in a fight and sustain injuries. You could get caught in a hailstorm in May in Mumbai and be pelted to death. You could catch a cold, contract pneumonia and die.
Nature has many queer and wierd ways of killing you off.
Ofcourse none of this could happen. Life could go on as planned and it could stretch into tomorrow and the next week and the next month. Ofcourse it could happen too. You could also live a 100 years through 3 world wars and the bombing of berlin and live to tell the tale.
But I gamble. Every day. And I tempt fate. And I use the greatest prize of all to play with. My insignificant life.
utekkare,
pranay
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Turning over a new leaf...
Dear Aunt Jezebel,
I am sorry. very sorry. I am sorry about all those things I thought of you. that you are rude. and uncouth. and irritating. and flippant. and flighty.
That you do not know my life. not at all. that you set the standards so high that I cannot reach them. As it is, I have a weight problem. its so difficult moving forward in a straight line that I cannot even imagine reaching up. I suppose the grapes can be labelled as sour. If they aren't sour today, they will be some day. Because nobody can reach them.
Yes. I know that you are beautiful, and people seek your company. And people are interested in you. And they get excited if you touch them. That they feel its good luck even if they see you around them.
I also know that you are depending on me. To stand up and be counted. To fulfil my destiny. To become like you. Tall. Graceful. Fashionable. Desirable. Yes, I also want those things. I would love it.
But it is far more difficult to change myself. I cannot see into the future. I just cannot.
I am fat, and round and shapeless. I cannot sit in one place for too long, and I cannot travel too far. I get tired very easily. I would have loved to laze around all day, but my appetite belies my size. After all I am trying to fit all the food I would need for an entire life in a few short weeks.
I just want to curl up in a corner and not be noticed. If my luck is good, I will be like you.
No. I am tired of hiding, and running, and being scared. If Robin wants me, let him come and get me. No more retreats, and camouflage, and no more subterfuge.
If the leaf is there to be eaten, I will eat it.
And maybe, just maybe, I will be a social butterfly some day.
utekkare,
Pranay
I am sorry. very sorry. I am sorry about all those things I thought of you. that you are rude. and uncouth. and irritating. and flippant. and flighty.
That you do not know my life. not at all. that you set the standards so high that I cannot reach them. As it is, I have a weight problem. its so difficult moving forward in a straight line that I cannot even imagine reaching up. I suppose the grapes can be labelled as sour. If they aren't sour today, they will be some day. Because nobody can reach them.
Yes. I know that you are beautiful, and people seek your company. And people are interested in you. And they get excited if you touch them. That they feel its good luck even if they see you around them.
I also know that you are depending on me. To stand up and be counted. To fulfil my destiny. To become like you. Tall. Graceful. Fashionable. Desirable. Yes, I also want those things. I would love it.
But it is far more difficult to change myself. I cannot see into the future. I just cannot.
I am fat, and round and shapeless. I cannot sit in one place for too long, and I cannot travel too far. I get tired very easily. I would have loved to laze around all day, but my appetite belies my size. After all I am trying to fit all the food I would need for an entire life in a few short weeks.
I just want to curl up in a corner and not be noticed. If my luck is good, I will be like you.
No. I am tired of hiding, and running, and being scared. If Robin wants me, let him come and get me. No more retreats, and camouflage, and no more subterfuge.
If the leaf is there to be eaten, I will eat it.
And maybe, just maybe, I will be a social butterfly some day.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, May 06, 2006
User Manual for the Human Body - Part Deux
Dear Consumer Spirit,
A thousand apologies for cutting you off that day. We were sidetracked by a sudden inflow of bodies from an earthquake. We were called onto urgent sorting duty by the God-who-never-talks-but-points-obliquely-at-what-we-should-be-doing.
Well, no, as a rule we do not recycle human bodies. Each human shell is unique and is especially designed for the spirit it carries within. We design human bodies based on the stringent parameters laid down by the Elders Guiding Council based on past sins, future progress on the path to Nirvana, and all affecting factors, namely parenthood, previous mishandling of human bodies, premature disposal of the human shell on some trivial mishap (e.g.suicide). The guiding council lays down parameters when a spirit approaches conception, and decides on the broad outlines of how the human shell is to be constructed:
A. The morphology of the body: Whether it is superficially normal or deficient in some physical respect - i.e. a missing or deformed toe, or finger. Or it could also have additional fingers "added on", although these could also be rare manufacturing defects that usually cause no harm and are not usually important in determining a human shell's karma. e.g. Hritik Roshan.
B. The internal workings of the body: Whether there is some kind of inbuilt allergy discoverable later, and that can be used as a stern test of the spirit's character, and is usually employed when the spirit is trying to break into the next level of karma.
C. Grave physical defect: This state of human shell is used either to punish an errant spirit (But not so much punishment that it is relegated to a lower life form), for past misdeeds and exceeding its brief in a single life, or for misusing a human shell in a previous life - too much smoking, drinking, womanising, and / or drug abuse could lead to this. The only other reason a physical defect is implanted is to offer the human spirit a chance to jump 2 levels of karma towards Nirvana. This is therefore considered a double edged sword, and dear consumer spirit, be very careful whilst spending your celestial dollars on a human shell from us. If your brief this life is to lie back and enjoy the ride, you might be rudely surprised.
In very rare cases, where there is a malfunctioning human shell, we have instituted ways to deal with it. You could apply for a miscarriage or for a still birth. Both proceedures are frowned upon (although it is due to no fault of your own), the Guiding Council's stipulations clearly mention that on acceptance of a human shell, you are bound by their rules and you must try to make optimum use of the human shell alloted to you for that life. These means of returning to the counter could prove dangerous as it closes out an entry into life for that particular cycle, unless you find another slot to fill, which is not guaranteed, given our long waiting list waiting to enter this ultra modern world.
Note: For miscarriage, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XII.
For still birth, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XIII.
Our representatives from the hard luck and consolation division are standing by to take your calls and offer you free counselling if you should get a bad deal.
Now back to the further analysis of the new and improved Human Bodies on spirits nowadays:
As detailed earlier, the brain is extremely updated, and now with increased levels of fitness, medical training, we have employed spirits with good karma to be able to work wonders with small errors in brain configuration even in the middle of a life.
Now we shall enumerate the features of our central pumping station - the heart:
The heart was placed, after much debate on the left side of the human shell. We use some of the raw ends from your soul to connect into this organ. That way you have control (or atleast communication) with both, the brain and the heart. These are the most important decision enhancing centres of your body. Always remember that because there is a lot of energy being utilised by the heart, the decisions offered through this organ may save on energy and appear simplistic. However these short cuts have the ability to make your life difficult. We are working on making the heart more rational, but however, we have been cautioned that this may trigger a drop in romanticism across the board, which will cause our factory sales to slow down.
Although it is an ethical issue, we are doing our best to strike a healthy balance between a rational heart and an impulsive heart. However, diverting the heart from these decisions also has an effect on the basic working, and causes sudden pains, and chest pains caused by the erratic pumping of the living fluids - in this case, blood.
Watch this space as we talk in more detail about the heart and expound on the other features that go into the making of a human body. Your Human Body.
Live smart. Choose the Celestial Human Body Shop.
utekkare
A thousand apologies for cutting you off that day. We were sidetracked by a sudden inflow of bodies from an earthquake. We were called onto urgent sorting duty by the God-who-never-talks-but-points-obliquely-at-what-we-should-be-doing.
Well, no, as a rule we do not recycle human bodies. Each human shell is unique and is especially designed for the spirit it carries within. We design human bodies based on the stringent parameters laid down by the Elders Guiding Council based on past sins, future progress on the path to Nirvana, and all affecting factors, namely parenthood, previous mishandling of human bodies, premature disposal of the human shell on some trivial mishap (e.g.suicide). The guiding council lays down parameters when a spirit approaches conception, and decides on the broad outlines of how the human shell is to be constructed:
A. The morphology of the body: Whether it is superficially normal or deficient in some physical respect - i.e. a missing or deformed toe, or finger. Or it could also have additional fingers "added on", although these could also be rare manufacturing defects that usually cause no harm and are not usually important in determining a human shell's karma. e.g. Hritik Roshan.
B. The internal workings of the body: Whether there is some kind of inbuilt allergy discoverable later, and that can be used as a stern test of the spirit's character, and is usually employed when the spirit is trying to break into the next level of karma.
C. Grave physical defect: This state of human shell is used either to punish an errant spirit (But not so much punishment that it is relegated to a lower life form), for past misdeeds and exceeding its brief in a single life, or for misusing a human shell in a previous life - too much smoking, drinking, womanising, and / or drug abuse could lead to this. The only other reason a physical defect is implanted is to offer the human spirit a chance to jump 2 levels of karma towards Nirvana. This is therefore considered a double edged sword, and dear consumer spirit, be very careful whilst spending your celestial dollars on a human shell from us. If your brief this life is to lie back and enjoy the ride, you might be rudely surprised.
In very rare cases, where there is a malfunctioning human shell, we have instituted ways to deal with it. You could apply for a miscarriage or for a still birth. Both proceedures are frowned upon (although it is due to no fault of your own), the Guiding Council's stipulations clearly mention that on acceptance of a human shell, you are bound by their rules and you must try to make optimum use of the human shell alloted to you for that life. These means of returning to the counter could prove dangerous as it closes out an entry into life for that particular cycle, unless you find another slot to fill, which is not guaranteed, given our long waiting list waiting to enter this ultra modern world.
Note: For miscarriage, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XII.
For still birth, please read and fill application forms in Appendix XIII.
Our representatives from the hard luck and consolation division are standing by to take your calls and offer you free counselling if you should get a bad deal.
Now back to the further analysis of the new and improved Human Bodies on spirits nowadays:
As detailed earlier, the brain is extremely updated, and now with increased levels of fitness, medical training, we have employed spirits with good karma to be able to work wonders with small errors in brain configuration even in the middle of a life.
Now we shall enumerate the features of our central pumping station - the heart:
The heart was placed, after much debate on the left side of the human shell. We use some of the raw ends from your soul to connect into this organ. That way you have control (or atleast communication) with both, the brain and the heart. These are the most important decision enhancing centres of your body. Always remember that because there is a lot of energy being utilised by the heart, the decisions offered through this organ may save on energy and appear simplistic. However these short cuts have the ability to make your life difficult. We are working on making the heart more rational, but however, we have been cautioned that this may trigger a drop in romanticism across the board, which will cause our factory sales to slow down.
Although it is an ethical issue, we are doing our best to strike a healthy balance between a rational heart and an impulsive heart. However, diverting the heart from these decisions also has an effect on the basic working, and causes sudden pains, and chest pains caused by the erratic pumping of the living fluids - in this case, blood.
Watch this space as we talk in more detail about the heart and expound on the other features that go into the making of a human body. Your Human Body.
Live smart. Choose the Celestial Human Body Shop.
utekkare
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
The Serial Kisser
I have not seen any films starring Emraan Hashmi. or is it Imran Hashmee (pronounced EEM-RAAAN HUSH-ME).
But I have seen promos. And footage. And interviews. And I have read Page 3. And I see posters. And music videos. And once, I have even seen Emran Hashmi in his Honda Accord listening to noise canceling headphones in the front seat. (Maybe the multi-thousand rupee honda stereo system was not working.) More plausible is that perhaps he needed the music penetration straight into his ears, since his ears must have been ringing from the resounding slap he must have received from that woman who rebuffed his advancing tongue.
And so I will write about what I feel is Emran Hashmi. He is the protege of the Bhatt camp. Mukesh Bhatt. Mahesh Bhatt. Pooja Bhatt. Koi bhi Dooja Bhatt. I suppose he does films "zara bhattke"...bad joke.
His films have a heroine. Whom he kisses with unfailing regularity. Rumours abound that he pays scriptwriters, and screenplay writers, to write in "tastefully handled" kissing scenes.
His films have popular music. And he is always the hero. And always the central figure. He and Himesh Reshammiya are destiny's children. They have been given iconic status within a very short period of time.
I think that Mr Hashmi enjoys kissing women. His facial expressions are geared around looking sincere just after kissing a woman.
Mr Hashmi is getting married. I wonder if his wife will be present at the sets for future scenes. I suppose you have some kind of a guarantee of satisfactory performance when you marry Mr Hashmi. (How many women have you kissed in life: A-More than 20 B-More than 40 C-More than 100 - All of the above!)
Well, I have been invited to watch "Gangster - A Love story" - it deals with the rehabilitation of murderous mafia dons, and the exceedingly optimistic attitude of a drunk and an Indian bar room crooner.
And after Saturday, I will not be able to say that I have not seen any of Mr Hashmi's films.
Ofcourse I am hoping I forget the tickets at home, that I find traffic on the way, and that the electricity goes away for a while.
utekkare,
Pranay
But I have seen promos. And footage. And interviews. And I have read Page 3. And I see posters. And music videos. And once, I have even seen Emran Hashmi in his Honda Accord listening to noise canceling headphones in the front seat. (Maybe the multi-thousand rupee honda stereo system was not working.) More plausible is that perhaps he needed the music penetration straight into his ears, since his ears must have been ringing from the resounding slap he must have received from that woman who rebuffed his advancing tongue.
And so I will write about what I feel is Emran Hashmi. He is the protege of the Bhatt camp. Mukesh Bhatt. Mahesh Bhatt. Pooja Bhatt. Koi bhi Dooja Bhatt. I suppose he does films "zara bhattke"...bad joke.
His films have a heroine. Whom he kisses with unfailing regularity. Rumours abound that he pays scriptwriters, and screenplay writers, to write in "tastefully handled" kissing scenes.
His films have popular music. And he is always the hero. And always the central figure. He and Himesh Reshammiya are destiny's children. They have been given iconic status within a very short period of time.
I think that Mr Hashmi enjoys kissing women. His facial expressions are geared around looking sincere just after kissing a woman.
Mr Hashmi is getting married. I wonder if his wife will be present at the sets for future scenes. I suppose you have some kind of a guarantee of satisfactory performance when you marry Mr Hashmi. (How many women have you kissed in life: A-More than 20 B-More than 40 C-More than 100 - All of the above!)
Well, I have been invited to watch "Gangster - A Love story" - it deals with the rehabilitation of murderous mafia dons, and the exceedingly optimistic attitude of a drunk and an Indian bar room crooner.
And after Saturday, I will not be able to say that I have not seen any of Mr Hashmi's films.
Ofcourse I am hoping I forget the tickets at home, that I find traffic on the way, and that the electricity goes away for a while.
utekkare,
Pranay
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