And when a toy breaks, it hurts. You can love a toy to bits. Watch it take baby steps, wind it up and watch it clap its hands in perfect harmony with the key unwinding in its side. You can see it give you that big smile when you make it stand on your mantelpiece as all your friends marvel at how well behaved it is.
It smiled on cue, laughed on cue, and was extremely respectful of all that moved around it. It never uttered a single word in anger or ever turned on its masters.
It was very quiet when it's batteries ran out, but it did not raise the roof or demand servicing too often. It quietly stood in a corner when you found something new to concentrate your affections on. It beamed generously when you went back to it and lavished your attentions on it. When you painted it's arms, and bought it small little accessories, you felt gratified when it bore your new accessory proudly and strutted around like a new-born toy.
It did not give you joint problems during the winter, and it did not swelter in the heat. It came with you on all your travels and gave you endless hours of pleasure after hours of hard work. You shared your toy "selflessly" with all your friends, and you even made it get all social, by buying it more toys to play with when you were unable to play with it. You got it the latest in pets, in soft toys, cutting edge technology in toy-pleasing machinery. You always made sure that it was kept in the right cupboard, and that it was clearly marked "For Greater Things".
And when the toy got older, you got it repaired at the best technicians, and you made sure it was oiled, and greased and kept in shape, as far as possible. After all, a toy cannot be kept forever, but this particular toy has great sentimental value. It was going to see you through your old age, and be the emotional crutch you could lean on. It was going to put all those other toys your friends own, into shame.
Until one day, you took your toy to play at the neighbour's. And your neighbour loved your toy far more than you could. And that neighbour decided to ask you for the toy. After all it was an old toy, and the neighbour was lonely. Suddenly, you couldnt think why someone else would love your toy as much as you did. You got all resentful, and angry. You started wondering whether that toy was actually two-timing you. Whether the toy actually meant it when it beamed at you when you made it walk up and down your mantelpiece. You no longer take out your toy to show off to your friends. You dont like to play with it anymore. Every time you take out your toy now, you think of that stupid neighbour who thought your toy was worth asking for.
And slowly, but surely, you began hating your toy. Every time it grinned at you, you got angry, and irritated, and you no longer get the time to dust the toy. All this while, it just stood there in the dark cupboard, wondering when it would see the light. You stopped playing with your neighbour, and moved to another city.
It's not your fault. You broke your toy in transit.
utekkare,
Pranay
Friday, October 05, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
On a C-rickety wicket
Cricket is not a suitable career for young men. No, it is not. The odds of being chosen in the Indian team is about 250 million to 15. And the fact that 40% of India's population is between 23 and 45 is not helping either.
So if you did a little bit of backpage math, you would realise that you need to start showing signs of being a cricketer at the age of 3 or 4, be recognised by your parents or a coach, or an elder brother or an uncle at the age of 5 or 6, find your first coach under whom you can find success in school by the age of 8, and start getting runs, and into a decent college team by the age of 14. Unless you're Tendulkar. Which, sadly, 999 million, 999 thousand, 999 of us are not. So then, you need to get into college, and start sucking up to the Ranji scouts who are slinking around MSSA and Inter College cricket teams, hoping to find some decent talent.
Then you need to be in the Ranji team and need to have scored atleast a million gazillion runs to be noticed for the Indian team. And even then there is no logic or pattern to that. You might have scored 50 runs in an important match where someone happened to have dropped you at the individual score of 4 but let you get a fortuituous 50 which saved the match and you got picked into a provisional A team squad. On the other hand you might have scored hundreds of thousands of runs for 10 years running, and while it is tough to run a family on just 500,000 rupees a year, half of which is spent on cricket gear and travelling, you have to thank your stars and hope that some day the Indian selection panel will happen to go ahead; make your day. Punk.
And ofcourse, you have to eat shit, and suck up to match officials, and team coaches, and senior players, and India players, and BCCI referees, and Match referees, and politicians, and selectors, and Zonal selectors, and groundsmen, and scorers, and umpires, and managers, and still more managers, and endorsement companies, and employing companies like Indian Oil, and Bharat Petroleum, and Indian Railways, because you never know when you will need regular employment. And you must kiss ass with retired famous players, and test discards, and treasurers, and secretaries, and joint secretaries, and under secretaries, and notable members of the board, and the regional board, and the central board, and county scouts, and county managers, because you would love to live in England for a year or so.
But all this is not enough to guarantee you a place in the Indian team. Depending on who likes you, and how much they like you, if you fail in your first game, or even if you score highly in your first game, you are liable to be dropped, or be "persisted with". You could be selected for a 3 month tour and never see the playing field except when you carry water out to the batsmen who are the stars. You could be selected for a one day tournament, and be forced to play at Number Six and be sent in to win the match with an asking rate of 8 per over. And you have opened all your life.
And you could have all the talent. And the luck. And the blessings. And the scores to back them up. And you could have the opportunity. And the occasion. And the spirit. And the aggro to back it up. But you could be playing football during a training session, and trip over the ball, and break your ankle, and have to spend 4 months on the bed, and in rehab. And in that four months, someone else took your spot. And an old has-been got a test recall. And all you could do is watch as someone else took your place in the world. And noone remembers you. And noone cares.
And being captain of the Indian cricket team is even worse. Ofcourse you should have the best team in the world, and you should beat everyone in the world. And when you query how this is possible, its because you are paid to stand in front of a camera and tell the world that your favourite brand of cola or biscuit or sweet or luggage or watch or fabric or shampoo is the best. That is the reason you must win. Not because you have no training on bouncy pitches. Or because you were so busy protecting your place, you forgot about the match and the team and winning. Or because you could not figure out who ran the team. You or some bureaucrat in delhi.
But on some days, it is all worth it. When the world is at your feet, and when everyone is a fan. And the world is a happy place where it rains money, and friends, and supporters, and happiness, and ticker tape parades and accolades and promise, and positive thoughts.
Yesterday was one such day.
utekkare,
Pranay
So if you did a little bit of backpage math, you would realise that you need to start showing signs of being a cricketer at the age of 3 or 4, be recognised by your parents or a coach, or an elder brother or an uncle at the age of 5 or 6, find your first coach under whom you can find success in school by the age of 8, and start getting runs, and into a decent college team by the age of 14. Unless you're Tendulkar. Which, sadly, 999 million, 999 thousand, 999 of us are not. So then, you need to get into college, and start sucking up to the Ranji scouts who are slinking around MSSA and Inter College cricket teams, hoping to find some decent talent.
Then you need to be in the Ranji team and need to have scored atleast a million gazillion runs to be noticed for the Indian team. And even then there is no logic or pattern to that. You might have scored 50 runs in an important match where someone happened to have dropped you at the individual score of 4 but let you get a fortuituous 50 which saved the match and you got picked into a provisional A team squad. On the other hand you might have scored hundreds of thousands of runs for 10 years running, and while it is tough to run a family on just 500,000 rupees a year, half of which is spent on cricket gear and travelling, you have to thank your stars and hope that some day the Indian selection panel will happen to go ahead; make your day. Punk.
And ofcourse, you have to eat shit, and suck up to match officials, and team coaches, and senior players, and India players, and BCCI referees, and Match referees, and politicians, and selectors, and Zonal selectors, and groundsmen, and scorers, and umpires, and managers, and still more managers, and endorsement companies, and employing companies like Indian Oil, and Bharat Petroleum, and Indian Railways, because you never know when you will need regular employment. And you must kiss ass with retired famous players, and test discards, and treasurers, and secretaries, and joint secretaries, and under secretaries, and notable members of the board, and the regional board, and the central board, and county scouts, and county managers, because you would love to live in England for a year or so.
But all this is not enough to guarantee you a place in the Indian team. Depending on who likes you, and how much they like you, if you fail in your first game, or even if you score highly in your first game, you are liable to be dropped, or be "persisted with". You could be selected for a 3 month tour and never see the playing field except when you carry water out to the batsmen who are the stars. You could be selected for a one day tournament, and be forced to play at Number Six and be sent in to win the match with an asking rate of 8 per over. And you have opened all your life.
And you could have all the talent. And the luck. And the blessings. And the scores to back them up. And you could have the opportunity. And the occasion. And the spirit. And the aggro to back it up. But you could be playing football during a training session, and trip over the ball, and break your ankle, and have to spend 4 months on the bed, and in rehab. And in that four months, someone else took your spot. And an old has-been got a test recall. And all you could do is watch as someone else took your place in the world. And noone remembers you. And noone cares.
And being captain of the Indian cricket team is even worse. Ofcourse you should have the best team in the world, and you should beat everyone in the world. And when you query how this is possible, its because you are paid to stand in front of a camera and tell the world that your favourite brand of cola or biscuit or sweet or luggage or watch or fabric or shampoo is the best. That is the reason you must win. Not because you have no training on bouncy pitches. Or because you were so busy protecting your place, you forgot about the match and the team and winning. Or because you could not figure out who ran the team. You or some bureaucrat in delhi.
But on some days, it is all worth it. When the world is at your feet, and when everyone is a fan. And the world is a happy place where it rains money, and friends, and supporters, and happiness, and ticker tape parades and accolades and promise, and positive thoughts.
Yesterday was one such day.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Cheap at Double the Price
I think I want to buy an apartment.
So my friend and I went to look at this apartment complex, who boasts an astoundingly low rate of Rs 4000.00 per square foot, and says it is in Mulund. East, but still Mulund.
And it was a reputed Builder, renowned for its quality construction, luxury lifestyle apartments, and large towers.
So we went looking for the apartment complex. We went past Nahur station, and turned left on the highway. We passed the signal before the Toll Naka. Then we passed the Toll Naka. (After we paid the Toll). Then we took a U-turn just before the Octroi Naka where someone had thoughtfully pulled out the dividing section of concrete between the 2 opposing lanes, to ensure we could take a U-turn before entering Thane. Then we took a left on a dirt track that boasted the entry to the BMC Dumping Ground. The road took a sharp right in front of the dirty black BMC gate and we were suddenly confronted by 2 security guards who wanted to know why our lowly Innova wanted to enter their hallowed premises. When we assured them that we bore no ill-will, they smiled and directed us with their grimey hands and blackened teeth.
We were suitably impressed by the height of the towers; The progress of the construction; The bright blue swimming pool. Actually real! And we were whisked into a sterile meeting room with the Sales Officer. Mr Important. And he regarded us carefully.
This property is top of the line. 27 storey towers. With views of the garden in front and the green belt in the back. Green belt? The future green belt. Currently known as the landfill that had green organic matter growing on it. But no no no, Sir, you have nothing to worry about. There is no burning here and it is no health hazard. And besides, they are building a new bridge that is on the Development Plan but does not exist. So please do not look for that bridge. And ofcourse, you are 15 minutes walk from Thane Station, but make no mistake Sir. You are in Mulund, NOT Thane. You may have to pay toll every time you want to take a pee. And everytime you want to bring a package home from the station you will have to pay octroi. But what is that minor harrassment and expense when you can see what you have in front of you!!!
27 storeyed towers. E3 flats, also known as 2 1/2 BHK flats. Not 2. Not 3. 2 1/2 BHKs. You know, for that inconveniently unplanned second kid?? And Free Dry Balconies. Yes!! Free. Ofcourse, we have 30% loading on Built Up. So you can use only 850 sq feet in a billed space of 1225 sq feet. Never mind that when you load 30% on 850 sq feet it adds up to 1105, not 1225 sq feet. But defensive builders are the foundation of reverse mathematics. So the cost of the Flat is Rs 51.65 lakhs plus Stamp Duty and Registration of Rs 2.75 lakhs, so your total is Rs 54.40 lakhs. Cheap, no?
Oh and sorry sir, there is an additional cost of Rs 15 per floor rise. Oh, and parking costs Rs 3.50 lakhs if you want to put your car under the building. If you want to leave it open to the elements, it will cost you Rs 2.00 lakhs. Very reasonable. The society and other deposits are only RS 2.50 lakhs. Not much at all.
We cannot negotiate the rate you know sir. Ofcourse if you can bring your booking amount of Rs 51,000 to the table, we can take a spot approval for rate from my superiors. Can we do that?
Oh, and last of all. We can only show 3400 rs per sq foot in the agreement. If you dont have Rs 7.50 lakhs in black money to give us, dont even waste our time.
I'm sorry but this does not seem to suit our budget.
I'm so sorry to hear that. You know, you should have come in here 16 months ago. The price was 2000 Rs per sq foot then. Have a good day.
utekkare,
Pranay
So my friend and I went to look at this apartment complex, who boasts an astoundingly low rate of Rs 4000.00 per square foot, and says it is in Mulund. East, but still Mulund.
And it was a reputed Builder, renowned for its quality construction, luxury lifestyle apartments, and large towers.
So we went looking for the apartment complex. We went past Nahur station, and turned left on the highway. We passed the signal before the Toll Naka. Then we passed the Toll Naka. (After we paid the Toll). Then we took a U-turn just before the Octroi Naka where someone had thoughtfully pulled out the dividing section of concrete between the 2 opposing lanes, to ensure we could take a U-turn before entering Thane. Then we took a left on a dirt track that boasted the entry to the BMC Dumping Ground. The road took a sharp right in front of the dirty black BMC gate and we were suddenly confronted by 2 security guards who wanted to know why our lowly Innova wanted to enter their hallowed premises. When we assured them that we bore no ill-will, they smiled and directed us with their grimey hands and blackened teeth.
We were suitably impressed by the height of the towers; The progress of the construction; The bright blue swimming pool. Actually real! And we were whisked into a sterile meeting room with the Sales Officer. Mr Important. And he regarded us carefully.
This property is top of the line. 27 storey towers. With views of the garden in front and the green belt in the back. Green belt? The future green belt. Currently known as the landfill that had green organic matter growing on it. But no no no, Sir, you have nothing to worry about. There is no burning here and it is no health hazard. And besides, they are building a new bridge that is on the Development Plan but does not exist. So please do not look for that bridge. And ofcourse, you are 15 minutes walk from Thane Station, but make no mistake Sir. You are in Mulund, NOT Thane. You may have to pay toll every time you want to take a pee. And everytime you want to bring a package home from the station you will have to pay octroi. But what is that minor harrassment and expense when you can see what you have in front of you!!!
27 storeyed towers. E3 flats, also known as 2 1/2 BHK flats. Not 2. Not 3. 2 1/2 BHKs. You know, for that inconveniently unplanned second kid?? And Free Dry Balconies. Yes!! Free. Ofcourse, we have 30% loading on Built Up. So you can use only 850 sq feet in a billed space of 1225 sq feet. Never mind that when you load 30% on 850 sq feet it adds up to 1105, not 1225 sq feet. But defensive builders are the foundation of reverse mathematics. So the cost of the Flat is Rs 51.65 lakhs plus Stamp Duty and Registration of Rs 2.75 lakhs, so your total is Rs 54.40 lakhs. Cheap, no?
Oh and sorry sir, there is an additional cost of Rs 15 per floor rise. Oh, and parking costs Rs 3.50 lakhs if you want to put your car under the building. If you want to leave it open to the elements, it will cost you Rs 2.00 lakhs. Very reasonable. The society and other deposits are only RS 2.50 lakhs. Not much at all.
We cannot negotiate the rate you know sir. Ofcourse if you can bring your booking amount of Rs 51,000 to the table, we can take a spot approval for rate from my superiors. Can we do that?
Oh, and last of all. We can only show 3400 rs per sq foot in the agreement. If you dont have Rs 7.50 lakhs in black money to give us, dont even waste our time.
I'm sorry but this does not seem to suit our budget.
I'm so sorry to hear that. You know, you should have come in here 16 months ago. The price was 2000 Rs per sq foot then. Have a good day.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Getting too old for this
So I went out today. After all it was Saturday night. And I definitely did not want it to be the loneliest night of the week. And since I met Trevor, we decided we wanted to go out, party, go crazy, and generally have a great time.
And since my simple goddess was unavailable, and all the other maidens were bowled over, by potato-deprived maharashtrians, and punjabi horses of iron, we decided to make it a boy's night out.
And to begin with, I thought, what the hell, since I work on Sundays as well, I might as well work hard, and party harder. And so I managed to close up by 8.30 PM.
Then we thought, we would go to this awesome nightclub where I would be able to wangle an entry on the guest list. Never mind that it is free entry before 10 PM, and never mind that the nightclub was in the mall 4 storeys below my office.
But we had to take the dog home in the car, and the driver needed to be sent home early if we were to get to work on Sunday. So we ended up at my place, dropped off the dog, and started discussing prices of real estate, interiors, shelf placements, and the cost of double bedsheets.
But since I was not to be deterred, I changed my shoes, and wore funky light brown sports shoes, and sidestepped all efforts to sit down to dinner, and discuss wall colors, varnish, polish, and cabinets.
We left, and generally congratulated each other as I made elaborate plans to get sloshed. And since we were in College again, we discussed how foolish it would be to go to Leopold's since the price would be too high. Instead we could even go to Lalit's and enjoy the quarter system. Like old times.
And we could have gone to Lower Parel, Bowling Company, and bowled a few games, and had a few beers, and struck up a conversation with the all girls team bowling alongside us. But we didnt. After all who needs a sore right arm the next morning?
And we could have called a couple of friends, and gone dancing and drinking in a nightclub. But my knees are not OK yet, and Trevor didnt want to risk breaking his leg again. So we didnt. After all who needs more complications in body parts?
And we could have gone for a movie at IMAX, and enjoyed the late night show thoroughly. But we needed our sleep, and since we didnt want to bleary eyed the next day, we didnt. After all who likes a crotchety Pranay at 10 AM on a Sunday morning?
And then we decided that we were men, and we went to shoot some Pool. We smirked at the kids playing there, atleast 10 years our junior. And 2 kids cockily came up and asked if we would play Doubles, we nervously looked at each other, and I stuttered, "No LP"... After all the last thing we need on a Macho Saturday night is a reality check before 2 kids.
And we talked about our trips abroad, and compared notes on how the white house looked, and reminisced about what we used to do when we were in college, and how years had passed. And we continued playing mediocre Pool and feeling good about ourselves.
And after 2 drinks, we decided to head home, and hailed a taxi. As we drove down Mahapalika Marg, I exclaimed that we should go back to College once.. For old times sake. As we passed it I realised that most kids we would pass in that college hadn't even been born when we were in college. I held my counsel thereafter.
And I dropped Trev off, and the cabbie took me meandering along Foras Road. And I could have jumped off the cab, and walked to Delhi Darbar, and explored those gallis, and observed, and taken a cab home later. But I was unsure of who might jump me, and drug me and force intercourse on me. And I kept thinking, I'm too old for this.
And then I reached home, took my medicine for a scratchy throat, an aching back, a pulled muscle, a headache, and checked my hair loss in the mirror.
Sigh. I'm going to have to get a hair cut sometime soon. I'm too old for this.
utekkare,
Pranay
And since my simple goddess was unavailable, and all the other maidens were bowled over, by potato-deprived maharashtrians, and punjabi horses of iron, we decided to make it a boy's night out.
And to begin with, I thought, what the hell, since I work on Sundays as well, I might as well work hard, and party harder. And so I managed to close up by 8.30 PM.
Then we thought, we would go to this awesome nightclub where I would be able to wangle an entry on the guest list. Never mind that it is free entry before 10 PM, and never mind that the nightclub was in the mall 4 storeys below my office.
But we had to take the dog home in the car, and the driver needed to be sent home early if we were to get to work on Sunday. So we ended up at my place, dropped off the dog, and started discussing prices of real estate, interiors, shelf placements, and the cost of double bedsheets.
But since I was not to be deterred, I changed my shoes, and wore funky light brown sports shoes, and sidestepped all efforts to sit down to dinner, and discuss wall colors, varnish, polish, and cabinets.
We left, and generally congratulated each other as I made elaborate plans to get sloshed. And since we were in College again, we discussed how foolish it would be to go to Leopold's since the price would be too high. Instead we could even go to Lalit's and enjoy the quarter system. Like old times.
And we could have gone to Lower Parel, Bowling Company, and bowled a few games, and had a few beers, and struck up a conversation with the all girls team bowling alongside us. But we didnt. After all who needs a sore right arm the next morning?
And we could have called a couple of friends, and gone dancing and drinking in a nightclub. But my knees are not OK yet, and Trevor didnt want to risk breaking his leg again. So we didnt. After all who needs more complications in body parts?
And we could have gone for a movie at IMAX, and enjoyed the late night show thoroughly. But we needed our sleep, and since we didnt want to bleary eyed the next day, we didnt. After all who likes a crotchety Pranay at 10 AM on a Sunday morning?
And then we decided that we were men, and we went to shoot some Pool. We smirked at the kids playing there, atleast 10 years our junior. And 2 kids cockily came up and asked if we would play Doubles, we nervously looked at each other, and I stuttered, "No LP"... After all the last thing we need on a Macho Saturday night is a reality check before 2 kids.
And we talked about our trips abroad, and compared notes on how the white house looked, and reminisced about what we used to do when we were in college, and how years had passed. And we continued playing mediocre Pool and feeling good about ourselves.
And after 2 drinks, we decided to head home, and hailed a taxi. As we drove down Mahapalika Marg, I exclaimed that we should go back to College once.. For old times sake. As we passed it I realised that most kids we would pass in that college hadn't even been born when we were in college. I held my counsel thereafter.
And I dropped Trev off, and the cabbie took me meandering along Foras Road. And I could have jumped off the cab, and walked to Delhi Darbar, and explored those gallis, and observed, and taken a cab home later. But I was unsure of who might jump me, and drug me and force intercourse on me. And I kept thinking, I'm too old for this.
And then I reached home, took my medicine for a scratchy throat, an aching back, a pulled muscle, a headache, and checked my hair loss in the mirror.
Sigh. I'm going to have to get a hair cut sometime soon. I'm too old for this.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Generalisations, and Accusations, and Insinuations, and Suchlike
So on a saturday morning, in the middle of the desert, some general mindless meandering thoughts, and points of view, and interesting observations (All my own work)..
Like I found out that I'm not the only pretender who apes Behram Contractor. And that there are those who are given reams and reams of newsprint so they may sully their reader's eyes with mediocre Busybee-ish "Like"s and dis"Like"s... and is it coincidental, or is it completely intended that these mediocre observations should accompany mediocre cricket?
And that I am getting to write again. And that when the spirit is willing, the body is conveniently misplaced at some other location.
Like Karma is easy come easy go.
Like Mind blowing lines, and Slick copy accompanying equally intelligent thoughts, and round about sentences in mildly suggestive assertiveness, describing situations that bring on heady bouts of anger, distaste, opinions, salty prose, and irritation, should be written down and noted down for posterity's sake.
And I visited Panvel in an ST Bus. It was a quick journey there. That is the only adjective I can generously use in favour of the ST Bus. And contrary to popular perception, the driver was safe. Ofcourse, that is a subjective point of view, since I, the subject was sitting on the inside, and the seats were Definitely greener on my side of the fence.
And I saw that the small village once was famous for its Ramakant Vada-Pav, and its Bhajiya and Chai and Waterfalls, and nature treks, and small paths, and panthers in its greenery, and being on the way to Karnala, and Goa, and Pune, and Khopoli, and Karjat, is no longer on the way but is the end on the map.
And all traces of the that old village have been obliterated, and now assembly-line townships, and buildings, and roads, and post offices, and ICICI Banks, and HDFC Banks, and Mahesh Tutorials, and McDonalds, and foresighted individuals, once in decrepit rickshaws, now in Sumos and Scorpios, preening around their 50,000 Rs per meter foot land, never mind that it is in the mangroves, and that it is in a swamp, and that the roads look like the Moon's Surface, and that there are no street lights, and that your nearest neighbours are snakes and crabs.
And builders, and investors, and gujjus, and sindhis and Mr and Mrs Moneybags from Andheri and Juhu, and Bandra, and Santacruz, investing and hungrily staring at their property prices doubling and then tripling, rubbing their hands in glee.
Ofcourse, all this humbled me, so I returned by ST Bus, and (although I was suitably irritated by the ST bus), I returned in 1 piece and far earlier than a train or a car would reach me.
And now I must go. Or my flight will offload me.
utekkare,
Pranay
Like I found out that I'm not the only pretender who apes Behram Contractor. And that there are those who are given reams and reams of newsprint so they may sully their reader's eyes with mediocre Busybee-ish "Like"s and dis"Like"s... and is it coincidental, or is it completely intended that these mediocre observations should accompany mediocre cricket?
And that I am getting to write again. And that when the spirit is willing, the body is conveniently misplaced at some other location.
Like Karma is easy come easy go.
Like Mind blowing lines, and Slick copy accompanying equally intelligent thoughts, and round about sentences in mildly suggestive assertiveness, describing situations that bring on heady bouts of anger, distaste, opinions, salty prose, and irritation, should be written down and noted down for posterity's sake.
And I visited Panvel in an ST Bus. It was a quick journey there. That is the only adjective I can generously use in favour of the ST Bus. And contrary to popular perception, the driver was safe. Ofcourse, that is a subjective point of view, since I, the subject was sitting on the inside, and the seats were Definitely greener on my side of the fence.
And I saw that the small village once was famous for its Ramakant Vada-Pav, and its Bhajiya and Chai and Waterfalls, and nature treks, and small paths, and panthers in its greenery, and being on the way to Karnala, and Goa, and Pune, and Khopoli, and Karjat, is no longer on the way but is the end on the map.
And all traces of the that old village have been obliterated, and now assembly-line townships, and buildings, and roads, and post offices, and ICICI Banks, and HDFC Banks, and Mahesh Tutorials, and McDonalds, and foresighted individuals, once in decrepit rickshaws, now in Sumos and Scorpios, preening around their 50,000 Rs per meter foot land, never mind that it is in the mangroves, and that it is in a swamp, and that the roads look like the Moon's Surface, and that there are no street lights, and that your nearest neighbours are snakes and crabs.
And builders, and investors, and gujjus, and sindhis and Mr and Mrs Moneybags from Andheri and Juhu, and Bandra, and Santacruz, investing and hungrily staring at their property prices doubling and then tripling, rubbing their hands in glee.
Ofcourse, all this humbled me, so I returned by ST Bus, and (although I was suitably irritated by the ST bus), I returned in 1 piece and far earlier than a train or a car would reach me.
And now I must go. Or my flight will offload me.
utekkare,
Pranay
Friday, March 30, 2007
All in a day's work....
what is memory? just the hopeful synaptic climax of one tragically hysterical effort after another to recreate nostalgia.
even if it happened a moment ago.
this is one cupboard that will stay untidy. and no matter how much you go rotting around in your brain, you will not find the answer to happiness. Just pray that the next time, the motorist is too drunk to notice you wander across the expressway.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
the threat of life
the bane of pleasure
the depths of desire
and expectations.
the pain of satisfaction
the chill of comfort
the surreal optimism
the instinctively hopeful
will be
the scourge of you.
and Yes.
Torn you are.
____________________________________________________________________________
sigh. yes, sigh.
desire. pain. warmth. wind.
sunshine. rain. undeniable happiness.
a window of hope. a ray of sparkling glory.
silence.
if only there were words.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
flights of fancy
fanciful expeditions
of the vengeful mind
mindless delusions of
the vagaries of dissent
entombed in disaster
return to the fold
venture not, not far, not close
lost in time, in space, in vain
regretfully yours
Progress? Nil.
QED.
____________________________________________________________________________
running into walls of time
clashing with memories of a bygone era
when i was naive. and headstrong.
silent masses of thoughts colliding
gathering into a cohesive unit
entrancing even the sublimely outspoken
ensnaring, endearing, entrapment
sorrow, plight, darkness,
plunging headlong into tomorrow.
let me sleep some more.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
the autumn of life.. full of falling leaves..
the most foolish of fools.. will call this gold.
but gold it is.. the treasure of windfalls.
made of madness, and of hope.
of optimism, and of desperation.
chase them till they fall. never to rise again.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
i speak less. hissing is a language.
i have no leanings. the absence of choice becomes an option.
i float in thin air. my feet are light and my heart is heavy.
i laugh in the face of danger.
and i light my own fires.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
ah, the plate glass barriers, shielding the vulnerable, and the eminently anguished...
arms at the ready, poised to strike.
shields at the shoulder, bent over, peering down the glint of your spear.
strengthen your armour, and tighten your noose.
hear the sound of the twig cracking? it is the disheartened cry of your own will, breaking. silently.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
utekkare.
even if it happened a moment ago.
this is one cupboard that will stay untidy. and no matter how much you go rotting around in your brain, you will not find the answer to happiness. Just pray that the next time, the motorist is too drunk to notice you wander across the expressway.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
the threat of life
the bane of pleasure
the depths of desire
and expectations.
the pain of satisfaction
the chill of comfort
the surreal optimism
the instinctively hopeful
will be
the scourge of you.
and Yes.
Torn you are.
____________________________________________________________________________
sigh. yes, sigh.
desire. pain. warmth. wind.
sunshine. rain. undeniable happiness.
a window of hope. a ray of sparkling glory.
silence.
if only there were words.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
flights of fancy
fanciful expeditions
of the vengeful mind
mindless delusions of
the vagaries of dissent
entombed in disaster
return to the fold
venture not, not far, not close
lost in time, in space, in vain
regretfully yours
Progress? Nil.
QED.
____________________________________________________________________________
running into walls of time
clashing with memories of a bygone era
when i was naive. and headstrong.
silent masses of thoughts colliding
gathering into a cohesive unit
entrancing even the sublimely outspoken
ensnaring, endearing, entrapment
sorrow, plight, darkness,
plunging headlong into tomorrow.
let me sleep some more.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
the autumn of life.. full of falling leaves..
the most foolish of fools.. will call this gold.
but gold it is.. the treasure of windfalls.
made of madness, and of hope.
of optimism, and of desperation.
chase them till they fall. never to rise again.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
i speak less. hissing is a language.
i have no leanings. the absence of choice becomes an option.
i float in thin air. my feet are light and my heart is heavy.
i laugh in the face of danger.
and i light my own fires.
utekkare
____________________________________________________________________________
ah, the plate glass barriers, shielding the vulnerable, and the eminently anguished...
arms at the ready, poised to strike.
shields at the shoulder, bent over, peering down the glint of your spear.
strengthen your armour, and tighten your noose.
hear the sound of the twig cracking? it is the disheartened cry of your own will, breaking. silently.
utekkare,
pranay
____________________________________________________________________________
utekkare.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The day I died and went to Heaven. Almost.
So the other day I got tired of living. Yes, it can happen sometimes. So I decided to do that great twirly whirly thing and die. You know, kaput, the end, sayonara, shalom, etc etc. So I walked up to the terrace on the highest floor of my building, and stepped out onto the parapit, and stared down. But my life did not flash before my face. Only a pigeon did. Not very encouraging, I saw. I avoided all the mini satellite dishes, and a smile crept across my face as I thought of all that satellite disruption I was causing... Or maybe not. But atleast I felt evil. Atleast that was a thought.
I carefully avoided all the wires, and the ropes and the bamboos and the decorative lights from the recent wedding reception that had been held there. After all you do not want to get tripped while trying to die. It's so gauche.
So I tiptoed to the edge and turned around. And then I smiled. A million dollar smile. One that would have made Renuka Shahane proud. And I spread my arms exactly the way I had imagined and I lunged backwards into the vast pool of cool air. As I hurtled down, I wondered about whether I had turned the Air Conditioner off in my room, and if I had left my wallet out in the open again. And whether the door had been closed. There would be mosquitoes again in the... THWACK. I hit Joy's Alto ass-up and as i felt the blood oozing out of my ears, I closed my eyes and died. Well my heart stopped and my vitals were killed. My brain was still ticking over but it had nothing to talk with. My body was smashed. Since It didnt want to be lonely, it decided to Die as well.
I started looking for a way to exit the body. The mouth was closed. The eyes were bulging open but it would take a while to ooze past the whites of the eyes. And those flies are so worrisome.. Always trying to get a taste or two... Oh wait there are people coming to see what that big THUD was.. hmm, this should be better. I'll exit from the bloody backside.. It's such a pain to hang around in a stinky body, I tell you.
But I got out. Eventually. And I needed directions. I haven't died in 28 years and a bit you see.. Add another 9 months gestation before that and it's been about 30 years since I bit the bullet the last time. So I needed directions..
I wandered around a bit near Kemp's Corner.. wandered down Marine Drive.. See, when you're a free spirit, you can do whatever you want, wherever you want. I always wanted to go to the Niagara Falls.. BOOM, I was there. While I was playing "lean-over-the-scaffolding", a portly young man came to me and said, "Spirit, here is your ticket to the sorting station." And he handed me an icecream cone. Reach the station before it melts or you'll miss your ride. And then he looked at me. Peered, rather. Rather rudely, I might add. Almost microscopic. And then he winced and walked away, muttering, "these out-of-turners.. why wont they just make a fist of it while they're alive.. make a mess of the system.."
Well, when you have an icecream in your hand, especially a spiritual icecream, you shouldnt let it melt, so I started licking it, and eating it, and making sure I had the stickiest spirit fingers I could get. Suddenly I looked up and I saw I was in a waiting room. A table and a chair was at the far end, and the official-looking creature behind the table looked.. well, he looked Bihari, and spoke with a Mid-Atlantic twang.
I walked up to him and handed over my now-empty cone. By now, the old ways had come back to me, and I knew what the drill was now. Icecream was such an eternal icon.
So anyways, he looked at my cone, and then at me, and then at the cone again. He growled in Bhojpuri, and dumped the cone into a disposal by his side. One of those celestial bottomless regurgitative recyclers, you know. Then he looked at me, and cursed, and looked at his register, and then looked up at me and growled again. Then he said, "You're out of turn. You're not in the register. Wait."
All this time, spirits came in and out of the room, waltzed in, and floated out onto the platform. I heard trains coming and going but I couldnt see what was happening behind the thick curtains of the exit door. Sort of like Egyptian Immigration. Only dirtier, less ornate and ruder.
Then he gestured like a telephone dialled 3 digits on the make-believe handset and listened. Intently. He then spoke into thin air, and kept babbling on and on about irregularities and how he was a part-timer and why he wasn't cut out for this kind of work. After a while, he calmed down, and then hung up. He made a kind of gesture with his hand to denote an incoming fax paper and out of nowhere, a paper with writing on it materialised. He read the page, looked satisfied, and then beckoned to me.
He "Come here, you". I walked up. "Fill this". I stared at the printed form. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to die after all.
..Part 2 follows
utekkare,
pranay
I carefully avoided all the wires, and the ropes and the bamboos and the decorative lights from the recent wedding reception that had been held there. After all you do not want to get tripped while trying to die. It's so gauche.
So I tiptoed to the edge and turned around. And then I smiled. A million dollar smile. One that would have made Renuka Shahane proud. And I spread my arms exactly the way I had imagined and I lunged backwards into the vast pool of cool air. As I hurtled down, I wondered about whether I had turned the Air Conditioner off in my room, and if I had left my wallet out in the open again. And whether the door had been closed. There would be mosquitoes again in the... THWACK. I hit Joy's Alto ass-up and as i felt the blood oozing out of my ears, I closed my eyes and died. Well my heart stopped and my vitals were killed. My brain was still ticking over but it had nothing to talk with. My body was smashed. Since It didnt want to be lonely, it decided to Die as well.
I started looking for a way to exit the body. The mouth was closed. The eyes were bulging open but it would take a while to ooze past the whites of the eyes. And those flies are so worrisome.. Always trying to get a taste or two... Oh wait there are people coming to see what that big THUD was.. hmm, this should be better. I'll exit from the bloody backside.. It's such a pain to hang around in a stinky body, I tell you.
But I got out. Eventually. And I needed directions. I haven't died in 28 years and a bit you see.. Add another 9 months gestation before that and it's been about 30 years since I bit the bullet the last time. So I needed directions..
I wandered around a bit near Kemp's Corner.. wandered down Marine Drive.. See, when you're a free spirit, you can do whatever you want, wherever you want. I always wanted to go to the Niagara Falls.. BOOM, I was there. While I was playing "lean-over-the-scaffolding", a portly young man came to me and said, "Spirit, here is your ticket to the sorting station." And he handed me an icecream cone. Reach the station before it melts or you'll miss your ride. And then he looked at me. Peered, rather. Rather rudely, I might add. Almost microscopic. And then he winced and walked away, muttering, "these out-of-turners.. why wont they just make a fist of it while they're alive.. make a mess of the system.."
Well, when you have an icecream in your hand, especially a spiritual icecream, you shouldnt let it melt, so I started licking it, and eating it, and making sure I had the stickiest spirit fingers I could get. Suddenly I looked up and I saw I was in a waiting room. A table and a chair was at the far end, and the official-looking creature behind the table looked.. well, he looked Bihari, and spoke with a Mid-Atlantic twang.
I walked up to him and handed over my now-empty cone. By now, the old ways had come back to me, and I knew what the drill was now. Icecream was such an eternal icon.
So anyways, he looked at my cone, and then at me, and then at the cone again. He growled in Bhojpuri, and dumped the cone into a disposal by his side. One of those celestial bottomless regurgitative recyclers, you know. Then he looked at me, and cursed, and looked at his register, and then looked up at me and growled again. Then he said, "You're out of turn. You're not in the register. Wait."
All this time, spirits came in and out of the room, waltzed in, and floated out onto the platform. I heard trains coming and going but I couldnt see what was happening behind the thick curtains of the exit door. Sort of like Egyptian Immigration. Only dirtier, less ornate and ruder.
Then he gestured like a telephone dialled 3 digits on the make-believe handset and listened. Intently. He then spoke into thin air, and kept babbling on and on about irregularities and how he was a part-timer and why he wasn't cut out for this kind of work. After a while, he calmed down, and then hung up. He made a kind of gesture with his hand to denote an incoming fax paper and out of nowhere, a paper with writing on it materialised. He read the page, looked satisfied, and then beckoned to me.
He "Come here, you". I walked up. "Fill this". I stared at the printed form. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to die after all.
..Part 2 follows
utekkare,
pranay
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The trappings of success
Yes, I agree. I do have all the trappings of success.
I am fat. Not obese, but just the right amount of fat, that shows that I'm fat, but not that much that I feel I cannot get away with wearing tight clothes. So I look fat in the tight clothes I feel I could get away in. The big illusion.
I am losing hair. It grows in patches, but when you will look at me, it is evident that I am losing hair. It is growing alright but not in all the places it is supposed to. And someday soon even that will stop growing.
I am stressed out most of the time. Although my sugar levels are normal, and my blood pressure is ok, and my body is not looking like a mis-shapen lump of diabetic dysfunction, I can feel it. My inheritance includes high BP and atleast one heart attack. Maybe it will happen by the time I'm 40. Another trapping of success.
I have an awful digestive system. I hurry my breakfast, delay my lunch, and ingest my dinner with absent-minded numbed-out desensitisation. I do not eat on time, and when I eat, I either eat too less or too much, and it is always of the wrong thing. I can digest a lot, but I cannot control my bodily cycles with the random precision that a completely tuned individual manages. I am a helpless bystander, and my body exclaims its helplessness in the most inopportune places with the most inappropriate gestures..
I travel in a car that is too big for me. And I sit alone in it. I stare out of the window at all those people travelling by Bus, by Train, by Auto, by Taxi, and all those people stare back at me.
I sit with people who I fondly think of as my friends. I drink expensive liquor, pay for it with my expensive credit card, and then i say goodbye, go home, and sit and work till 3 in the morning. Then i fall asleep in front of the TV.
I no longer have the time to read books, to listen to music, to travel, to roam about the city, to visit book fairs, to look up old friends, to sit and chat or read a book over endless cup of coffee, to walk up and down Carter Road and Bandstand, to write what goes around in my head, to write down what I feel like, and to do what most normal people do. Laze around on a Sunday.
People bitch about me behind my back, and to my face, and people do not like me, and people think I am arrogant, and aggressive, and idiotic, and completely crazy. People do not think I have a chance in hell of making it big, and sometimes I believe them too.
These are the trappings of success.
Now all that is left for me to do, is to be successful. And that does not seem to be happening any time soon.
utekkare,
Pranay
I am fat. Not obese, but just the right amount of fat, that shows that I'm fat, but not that much that I feel I cannot get away with wearing tight clothes. So I look fat in the tight clothes I feel I could get away in. The big illusion.
I am losing hair. It grows in patches, but when you will look at me, it is evident that I am losing hair. It is growing alright but not in all the places it is supposed to. And someday soon even that will stop growing.
I am stressed out most of the time. Although my sugar levels are normal, and my blood pressure is ok, and my body is not looking like a mis-shapen lump of diabetic dysfunction, I can feel it. My inheritance includes high BP and atleast one heart attack. Maybe it will happen by the time I'm 40. Another trapping of success.
I have an awful digestive system. I hurry my breakfast, delay my lunch, and ingest my dinner with absent-minded numbed-out desensitisation. I do not eat on time, and when I eat, I either eat too less or too much, and it is always of the wrong thing. I can digest a lot, but I cannot control my bodily cycles with the random precision that a completely tuned individual manages. I am a helpless bystander, and my body exclaims its helplessness in the most inopportune places with the most inappropriate gestures..
I travel in a car that is too big for me. And I sit alone in it. I stare out of the window at all those people travelling by Bus, by Train, by Auto, by Taxi, and all those people stare back at me.
I sit with people who I fondly think of as my friends. I drink expensive liquor, pay for it with my expensive credit card, and then i say goodbye, go home, and sit and work till 3 in the morning. Then i fall asleep in front of the TV.
I no longer have the time to read books, to listen to music, to travel, to roam about the city, to visit book fairs, to look up old friends, to sit and chat or read a book over endless cup of coffee, to walk up and down Carter Road and Bandstand, to write what goes around in my head, to write down what I feel like, and to do what most normal people do. Laze around on a Sunday.
People bitch about me behind my back, and to my face, and people do not like me, and people think I am arrogant, and aggressive, and idiotic, and completely crazy. People do not think I have a chance in hell of making it big, and sometimes I believe them too.
These are the trappings of success.
Now all that is left for me to do, is to be successful. And that does not seem to be happening any time soon.
utekkare,
Pranay
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Festival of Mumbai
And since it is the Mumbai festival, let us celebrate those things that are truly Mumbaikar in nature. And in deference to my orkutkar friends, let us be celebratory of those things that are truly Bombayite..
Like fisherwomen at Bhau-cha-Dhakka at 5.30 in the morning, jingling their jewellery, and their starched colorful saris. Like BEST bus drivers driving the last bus at 1.45 AM and the first bus at 4.30 AM. Like Harbour line train drivers. Like Sandwich wallahs, and bhel wallahs, and dabeli-wallahs, and chana-wallahs, and Marine drive coffee,chai-wallahs.
Like Icecream at K Rustoms, and chinese food at Kamling, and Beer at Mocambo's and Mondegars, and Icecream at Snowmans, and Guru Kripa Samosas, and Tibbs Frankies opposite the American Consulate and at Hill road (no longer), and Horniman Circle, and the peeking hand at the odd place on the statue outside the BMC office opposite VT Station. And the Cooperage, and Cross Maidan, and AZad Maidan, and Queens Road, and University Pavilion, and the Matchbox building outside Elphinstone Rd Station.
Like jaljeera and kathi kababs at Samovar. And Samovar. And roadside art used to attract coins. And Fashion Street, and the Nimbu paani wallah at the junction of Khau gully and Fashion street. And the Ganna walla at the beginning of Azad Maidan, and at Sion Circle, and at King Circle and at Andheri east opposite Geet Gunjan.
And Rang Bhavan, and the canteen inside Rang Bhavan that serves the greatest dal-chaawal. And the canteen in GT hospital. And Round Building, and getting pushed through Churchgate subway. And travelling faster than a moving car in Kalbadevi.
And one sort of lit up kandeels at the colony at Mahim Causeway that look so bright during Diwali, when you are coming into Mumbai, like sentinels that greet you at the gates of a great fortress. And kreeda mandals in Chinchpokali, and in Worli, and in BDD Chawls, and in Sewri, and in prabhadevi, and in Police Colonies, and in Nehru nagar, and in BPT Colony, that celebrate diwali, and ganpati, and sankranti, and navratri, and holi with the same fervour, and togetherness that their parents used to.
And quarter bars, that serve you exactly the amount of alcohol you want to drink, and make sure you feel good about the alcohol, and dont feel bad about the money you pay. And the bhurji-wallah opposite Dadar Station east, and the pav-bhaji wallah opposite dadar Station West, and Bade Miya's Dhaba, and Sardar Pav Bhaji for late night food.
And Heera Panna, and Manish Market, and Zhaveri Bazaar, and Tulsiwadi, and Kapolwadi, and Teen Hath Naka, and Teen batti, and Khotachiwadi, and Matharpakadi, and Tankpakhadi and Gundavli, and Kapoor-Bawdi, and the Thane creek, and the Vasai creek.
And snacks from Hearsch's bakery, and not making too much noise there, and sitting at Mocha's, and wafers opposite Andrews College, and wafers from A-1 and OK wafers. And chilya food from mahim, and worli naka at Cafe City, and Biryani from Noorani's and Dabba Ghosht from Delhi Darbar.
These are the truly Bombayite things that make my festivities.. Perhaps you have noticed the overwhelming majority of foodie things to do. Well if it is a festival, you must do that which makes you happy. And all Bombayites are almost always hungry.
utekkare,
Pranay
Like fisherwomen at Bhau-cha-Dhakka at 5.30 in the morning, jingling their jewellery, and their starched colorful saris. Like BEST bus drivers driving the last bus at 1.45 AM and the first bus at 4.30 AM. Like Harbour line train drivers. Like Sandwich wallahs, and bhel wallahs, and dabeli-wallahs, and chana-wallahs, and Marine drive coffee,chai-wallahs.
Like Icecream at K Rustoms, and chinese food at Kamling, and Beer at Mocambo's and Mondegars, and Icecream at Snowmans, and Guru Kripa Samosas, and Tibbs Frankies opposite the American Consulate and at Hill road (no longer), and Horniman Circle, and the peeking hand at the odd place on the statue outside the BMC office opposite VT Station. And the Cooperage, and Cross Maidan, and AZad Maidan, and Queens Road, and University Pavilion, and the Matchbox building outside Elphinstone Rd Station.
Like jaljeera and kathi kababs at Samovar. And Samovar. And roadside art used to attract coins. And Fashion Street, and the Nimbu paani wallah at the junction of Khau gully and Fashion street. And the Ganna walla at the beginning of Azad Maidan, and at Sion Circle, and at King Circle and at Andheri east opposite Geet Gunjan.
And Rang Bhavan, and the canteen inside Rang Bhavan that serves the greatest dal-chaawal. And the canteen in GT hospital. And Round Building, and getting pushed through Churchgate subway. And travelling faster than a moving car in Kalbadevi.
And one sort of lit up kandeels at the colony at Mahim Causeway that look so bright during Diwali, when you are coming into Mumbai, like sentinels that greet you at the gates of a great fortress. And kreeda mandals in Chinchpokali, and in Worli, and in BDD Chawls, and in Sewri, and in prabhadevi, and in Police Colonies, and in Nehru nagar, and in BPT Colony, that celebrate diwali, and ganpati, and sankranti, and navratri, and holi with the same fervour, and togetherness that their parents used to.
And quarter bars, that serve you exactly the amount of alcohol you want to drink, and make sure you feel good about the alcohol, and dont feel bad about the money you pay. And the bhurji-wallah opposite Dadar Station east, and the pav-bhaji wallah opposite dadar Station West, and Bade Miya's Dhaba, and Sardar Pav Bhaji for late night food.
And Heera Panna, and Manish Market, and Zhaveri Bazaar, and Tulsiwadi, and Kapolwadi, and Teen Hath Naka, and Teen batti, and Khotachiwadi, and Matharpakadi, and Tankpakhadi and Gundavli, and Kapoor-Bawdi, and the Thane creek, and the Vasai creek.
And snacks from Hearsch's bakery, and not making too much noise there, and sitting at Mocha's, and wafers opposite Andrews College, and wafers from A-1 and OK wafers. And chilya food from mahim, and worli naka at Cafe City, and Biryani from Noorani's and Dabba Ghosht from Delhi Darbar.
These are the truly Bombayite things that make my festivities.. Perhaps you have noticed the overwhelming majority of foodie things to do. Well if it is a festival, you must do that which makes you happy. And all Bombayites are almost always hungry.
utekkare,
Pranay
Not sorry at all
I am not sorry. No. Not at all. Not sorry.
I am not sorry for littering my city. For sleeping till 9 am every morning. For working too late, or not working at all, or for pretending to work all the time. For not relaxing on sundays. For staying up till 2 am on a saturday night, flipping through channels on TV.I am not sorry for forgetting people's names, their birthdays, their likes and dislikes, For falling asleep in a car. On a desk. at the computer. For breaking peoples hearts. For joining them again. For not helping out in the kitchen. For not keeping my room clean. For not watching what I say. and acting without thinking. And getting excited. And getting confused. And getting agitated. And getting enthusiastic.
I am not sorry. For Pluto being relegated. For George Bush and the Iraqis. and Saddam Hussein. and Margaret Thatcher. Also I am not sorry for my country's political situation. And for Bihar and UP and Jharkand and political murders, and murdered politicians, and for just politicians and for even just murders. I am not sorry for Manu Sharma and for Nitish Katara's girlfriend, and for those designers in the broken down mall in Delhi.
I am not sorry for eating sloppily. And for snarling at the sweet little beggar at my window. And for slurping down the last drops of peach ice tea in my glass. And for pushing my way ahead in a crowd. And I do not want to be sorry for slapping errant rickshaw wallahs.
And I am not sorry for screwing up at work. And for demanding less working hours, and for claiming amnesia. I am not sorry for wanting a break a week after I have had a break. And I am also not sorry for taking the break and returning as stressed as I was. And I am not sorry for wanting to run away from it all, and I am not sorry for thinking uncharitable thoughts about all of humanity. And I am not sorry for not wanting to adjust.
And I am not sorry for paying less at a shop and forgetting to return to pay the balance. And I am not sorry for not tipping a waiter. And I am not sorry for not being nice to stray dogs.
And I can be nice. And I can be sorry. But I am not sorry for not being sorry.
utekkare,
Pranay
I am not sorry for littering my city. For sleeping till 9 am every morning. For working too late, or not working at all, or for pretending to work all the time. For not relaxing on sundays. For staying up till 2 am on a saturday night, flipping through channels on TV.I am not sorry for forgetting people's names, their birthdays, their likes and dislikes, For falling asleep in a car. On a desk. at the computer. For breaking peoples hearts. For joining them again. For not helping out in the kitchen. For not keeping my room clean. For not watching what I say. and acting without thinking. And getting excited. And getting confused. And getting agitated. And getting enthusiastic.
I am not sorry. For Pluto being relegated. For George Bush and the Iraqis. and Saddam Hussein. and Margaret Thatcher. Also I am not sorry for my country's political situation. And for Bihar and UP and Jharkand and political murders, and murdered politicians, and for just politicians and for even just murders. I am not sorry for Manu Sharma and for Nitish Katara's girlfriend, and for those designers in the broken down mall in Delhi.
I am not sorry for eating sloppily. And for snarling at the sweet little beggar at my window. And for slurping down the last drops of peach ice tea in my glass. And for pushing my way ahead in a crowd. And I do not want to be sorry for slapping errant rickshaw wallahs.
And I am not sorry for screwing up at work. And for demanding less working hours, and for claiming amnesia. I am not sorry for wanting a break a week after I have had a break. And I am also not sorry for taking the break and returning as stressed as I was. And I am not sorry for wanting to run away from it all, and I am not sorry for thinking uncharitable thoughts about all of humanity. And I am not sorry for not wanting to adjust.
And I am not sorry for paying less at a shop and forgetting to return to pay the balance. And I am not sorry for not tipping a waiter. And I am not sorry for not being nice to stray dogs.
And I can be nice. And I can be sorry. But I am not sorry for not being sorry.
utekkare,
Pranay
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.
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
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
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