I was recently invited to become a "fan" on Facebook by another International School in Hyderabad, which is privately run, and charges students from KG onwards, a fee of over Rs 2.50 lakhs per year. It has an amazing campus, great facilities, and boasts of being a world-class school. It seeks to be a temple of learning, a cauldron of cultures, and a centre of academic excellence.
However, it never ceases to amaze me how much our education system is going the way of the Americans. Gone are the days of Convents, and Jesuit schools that could educate anyone at less than Rs 100.00 a year. I studied alongside my maid's kids, and we both got the same education, the same homework, the same canings, and the same disciplinary sermons from the priests (father this and brother that) who taught us for free. They were often mocked for being gay, for being clannish, for being peculiar. But the one aspect nobody questioned were their motives. They demanded our respect and gratitude, and we gave it unquestioningly, because we were naive, and we believed that they had no ulterior motives in educating us, and in fuelling our growth as human beings.
Our teachers were paragons of virtue, not because they were intelligent, or articulate or because they were able to instruct us well. They were respected also because of their impecunity. Their "holier-than-thou" image of a poor, impoverished teacher who lavishes her students with the wealth of knowledge, but is self-sacrificing, and compromises on her own life to ensure she can educate students for the greater good.
A big fall-out of the American Education system is the popular notion of pedigree, network and public perception. You end up gunning for the best brands, the biggest colleges, and you pay top dollar for the privilege of being educated in these colleges. In the USA, it is shocking to see how derogatory students are towards teachers, and it is a rare, inspired, courageous teacher who can earn and retain his/her students respect. You don't worry about whether you'll pass or fail, or get a distinction or if you will graduate, or if your leaving certificate will have "Good Conduct" on it. You take it for granted if your dad is a benefactor of the college.
More than the academic rigor, and the right education, and the knowledge an course brings you, the reasons for choosing a particular school have increasingly become pedigree, reputation, standing, alumni network, and opportunities you get to make your presence felt across the world, and land the best job at a great salary.
Of course, in school, these reasons are not YET as much of importance, but with the advent of greater fees, I think that parents / students will become less obedient and will demand more as consumers. Greater bang for their buck! I mean, I know that my aunt told me about Ecole Mondiale where parents asked the teachers how they failed their child, when they were paying all the money that was asked for!
I mean, with the money paid out, a parent who already has no time to spend with his kids, will assume that the school is also parenting his kid, and guiding the student towards academic success, since that is the "product" he has purchased for his kid - a great education.
We did not have any access to television, or radio, or the internet. We did not have cell phones or sms or any kind of satellite tv. We watched movies in cinema halls, bought Simba Chipmiks and Popcorn and bought stall tickets for 10 rupees. When I was in college, Sterling cinema dress circle tickets cost 45 rupees, and were considered rich kid's seats. Or a special treat for your birthday.
My point is, we were naive, and we did not possess the cultural or the economic aspirations of today's generations. Today, 10 is the new 15, 15 is the new 22, and 5 is the new 12. The kids are sharper, smarter, and more money-minded than even the toughest gujju sharebroker you know.
Where is the respect a teacher earning upwards of 12-15 lakhs a year will earn, when the students ( and kids are sharp today) will point out that they are effectively paying for her salary and that she shouldnt be in the position to govern them?
And thats just sad. We (the people who were kids in the 70s and 80s), are lively, intelligent, happy creatures because we had the shit beaten out of us by these priests (i went to a catholic school too!), and we were taught to respect, love, and be disciplined. And we respected them because we felt that they because they were altruistic, and that it was just the nobiity of the cause that made them teach us.
Child Plans and Insurance companies are the unsuspecting benefactors of the rising cost of education in this country, and are not afraid to flaunt it with their hackneyed attempts at promoting aspirations for both parents and their kids.
I'm think that Education is the best aspiration of the middle-class and the worst bedfellow of capitalism. The consequences of this seemingly unstoppable collision could be catastrophic for the one last competitve advantage we hold over our other similarly aspiring developing countries - our underpaid, English-speaking educated population.
utekkare,
Pranay
Friday, January 08, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Soul Catcher - 8
Cris plonked his cup of coffee down on the scratched, dishevelled, unkempt, dirty grey table, as he scratched his head. He hadn’t had a bath in over 36 hours, and he was feeling really grimey. He also hadn’t slept in over 2 days, and the lack of sleep was catching up with him. He rubbed his eyes, and collected his thoughts. He started writing about how Robert had contacted him, and then proceeded to describe the mission. When he reached the part where the Bezdusan rose out of it’s body and flew off, he paused. He remembered that the parabolic bolts had hit the Bezdusan’s backpack, which contained it’s tools. He immediately reached for his phone and punched Roshan’s co-ordinates into it. Roshan showed up on the screen. He yelled above the chopper’s roar, “What is it?” Cris told him to get the Bezdusan’s tools when he returned back. Roshan nodded, and disconnected the phone. Cris smiled, and returned to finishing his report.
Martin hit the “Enter” button for the 15th time, and growled in frustration. Why wasn’t Roussaini’s nephew on the grid?? Where was he? Why couldn’t he find his soul?? Martin decided to call his house in Paris. He called the residence on the regular phone. A butler answered. When he heard Martin’s voice, he immediately transferred the line to Roussaini’s sister, Jeanette. Jeannette picked up the phone in her study, and greeted Martin. “Why Martin, what a pleasant surprise! What makes you call here?” “Jeanette, I need to speak to Seb. Is he home?” “No, Martin. He and his fiancee are on holiday in Corsica. They went to my brother’s cottage in L’Ile Rousse yesterday. They’ll be on holiday for a week. Why?” Martin went cold when he heard this. He politely backed off, and wished her good health, and hung up. He rang for Cris and asked him to come in immediately.
“Cris, What was the human’s name who you rescued from the Bezdusan yesterday?” Cris replied, “Sebastian Armond and Sheila. Why?”. Martin’s face drained of all it’s color when he heard this.
Martin bellowed, “We have to go out to L’ile Rousse immediately. Notify the Andeli station in Milan to meet us there in 3 hours. The sooner the better. And we need atleast 6 agents with us. Experienced hands, you hear?” “Yes, boss”
The Bezdusan got off the email server, and switched off the computer. He had to get to Paris immediately. His brothers had been found out, and those idiots had picked fights with the Andeli. Why, at this time could they have not laid low??? He cursed under his breath, as he adjusted his robe, and shuffled across the carpet to the main hall. Sheila entered with a tray of breakfast –waffles, and honey syrup. “There you go, honey. Made just the way you like it.” He looked at her, and smiled. “Sheila darling, we need to return to Paris tonight. Something urgent has come up at the hospital.” Her smile disappeared. “But we just got here!!! And you’re injured. What is this obsession with this stupid hospital? First it was your uncle and now it’s you. Sometimes I think you don’t think about anything other than that bloody hospital. First decent vacation in years, and you have to head back immediately!” She stormed out, tears in her eyes. The Bezdusan sighed, and Seb’s body followed her up the stairs to the master bedroom. She walked into the bedroom, and he followed her. At the entrance he felt a tight band across his chest. He couldnt move forward. He moved a step back and stared in disbelief.
The entire master bedroom was covered in silken silver energy threads crisscrossing it. He was unable to enter the room. He saw Sheila sobbing on the bed, but he could not enter the room. As he stood there, he saw the floor covered by a carpet of silver threads, and the fireplace was covered by a door of silver with a silver bolt across it. A shield was stamped across the fireplace, that was shaped like a 5 point star. It bore a lion, who held a broadsword in one hand of a warrior. He smiled evilly. What luck!
He called out to Sheila, “Darling, please calm down. OK, we won’t leave immediately. I will work on the phone to solve my issue. Please don’t be mad. “ Sheila kept on crying, and told him, “Leave me be, OK? I want to be alone right now. Go away.” The Bezdusan turned around and went down the stairs immediately. He needed his tools right away, so he could control this portal as soon as possible. He eyes glittered as he considered the possibilities. A portal in the heart of Europe!!! This was a gold mine! He went to the computer and switched it on. He had to call his brothers here as soon as possible. His brow furrowed with concentration, The Bezdusan began typing furiously. The glow of the computer screen reflected on Sebastian Armond’s face, and The Bezdusan’s bloodshot eyes.
Martin hit the “Enter” button for the 15th time, and growled in frustration. Why wasn’t Roussaini’s nephew on the grid?? Where was he? Why couldn’t he find his soul?? Martin decided to call his house in Paris. He called the residence on the regular phone. A butler answered. When he heard Martin’s voice, he immediately transferred the line to Roussaini’s sister, Jeanette. Jeannette picked up the phone in her study, and greeted Martin. “Why Martin, what a pleasant surprise! What makes you call here?” “Jeanette, I need to speak to Seb. Is he home?” “No, Martin. He and his fiancee are on holiday in Corsica. They went to my brother’s cottage in L’Ile Rousse yesterday. They’ll be on holiday for a week. Why?” Martin went cold when he heard this. He politely backed off, and wished her good health, and hung up. He rang for Cris and asked him to come in immediately.
“Cris, What was the human’s name who you rescued from the Bezdusan yesterday?” Cris replied, “Sebastian Armond and Sheila. Why?”. Martin’s face drained of all it’s color when he heard this.
Martin bellowed, “We have to go out to L’ile Rousse immediately. Notify the Andeli station in Milan to meet us there in 3 hours. The sooner the better. And we need atleast 6 agents with us. Experienced hands, you hear?” “Yes, boss”
The Bezdusan got off the email server, and switched off the computer. He had to get to Paris immediately. His brothers had been found out, and those idiots had picked fights with the Andeli. Why, at this time could they have not laid low??? He cursed under his breath, as he adjusted his robe, and shuffled across the carpet to the main hall. Sheila entered with a tray of breakfast –waffles, and honey syrup. “There you go, honey. Made just the way you like it.” He looked at her, and smiled. “Sheila darling, we need to return to Paris tonight. Something urgent has come up at the hospital.” Her smile disappeared. “But we just got here!!! And you’re injured. What is this obsession with this stupid hospital? First it was your uncle and now it’s you. Sometimes I think you don’t think about anything other than that bloody hospital. First decent vacation in years, and you have to head back immediately!” She stormed out, tears in her eyes. The Bezdusan sighed, and Seb’s body followed her up the stairs to the master bedroom. She walked into the bedroom, and he followed her. At the entrance he felt a tight band across his chest. He couldnt move forward. He moved a step back and stared in disbelief.
The entire master bedroom was covered in silken silver energy threads crisscrossing it. He was unable to enter the room. He saw Sheila sobbing on the bed, but he could not enter the room. As he stood there, he saw the floor covered by a carpet of silver threads, and the fireplace was covered by a door of silver with a silver bolt across it. A shield was stamped across the fireplace, that was shaped like a 5 point star. It bore a lion, who held a broadsword in one hand of a warrior. He smiled evilly. What luck!
He called out to Sheila, “Darling, please calm down. OK, we won’t leave immediately. I will work on the phone to solve my issue. Please don’t be mad. “ Sheila kept on crying, and told him, “Leave me be, OK? I want to be alone right now. Go away.” The Bezdusan turned around and went down the stairs immediately. He needed his tools right away, so he could control this portal as soon as possible. He eyes glittered as he considered the possibilities. A portal in the heart of Europe!!! This was a gold mine! He went to the computer and switched it on. He had to call his brothers here as soon as possible. His brow furrowed with concentration, The Bezdusan began typing furiously. The glow of the computer screen reflected on Sebastian Armond’s face, and The Bezdusan’s bloodshot eyes.
SoulCatcher - 7
Martin got up from his chair, and walked over to the white board, picked up the marker and started writing something. Roshan, Cris and Robert looked at his broad back as he intently wrote something on the white board. When he turned, and walked away, the white board seemed to scream at them in Blue Ink: “DECLARE A STATE OF EMERGENCY. GATHER ALL HOLY SOULS AND ASSEMBLE THEM AT THE VATICAN.”
Roshan and Cris knew then that this was a crisis of huge proportions. That whiteboard was a communication device between all the regional Celestial Chiefs. The moment Martin wrote that message on that white board, it would flash across all similar whiteboards across every Chief’s office, and will make it’s way to every Celestial’s beeper. Sure enough, their beeper began beeping, with the message notification.
“So the Sotona are not actually the Sotona. They are renegade soul catchers, the Bezdusan. How are they entering this world? There must be a portal that is allowing them access...”, Martin mused.
“Boss, I thought we plugged all the holes about 300 years ago!” Cris exclaimed. “I remember, I personally bombed that portal in Westminster Abbey in 1698!”
Martin said, “Yes, but they must have found a way out. I think this Bezdusan you encountered in Corsica, is the key to these soul catchers. If they can teleport and jump bodies, they have much stronger powers than even the Sotona.”
Robert’s phone rang. It was Gene. “Robert, this is Gene. That trapped soul beacon is still ringing in my ears! How many hours do you NEED to pick that bloody soul up??!?!?!?!?” Robert said, “Gene, we’re in the midst of a crisis here! Gimme a break!” Gene replied, “Come on Robert, I’m just a part-time here, trying to purify my soul by monitoring this god forsaken undermanned post by night. Get this soul picked up, for god’s sake!” Pun unintended, Gene slammed down the phone.
Robert turned to Cris and Roshan, and said, “We forgot to pick up the trapped soul out there.” Cris hit his forehead, “Thats what sent us there in the first place! Maybe this trapped soul will give us a lead on the Bezdusan.”
Martin directed Roshan to go pick up the trapped soul. Roshan left with a group of celestial constables to pick up the soul. Robert went back to the control tower, to monitor and scan the network for the 7 souls that were still missing. After they left, Cris drained the remnants of his coffee, and sighed. “Boss, do you think we can stop these creatures again?”
Martin shrugged, and turned to his computer. “Let me message Roussaini’s nephew and inform him. He’ll be able to patch us through to Roussaini. Although he’s human, he’s almost immortal. He runs a heart hospital in Paris.” Cris stood up. “Well, I have to go file my paperwork on tonight’s encounter. Atleast those humans survived.”
“What humans?” Martin asked. “Those humans in the car, who were the Bezdusan’ primary targets. We managed to send them off successfully.” “Really? How did that happened? I’m surprised the Bezdusan let go of it’s prey. They’re normally like bloodhounds. And considering the earlier trapped soul beacon, I think this one was hungry as well. It’s not like a Bezdusan to leave it’s prey.” Martin asked. Cris replied, “Well, looks like we scared this one pretty good.” Martin returned to his computer, and started searching for Roussaini’s nephew.
The Bezdusan stretched Seb’s legs, as he relaxed on the settee. It was 9 AM the next morning and he langurously stretched every part of his new body as he enjoyed the view of the sea through the large bay windows. Situated on a promontory, Le Maison Rousainni enjoyed a breathtaking view of the French Mediterranean sea. The Bezdusan woke up and strolled to the door, and walked outside. The bright dazzling sunlight bore down on him. Realising his mistake, The Bezdusan screamed involuntarily as the sunlight penetrated his body shield, and touched his soul periphery. The heat was unbearable. He ran back inside the cottage. Sheila came running down the stairs. “What happened, Seb? Why did you scream like that??” She asked. “It was nothing. I fell off the settee when I woke up.” Sheila walked over to The Bezdusan, and kissed him tenderly. “You’ve had a rough night. Try to rest. I’ll make up some breakfast for you.” The Bezdusan just nodded and walked to the living room. He thought, “Try to say as little as possible.”
He walked to the computer in the living room, and switched it on. He needed to find out as much as possible about Seb as quickly as he could. Before people starting suspecting that it wasn’t Seb. Without his tools, he could not scan Seb’s brain, and without Seb’s brain, he could not become Seb. He needed his tools. And he needed them soon. He had to get a message out to his brothers.
Roshan and Cris knew then that this was a crisis of huge proportions. That whiteboard was a communication device between all the regional Celestial Chiefs. The moment Martin wrote that message on that white board, it would flash across all similar whiteboards across every Chief’s office, and will make it’s way to every Celestial’s beeper. Sure enough, their beeper began beeping, with the message notification.
“So the Sotona are not actually the Sotona. They are renegade soul catchers, the Bezdusan. How are they entering this world? There must be a portal that is allowing them access...”, Martin mused.
“Boss, I thought we plugged all the holes about 300 years ago!” Cris exclaimed. “I remember, I personally bombed that portal in Westminster Abbey in 1698!”
Martin said, “Yes, but they must have found a way out. I think this Bezdusan you encountered in Corsica, is the key to these soul catchers. If they can teleport and jump bodies, they have much stronger powers than even the Sotona.”
Robert’s phone rang. It was Gene. “Robert, this is Gene. That trapped soul beacon is still ringing in my ears! How many hours do you NEED to pick that bloody soul up??!?!?!?!?” Robert said, “Gene, we’re in the midst of a crisis here! Gimme a break!” Gene replied, “Come on Robert, I’m just a part-time here, trying to purify my soul by monitoring this god forsaken undermanned post by night. Get this soul picked up, for god’s sake!” Pun unintended, Gene slammed down the phone.
Robert turned to Cris and Roshan, and said, “We forgot to pick up the trapped soul out there.” Cris hit his forehead, “Thats what sent us there in the first place! Maybe this trapped soul will give us a lead on the Bezdusan.”
Martin directed Roshan to go pick up the trapped soul. Roshan left with a group of celestial constables to pick up the soul. Robert went back to the control tower, to monitor and scan the network for the 7 souls that were still missing. After they left, Cris drained the remnants of his coffee, and sighed. “Boss, do you think we can stop these creatures again?”
Martin shrugged, and turned to his computer. “Let me message Roussaini’s nephew and inform him. He’ll be able to patch us through to Roussaini. Although he’s human, he’s almost immortal. He runs a heart hospital in Paris.” Cris stood up. “Well, I have to go file my paperwork on tonight’s encounter. Atleast those humans survived.”
“What humans?” Martin asked. “Those humans in the car, who were the Bezdusan’ primary targets. We managed to send them off successfully.” “Really? How did that happened? I’m surprised the Bezdusan let go of it’s prey. They’re normally like bloodhounds. And considering the earlier trapped soul beacon, I think this one was hungry as well. It’s not like a Bezdusan to leave it’s prey.” Martin asked. Cris replied, “Well, looks like we scared this one pretty good.” Martin returned to his computer, and started searching for Roussaini’s nephew.
The Bezdusan stretched Seb’s legs, as he relaxed on the settee. It was 9 AM the next morning and he langurously stretched every part of his new body as he enjoyed the view of the sea through the large bay windows. Situated on a promontory, Le Maison Rousainni enjoyed a breathtaking view of the French Mediterranean sea. The Bezdusan woke up and strolled to the door, and walked outside. The bright dazzling sunlight bore down on him. Realising his mistake, The Bezdusan screamed involuntarily as the sunlight penetrated his body shield, and touched his soul periphery. The heat was unbearable. He ran back inside the cottage. Sheila came running down the stairs. “What happened, Seb? Why did you scream like that??” She asked. “It was nothing. I fell off the settee when I woke up.” Sheila walked over to The Bezdusan, and kissed him tenderly. “You’ve had a rough night. Try to rest. I’ll make up some breakfast for you.” The Bezdusan just nodded and walked to the living room. He thought, “Try to say as little as possible.”
He walked to the computer in the living room, and switched it on. He needed to find out as much as possible about Seb as quickly as he could. Before people starting suspecting that it wasn’t Seb. Without his tools, he could not scan Seb’s brain, and without Seb’s brain, he could not become Seb. He needed his tools. And he needed them soon. He had to get a message out to his brothers.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
SoulCatcher - Tweets6
Cris and Roshan walked into Marty's office. Marty looked terrible. His eyes were bleary, and blood-shot. His pants were crumpled, and 2 buttons on his shirt were missing. His hair was dishevelled, and he seemed to be in a terrible mood. He looked at them grimly, and motioned them to sit down. His desk was piled high with papers; his wall looked like it hadn't seen a coat of paint in over a 100 years; his paintings hung crookedly; He absently swept away a pile of papers from his desk onto the floor, as he turned on his computer. "What's up, boss? You look seriously pissed!” Cris remarked. "The Sotona have attacked the Andeli at Prague, Rome, Santiago, Sao Paolo, Glasgow and Aden. We lost 7 angels and about 40 souls. They violated the truce that Roussaini brokered in the last Vremenom." He logged into the celestial network, and turned on the soul-tracker. "We're trying to track the souls to pinpoint their hide-out. But the souls are not appearing on the grid. They seem to have disappeared." Roshan glanced at Cris, and said, "Boss, did the Sotona have a black energy footprint?" "Why do you ask?" Roshan pulled out his motion capturer, and hooked it up to the monitor. "Look at this" He said. The monitor flickered for a moment, before it played the motion capture. Marty massaged his brow, as he stared at the monitor. "Boss, do you want a coffee?" Cris asked, "I'm going to the machine, I'll get you one as well." Marty nodded and smiled tiredly. It had been a long night.
The Bezdusan sat silently in the passenger seat as the van motored along the dark road to the cottage in L'ile Rousse. His mind worked furiously, plotting his next move, even as the eyes remained closed. He concentrated his energy along his forehead, to make a portion of it look like a red crescent as if the blood had accumulated. Sheila was asleep in the compartment behind. The van driver whistled cheerfully.
Marty studied the screen intently, as the motion capturer played back the events of the night past. He saw Cris and Roshan drop to the ground.He saw them approach the car. Cris walked in with the coffee. Marty saw Sheila faint, and he saw the energy profile for the Bezdusan. It was completely black with a green outline. Marty slumped in his seat. "That is a soulcatcher!! How could it exist anymore?? We wiped them out!!!Cris, did you destroy this creature?" "No Boss, he got away. We didnt chase it, because Roshan got the message to report here immediately." The motion capture moved to the actual fight where the Bezdusan rose out of the body shell, he thumped the table in anger. Robert walked in. "What happened?”
The van drew up in front of the cottage. The waves crashing into the rocks in the distance seemed to be playing a symphony in the warm night. You could hear crickets in the fields around, and the grass grew wild. The van driver roused the Bezdusan and Sheila from their slumber, and told them that they were here. The brass plaque gleamed in the dark. "Maison Roussaini"
The Bezdusan sat silently in the passenger seat as the van motored along the dark road to the cottage in L'ile Rousse. His mind worked furiously, plotting his next move, even as the eyes remained closed. He concentrated his energy along his forehead, to make a portion of it look like a red crescent as if the blood had accumulated. Sheila was asleep in the compartment behind. The van driver whistled cheerfully.
Marty studied the screen intently, as the motion capturer played back the events of the night past. He saw Cris and Roshan drop to the ground.He saw them approach the car. Cris walked in with the coffee. Marty saw Sheila faint, and he saw the energy profile for the Bezdusan. It was completely black with a green outline. Marty slumped in his seat. "That is a soulcatcher!! How could it exist anymore?? We wiped them out!!!Cris, did you destroy this creature?" "No Boss, he got away. We didnt chase it, because Roshan got the message to report here immediately." The motion capture moved to the actual fight where the Bezdusan rose out of the body shell, he thumped the table in anger. Robert walked in. "What happened?”
The van drew up in front of the cottage. The waves crashing into the rocks in the distance seemed to be playing a symphony in the warm night. You could hear crickets in the fields around, and the grass grew wild. The van driver roused the Bezdusan and Sheila from their slumber, and told them that they were here. The brass plaque gleamed in the dark. "Maison Roussaini"
Monday, September 28, 2009
Soulcatcher - Tweets5
The soul of The Bezdusan stretched out two black, inky arm-like tentacles. They melded together into one black glistening shape, with a sharp point. The Bezdusan bent himself, as if in a meditative pose with his joint tentacles resembling a spear, with a single sharp point protruding. A small tear shaped drop of black liquid like substance seemed to be suspended at the end of the point. As Seb writhed in semi consciousness, the drop fell into his ear, from where the blood was dripping. The drop mingled with the blood. The drop turned the blood grey and seemed to coagulate the blood. The blood stopped, and all the blood turned grey and started receding back into the ear. Suspended in the same position, the Bezdusan in his spear shaped pose, dipped himself as if diving into a pool. Like a river the soulcatcher flowed into Seb's ear. As the Bezdusan appropriated Seb's body, and consumed his soul within his body, Seb's body seemed to almost split into half. He writhed in wierd contortions, as if his soul was trying to fight the Bezdusan for survival. After about 20-30 seconds of this struggle, he stood up with a start. His eyes glowed red, as the Bezdusan surveyed the surroundings in his new shell. He had to get out of that forest. He walked over to the car that Seb had been driving, and pulled it up, almost effortlessly. The car righted itself, but it's roof was punctured, and some liquid flowed from under it's radiator. He saw Sheila stir.
As Sheila came to her senses, she looked around groggily, as she oriented herself in the darkness of the forest, blotting out the moon. She saw Seb standing on the grass beside the road and tree, and she saw the Jaguar lie there, crumpled.
She got up and rushed to Seb. "Seb, darling, are you hurt? I feel so dizzy!". Seb looked at her, and replied, witha blank look on his face. "Oh god, my head! It hurts so bad. Who are you, and what am I doing here?" Sheila grabbed his arm, and said, "What's going on, Seb? Don't you recognise me? I'm your fiancee, Sheila! We were on our way to our cottage on L'Ile Rousse!". The Bezdusan smirked inside the shell, and he spoke in Seb's voice, "I do not remember anything. My head feels like it's going to split. Please help me!". Just then, they saw approaching headlights.
Roshan reached Cris's side, just as the Bezdusan rose into the air and fled. Roshan took out a small hip flask, and squeezed 2-3 drops into Cris's mouth. Color slowly returned to Cris's face, and he woke up, feeling his head. "What the hell was that, man? I feel like I went halfway to hell and back. What does that mean?" Roshan said, "We have to meet with Marty." Roshan helped Cris up into the helicopter. Cris said, "Check if the humans are OK." Roshan said, "We'll check on them tomorrow. We have bigger fish to fry."
The van pulled up to The Bezdusan and Sheila, as they frantically waved out at them. Sheila went up to the driver and explained in her French that they needed a lift to the nearest town. The driver obliged, and asked them to sleep in the compartment behind the driver. The Bezdusan smiled at the driver, as he sat in the van, He put his hand in Seb's jacket pocket. He pulled out a white pasteboard card, and saw Seb's business card:
"Chief Resident, Heart Surgery,
Hospital of the Merciful, 148, Rue Madeleine, Paris."
As Sheila came to her senses, she looked around groggily, as she oriented herself in the darkness of the forest, blotting out the moon. She saw Seb standing on the grass beside the road and tree, and she saw the Jaguar lie there, crumpled.
She got up and rushed to Seb. "Seb, darling, are you hurt? I feel so dizzy!". Seb looked at her, and replied, witha blank look on his face. "Oh god, my head! It hurts so bad. Who are you, and what am I doing here?" Sheila grabbed his arm, and said, "What's going on, Seb? Don't you recognise me? I'm your fiancee, Sheila! We were on our way to our cottage on L'Ile Rousse!". The Bezdusan smirked inside the shell, and he spoke in Seb's voice, "I do not remember anything. My head feels like it's going to split. Please help me!". Just then, they saw approaching headlights.
Roshan reached Cris's side, just as the Bezdusan rose into the air and fled. Roshan took out a small hip flask, and squeezed 2-3 drops into Cris's mouth. Color slowly returned to Cris's face, and he woke up, feeling his head. "What the hell was that, man? I feel like I went halfway to hell and back. What does that mean?" Roshan said, "We have to meet with Marty." Roshan helped Cris up into the helicopter. Cris said, "Check if the humans are OK." Roshan said, "We'll check on them tomorrow. We have bigger fish to fry."
The van pulled up to The Bezdusan and Sheila, as they frantically waved out at them. Sheila went up to the driver and explained in her French that they needed a lift to the nearest town. The driver obliged, and asked them to sleep in the compartment behind the driver. The Bezdusan smiled at the driver, as he sat in the van, He put his hand in Seb's jacket pocket. He pulled out a white pasteboard card, and saw Seb's business card:
"Chief Resident, Heart Surgery,
Hospital of the Merciful, 148, Rue Madeleine, Paris."
Sunday, September 20, 2009
SoulCatcher - Tweets4
Cris whipped out his photon laser and disengaged the trigger. He activated his energy shield. Although you couldn't see it,his body tingled. The Bezdusan cursed, and ran towards his backpack. Cris yelled at Sebastian to get into the car. Sheila lay motionless on the road. Seb ran and picked her up and half-dragged,half-carried her. Cris hid behind the boulder, and shouted out, "Devil's child, you are in violation of Inter-World Laws! You have abused your powers!" "Devouring Souls is against the treaty. Stand forward and be judged!!! Surrender yourself and your weapons before the Celestial Guard!"
The Bezdusan scowled, as he packed up. What a waste of effort tonight. One sealed up soul, and one squirrel. His soul growled. Sebastian ran around his car, and got into the driver's seat quickly. He revved up the car, and put it into gear. Cris motioned him to drive away. As Seb drove away, He mouthed "Thanks" to Cris. The Bezdusan yelled at Cris, "Do not deny me my prey!!!!" Just then, he heard the Jaguar drive away. His lips curled into a sly smile. He took out his teleporter, and punched co-ordinates on it.
Roshan, in the mean while, had quietly slipped out, behind from Cris, and made his way behind the boulders. As Cris shouted at the soulcatcher, he silently armed his weapon, and shield and edged his way towards the Bezdusan's hiding place. "You would dare challenge me?? I am the Bezdusan. Don't meddle with black magic, little one. You have no idea..." Cris engaged the demon-trap on his weapon, and yelled back, "Come on out then, you 'Bezdusan'! Fight me like a god!" Roshan saw the back of the Bezdusan, hunched over, packing up his backpack, and he saw him punch in co-ordinates on his teleporter. Roshan moved into position. He disengaged his trigger, and aimed the energy photon phaser at the creature's back, and fired.
Cris, angered at The Bezdusan's patronising attitude at him, roared, as he charged towards the boulder The Bezdusan was hiding behind. Cris fired his parabolic energy photons in the general direction of The Bezdusan. The shots lit up the sky as they rose into the sky. The fired photons moved downwards in an arc onto the creature.
The Bezdusan felt the heat of energy photon as it approached him in the back; He also saw Cris's bolts shoot into the sky. He leapt to his left, onto the sand, as he saw the energy photon hit the soul-scanner. He jumped up and ran towards Cris, with murderous intent on his face. Cris saw The Bezdusan and fired his demon trap. Pins and Needles emitted from around the muzzle in the form of many arrows, towards the standing Bezdusan. The Bezdusan ripped off his green belt, and swished it around him. The belt let off small circular black bolts, that whizzed through the dark night and cut most of the needles in half.
Cris's parabolic bolts landed on the Bezdusan's backpack. His backpack exploded, as the slim-net, the soul-scanner, and his other gadgets crackled and sizzled as the bolts hit them. The Bezdusan hurled the belt at Cris. The belt flattened and became rigid as a spear as it flew at Cris. Cris raised his arm, and a silver shield erected on his arm. The belt hit the shield and Cris was thrown physically almost 10 feet away. The belt fell to the ground, and fizzled and died. The Bezdusan advanced onto Cris to finish him off. Roshan ran behind the Bezdusan and fired another energy photon at him.
As Sebastian drove away, behind him, he heard the crack of lightning, as if someone had split the sky and electricity had struck the land. He looked in the rear mirror, and the night seemed to be set alight by white energy flying around. Sebastian pressed his foot on the accelerator, as he negotiated the turns in the beach road. The road suddenly turned into the forest. The Jaguar careened into the turn, as Sebastian fought for control with the sharp curve. He saw a creature appear out of nowhere in front. Sebastian struggled to avoid the creature, and the Jaguar turned turtle as it rose in the air, and cartwheeled into the trees.
The Bezdusan felt a burning sensation in his shoulder. He cried out in pain. He felt the photon pass through the body. He realised that there was no way he could let the photon pass through him. If he let the photon pass through his shell, his soul would be compromised. He would be a marked man. He could not let that happen.He clicked on his teleporter, and hit the white button on it. He felt his soul rising from the shell. Just in time as well. The photon exited his body, just as the soul rose into the air. The shell collapsed to the ground, and burst into white flame. Roshan rushed to Cris's side, as The Bezdusan rose swiftly into the air and zoomed towards the co-ordinates he'd punched in earlier.
The door of the upturned Jaguar opened, and a bleeding Sebastian crawled out. He made his way to the passenger door, and pulled Sheila out. The two dogs, somehow unhurt, ran out, yelping. Sebastian collapsed with pain and exhaustion at the road's edge, alongside the bleeding and unconscious Sheila. As he looked up, a black shape zoomed in front of him. Sebastian passed out. Blood trickled out of his ear.
The Bezdusan mentally smiled. He now had a new shell.
The Bezdusan scowled, as he packed up. What a waste of effort tonight. One sealed up soul, and one squirrel. His soul growled. Sebastian ran around his car, and got into the driver's seat quickly. He revved up the car, and put it into gear. Cris motioned him to drive away. As Seb drove away, He mouthed "Thanks" to Cris. The Bezdusan yelled at Cris, "Do not deny me my prey!!!!" Just then, he heard the Jaguar drive away. His lips curled into a sly smile. He took out his teleporter, and punched co-ordinates on it.
Roshan, in the mean while, had quietly slipped out, behind from Cris, and made his way behind the boulders. As Cris shouted at the soulcatcher, he silently armed his weapon, and shield and edged his way towards the Bezdusan's hiding place. "You would dare challenge me?? I am the Bezdusan. Don't meddle with black magic, little one. You have no idea..." Cris engaged the demon-trap on his weapon, and yelled back, "Come on out then, you 'Bezdusan'! Fight me like a god!" Roshan saw the back of the Bezdusan, hunched over, packing up his backpack, and he saw him punch in co-ordinates on his teleporter. Roshan moved into position. He disengaged his trigger, and aimed the energy photon phaser at the creature's back, and fired.
Cris, angered at The Bezdusan's patronising attitude at him, roared, as he charged towards the boulder The Bezdusan was hiding behind. Cris fired his parabolic energy photons in the general direction of The Bezdusan. The shots lit up the sky as they rose into the sky. The fired photons moved downwards in an arc onto the creature.
The Bezdusan felt the heat of energy photon as it approached him in the back; He also saw Cris's bolts shoot into the sky. He leapt to his left, onto the sand, as he saw the energy photon hit the soul-scanner. He jumped up and ran towards Cris, with murderous intent on his face. Cris saw The Bezdusan and fired his demon trap. Pins and Needles emitted from around the muzzle in the form of many arrows, towards the standing Bezdusan. The Bezdusan ripped off his green belt, and swished it around him. The belt let off small circular black bolts, that whizzed through the dark night and cut most of the needles in half.
Cris's parabolic bolts landed on the Bezdusan's backpack. His backpack exploded, as the slim-net, the soul-scanner, and his other gadgets crackled and sizzled as the bolts hit them. The Bezdusan hurled the belt at Cris. The belt flattened and became rigid as a spear as it flew at Cris. Cris raised his arm, and a silver shield erected on his arm. The belt hit the shield and Cris was thrown physically almost 10 feet away. The belt fell to the ground, and fizzled and died. The Bezdusan advanced onto Cris to finish him off. Roshan ran behind the Bezdusan and fired another energy photon at him.
As Sebastian drove away, behind him, he heard the crack of lightning, as if someone had split the sky and electricity had struck the land. He looked in the rear mirror, and the night seemed to be set alight by white energy flying around. Sebastian pressed his foot on the accelerator, as he negotiated the turns in the beach road. The road suddenly turned into the forest. The Jaguar careened into the turn, as Sebastian fought for control with the sharp curve. He saw a creature appear out of nowhere in front. Sebastian struggled to avoid the creature, and the Jaguar turned turtle as it rose in the air, and cartwheeled into the trees.
The Bezdusan felt a burning sensation in his shoulder. He cried out in pain. He felt the photon pass through the body. He realised that there was no way he could let the photon pass through him. If he let the photon pass through his shell, his soul would be compromised. He would be a marked man. He could not let that happen.He clicked on his teleporter, and hit the white button on it. He felt his soul rising from the shell. Just in time as well. The photon exited his body, just as the soul rose into the air. The shell collapsed to the ground, and burst into white flame. Roshan rushed to Cris's side, as The Bezdusan rose swiftly into the air and zoomed towards the co-ordinates he'd punched in earlier.
The door of the upturned Jaguar opened, and a bleeding Sebastian crawled out. He made his way to the passenger door, and pulled Sheila out. The two dogs, somehow unhurt, ran out, yelping. Sebastian collapsed with pain and exhaustion at the road's edge, alongside the bleeding and unconscious Sheila. As he looked up, a black shape zoomed in front of him. Sebastian passed out. Blood trickled out of his ear.
The Bezdusan mentally smiled. He now had a new shell.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Soulcatcher - Tweets3
Rob cried, "The soul anti-theft alarm has gone off!!". Cris ran to the console and checked the co-ordinates of the alarm. "Hey, those co-ordinates are very close to the beacon that Gene sent you", Cris noticed. "Yes, they are.I'm worried if its a scavenger, Rob". Rob checked on the beacon. "No, the beacon is fine. This is another soul."
Cris picked up his phone and called Marty Krause, Head Celestial. "Marty, we have a STA alert here. It's close to a trapped soul beacon. I think we have a scavenger on the loose." Marty, a grizzled old man who looked in his late 50s, with close cropped hair, and a salt/pepper beard, got up from his bed, and replied, "No Cris, this doesn't look like a scavenger. If it were, why didn't touch the beacon? I want a ground report, with the soul post mortem." Cris looked grim when he hung up the phone. He looked at Roshan and Rob and said. "Marty's asked for a ground report. The two of us will go" Roshan smiled, and said, "Finally some fun! Putting together damaged souls, and filing paperwork for lost souls is so boring!" Rob sat back in his chair, "Do you guys need any backup or weapons?" Criss nodded, "I don't want to take any chances, we need to be armed."
Sebastian stood rooted to the spot, as he saw the man swallow the squirrel's soul. He stared, as the man wiped his mouth, and lift the net. He fixed it onto a cylindrical tube, and Sebastian saw it retract into the tube. The small bulb at the end glimmered with silver liquid.
"Tell me, earthling, what is Your name?" He asked Sebastian. "Sebastian Armond". "And your companion?" "Her name is Sheila. Why?" "What's your name?" Sebastian asked him. He concealed the soul-net, and spun around, and smiled. "My name? Why do you want to know it? He asked. "We told you our names. Please do not hurt us. Who are you?" "My name", He said, almost growling, "is Bezdusan"
His belt started glowing green. He looked at his belt and cursed. They were here. The paratroopers appeared as if out of nowhere, and the sky seemed to be set alight by the white flame of the aerocraft that settled above. It hovered above the soulcatcher, and Sebastian, like a silver orb.
He walked over to the blackmat that was flat now. The squirrel's body had been completely absorbed. He quickly folded up the blackmat and looked at Sebastian. "You are very lucky. You live."
Cris scooted down the jumpthread and Roshan soon followed. They slid to the ground, and as they came down, they saw him. What was That creature? His thermals were non existent. Cris switched to energy vision. He saw a green glow outline the man. It seemed to be burning like millions of small needles dancing. The man's soul was completely black. Cris cried out, "Identify yourself, earthling or skybeing. Demon or Angel, stand forward!"
Cris picked up his phone and called Marty Krause, Head Celestial. "Marty, we have a STA alert here. It's close to a trapped soul beacon. I think we have a scavenger on the loose." Marty, a grizzled old man who looked in his late 50s, with close cropped hair, and a salt/pepper beard, got up from his bed, and replied, "No Cris, this doesn't look like a scavenger. If it were, why didn't touch the beacon? I want a ground report, with the soul post mortem." Cris looked grim when he hung up the phone. He looked at Roshan and Rob and said. "Marty's asked for a ground report. The two of us will go" Roshan smiled, and said, "Finally some fun! Putting together damaged souls, and filing paperwork for lost souls is so boring!" Rob sat back in his chair, "Do you guys need any backup or weapons?" Criss nodded, "I don't want to take any chances, we need to be armed."
Sebastian stood rooted to the spot, as he saw the man swallow the squirrel's soul. He stared, as the man wiped his mouth, and lift the net. He fixed it onto a cylindrical tube, and Sebastian saw it retract into the tube. The small bulb at the end glimmered with silver liquid.
"Tell me, earthling, what is Your name?" He asked Sebastian. "Sebastian Armond". "And your companion?" "Her name is Sheila. Why?" "What's your name?" Sebastian asked him. He concealed the soul-net, and spun around, and smiled. "My name? Why do you want to know it? He asked. "We told you our names. Please do not hurt us. Who are you?" "My name", He said, almost growling, "is Bezdusan"
His belt started glowing green. He looked at his belt and cursed. They were here. The paratroopers appeared as if out of nowhere, and the sky seemed to be set alight by the white flame of the aerocraft that settled above. It hovered above the soulcatcher, and Sebastian, like a silver orb.
He walked over to the blackmat that was flat now. The squirrel's body had been completely absorbed. He quickly folded up the blackmat and looked at Sebastian. "You are very lucky. You live."
Cris scooted down the jumpthread and Roshan soon followed. They slid to the ground, and as they came down, they saw him. What was That creature? His thermals were non existent. Cris switched to energy vision. He saw a green glow outline the man. It seemed to be burning like millions of small needles dancing. The man's soul was completely black. Cris cried out, "Identify yourself, earthling or skybeing. Demon or Angel, stand forward!"
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Soul Catcher - Tweets2
Gene patrolled the trapped souls distress network from 9 PM to 9 AM in south west europe 3 days a week. He clambered out of bed, and dressed hurriedly, flicking the monitor on, so he could see the location. It was tough enough having a regular human day job. But to do 3 nights a week and report late to work in the morning! Outrageous! The beacon seemed to be in Northern Corsica. Gene sighed. It was going to be a long night.Gene called the French Angels and informed them of the beacon. They said they would try to send a patrol.After all hauling ass from Switzerland all across Europe for one soul was a lot of travel.
The Celestial Guardians Officer in Charge was a newbie, Robert Caulkin. An american who got buggered during the Iraq War. Surprisingly, his soul was never tainted. Robert picked up the call, and answered the French Angels. 'Yes, we can send a patrol to retrieve the soul.' Robert called Gene, to pinpoint the coordinates of the soul. Moments later, he was plotting the site. Rob got excited. Finally an assignment he could contribute to. Manning a 'graveyard' shift really wasn't the most exciting job, since he had received the call-up to the Guardians. He'd expected far more action, but being the youngest shift supervisor on the force had it's low points.
He checked his watch impatiently. They should have been here by now. He tried the soulscanner. It spluttered and died.He fiddled with the soul scanner, trying to extract the last vestiges of its battery life as he peered into it's display. The net rippled in the moonlight sending shimmers across its strands, as it waited. Inanimate, invisible. As He was tinkering with the console, he heard the car swerving around the bend, and 2 seconds later he heard the net crackling and buzzing.
The squirrel pranced onto the road, as it chased the leaf out of the forest, unmindful of the silver trap set for larger targets. Sebastian took the turn at 80 mph, and saw the squirrel just in time, skidding on some gravel on the road in the process. Sheila shrieked as the car swerved violently, and came dangerously close to toppling over. Sebastian twisted the steering wheel violently. The squirrel got shocked out of its skin as it saw this gleaming metal machine bearing down on it. It scampered in the opposite direction. As Sebastian got control of the car and stopped it, he heard a strong crackling noise, and a blinding white energy light up the dark road. He saw a gleaming silver net collapsed on the road, with a white oblong shape in it. Sebastian and Sheila got out of their car, and stared at the net, and the white object struggling inside it, desperately trying to get out.
Gene groaned as the phone rang again. It was Rob again."Yes, Sir, what do you need, Now??" "Gene, I need the co-ordinates again.", Rob said. Gene fished out the co-ordinates and sent it on a topographical map, using Night Vision technique to ensure it matched what they would see.Rob pulled out his phone and typed an sms to Cris, the senior Guardian Retrieval Agent (GRA). "Urgent Soul retrieval. Need someone expert in wooded territories.Beacon transmission OK".
The squirrel's body was on the other side of the net.As Sebastian and Sheila stared in disbelief, the black mat began absorbing the squirrel's body. It seemed to swell up as the squirrel's body was swallowed. Sebastian turned to Sheila, who's eyes were goggling at the struggling white object in the silver net. The net was crackling and buzzing.The soul thrashed about in the net. As it tried to release itself, It had turned mottled grey in color; silver threads like a spider web appeared all over it.
He grinned widely, emerging from the shadowy boulders. He walked over to the net to see what he had caught for a long awaited dinner. The squirrel's soul squirmed as the net got increasingly tight. He walked over to the net, and saw Sebastian and Sheila, standing with ashen faces, looking at the squirrel's soul in the SoulNet. He cried out in dismay. He stooped down and grabbed the soul in anger, and opened his mouth wide. Using both hands, and wringing the soul into knots, he swallowed it whole. Sheila fainted and slid onto the road, unconscious.
The dark heavily built curly-haired man took off his leather jacket, and dusted his weathered jeans, as he got off the Sports Cruiser.He took off the bandana, and shook his hair loose, as he unhitched his saddlebags, and walked into the Celestial Guardian station. "Hi honey. The new boy pissing his pants already, is he?", he asked the receptionist as he swaggered through the reception area. "It's his first week, Cris. Give the kid a chance!", said Roshan, his colleague, another wellbuilt clean shaven balding man, dressed in a t-shirt, and trackpants. "What are you doing here this late?", asked Cris. "Just getting off duty. It's been terrible today, the number of lost / dismembered souls we've had to reprogram. The paperwork is boring. If this is a field job, I prefer the pig to this pigpen anyday."
The emergency alarm shattered the laughter that ensued. Cris and Roshan ran up the stairs to the main control room. Rob came running out, looking pale.
The Celestial Guardians Officer in Charge was a newbie, Robert Caulkin. An american who got buggered during the Iraq War. Surprisingly, his soul was never tainted. Robert picked up the call, and answered the French Angels. 'Yes, we can send a patrol to retrieve the soul.' Robert called Gene, to pinpoint the coordinates of the soul. Moments later, he was plotting the site. Rob got excited. Finally an assignment he could contribute to. Manning a 'graveyard' shift really wasn't the most exciting job, since he had received the call-up to the Guardians. He'd expected far more action, but being the youngest shift supervisor on the force had it's low points.
He checked his watch impatiently. They should have been here by now. He tried the soulscanner. It spluttered and died.He fiddled with the soul scanner, trying to extract the last vestiges of its battery life as he peered into it's display. The net rippled in the moonlight sending shimmers across its strands, as it waited. Inanimate, invisible. As He was tinkering with the console, he heard the car swerving around the bend, and 2 seconds later he heard the net crackling and buzzing.
The squirrel pranced onto the road, as it chased the leaf out of the forest, unmindful of the silver trap set for larger targets. Sebastian took the turn at 80 mph, and saw the squirrel just in time, skidding on some gravel on the road in the process. Sheila shrieked as the car swerved violently, and came dangerously close to toppling over. Sebastian twisted the steering wheel violently. The squirrel got shocked out of its skin as it saw this gleaming metal machine bearing down on it. It scampered in the opposite direction. As Sebastian got control of the car and stopped it, he heard a strong crackling noise, and a blinding white energy light up the dark road. He saw a gleaming silver net collapsed on the road, with a white oblong shape in it. Sebastian and Sheila got out of their car, and stared at the net, and the white object struggling inside it, desperately trying to get out.
Gene groaned as the phone rang again. It was Rob again."Yes, Sir, what do you need, Now??" "Gene, I need the co-ordinates again.", Rob said. Gene fished out the co-ordinates and sent it on a topographical map, using Night Vision technique to ensure it matched what they would see.Rob pulled out his phone and typed an sms to Cris, the senior Guardian Retrieval Agent (GRA). "Urgent Soul retrieval. Need someone expert in wooded territories.Beacon transmission OK".
The squirrel's body was on the other side of the net.As Sebastian and Sheila stared in disbelief, the black mat began absorbing the squirrel's body. It seemed to swell up as the squirrel's body was swallowed. Sebastian turned to Sheila, who's eyes were goggling at the struggling white object in the silver net. The net was crackling and buzzing.The soul thrashed about in the net. As it tried to release itself, It had turned mottled grey in color; silver threads like a spider web appeared all over it.
He grinned widely, emerging from the shadowy boulders. He walked over to the net to see what he had caught for a long awaited dinner. The squirrel's soul squirmed as the net got increasingly tight. He walked over to the net, and saw Sebastian and Sheila, standing with ashen faces, looking at the squirrel's soul in the SoulNet. He cried out in dismay. He stooped down and grabbed the soul in anger, and opened his mouth wide. Using both hands, and wringing the soul into knots, he swallowed it whole. Sheila fainted and slid onto the road, unconscious.
The dark heavily built curly-haired man took off his leather jacket, and dusted his weathered jeans, as he got off the Sports Cruiser.He took off the bandana, and shook his hair loose, as he unhitched his saddlebags, and walked into the Celestial Guardian station. "Hi honey. The new boy pissing his pants already, is he?", he asked the receptionist as he swaggered through the reception area. "It's his first week, Cris. Give the kid a chance!", said Roshan, his colleague, another wellbuilt clean shaven balding man, dressed in a t-shirt, and trackpants. "What are you doing here this late?", asked Cris. "Just getting off duty. It's been terrible today, the number of lost / dismembered souls we've had to reprogram. The paperwork is boring. If this is a field job, I prefer the pig to this pigpen anyday."
The emergency alarm shattered the laughter that ensued. Cris and Roshan ran up the stairs to the main control room. Rob came running out, looking pale.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Soul Catcher - Tweets1
He stared at the dead body as his mind raced. He still needed to break the skin. He hated internal injury. So much work for just 1 soul. He scanned the immediate area for an appropriate weapon to pierce the skin. Hair pin? Naah. Safety pin? Too small a hole. Treetrunk?. The trick in extracting souls after death is to ensure they are whole and untarnished. There is little value to a damaged soul. Energy replenishment will be 50%, so you might as well be careful during extraction.As these thoughts raced through his mind, he wondered if he would be able to extract the soul before it got deactivated.As he stared at the dead body get stiff, he saw the beacon being formed. 10 minutes and the Celestial Guardians would be here to claim it.
Then he heard a car approaching. The car must have been about 4 miles away. He got up and zoomed to the forest's edge, licking his chops. He took off his backpack, and unpacked the soul-scanner, and switched it on. Beeping, it announced that the batteries were at 10%. Oh well. He pointed the scanner in the general direction of the approaching car and punched a few buttons on the console. The holographic projection suddenly lit up the dark night. The glow from the lamp illuminated the road and bushes in a white halo.The scanner reconstructed the life-forms in the approaching car and told him all he needed to know.... Distance, shape, purity, age, and most importantly, time left to contact. He grinned evilly, his yellowed misshapen teeth gleaming in the white glow of the scanner, his eyes burning red at the thought of 4 souls...
The car sped down the darkened road, as it cut the moonlight into pretty little shadows, on it's way west, straddling the forest and the sea. Sebastian absent-mindedly flicked the fog lamps on, as he stared at the road ahead, as his Jaguar ate up the miles with a steady purr.. He glanced at the sea crashing onto the waves on his right as the car sped along it's way to the summer cottage in L'ile-Rousse on the N197. Sebastian turned on the radio. Strains of "Lara's Theme" filled the car as he involuntarily whistled the tune. His wife stirred in her seat.She stretched slightly, adjusted her long slim legs, and turned over and tried to sleep again. Sebastian adjusted his rear view.
He switched off the soul scanner and packed it up. Just 45 seconds away. He quivered with excitement. He checked his watch. Less than 4 minutes before the beacon was formed. There was a chance the angels wouldn't arrive before the Jaguar did. He stretched his body's arms, to make sure they didn't malfunction while he used them. He opened his backpack, and rummaged through it. He found what he was looking for, and took out a cylindrical object with pincers at one end and a globe the size of a marble at the other. The globe glistened in the moonlight, with energy like liquid mercury bubbling in it.
Sebastian checked his watch. 9:39 PM. He felt like taking a piss, as the French said. He eased off the accelerator, and pulled over onto the sandy shoulder just above a large expanse of the beach. The car came to a stop, and he stepped out of the car, and stretched langurously. Sheila woke up at the break in motion and looked around. The back seat suddenly came to life with a little yipping, as the 2 poodles awoke from their cheesecake-induced slumber. Sheila immediately leaned back and lifted them onto her lap. "My dear darlings, did you sleep well? Seb, honey, have we reached already?" Sebastian, lost in the pleasure of relieving himself, didn't hear her. He turned around, and walked back to the car. "Seb, where are we? It's pitch dark and I can't see where we are." Sebastian smiled, and said, "We're almost there. We'll be there by 11."
He decided that he needed a little space to assemble the net. He walked across the road, and settled down behind some convenient boulders. He twisted the rotator sleeve on the slim-net, and punched in the co-ordinates of the length and width of the net. He entered the soul purity, the number of souls, and the shape of the shells. He then pressed the orange button on the slim-net and pointed the pincers at the road. The slim-net pincers expanded, and spread their claws. They seemed to spread wide like neverending slivers of silver web creating spidery slender needles into the cool night air. The needles stopped extending after a while. Small pinpoints of white energy began to shoot out of small apertures along the needles. They connected with other strands of white light emanating from the apertures of the other needles from the pincers, till they meshed. Together, it looked like a big silver net had been created. The white energy pulsated and crackled like electricity. Once the strands had connected, the energy strands ran up and down the needles to complete the web. The web then detached from the needles. The net then seemed to float in the air, and the needles retracted into the pincers. The display flickered, and the reading read: "Net Active for 480 seconds." As he looked at the net suspended above the road, spanning the width of the entire road, the strands of the net slowly disappeared. He anxiously checked his watch. less than 20 seconds to impact.
He took out the black mat, and ran to spread it just beyond the energy net.He unfolded the black mat, and spread it across the tarred surface. He flicked away the gravel as he smoothed out the mat. Dangerous stuff. The black mat, when completely opened, could cover 2 sq miles of any terrain. Any undulation and it would start absorbing matter. He wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted the mat to line the edges of the road without being too conspicuous. He rushed back to his hiding place and checked the console display. 10 seconds to impact. He was almost salivating. He hadn't feasted in awhile.
Sebastian leaned over and kissed his beautiful wife, and he entered the car. "Cherie, will you please pass me the Evian?", he asked. "Sure!" He settled into the car and started it up again. The Jaguar X80 was a class in itself. It came to life with a purr, as he engaged gears. He shifted into Drive, and stepped on the gas. The Jaguar lept into the inky blackness as if it was a champion race horse on course. He glanced at the time. 9:41 PM. Funny how time slowed down when you were in a hurry to get somewhere. The signboards to Lile Rousse gleamed. Sebastian figured that, with the roads empty, as they usualy were in late September, he could get to the cottage by 11.00 PM, or even sooner "87 miles".
The alarm went off, shattering the wispy clouds that had floated in through the window of the chalet. Gene woke up with a start. I'm beginning to hate clothes. No way a soul can make it's way out on it's own nowadays. This department is woefully understaffed for this.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Nostal-Gaya
And it is fun. Remembering old days. Old lives. Old people. Old restaurants. Old hotels. Old routes. Old places. Old friends. Old enemies. Old things I used to say. Old things I used to do.
Like the Bun-Maska at Kyani's at 8.00 AM after a sunday morning basketball practice session at the college court. Like Dabeli on King Circle outside the VIP Showroom that used to be Koolars & Co. Like Chai and Singh-dana on Marine Drive at 6.45 PM with the sun setting, and the couples snuggling. Like Onion Uthapams at 4.00 PM at Indian Gymkhana Canteen. Like Samosas from Guru Kripa as a treat for winning inter-school basketball games. Like 3 course Udipi meals from Ramdev Hotel as a treat for winning inter-school semifinals. Like losing my water bottle every time I got a new water bottle. Like losing my umbrella every time it rained.
All these things and a million more things remind us. Of what we were. Of the days we so obliviously lived, without appreciating those small events that remind us of a life that has gone. We like to reach for that old cobwebbed dusty trunk of memories on that topmost shelf of our brain, where the most treasured thoughts lie untouched, year after year.
Year after Year. As we grow up, and we romance women, and we chase dreams (much like dogs chase cars - we don't know what to do with the dream when we catch them). As we try to emulate those who inspire us, and as we pillory those who denigrate us.
And these thoughts and dreams, and memories are like a warm blanket. They allow us to snuggle, and shrug off the wet cold real world and feel comfortable and welcome. They make us feel relevant. They make us feel like we have a chance at life. The life. As we experience life, and as we stare at unaffordable houses, and as we gaze at BMW and Mercedes convertibles zoom past us on roads that we hope some day will be big enough to accomodate our small dreams and even smaller cars.
But like all good things, these memories must fade. Because that old school you once studied at at the corner of that small lane that led away from the milk booth you bought milk from, everyday for over 15 years, is now a gleaming, glowing, tall, white and gold edifice of gujarati jain affluence, that is at the end of that large road that made sure the milk booth was demolished, and that the milkman was given his mandatory 225 sq feet in some squalid corner of Mankhurd where he doesn't have a hope in hell of restarting his life. Because that English teacher who made you prefect, is now 6 feet under ground (RIP Josephine Castellino). Because the double decker bus where you sat at the front of the bus on the 1st floor and stuck your tongue out at the wind coming your way, is now an exhibit at the Nehru Science Center, and is now a tourist postcard for Mumbai.
Because the world has lost it's innocence. And nothing is now straight and it's definitely not narrow. Because nobody has an equal shot. And work is tough, and relationships are tough. And finding happiness is tough. And realising your dreams is tough. And finding those simple times is tough. There is not enough Nostalgia to go around.
utekkare,
Pranay
Like the Bun-Maska at Kyani's at 8.00 AM after a sunday morning basketball practice session at the college court. Like Dabeli on King Circle outside the VIP Showroom that used to be Koolars & Co. Like Chai and Singh-dana on Marine Drive at 6.45 PM with the sun setting, and the couples snuggling. Like Onion Uthapams at 4.00 PM at Indian Gymkhana Canteen. Like Samosas from Guru Kripa as a treat for winning inter-school basketball games. Like 3 course Udipi meals from Ramdev Hotel as a treat for winning inter-school semifinals. Like losing my water bottle every time I got a new water bottle. Like losing my umbrella every time it rained.
All these things and a million more things remind us. Of what we were. Of the days we so obliviously lived, without appreciating those small events that remind us of a life that has gone. We like to reach for that old cobwebbed dusty trunk of memories on that topmost shelf of our brain, where the most treasured thoughts lie untouched, year after year.
Year after Year. As we grow up, and we romance women, and we chase dreams (much like dogs chase cars - we don't know what to do with the dream when we catch them). As we try to emulate those who inspire us, and as we pillory those who denigrate us.
And these thoughts and dreams, and memories are like a warm blanket. They allow us to snuggle, and shrug off the wet cold real world and feel comfortable and welcome. They make us feel relevant. They make us feel like we have a chance at life. The life. As we experience life, and as we stare at unaffordable houses, and as we gaze at BMW and Mercedes convertibles zoom past us on roads that we hope some day will be big enough to accomodate our small dreams and even smaller cars.
But like all good things, these memories must fade. Because that old school you once studied at at the corner of that small lane that led away from the milk booth you bought milk from, everyday for over 15 years, is now a gleaming, glowing, tall, white and gold edifice of gujarati jain affluence, that is at the end of that large road that made sure the milk booth was demolished, and that the milkman was given his mandatory 225 sq feet in some squalid corner of Mankhurd where he doesn't have a hope in hell of restarting his life. Because that English teacher who made you prefect, is now 6 feet under ground (RIP Josephine Castellino). Because the double decker bus where you sat at the front of the bus on the 1st floor and stuck your tongue out at the wind coming your way, is now an exhibit at the Nehru Science Center, and is now a tourist postcard for Mumbai.
Because the world has lost it's innocence. And nothing is now straight and it's definitely not narrow. Because nobody has an equal shot. And work is tough, and relationships are tough. And finding happiness is tough. And realising your dreams is tough. And finding those simple times is tough. There is not enough Nostalgia to go around.
utekkare,
Pranay
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Special Leave of Absence
So there are so many questions to be answered when you have been away for so long.
Like where have you been? and what is it that took you so long? and where did you go? and are you a changed man? and how much money did you get for your ferrari? and where did all your hair go? and what is the meaning of life?
And you find out who your real friends are. Like that answering machine that has precisely 5 messages, 4 of them asking for money past due, and 1 asking you to take a new loan. Like that inbox that boasts of 4358 unread messages, 4357 of which are mass emails, newsletters, bulletins, updates, webmaster gyaan, special offers, viagra education messages, and unsubscribe requests from the utekkare blog newsletter. 1 is from the email company terminating your account because you did not log in for more than 90 days.
And you try and catch up with all that has been happening. Like the Boss's son who used to date, then broke up, and then started dating again, had this miraculous episode where a woman found his potbellied, hair-thinning existence attractive enough to endure a year long courtship, and a marriage that might last many years. Like the Boss's Son's brother who decided that it was too traumatic to endure life alone and also decided that he must inflict his own special brand of life on his wife as well.
And you try and figure out what it is that you did during this leave of absence. Did you embrace Buddhism and explore the depths of the great faith by visiting Varanasi, Gaya, and the beaches of Thailand, especially the one Leonardo DiCaprio meditated on. Or Did you decide to become a divemaster in a beautiful turquoise atoll in the midst of an ocean and ran out of money to open your own dive shop? Or Did you decide to sit in a room by yourself where the fan does not work, and the mattress is lumpy, and you stared and stared at the peeling, cracked lumpen misshapen wall, lit by the dim light thrown by the hanging tubelight in the corner of the room? Or Maybe you felt that you could not stand life anymore and wanted to run as fast as possible. Only halfway to the corner store, you realised you have dodgy knees and you fell down from the excruciating pain the running caused you and spent all this time in rehab desperately trying to feel your knees again.
And when you return, you want to hear the birds sing, and hear the dogs bark, and watch the waves flow, and the politicians die. And you think you might have received an inheritance that wasn't planned for, or you might have received those lottery winnings you bought a ticket for, or you might even have been promoted at work. But that's not your problem. Let the Boss's Son worry about that.
And ofcourse when you are back, its so comforting to hear words of comfort from those nearest to you. Like your partner who asks you when you will turn that damned computer off, and come eat breakfast.. Like the Boss's Son who cocks a sneer at you and wonders how long this latest literary jaunt will last.. and like your own pet dog who just laughs at you with her tongue out.
Well. Only time will tell.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Of cities, and thoughts, and places and ideas and cricket and drama
Tirupur is a city without structure. It is sprawling in all directions, and desperately misses a distinguishing feature. Anything would do - a bay, or a sea, or a decently running river, or a mountain range, or even a single mountain, or a national highway that has more than 2 lanes, or a 'demble', or a city plan that had more than just "build anywhere you like, as long as the price goes up" as its mantra.
And since motorcyclists are denser than flies here, so driving on Tirupur roads is an opportunity to exercise mindless dysfunctional autocracy of imperious aggression, as you try to fit 2 indicas, 1 tempo, 2 rickshaws, and 4 passing motorbikes on a road designed for the sedate passage of 1 vehicle in either direction.
As Tamilnadu progresses from Tamil to English, and the people pride themselves on their forward-looking attractions for visiting dignitaries from neighboring and distant regions of suspect vernacular lineages, on display are pictures such as these:
And I have more to share about the last 4 months in hiding.
And since motorcyclists are denser than flies here, so driving on Tirupur roads is an opportunity to exercise mindless dysfunctional autocracy of imperious aggression, as you try to fit 2 indicas, 1 tempo, 2 rickshaws, and 4 passing motorbikes on a road designed for the sedate passage of 1 vehicle in either direction.
As Tamilnadu progresses from Tamil to English, and the people pride themselves on their forward-looking attractions for visiting dignitaries from neighboring and distant regions of suspect vernacular lineages, on display are pictures such as these:
And as they set sail for their elaborately laid out plans for the future, Erode had this to offer as a ladies toilet:
And I have more to share about the last 4 months in hiding.
Like Orlando Airport has developed a special liking for my body, since they frisk me on a Special basis every time I pass through there.
And I have found that I like living out of a suitcase. Especially when the suitcase has international baggage tags on it. And I found out that Chicago Airport is one of the worse Airports in the world.
Like I went to Philly, but neither the Wharton School of Business or Mr Rocky Balboa, set in stone, or the dreary climate, or the saddened Pakistani taxicab driver, or the Marathi-speaking Jew who was born in Matharpakadi, Mazgaon, and whose wife is a travel agent, made a favourable impression on me.
And I went to the States but did not visit New York. And I was very sad about it.
And I went to God's own country in February. But God was in Kashmir . Here is evidence. I found it in April.
And since the IPL has started, so much that was sacrosanct is now being questioned. Like the art of bargaining, especially in the face of some extremely moneyed folks. Like the sacking of Charu Sharma has given me the audacity to question any and all HR policies of Mr Vijay Mallya. Like MS Dhoni suddenly realised the devastating effect relying on Australians could do to his resourcefulness. Like Shane Warne is laughing. At Ricky Ponting, and John Buchanan and the Australian establishment. And Ricky Ponting is laughing at Harbhajan. And Yuvraj Singh is secretly laughing at Rahul Dravid. And Shane Warne is also laughing at Saurav Ganguly, and Virendra Sehwag (after tonight). And Shane Watson must be laughing at Virendra Sehwag also. And Kolkata is laughing with Saurav at Hyderabad. Everyone is laughing at VVS Laxman, and Herschelle Gibbs and Shahid Afridi. And Everyone is also laughing at Sree Santh. But Sree Santh is crying because of Harbhajan. And Harbhajan is crying because of Lalit Modi and the BCCI. And Sachin Tendulkar is crying because of his groin. And Mumbai is crying because of Sachin. And Dravid is crying at himself. And Mr Mallya is crying because of Dravid. And Bangalore is crying because this is T20 and not a test series. And Hyderabad is crying because of complete breakdown of expectations.
And I am unsure of whether to laugh or cry. After all, Duniya Hila Denge Hum.
utekkare,
Pranay
Thursday, December 27, 2007
[Travelphabet] Archaic Agra
Stolen from Travelphabet:
The first thing you notice about Agra is it's inaccessibility. It is situated about an hour's drive from Mathura, 2 days stinky train ride away from Mumbai, 4 hours away from Delhi, and has no airports to speak of. Funny, how the mighty have fallen.
From the capital of the Indian Empire from Burma to Iran, it has plummeted to greater depths than the heights it was capable of scaling. It threatened to be a world centre of civilisation, culture, art, crafts, literature, and learning, but never delivered on it's promise. The truth is Agra was manufactured out of a nothingness that doubled as a military advantage. The Indian Army will smile when you say that as they flaunt their cantonment.
But vast numbers of tourists from across the globe, and across our great nation journey their way, braving some of the worst roads, and even coarser tongues to behold the greatest monument ever erected, now falling prey to that other great monument of modernity.. pollution on the yamuna. It is so easy to miss the river altogether, as you marvel at the yellowed marble, you gaze mesmerisingly at the chipped statues, and the intricately damaged carving in the windows, and the grinning guards as they escort you to the fake mummified remains of Mumtaz and Shahjahan. Yes, it is tragic.
And when you have seen the decaying vegetation in the gardens of the non-working fountains, and the tottering gates at the entrance to the great halls, and the hastily scribbled graffiti that proclaim Nasir's undying love for Anjali, and those telephone numbers that will offer you physical gratification instantly on connection, and all those lewd lyrics that would put the great Akbar's bards to shame, you wonder what other great monuments are left to sully in this once-venerated city.
And you are beseeched by agents, and agents of agents, and their rickshaw wallahs, and tanga-wallahs, and the carpet shops, and the jewellery shops, and the artifacts, and the stone shops, and the overpriced handicrafts stores, and you have survived the crowds in the only Pizza Hut that is brave enough to open in Agra, and still serve decent pizza, you are faced with the problem of time. How much more time can I spend here, without reaching for my wallet every 15 minutes?
And so you decide to head for the hotel you booked on the internet.. the proudly Victorian hotel that screams its Anglicised name at you from the Hotel Website Bookings Page - "5 star facilities at 3 star price"; "Newly renovated hotel with old English charm"; "self operated travel agency"; "doctor on call"; "24 hours room service"; "Suites available".... You step through the arches of what was probably once the outhouse of a middle level British government servant, as you glance at the badly trimmed lawns, and avoid the lethal spray of the sprinkler, that seems to be suffering from an overdose of steroids. You walk through the hallway, that reeks of that old mouldy smell that comes from damp, unwashed, fading carpets, and from dust webs that stare down from their vantage point in the corner of the ceiling.
But the real reason you should visit Agra, is not in the city itself but about 50 kms away (about 30 miles), Akbar's walled city of Fatehpur Sikri. It is an amazing amalgamation of unsurpassed military strategy, and artistic brilliance, never before seen. This was the seat of the Mughal Empire, and the sheer magnitude of the city built to be self sufficient for a year or more in case of a seige, takes your breath away. The Indian government has done a commendable job of keeping graffiti artists and other assholes-that-be at bay by cordoning off certain sections of the city that are accessible only to the Archaeological Survey of India. Even after the mahals and the rooms have been stripped of all their grandeur, treasures, and their tapestries and furnishings, you can still sense the power that these rooms were witness to, and it is a surreal feeling to stand on top of the ramparts that command a view of the open plains upto Rajasthan.
And so I say, in this highly incomplete and extremely subjective prognosis, Visit Agra for Fatehpur Sikri. The carpets you get fleeced for while buying are just a bonus.
utekkare,
Pranay
The first thing you notice about Agra is it's inaccessibility. It is situated about an hour's drive from Mathura, 2 days stinky train ride away from Mumbai, 4 hours away from Delhi, and has no airports to speak of. Funny, how the mighty have fallen.
From the capital of the Indian Empire from Burma to Iran, it has plummeted to greater depths than the heights it was capable of scaling. It threatened to be a world centre of civilisation, culture, art, crafts, literature, and learning, but never delivered on it's promise. The truth is Agra was manufactured out of a nothingness that doubled as a military advantage. The Indian Army will smile when you say that as they flaunt their cantonment.
But vast numbers of tourists from across the globe, and across our great nation journey their way, braving some of the worst roads, and even coarser tongues to behold the greatest monument ever erected, now falling prey to that other great monument of modernity.. pollution on the yamuna. It is so easy to miss the river altogether, as you marvel at the yellowed marble, you gaze mesmerisingly at the chipped statues, and the intricately damaged carving in the windows, and the grinning guards as they escort you to the fake mummified remains of Mumtaz and Shahjahan. Yes, it is tragic.
And when you have seen the decaying vegetation in the gardens of the non-working fountains, and the tottering gates at the entrance to the great halls, and the hastily scribbled graffiti that proclaim Nasir's undying love for Anjali, and those telephone numbers that will offer you physical gratification instantly on connection, and all those lewd lyrics that would put the great Akbar's bards to shame, you wonder what other great monuments are left to sully in this once-venerated city.
And you are beseeched by agents, and agents of agents, and their rickshaw wallahs, and tanga-wallahs, and the carpet shops, and the jewellery shops, and the artifacts, and the stone shops, and the overpriced handicrafts stores, and you have survived the crowds in the only Pizza Hut that is brave enough to open in Agra, and still serve decent pizza, you are faced with the problem of time. How much more time can I spend here, without reaching for my wallet every 15 minutes?
And so you decide to head for the hotel you booked on the internet.. the proudly Victorian hotel that screams its Anglicised name at you from the Hotel Website Bookings Page - "5 star facilities at 3 star price"; "Newly renovated hotel with old English charm"; "self operated travel agency"; "doctor on call"; "24 hours room service"; "Suites available".... You step through the arches of what was probably once the outhouse of a middle level British government servant, as you glance at the badly trimmed lawns, and avoid the lethal spray of the sprinkler, that seems to be suffering from an overdose of steroids. You walk through the hallway, that reeks of that old mouldy smell that comes from damp, unwashed, fading carpets, and from dust webs that stare down from their vantage point in the corner of the ceiling.
But the real reason you should visit Agra, is not in the city itself but about 50 kms away (about 30 miles), Akbar's walled city of Fatehpur Sikri. It is an amazing amalgamation of unsurpassed military strategy, and artistic brilliance, never before seen. This was the seat of the Mughal Empire, and the sheer magnitude of the city built to be self sufficient for a year or more in case of a seige, takes your breath away. The Indian government has done a commendable job of keeping graffiti artists and other assholes-that-be at bay by cordoning off certain sections of the city that are accessible only to the Archaeological Survey of India. Even after the mahals and the rooms have been stripped of all their grandeur, treasures, and their tapestries and furnishings, you can still sense the power that these rooms were witness to, and it is a surreal feeling to stand on top of the ramparts that command a view of the open plains upto Rajasthan.
And so I say, in this highly incomplete and extremely subjective prognosis, Visit Agra for Fatehpur Sikri. The carpets you get fleeced for while buying are just a bonus.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Dancing the Dance
And we are back. To dancing the dance.
We twirl. And pirouette. And we bow. half-shyly. As if apologetic of our skill. As if we are uncaring of how adept we have become at this dance.
In full view. We gyrate, and smile, and move our body, sometimes marvellously in tune, sometimes hopelessly trying to keep up with the beat, trying always to catch their attention.
It is a familiar kind of uneasiness, restlessness, and the hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach, the same kind we feel when we rush down from the top of a ferris wheel, plunging down at the mercy of 4 pinions and a small enclosure from 1000 feet above earth. And we like it. We thrive on it, and get all giddy and excited.
And our faces sparkle, and our eyes glitter, and we are always out of breath, and we are chirpy again, and we are bright and positive, and the world looks clean and nice and happy again. And our enemies dont seem so harsh anymore, and our friends dont seem close anymore, and nothing seems the same.
And the dance is addictive. We keep twirling around ourselves, as if trying to tie ourselves into knots, always keeping in mind that the audience should enjoy the spectacle, without making abject fools of ourselves. Some compromise between privacy and allegory is reached, as we symphonize our life's achievements into a long and intensely personal ballad.
Yes, we are dancing. As much for the other person as we are for ourselves. We dance as if our life depends on it, because who knows, this could be the last dance we have to do. We dance because the thrill of the dance envelops us all, and it allows us a suspension of disbelief. It makes us believe in coincidence, and fate, and time, and god, and karma, and attempts to make us understand how many strings are being pulled by someone else.
And we are as scared of the dance to stop, as we are of having to dance again. We worry about the dance, and all its moves are dissected threadbare, to check for any overt gestures of desperation or looking needy, and to make sure it does not look covertly cocky or pushy. No negative signals must be sent out.
And each dance is customised to the audience it is intended for. So some dances are garish, and full of color and style. Others are silent, non moving studies in composure and pain. Some dances are symbolic of their end-use, while others are a just a sham to cover the true nature of the audience. Others are an appeasement of the senses, while others are like fencing matches and shadow boxing. Some dances run for years, and years, while others end almost before they begin. But nobody tires of the dance. It is intrinsic to life, and it is intrinsic to happiness.
If we dont dance, we will never find happiness. And even if we dance, we are not sure we will find happiness. For most, it leads to a shimmering oasis of temporary madness and hedonistic pleasure. But, it is those precious few, those chosen few in the world who dance the dance, and are rewarded with a lifetime of rest. It is the ultimate goal, and the final destination for all dancers. Even if some are in love with the dance, and not the audience, they are all looking for that shimmering oasis to be the watering hole they need not leave for ever.
And the dance, even though it is public, is by invitation only. For your eyes only. And it feels good to dance the dance again.
utekkare,
Pranay
We twirl. And pirouette. And we bow. half-shyly. As if apologetic of our skill. As if we are uncaring of how adept we have become at this dance.
In full view. We gyrate, and smile, and move our body, sometimes marvellously in tune, sometimes hopelessly trying to keep up with the beat, trying always to catch their attention.
It is a familiar kind of uneasiness, restlessness, and the hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach, the same kind we feel when we rush down from the top of a ferris wheel, plunging down at the mercy of 4 pinions and a small enclosure from 1000 feet above earth. And we like it. We thrive on it, and get all giddy and excited.
And our faces sparkle, and our eyes glitter, and we are always out of breath, and we are chirpy again, and we are bright and positive, and the world looks clean and nice and happy again. And our enemies dont seem so harsh anymore, and our friends dont seem close anymore, and nothing seems the same.
And the dance is addictive. We keep twirling around ourselves, as if trying to tie ourselves into knots, always keeping in mind that the audience should enjoy the spectacle, without making abject fools of ourselves. Some compromise between privacy and allegory is reached, as we symphonize our life's achievements into a long and intensely personal ballad.
Yes, we are dancing. As much for the other person as we are for ourselves. We dance as if our life depends on it, because who knows, this could be the last dance we have to do. We dance because the thrill of the dance envelops us all, and it allows us a suspension of disbelief. It makes us believe in coincidence, and fate, and time, and god, and karma, and attempts to make us understand how many strings are being pulled by someone else.
And we are as scared of the dance to stop, as we are of having to dance again. We worry about the dance, and all its moves are dissected threadbare, to check for any overt gestures of desperation or looking needy, and to make sure it does not look covertly cocky or pushy. No negative signals must be sent out.
And each dance is customised to the audience it is intended for. So some dances are garish, and full of color and style. Others are silent, non moving studies in composure and pain. Some dances are symbolic of their end-use, while others are a just a sham to cover the true nature of the audience. Others are an appeasement of the senses, while others are like fencing matches and shadow boxing. Some dances run for years, and years, while others end almost before they begin. But nobody tires of the dance. It is intrinsic to life, and it is intrinsic to happiness.
If we dont dance, we will never find happiness. And even if we dance, we are not sure we will find happiness. For most, it leads to a shimmering oasis of temporary madness and hedonistic pleasure. But, it is those precious few, those chosen few in the world who dance the dance, and are rewarded with a lifetime of rest. It is the ultimate goal, and the final destination for all dancers. Even if some are in love with the dance, and not the audience, they are all looking for that shimmering oasis to be the watering hole they need not leave for ever.
And the dance, even though it is public, is by invitation only. For your eyes only. And it feels good to dance the dance again.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
My God, the Professional Procrastinater
So God walked sleepily into his cubicle 25 minutes late on Monday morning, cursing monday morning tempests, and assinine heavenly spirits who were sleeping while Neptune had his way.
"I've got to create the world this week...", He grumbled as his tie got caught in his stubble as he folded his hands in obeisance at the mirror kept on the pedestal opposite his workdesk. The worst part about working for the Multinational Corporation of the Heavenly Abode (MCHA), was Monday mornings.
He walked down the aisle to the water cooler, and waved his fingers idly at the machine to make him some coffee... As he reached for the cup, he was distracted by the new receptionist, from Hell. She was there on the student exchange program that traded souls between heaven and hell for 2 months to learn about each other's cultures... He took his cup of coffee back to his desk as he stirred sugar into the coffee with an imaginary stirrer...And pondered how to go about the task of creating a world in one working week... while trying to push it off to the next week. As he sipped his coffee, and cursed himself for trusting a water cooler to do a job of a cappucino machine, he noticed that he'd wasted as much time as he could have, legally, before starting work, without being reprimanded by the creator. Nasty thing, that third eye thingy...
Well God decided that no large task could be accomplished without a plan of action being laid out in detail. So he spent about an hour and a half looking for a suitable pad, and then another 35 minutes looking for a pen that wrote well, before he could sit before it, make an impressive headline that read "The making of the World - by God!" and started studying the blank piece of paper with a thoughtful expression till lunch.
Post lunch, God scratched his head and decided that he really needed to show some work, and thought about the easiest ways to create Earth without too much work, and headache. Thats when, after he had chewed through about 4/10ths of the pencil, he hit upon the idea of templates. Templates for men, women, children, grasslands, marshes, rocks, stones, water, oceans, sand, mud, air, clouds, stars, Bangladesh, trees, animals, rabbits, possums, landladies, authors, designers, furniture, Bollywood songs, middle aged American women, kashmiri terrorists, Chilean Sea Bass, Texan Oil Magnates, Pakistani Army Chiefs, seals, snakes, tigers, elephants, cameramen, bootpolish-wallahs, shy muslim girls, dancing peacocks, rain, dust, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, jack frost, santa claus, radio jockies, school principals, and all that the world would contain. HE took about 28 minutes to list down all this and about 10,437,892,135,067,112.43283333333 (recurring) more entries.
And then he sighed. Now that he'd got half the hard part done, he needed to create Diversity now. And it wasn't even 4.00 PM.
God, I hate Monday mornings.
utekkare,
Pranay
"I've got to create the world this week...", He grumbled as his tie got caught in his stubble as he folded his hands in obeisance at the mirror kept on the pedestal opposite his workdesk. The worst part about working for the Multinational Corporation of the Heavenly Abode (MCHA), was Monday mornings.
He walked down the aisle to the water cooler, and waved his fingers idly at the machine to make him some coffee... As he reached for the cup, he was distracted by the new receptionist, from Hell. She was there on the student exchange program that traded souls between heaven and hell for 2 months to learn about each other's cultures... He took his cup of coffee back to his desk as he stirred sugar into the coffee with an imaginary stirrer...And pondered how to go about the task of creating a world in one working week... while trying to push it off to the next week. As he sipped his coffee, and cursed himself for trusting a water cooler to do a job of a cappucino machine, he noticed that he'd wasted as much time as he could have, legally, before starting work, without being reprimanded by the creator. Nasty thing, that third eye thingy...
Well God decided that no large task could be accomplished without a plan of action being laid out in detail. So he spent about an hour and a half looking for a suitable pad, and then another 35 minutes looking for a pen that wrote well, before he could sit before it, make an impressive headline that read "The making of the World - by God!" and started studying the blank piece of paper with a thoughtful expression till lunch.
Post lunch, God scratched his head and decided that he really needed to show some work, and thought about the easiest ways to create Earth without too much work, and headache. Thats when, after he had chewed through about 4/10ths of the pencil, he hit upon the idea of templates. Templates for men, women, children, grasslands, marshes, rocks, stones, water, oceans, sand, mud, air, clouds, stars, Bangladesh, trees, animals, rabbits, possums, landladies, authors, designers, furniture, Bollywood songs, middle aged American women, kashmiri terrorists, Chilean Sea Bass, Texan Oil Magnates, Pakistani Army Chiefs, seals, snakes, tigers, elephants, cameramen, bootpolish-wallahs, shy muslim girls, dancing peacocks, rain, dust, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, jack frost, santa claus, radio jockies, school principals, and all that the world would contain. HE took about 28 minutes to list down all this and about 10,437,892,135,067,112.43283333333 (recurring) more entries.
And then he sighed. Now that he'd got half the hard part done, he needed to create Diversity now. And it wasn't even 4.00 PM.
God, I hate Monday mornings.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, December 16, 2007
A lot to catch up on
And since I am in a half decent mood today, I shall try to dig up all those thoughts I should have blogged when I thought them, where I thought them. But since I am a lazy bum, I will try to regurgitate them here...
So I have been travelling. From Mumbai to Delhi to Tirupur to Coimbatore to Delhi to Goa, and back to Tirupur and then to Mumbai. But the longest journey I made was from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex. And the biggest culture shock is going from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex.
Like I have finally realised the pleasure of nonchalantly ordering a "double large", and cocking a snook at the waiter when he asked if I wanted ice to fill up the glass in absence of a suitable beverage to mask the taste of the undiluted alcohol poured into my glass.
Like I found and experienced all the things people dont like about Delhi. Like noisy people, and combative irritating people, and expensive food with no taste, and cocky waiters, and horrible traffic, and mindnumbingly vast distances between places, and meetings, and getting confused between vihars, and ganjs, and nagars, and enclaves, and layouts, and kunjs, and baugs, and phases, and roads, and places, and circles, and gurgaon, and noida, and okhla, and cold winters, and roasting summers, and high hotel prices, and even higher alcohol prices, and snooty punjabi women with vacant expressions and buxom bosoms, who look for gold rings on your fingers, and gold chains round your neck, and expensive watches, and who know the difference between silver and platinum but not the difference between pearl jam and linkin park. And people speaking like they know how to speak English, but use behenchod liberally, with a lot of dude, man, yaar, saale, chutiya, and some assorted phrases like chill yaar, to make up for their completely indecipherable pronounciation of sentences.
And I have not experienced the things that people like about Delhi. Like the new Metro.
Like the alcohol prices in Delhi, make me want to hide my pain in South Goa. Until the rates in Goa rise.
Like South Goa is like Calangute in 1996. But now the Russians are there, I think it will take less than 11 months to make South Goa crowded, and irritating, and unpleasant, and commercial, and crass and Gujju for Holiday.
And All small towns in India look the same when you are slightly sleepy, and the streets are whizzing past you. The cows look the same, and the rickshaws look the same and the trucks look the same, and the LCV's trying to wedge themselves in your face in the street meant for 3 people to walk shoulder to shoulder, look the same. And walled cities, and small shops, and old carved edifices of erstwhile successful establishments gone to seed, and small trinkets sold outside colleges, and new gaudy electronics stores with branches, and localised promotions, and international bank branches, and ATMS, and aditya hitkari smiling down at you benignly from Peter England posters exhorting you to be like Mumbai and buy the honest shirt.
And I have seen coconut groves in interior Tamilnadu, and wheat plains in coastal Goa.
Like Anil Kumble is the only man who can kick anyone's ass from the top to the bottom. Hell, hes so senior he could probably kick Sharad Pawar's ass too. Like his wings are now unfurling. Like Saurav Dada and Viru and Sachin and Dravid and Yuvraj and Mahi and Irfan and Wasim Jaffer and Gautam Gambhir and Dinesh Karthik and all the kings batsmen cannot put together 20 wickets for Mr Kumble.
And the ICL came and went. And nobody bothered about it. Sorry, Kapil Paaji, but Kapil Dev da Jawaab finally hai.
And Airports are now fun. And Airport lounges are fun. Watching people look important, tired, happy, sad, united, fighting, unhappy, lonely, busy, creatively irritating, bored, nonchalant, interested, vacuous, alert, unimportant, and silent is always fun.
utekkare,
pranay
So I have been travelling. From Mumbai to Delhi to Tirupur to Coimbatore to Delhi to Goa, and back to Tirupur and then to Mumbai. But the longest journey I made was from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex. And the biggest culture shock is going from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex.
Like I have finally realised the pleasure of nonchalantly ordering a "double large", and cocking a snook at the waiter when he asked if I wanted ice to fill up the glass in absence of a suitable beverage to mask the taste of the undiluted alcohol poured into my glass.
Like I found and experienced all the things people dont like about Delhi. Like noisy people, and combative irritating people, and expensive food with no taste, and cocky waiters, and horrible traffic, and mindnumbingly vast distances between places, and meetings, and getting confused between vihars, and ganjs, and nagars, and enclaves, and layouts, and kunjs, and baugs, and phases, and roads, and places, and circles, and gurgaon, and noida, and okhla, and cold winters, and roasting summers, and high hotel prices, and even higher alcohol prices, and snooty punjabi women with vacant expressions and buxom bosoms, who look for gold rings on your fingers, and gold chains round your neck, and expensive watches, and who know the difference between silver and platinum but not the difference between pearl jam and linkin park. And people speaking like they know how to speak English, but use behenchod liberally, with a lot of dude, man, yaar, saale, chutiya, and some assorted phrases like chill yaar, to make up for their completely indecipherable pronounciation of sentences.
And I have not experienced the things that people like about Delhi. Like the new Metro.
Like the alcohol prices in Delhi, make me want to hide my pain in South Goa. Until the rates in Goa rise.
Like South Goa is like Calangute in 1996. But now the Russians are there, I think it will take less than 11 months to make South Goa crowded, and irritating, and unpleasant, and commercial, and crass and Gujju for Holiday.
And All small towns in India look the same when you are slightly sleepy, and the streets are whizzing past you. The cows look the same, and the rickshaws look the same and the trucks look the same, and the LCV's trying to wedge themselves in your face in the street meant for 3 people to walk shoulder to shoulder, look the same. And walled cities, and small shops, and old carved edifices of erstwhile successful establishments gone to seed, and small trinkets sold outside colleges, and new gaudy electronics stores with branches, and localised promotions, and international bank branches, and ATMS, and aditya hitkari smiling down at you benignly from Peter England posters exhorting you to be like Mumbai and buy the honest shirt.
And I have seen coconut groves in interior Tamilnadu, and wheat plains in coastal Goa.
Like Anil Kumble is the only man who can kick anyone's ass from the top to the bottom. Hell, hes so senior he could probably kick Sharad Pawar's ass too. Like his wings are now unfurling. Like Saurav Dada and Viru and Sachin and Dravid and Yuvraj and Mahi and Irfan and Wasim Jaffer and Gautam Gambhir and Dinesh Karthik and all the kings batsmen cannot put together 20 wickets for Mr Kumble.
And the ICL came and went. And nobody bothered about it. Sorry, Kapil Paaji, but Kapil Dev da Jawaab finally hai.
And Airports are now fun. And Airport lounges are fun. Watching people look important, tired, happy, sad, united, fighting, unhappy, lonely, busy, creatively irritating, bored, nonchalant, interested, vacuous, alert, unimportant, and silent is always fun.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Things I have to say; Things I have to do; Things I've been thinking of
And I have been travelling around India, in a round circle, that starts from Mumbai, goes to Bangalore, then to Coimbatore, and then Tirupur, then moves to Delhi, comes to Goa, then goes to Tirupur again, then back to Delhi and finally back to Mumbai. It is like a big wheel of India with Mumbai as the hub, and Jetlite flights, and Go Air flights, and Indigo flights, and Spicejet flights, and Air India flights and Indian Airlines flights are the spokes in this big wheel.
And while I was away from Mumbai, I have been visiting Mumbai. I have been travelling to Napean Sea Road, Bandra, Jogeshwari, Mira Road, Bombay Central, the Sapphire Bar, the hospital in Juhu for slashed wrists, and to Amitabh Bachchan's home in Juhu, and to the Police Commissioner's Office in Colaba, and to Panchratna in Charni Road, and to Gujarat, and Dahisar, and to Madanpura, and to Dubai and to Karachi, and to Bandra East to Kalanagar to meet Tigers, and to Arthur Road Jail. Thank you Mr Mehta.
And I did all this while thinking about how much fun it was. Without sweating or getting harassed or being threatened with my life, I did it all. Before I was 40.
And I want to travel even further. To New York, and Florida, and Orlando and Disneyland and to Madrid and Barcelona and to Paris and to Holland, and to Rome and Milan and to Athens, and to the boot of Sicily, and to the South of France and to Israel, and to Ibiza, and to Liverpool, and to Baltimore, and to Australia to Sydney and Melbourne, and to make sure that my company and its garments are plastered across every shop from sea to shining sea. Every day of the week. And twice on sunday.
And I want to do so many things. Like I want to take up screenwriting even if it doesnt pay me even a pittance. I want to make successful famous movies and TV Serials, and I want to learn to promote and sell these ventures and learn make my producer his money even before the movie has been released or has hit the box office. I want to sell my script and ideas and passion to Shahrukh Khan. Because I think he knows what passion is all about. I didnt believe this earlier. But I do now. And I want to live in an apartment in Brooklyn or in New York and walk down cobblestones and sit on pavement cafes and have Saturday brunches as a routine. I want to be able to own a small piece of land in the Caribbean from where I can go snorkelling, or fishing or go swimming whenever I feel like. And I want to be able to travel to wherever I want to go, and It should be on business so I can feel good about it.
Like I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy, my parents, my acting coach, and all those crocodile tears that my Gucci wallet cannot conceal while I climb the stairs to take the mike and blast out all those no-good, incompetent, asinine, dimwitted, fucking misfits of friends that I entertained all these years. I am cutting off vestigal limbs. And I am learning catharsis. And I am gaining in self belief. That I am not a bad person. And that I am not inadequate. or unintelligent. or insensitive. I am being that non-needy person I always looked up to.
And I am not putting in effort where it will bring me nothing but hurt, pain, rejection, introspection, depression and unhappiness. And I want to talk about a lot of things. And I want to write about a lot of things. And I want to travel. Travel a lot.
I want to eat Sushi all the time. And I want to go snorkelling in the Andamans. And I want to expand my business. And I want to learn to drive. And I want to bring down my waist to 32 inches by February 3rd.
I am taking a departure to normally written posts. But I am at liberty to do so now. Because this is my blog. And I am unapologetic about it.
I can feel alone and not feel that it is a bad thing. But a positive thing. An attribute to thrive on. That cannot hurt me or harm me in any way. That is not a quest for validation in any way, shape or form.
This is a deeply personal post. But I am now a deeply personal person. I am serving the emotional needs of a person we all know as Pranay, first.
I will succeed. Not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not then, there's always next week.
utekkare,
Pranay
And while I was away from Mumbai, I have been visiting Mumbai. I have been travelling to Napean Sea Road, Bandra, Jogeshwari, Mira Road, Bombay Central, the Sapphire Bar, the hospital in Juhu for slashed wrists, and to Amitabh Bachchan's home in Juhu, and to the Police Commissioner's Office in Colaba, and to Panchratna in Charni Road, and to Gujarat, and Dahisar, and to Madanpura, and to Dubai and to Karachi, and to Bandra East to Kalanagar to meet Tigers, and to Arthur Road Jail. Thank you Mr Mehta.
And I did all this while thinking about how much fun it was. Without sweating or getting harassed or being threatened with my life, I did it all. Before I was 40.
And I want to travel even further. To New York, and Florida, and Orlando and Disneyland and to Madrid and Barcelona and to Paris and to Holland, and to Rome and Milan and to Athens, and to the boot of Sicily, and to the South of France and to Israel, and to Ibiza, and to Liverpool, and to Baltimore, and to Australia to Sydney and Melbourne, and to make sure that my company and its garments are plastered across every shop from sea to shining sea. Every day of the week. And twice on sunday.
And I want to do so many things. Like I want to take up screenwriting even if it doesnt pay me even a pittance. I want to make successful famous movies and TV Serials, and I want to learn to promote and sell these ventures and learn make my producer his money even before the movie has been released or has hit the box office. I want to sell my script and ideas and passion to Shahrukh Khan. Because I think he knows what passion is all about. I didnt believe this earlier. But I do now. And I want to live in an apartment in Brooklyn or in New York and walk down cobblestones and sit on pavement cafes and have Saturday brunches as a routine. I want to be able to own a small piece of land in the Caribbean from where I can go snorkelling, or fishing or go swimming whenever I feel like. And I want to be able to travel to wherever I want to go, and It should be on business so I can feel good about it.
Like I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy, my parents, my acting coach, and all those crocodile tears that my Gucci wallet cannot conceal while I climb the stairs to take the mike and blast out all those no-good, incompetent, asinine, dimwitted, fucking misfits of friends that I entertained all these years. I am cutting off vestigal limbs. And I am learning catharsis. And I am gaining in self belief. That I am not a bad person. And that I am not inadequate. or unintelligent. or insensitive. I am being that non-needy person I always looked up to.
And I am not putting in effort where it will bring me nothing but hurt, pain, rejection, introspection, depression and unhappiness. And I want to talk about a lot of things. And I want to write about a lot of things. And I want to travel. Travel a lot.
I want to eat Sushi all the time. And I want to go snorkelling in the Andamans. And I want to expand my business. And I want to learn to drive. And I want to bring down my waist to 32 inches by February 3rd.
I am taking a departure to normally written posts. But I am at liberty to do so now. Because this is my blog. And I am unapologetic about it.
I can feel alone and not feel that it is a bad thing. But a positive thing. An attribute to thrive on. That cannot hurt me or harm me in any way. That is not a quest for validation in any way, shape or form.
This is a deeply personal post. But I am now a deeply personal person. I am serving the emotional needs of a person we all know as Pranay, first.
I will succeed. Not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not then, there's always next week.
utekkare,
Pranay
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Old is Gold
And on a listless wednesday, some points of view, and assorted pieces of non-news..
and all my own work.
As my parents never fail to remind me, purane gaane are amazing. Not like today's songs that lack empathy, feeling, emotion, audible and/or decent lyrics, and "lilting, soulful" music scores. I am reminded of classic old songs that had intelligent meaningful lyrics, like "Eena Meena Dika, Dai Dama Nika", "Lal Chhadi Maidan Khadi", "Andar se koi baahar na ja sake", "Julie, I love you", "Hum Kaale hain toh kya hua dilwale hain", "Yahoo! Chahe koi mujhe junglee kahe", "I am a Disco dancer"...
A newspaper rag recently did not report the following: "Preeti and Pinky, Beaters, Falguni Pathak and other dandiya artistes recently formed an association that approached the government, the workers unions, the danidya organisers, Bharat Shah, film producers, Vijay Mallya, the Hore racing association of india, CRY, Medha Patkar, Anupam Kher, Yash Chopra, Shahrukh Khan, Karan Johar, the Phantom, Mandrake, The Western Railway Commuters Yojna, Chinchpokali Kreeda Mandal, The Lalbaug Ganpati Organisers Chit Fund, and started an SMS Campaign parallel to the Indian Idol shows. They requested all these individuals and organisations to make a dandiya coliseum where marriages, film shootings, mass pregnancies, gymnastics, and most importantly, DandiyaRaas that can be played till atleast 2.45 AM could happen like any other discotheque. Anti pregnancy pill companies rushed to sponsor different parts of the said complex as the hype grew."
When contacted, the artistes denied the allegations, saying they were either :
a) chasing the organisers for their money
b) raising a second mortgage on their home to pay for their mercedes
c) practising for a fund raiser for Gujarati under privileged women, hosted by Narendra Modi and Mallika Sarabhai"
As the cricket team prepares to get slammered in Mumbai (One Day Match tickets Rs 1000.00; T20 Match Tickets Rs 3000.00), All I ask myself is: Have monkeys evolved?
I like John Grisham novels. They are all a work in grey. No black and white heroes. All complicated tangled webs of the American Legal system. Where a single word can make a case win or lose. Where juries, and audiences are synonymous. I especially like the part where they retire to the Caribbean. Where the hero escapes from the legal system and lives it up in Europe. There was one where the hero escapes everything and his girlfriend cheats him. Even John Grisham doesnt trust intelligent beautiful women.
utekkare,
Pranay
and all my own work.
As my parents never fail to remind me, purane gaane are amazing. Not like today's songs that lack empathy, feeling, emotion, audible and/or decent lyrics, and "lilting, soulful" music scores. I am reminded of classic old songs that had intelligent meaningful lyrics, like "Eena Meena Dika, Dai Dama Nika", "Lal Chhadi Maidan Khadi", "Andar se koi baahar na ja sake", "Julie, I love you", "Hum Kaale hain toh kya hua dilwale hain", "Yahoo! Chahe koi mujhe junglee kahe", "I am a Disco dancer"...
A newspaper rag recently did not report the following: "Preeti and Pinky, Beaters, Falguni Pathak and other dandiya artistes recently formed an association that approached the government, the workers unions, the danidya organisers, Bharat Shah, film producers, Vijay Mallya, the Hore racing association of india, CRY, Medha Patkar, Anupam Kher, Yash Chopra, Shahrukh Khan, Karan Johar, the Phantom, Mandrake, The Western Railway Commuters Yojna, Chinchpokali Kreeda Mandal, The Lalbaug Ganpati Organisers Chit Fund, and started an SMS Campaign parallel to the Indian Idol shows. They requested all these individuals and organisations to make a dandiya coliseum where marriages, film shootings, mass pregnancies, gymnastics, and most importantly, DandiyaRaas that can be played till atleast 2.45 AM could happen like any other discotheque. Anti pregnancy pill companies rushed to sponsor different parts of the said complex as the hype grew."
When contacted, the artistes denied the allegations, saying they were either :
a) chasing the organisers for their money
b) raising a second mortgage on their home to pay for their mercedes
c) practising for a fund raiser for Gujarati under privileged women, hosted by Narendra Modi and Mallika Sarabhai"
As the cricket team prepares to get slammered in Mumbai (One Day Match tickets Rs 1000.00; T20 Match Tickets Rs 3000.00), All I ask myself is: Have monkeys evolved?
I like John Grisham novels. They are all a work in grey. No black and white heroes. All complicated tangled webs of the American Legal system. Where a single word can make a case win or lose. Where juries, and audiences are synonymous. I especially like the part where they retire to the Caribbean. Where the hero escapes from the legal system and lives it up in Europe. There was one where the hero escapes everything and his girlfriend cheats him. Even John Grisham doesnt trust intelligent beautiful women.
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Festi-vali
So, yesterday I met a bank employee, who was really disgruntled.
He said that there is too much stress and tension in the Indian corporate working environment, and we need more holidays.
To this, I pointed out that he had Saturdays/Sundays off. Thats 8 days a month, and 96 days a year of relaxation. Then I showed him that he had 3 days for Ganesh Utsav, 3 days for Durga Pooja / Navratri / Dussehra, 5 days for Diwali, 2 days for Eid, 2 days for Christmas and New Year, and additional 18 such bank holidays for secularly celebrated religious holidays across all faiths, such as Gudi Padva, Moharram, Parsi New Year, Guru Nanak Jayanti, Buddha Purnima, Mahavir Jayanti, Good Friday.
I then also happened to mention that he had about 25 Casual Paid Leave Days, that he could use in combination with any or all of the above holidays and weekends to get almost a week off on occasion.
And since he worked for an MNC bank, he was scheduled to attend atleast 7-8 3-days seminars, training, holiday "character-building" camps, with paint guns, rock climbing, rappelling, and trekking, to enhance his "team building" skills. And 4 inspections outstation every month, so thats 48 days in a year.
Then, I mentioned the bandhs, the rasta-rokos, the rainy days when the trains broke down, the days when we were mourning a dead politician's death, or the day when his wife was giving birth. I also tactfully slipped in those 4 days when India was playing Pakistan during office hours.
He just smiled, and said, "Time kaise pass ho jaata hai, pata hi nahin chalta... :)"
utekkare,
Pranay
He said that there is too much stress and tension in the Indian corporate working environment, and we need more holidays.
To this, I pointed out that he had Saturdays/Sundays off. Thats 8 days a month, and 96 days a year of relaxation. Then I showed him that he had 3 days for Ganesh Utsav, 3 days for Durga Pooja / Navratri / Dussehra, 5 days for Diwali, 2 days for Eid, 2 days for Christmas and New Year, and additional 18 such bank holidays for secularly celebrated religious holidays across all faiths, such as Gudi Padva, Moharram, Parsi New Year, Guru Nanak Jayanti, Buddha Purnima, Mahavir Jayanti, Good Friday.
I then also happened to mention that he had about 25 Casual Paid Leave Days, that he could use in combination with any or all of the above holidays and weekends to get almost a week off on occasion.
And since he worked for an MNC bank, he was scheduled to attend atleast 7-8 3-days seminars, training, holiday "character-building" camps, with paint guns, rock climbing, rappelling, and trekking, to enhance his "team building" skills. And 4 inspections outstation every month, so thats 48 days in a year.
Then, I mentioned the bandhs, the rasta-rokos, the rainy days when the trains broke down, the days when we were mourning a dead politician's death, or the day when his wife was giving birth. I also tactfully slipped in those 4 days when India was playing Pakistan during office hours.
He just smiled, and said, "Time kaise pass ho jaata hai, pata hi nahin chalta... :)"
utekkare,
Pranay
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