Shireen lived at Marine Lines.
A dingy semi-victorian one room apartment. with a 'mori', and a small square window that looked out onto Queen's road, Marine Lines, and then Police Gymkhana and finally Marine Drive. On a good day you could see the foliage surrounding the Governor's bungalow. On a bad day, well you could see just Marine Lines. If you opened the window, that is.
There was a bed. A four poster, no less. with assorted bedding, blankets, razais, and pillows. A mosquito net was draped over the frame made by the 4 pillars that rose from the bed posts. Opposite was a chest of drawers. Wood again. On top of it was a round desk mirror and an old black analog telephone covered by a white embroidered cloth. and a yellowed calendar on the wall behind showing dates of November 2003. A dull frosted glass lamp housing a 40 W bulb glowed unconvincingly from the top of the wall illuminating the room in a pale yellow halo. A cello was placed behind the bed in its dusty cover. Blackish-Grey.
A printed curtain seperated the mori from the main room. Next to it was the kitchen. A single ledge with shelves in black cuddapah stone underneath and pots and pans and rice containers, and dal containers, and bowls and spoons and forks and knives. Above was an open cabinet with tea, and utensils. And some Bourbon biscuits. An old cupboard sat in the last corner of the room. Blackened mirrors scowled back at you if you mistakenly happened to demand a reflection. 2 old suitcases and a grey hatbox sat on top of the cupboard. A couple of spiders had woven their homes in the crevices between the hatbox and the suitcases.Next to the cupboard was one chair. A wooden upright cane seat chair. Above it was a book case - open wooden shelves with books on them right upto the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a walnut wood rocking chair. With a carved back, and a delicate arch. With smooth polished rockers, the wood looked almost black. A tartan cushion sat in the seat, and the back was slats of wood held by a frame. A rosary hung by one handle. A half empty bowl of water was kept by the window. If you looked up, you saw rafters. Great big pink painted rafters. Steepling from the edge of the room and meeting the wall. A few pigeons coo-ed and you could see marks of pigeon droppings on the window sill. A ceiling fan rotated creakingly, suspended from one of the rafters.
Shireen was of indeterminate age. She had pinched sallow cheeks, black curly hair with streaks of grey in them, a pointed nose, and a creased forehead. Her neck was taut, and her lips were perennially pursed. She had a rake thin body, and she wasnt too tall. or too short. In fact in a crowded place, you might miss Shireenif you blinked. She wore blouses - whether they were polyester or silk, noone knew. Some days she wore cotton. Always the same pullover, come rain or shine. And skirts. Always pleated and always below the knee. Nobody knew where she had her clothes tailored. They were so nondescript that ready-to-wear was ruled out. She usually wore severe black or grey shoes. No garish colors. No style statements. No coiffeured looks. After all, for whom did she need to do all this? She was happy with what she looked like. Shireen was not too tough to please. Especially when it came to Shireen. She wore thick framed glasses. The kind that were in vogue in the 60s when nothing else was available.
Shireen worked in a Marwari export firm 10 minutes walking distance from her building. The export firm had been in business since pre-Independence days. But rioting, errant sons, splits in the family, eroding market share, competition, laziness, and plain ineptitude had kept the company in exactly the same place it had been, with the same people visiting it day in and day out. A loser company, kept in business by its owner, who frequented casinos, the races, went abroad frequently, had a high maintenance wife, and 2 bratty children, who kept their launderers busy. Until they squandered their inheritance, they kept Shireen in employment. Sometimes the boss brushed her bottom on his way across the office. Shireen just bit her lip, and continued on her way. It was not so often that she would have to do something about it. But not so infrequent that she forgot about it. It was something she submitted to, only because it happened rarely.
Shireen lived in a continuum, where days were words, and dates were numbers, and all life was a single cycle. Every day, she got up at 7 AM, answered the door for the milkman. Heated the milk, and had her regulation one cup of tea. She then poured out a little milk into the bowl, and added equal parts of water to it for the cat. She then turned on the Antique iron geyser and waited for the water to boil. She then filled up a clanking iron pail with 50% hot water, 50% cold water, and had a bath. She never washed her hair. Neither did she comb it. It was always bunched up. She would leave for office precisely at 9 AM. She shut the two doors and padlocked the outer door. And then pulled the chain across. Just to make sure.
One day, when she returned back from work, she saw the Mehta children from the 2nd floor tying a string of cans to her cat's tail. The cat was obviously scared and as it ran away from the children, mewing horrendously, the clattering cans made a louder racket, frightening her even more. Shireen was shaking with anger and irritation when she stopped the cat and gently untied the cans. She then stroked the cat gently, and let it go. She strode up the stairs, muttering under her breath. When she reached the 2nd floor, she began to stride down the long hallway to the double doored Gujju household of Mr Mehta, Bania; Mrs Mehta, Henpecking Bitchy Housewife; Aunty Mehta, returned from Kenya; and the Mehta brood - 2 to the Bitchy, and 2 to the Aunty. And their ghanti-toting Grandmother. Up at 5 AM reciting mantras at the top of her voice. As she approached the door, it opened, with loud gujarati voices condemning the existence of Muslims in their neighbourhood, the rising prices of onions, and the school systems that made private tuitions for English compulsory.
Shireen hesitated as she contemplated yet another inequal argument between her pidgin hindi and Mrs Mehta's articulate gujarati. She stood, poised for a split second. Then she turned around and walked away swiftly, and turned up the stairway, before they came out.
That night, the gujjus were troubled by a stringed instrument, soulfully howling out into the night.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Obsolete
I sit there. At the big wooden desk. I watch everyone come and go. Day and night. Big people. Small people. Male people. Female people. Kind people. Harsh people. Intelligent people. Dumb people. Rich people. Poor people.
And I told some of them what to do. And where to go. And what their future was. And some of them took my advice. Actually a lot of them took my advice. Some of them ignored me.
And I grew in confidence. And I became stronger. And wiser. And I grew powerful. And the world listened to me. While I sat there. I began to see things that I did not see before. I saw ordinary people bestowed with extraordinary opportunity as they frittered it away. I saw extraordinary people trapped in ordinary lives because a few key choices in their life went astray. I saw mediocre people sitting in positions of power, misusing it to their heart's content. And I grew angry. And frustrated.
And I lost old friends. And I made new friends. And enemies. Ofcourse I still have my old enemies. And I found love. And I found hate. And I began scorning existentialism. Which is a nice way of saying I chased materialism. And I liked. Hedonistic pursuits of capitalistic pleasures.
But then I needed help. I decided to share my success. And my achievements. And I thought I would find happiness. And togetherness. And I would be building a legacy. Carried forward on able shoulders.
But I was wrong.
I sit here. But I dont tell the time any more. After all noone wants to read a clock that has stopped.
utekkare,
Pranay
And I told some of them what to do. And where to go. And what their future was. And some of them took my advice. Actually a lot of them took my advice. Some of them ignored me.
And I grew in confidence. And I became stronger. And wiser. And I grew powerful. And the world listened to me. While I sat there. I began to see things that I did not see before. I saw ordinary people bestowed with extraordinary opportunity as they frittered it away. I saw extraordinary people trapped in ordinary lives because a few key choices in their life went astray. I saw mediocre people sitting in positions of power, misusing it to their heart's content. And I grew angry. And frustrated.
And I lost old friends. And I made new friends. And enemies. Ofcourse I still have my old enemies. And I found love. And I found hate. And I began scorning existentialism. Which is a nice way of saying I chased materialism. And I liked. Hedonistic pursuits of capitalistic pleasures.
But then I needed help. I decided to share my success. And my achievements. And I thought I would find happiness. And togetherness. And I would be building a legacy. Carried forward on able shoulders.
But I was wrong.
I sit here. But I dont tell the time any more. After all noone wants to read a clock that has stopped.
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, April 22, 2006
2 mynahs
Every day, when I wake up, and step out of my house, a part of me is always filled with trepidation. About whether I will see 2 mynahs or 1 mynah.
Oh, by the by, today is blog deluge day. When I am able to write what I think, and think about what I am going to write, and I am blocked by neither time nor laziness.
And now, back to the mynahs. The old woman's rhyme goes:
"1 for sorrow, 2 for joy, 3 for letter, 4 for (boy/girl), 5 for silver, 6 for gold, 7 for a secret never to be told." Well now, this was presumably years and years and years ago. And I am quite sure it was written in a part of the world where mynahs are few and far between. And sighting 30 of 40 of them together is not so common. Ofcourse you will find these mynahs everywhere. Literally everywhere. in the world even.
And woe is me, because i was afflicted with stupidstitionitis from a young age. Bordering on compulsive obsessive disorder, I am unable to discount day to day events as happenstance or even a happy coincidence. There are always factors - hidden, unseen factors at work that ensure the passage of time as it does pass..
And it is these pieces of good luck (or bad) that determine whether the day is good or bad. Never mind that it will influence my thought process. Or that it will create a disconcerting presence of the fear of the illogical in my mind. No, ofcourse I am as rational as the day is long, but is it my fault that I mentally live not in a tropical country, but rather in a ice covered northern waste, where it winters for months, and is summer day for but a fleeting passage of time.
And I am wary. Of looking out of the window when showering. Of looking out of the window of the car when travelling. Of strolling to the broken window by the lift and staring into the blank distance. Of lifting the blinds of my 5th floor window. Of hearing a single shrieking call of the single mynah out to fill my day with bad luck, and forgotten appointments, and mislaid tasks, and unheeded advice, and backlash. Fierce, retributional backlash.
And on days, where I challenge my luck. And I see the pair of mynahs sitting on a lampost. Flying across the road. pecking at the ground. Chirping and fighting with a crow. I am happy, and I feel lucky. And things still go badly.
After all nobody likes a cocky arrogant son of the boss who thinks nothing can go wrong just because he saw 2 mynahs together.
utekkare,
Pranay
Oh, by the by, today is blog deluge day. When I am able to write what I think, and think about what I am going to write, and I am blocked by neither time nor laziness.
And now, back to the mynahs. The old woman's rhyme goes:
"1 for sorrow, 2 for joy, 3 for letter, 4 for (boy/girl), 5 for silver, 6 for gold, 7 for a secret never to be told." Well now, this was presumably years and years and years ago. And I am quite sure it was written in a part of the world where mynahs are few and far between. And sighting 30 of 40 of them together is not so common. Ofcourse you will find these mynahs everywhere. Literally everywhere. in the world even.
And woe is me, because i was afflicted with stupidstitionitis from a young age. Bordering on compulsive obsessive disorder, I am unable to discount day to day events as happenstance or even a happy coincidence. There are always factors - hidden, unseen factors at work that ensure the passage of time as it does pass..
And it is these pieces of good luck (or bad) that determine whether the day is good or bad. Never mind that it will influence my thought process. Or that it will create a disconcerting presence of the fear of the illogical in my mind. No, ofcourse I am as rational as the day is long, but is it my fault that I mentally live not in a tropical country, but rather in a ice covered northern waste, where it winters for months, and is summer day for but a fleeting passage of time.
And I am wary. Of looking out of the window when showering. Of looking out of the window of the car when travelling. Of strolling to the broken window by the lift and staring into the blank distance. Of lifting the blinds of my 5th floor window. Of hearing a single shrieking call of the single mynah out to fill my day with bad luck, and forgotten appointments, and mislaid tasks, and unheeded advice, and backlash. Fierce, retributional backlash.
And on days, where I challenge my luck. And I see the pair of mynahs sitting on a lampost. Flying across the road. pecking at the ground. Chirping and fighting with a crow. I am happy, and I feel lucky. And things still go badly.
After all nobody likes a cocky arrogant son of the boss who thinks nothing can go wrong just because he saw 2 mynahs together.
utekkare,
Pranay
1 minute and 30 seconds on a traffic island.
And so We were stranded. The signal behind us turned green even as we turned to retreat onto the pavement. And the signal before us was green already. Served us right for braving the wrath of a thoroughfare.
Careful, no. Dont want those superspeedy idiotic double deckers to run over your feet. Retreat a few inches. not too far back. Your ass is vulnerable to a rear guard action.
Looking around. An old american with wrinkled skin, a straw hat, Sun City Bermudas, a loose dirty snot colored Polo and ridiculuous aquamarine flipflops that begged to be stamped on. Well, not me today. A young petite chinese / HongKonginese woman. Actually you can never make out the age on these oriental women. Firstly they dress like its christmas every day. And they never seem to age. It seems like they're 16 till they're 55. And then suddenly they're looking like a 100. And for the life of me, I cannot distinguish between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, Taiwanese, and other Indonesians. Although I am told they are as different as chalk and cheese. Ofcourse it bothers me that if a chink can outsmart another chink, then a japanese or an indian should be easy meat. Me? easy meat? Sure... Well there's Brian. ex-Marine. Married. Businessman. Golfer. Cigar baron. well not quite a cigar "baron". but close enough. and just about 25. Damn. And a bangladeshi suit - middleaged, gleaming balding pate, striped suit, hand in pocket, eyeing the wrinkled American. Bloody darzi. These bangladeshis, pakistanis, sri lankans, sindhis, and filipinos had cornered the secret art of surviving in developed nations en famille.
Reminds me of a conversation I had at a street corner about 25 mins ago. Looking for chinese silk shirts. I ran into an indian subcontinental featured pair of gentlemen. So I asked where I could find Silk Shirts. Turned out one was a Pakistani and one was Bangladeshi. Presently, an Indonesian strolled up to join the discussion about where one could purchase Silk Shirts. Ofcourse, after a protracted argument, tried to hustle me into buying tailored suits. Cheap ones. Only 1000 HK. When I told them my flight was in 5 hours, they lost interest, the argument dissipated, people stomped off, and one of them pointed across the street in the vague direction of a shopping mall before he snorted and took off.
Well, now back to the denizens of the traffic island. One American oldie, One bangladeshi well preserved oldie, One ex-Marine, one Asian looking cute chick, and an overeager overdressed Indian budding entrepreneur accounted for. In the balance were a Caucasian stock broker type, supercilious and spectacled; a companion for the old American, equally wrinkled and attired in flipflops; and a surprise addition to the group - a daschund on a leash, leading a tired looking British dowager.
And I felt we shared a bond - an oasis in the middle of a honking and beeping and traffic laden desert; that we were connecting beyond all stereotypes, and all races and cultures; That this was a tale of passion, togetherness, and human survival; That this was the most momentous humanised occasion of my short trip; and that it showed that humans are capable of loving, and that I could maybe, just maybe get that woman's telephone number just by willing it. Ok, even if she looked at me, I suppose it would be enough for my mind to metamorphose into a short fling we enjoyed together.
But just when I was getting to know everyone, the signal turned and everyone scooted off.
utekkare,
Pranay
Careful, no. Dont want those superspeedy idiotic double deckers to run over your feet. Retreat a few inches. not too far back. Your ass is vulnerable to a rear guard action.
Looking around. An old american with wrinkled skin, a straw hat, Sun City Bermudas, a loose dirty snot colored Polo and ridiculuous aquamarine flipflops that begged to be stamped on. Well, not me today. A young petite chinese / HongKonginese woman. Actually you can never make out the age on these oriental women. Firstly they dress like its christmas every day. And they never seem to age. It seems like they're 16 till they're 55. And then suddenly they're looking like a 100. And for the life of me, I cannot distinguish between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, Taiwanese, and other Indonesians. Although I am told they are as different as chalk and cheese. Ofcourse it bothers me that if a chink can outsmart another chink, then a japanese or an indian should be easy meat. Me? easy meat? Sure... Well there's Brian. ex-Marine. Married. Businessman. Golfer. Cigar baron. well not quite a cigar "baron". but close enough. and just about 25. Damn. And a bangladeshi suit - middleaged, gleaming balding pate, striped suit, hand in pocket, eyeing the wrinkled American. Bloody darzi. These bangladeshis, pakistanis, sri lankans, sindhis, and filipinos had cornered the secret art of surviving in developed nations en famille.
Reminds me of a conversation I had at a street corner about 25 mins ago. Looking for chinese silk shirts. I ran into an indian subcontinental featured pair of gentlemen. So I asked where I could find Silk Shirts. Turned out one was a Pakistani and one was Bangladeshi. Presently, an Indonesian strolled up to join the discussion about where one could purchase Silk Shirts. Ofcourse, after a protracted argument, tried to hustle me into buying tailored suits. Cheap ones. Only 1000 HK. When I told them my flight was in 5 hours, they lost interest, the argument dissipated, people stomped off, and one of them pointed across the street in the vague direction of a shopping mall before he snorted and took off.
Well, now back to the denizens of the traffic island. One American oldie, One bangladeshi well preserved oldie, One ex-Marine, one Asian looking cute chick, and an overeager overdressed Indian budding entrepreneur accounted for. In the balance were a Caucasian stock broker type, supercilious and spectacled; a companion for the old American, equally wrinkled and attired in flipflops; and a surprise addition to the group - a daschund on a leash, leading a tired looking British dowager.
And I felt we shared a bond - an oasis in the middle of a honking and beeping and traffic laden desert; that we were connecting beyond all stereotypes, and all races and cultures; That this was a tale of passion, togetherness, and human survival; That this was the most momentous humanised occasion of my short trip; and that it showed that humans are capable of loving, and that I could maybe, just maybe get that woman's telephone number just by willing it. Ok, even if she looked at me, I suppose it would be enough for my mind to metamorphose into a short fling we enjoyed together.
But just when I was getting to know everyone, the signal turned and everyone scooted off.
utekkare,
Pranay
Bean Counted!
We are not people. Not human beings. Not insolent living creatures who challenge the limits of nature's patience with every passing day. No. In our man-made world, of convoluted and complex human idiosyncrasies, we are all numbers.
And if we are the right number in the right place, we have right of passage. Otherwise, we're out of the loop and we will be stranded. After all its nothing personal. We're supposed to be the right number. Its just a numbers game.
So at school you are your rank, you are your percentage, accompanied by a full stop preceding decimals that could sometimes decide the future of your life. At the medical checkup, you are the right weight for the right height, the right chest size and the right chest expanded size for the right age, and the right heartbeat for the right type of activity. Otherwise, you are a loser, a failure, a has-been, an obese couch potato, and a slacker. In that precise order of judgement.
At school, you will always be the wrong shoe size, the wrong chest size, the wrong shoulder size, the wrong sock size, the wrong height, and the wrong waist size till you stop growing. And your parents will always be worried about buying you too many clothes before they grow out of them. Especially that lovely Osh Kosh B'Gosh Overall you wore when you were 4. But ofcourse you were the right age then, and now any age under 25 and over 6 is the wrong age.
And in class you are your roll number, and if you are the right roll number, you are placed with the coolest dude in class and so you will be able to hang out and get cooler. But if you are the wrong roll number, you will be with neither the geeks nor the dudes and will end up being the cat who walks alone, best favourite friend.
And in college, you are first a form number, then a fees receipt number, then an interview number, and finally a class number. If you start early, you might get some kind cute chick's telephone number, and that is always the best numbers to have. As you move on, ATKT numbers, hall ticket numbers, and travel pass numbers, and even more roll numbers, and black list numbers, and protecting your parents' phone numbers, and basketball jersey numbers, and NBA superstar's numbers. And remember, that without the right number at the right time, you will end up being called a dude, an ass, a chemistry handicap, a candidate, a lucky rich kid, an arrogant sports scholarship holder, a future basketball star, and a has-been basketball discard.
And as you progress through life, you are a PAN Card number, a Passport number, a Visa number, a bank account number, a credit card number, a vendor number, a boyfriend number, an office number, a telephone number, a gym membership number, a mobile number.
And yes, you are important. When these numbers are punched by strange fingers on foreign keyboards, doors of countries open for you, banks open their lockers for you, companies invest their money in you, governments assess taxes from you, janitors demand diwali bakshish from you, women demand attention from you because you just might be the one, and cell phone companies offer you more cell phones and more airtime, and gyms offer you extended memberships.
And its not because you are funny. Or because you are good looking. Or famous. Or intelligent. Or because you are rich. Or successful. or happy. Or obedient. Or friendly. No, in fact it even has nothing to do with your scoring rate with women. Or that you can bench press 400 pounds. Or that you can run 30 mins on a treadmill at 10 miles an hour. Or that you have a bad left knee. Or because they felt sorry for you.
No. We are offered all this importance because we are the right number in the right screen at the right time.
I can only hope that luck continues.
utekkare,
Pranay
And if we are the right number in the right place, we have right of passage. Otherwise, we're out of the loop and we will be stranded. After all its nothing personal. We're supposed to be the right number. Its just a numbers game.
So at school you are your rank, you are your percentage, accompanied by a full stop preceding decimals that could sometimes decide the future of your life. At the medical checkup, you are the right weight for the right height, the right chest size and the right chest expanded size for the right age, and the right heartbeat for the right type of activity. Otherwise, you are a loser, a failure, a has-been, an obese couch potato, and a slacker. In that precise order of judgement.
At school, you will always be the wrong shoe size, the wrong chest size, the wrong shoulder size, the wrong sock size, the wrong height, and the wrong waist size till you stop growing. And your parents will always be worried about buying you too many clothes before they grow out of them. Especially that lovely Osh Kosh B'Gosh Overall you wore when you were 4. But ofcourse you were the right age then, and now any age under 25 and over 6 is the wrong age.
And in class you are your roll number, and if you are the right roll number, you are placed with the coolest dude in class and so you will be able to hang out and get cooler. But if you are the wrong roll number, you will be with neither the geeks nor the dudes and will end up being the cat who walks alone, best favourite friend.
And in college, you are first a form number, then a fees receipt number, then an interview number, and finally a class number. If you start early, you might get some kind cute chick's telephone number, and that is always the best numbers to have. As you move on, ATKT numbers, hall ticket numbers, and travel pass numbers, and even more roll numbers, and black list numbers, and protecting your parents' phone numbers, and basketball jersey numbers, and NBA superstar's numbers. And remember, that without the right number at the right time, you will end up being called a dude, an ass, a chemistry handicap, a candidate, a lucky rich kid, an arrogant sports scholarship holder, a future basketball star, and a has-been basketball discard.
And as you progress through life, you are a PAN Card number, a Passport number, a Visa number, a bank account number, a credit card number, a vendor number, a boyfriend number, an office number, a telephone number, a gym membership number, a mobile number.
And yes, you are important. When these numbers are punched by strange fingers on foreign keyboards, doors of countries open for you, banks open their lockers for you, companies invest their money in you, governments assess taxes from you, janitors demand diwali bakshish from you, women demand attention from you because you just might be the one, and cell phone companies offer you more cell phones and more airtime, and gyms offer you extended memberships.
And its not because you are funny. Or because you are good looking. Or famous. Or intelligent. Or because you are rich. Or successful. or happy. Or obedient. Or friendly. No, in fact it even has nothing to do with your scoring rate with women. Or that you can bench press 400 pounds. Or that you can run 30 mins on a treadmill at 10 miles an hour. Or that you have a bad left knee. Or because they felt sorry for you.
No. We are offered all this importance because we are the right number in the right screen at the right time.
I can only hope that luck continues.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
3 points of view - delayed inordinately
Should have been posted 31-Jul-2005.
And on a day devoid of electricity, water, sunlight, warmth, happiness, and relaxation, a few points of view on things that get my goat.
I dont like the rains. They think they are completely superior to us, and will go to any lengths to prove their superiority. When contacted for an opinion, I came away drenched to the bone, and JUST to spite me, they submerged my nice 1 year and 9 month old car in 7 feet of water. Poor car. Caught in the crossfire between me and the raingods. Ofcourse, since they are supposed to be a benevolent raingod, they spared my other 5 month old car and allowed my brave driver and me to bask in the collective heroics that we employed to emerge unscathed from the Tuesday deluge.
I think that most people dont actually get how privileged they are. Imagine living on the surface on a simultaneously rotating and revolving tennis ball, composed of a burning liquid centre, covered by a thin wafer cover on which over 70% of the surface is water, some of which extends upto the beginning of the centre. Imagine that the tennis ball is suspended in a vacuum covered in a faint, very very flimsy mist is ultimately only hot, very very hot air. Imagine walking on the tennis ball without falling off, and not stepping onto the water. Imagine that even if the tennis ball shifted by 1-2 inches in the vacuum, and if it wobbled a little excessively, the liquid centre would make it roll sideways like a small dory in an ocean swell, and the tin soldiers in the dory would probably be thrown over.
Imagine small stone pellets being thrown at the tennis ball in large swerving motions by crazy, impish schoolboys from afar, that end up becoming balls of fire that the tennis ball can do nothing about but just sit there and wait to be hit.
I dont like the new cell phone craze. Time was when you used a cell phone to make calls, receive calls, and look important before the aam public because they couldnt afford it and you could. And the women would croon and cajole and talk sweetly to your cellphone. But now, its not enough. You have cellphones that can talk back to you, that can play songs, and play the radio, and can replace your music system and that can replace your computer and that can replace your cameras and your video cameras and that can replace your secretary, and that have more storage that your old black and white PC, and that can communicate with computers, and other mobile phones and that can let you stop waiting for the cablewallah to get happy after 12.30 am on saturday night/sunday morning. Oh, and sometimes you can make and receive calls. The latest craze is Bluetooth, supposedly named after a Nordic prince who brought tribes together. A friend of mine recently bought a phone that had a bluetooth headset included with it as a Special price, and he was extremely happy that suddenly he could look like an extension of the Star Wars generation with a space-like orb glowing blue over his ear. He can listen to the radio, listen to MP3's and he can take pictures. But his phone is always unreachable when I want to talk to him.
utekkare,
pranay
And on a day devoid of electricity, water, sunlight, warmth, happiness, and relaxation, a few points of view on things that get my goat.
I dont like the rains. They think they are completely superior to us, and will go to any lengths to prove their superiority. When contacted for an opinion, I came away drenched to the bone, and JUST to spite me, they submerged my nice 1 year and 9 month old car in 7 feet of water. Poor car. Caught in the crossfire between me and the raingods. Ofcourse, since they are supposed to be a benevolent raingod, they spared my other 5 month old car and allowed my brave driver and me to bask in the collective heroics that we employed to emerge unscathed from the Tuesday deluge.
I think that most people dont actually get how privileged they are. Imagine living on the surface on a simultaneously rotating and revolving tennis ball, composed of a burning liquid centre, covered by a thin wafer cover on which over 70% of the surface is water, some of which extends upto the beginning of the centre. Imagine that the tennis ball is suspended in a vacuum covered in a faint, very very flimsy mist is ultimately only hot, very very hot air. Imagine walking on the tennis ball without falling off, and not stepping onto the water. Imagine that even if the tennis ball shifted by 1-2 inches in the vacuum, and if it wobbled a little excessively, the liquid centre would make it roll sideways like a small dory in an ocean swell, and the tin soldiers in the dory would probably be thrown over.
Imagine small stone pellets being thrown at the tennis ball in large swerving motions by crazy, impish schoolboys from afar, that end up becoming balls of fire that the tennis ball can do nothing about but just sit there and wait to be hit.
I dont like the new cell phone craze. Time was when you used a cell phone to make calls, receive calls, and look important before the aam public because they couldnt afford it and you could. And the women would croon and cajole and talk sweetly to your cellphone. But now, its not enough. You have cellphones that can talk back to you, that can play songs, and play the radio, and can replace your music system and that can replace your computer and that can replace your cameras and your video cameras and that can replace your secretary, and that have more storage that your old black and white PC, and that can communicate with computers, and other mobile phones and that can let you stop waiting for the cablewallah to get happy after 12.30 am on saturday night/sunday morning. Oh, and sometimes you can make and receive calls. The latest craze is Bluetooth, supposedly named after a Nordic prince who brought tribes together. A friend of mine recently bought a phone that had a bluetooth headset included with it as a Special price, and he was extremely happy that suddenly he could look like an extension of the Star Wars generation with a space-like orb glowing blue over his ear. He can listen to the radio, listen to MP3's and he can take pictures. But his phone is always unreachable when I want to talk to him.
utekkare,
pranay
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Pak-pak-pak-pak-Pakkak!!!!
And now, since we have a pandemic amongst us, no more chicken makkhanwala. No more chicken tangdi at Bade Miya.
And no more chicken tandoori in Chembur Camp. And no more Chicken Shredded Poutine (pronounced "foo-tay-ne") in Mocha's. And no more chicken steaks and no chicken legs, and no chicken mixed fried rice and no more chicken mixed steamed hakka noodles with boiled chicken and prawns and MSG sprinkled upar-se from our local Chinese thele-wala.
And goodbye to chicken desi and broiler and english by the kilo, and chicken curry, and chicken stroganoff and chicken masala and chicken burgers at Mcdonalds and no more chicken kadhai at Khyber.
And tata to Venky's Chicken-in-Minutes and Godrej Chicken, and Maggi's Chicken Clear Soup, and Knorr's Sweet Corn Chicken Soup.
And no more Chicken Luncheon Meat, and no more Chicken Loaf, and no Chicken Shashlik at Kobe's or at Yoko's.
And no more saying "Murga ban" to NCC cadets, and no more cocks on the weatherpanes, and no more squawking chickens in dirty chicken trucks and no more chickens crossing the road "simbly" or "to reach the other side" or "to cross over" or any such jokes. And no more business for Narayan Rane. No more chicken business at any rate.
And since there are no chickens, there can not be eggs too. No andelal eggathons, and no eight annas hard-boiled eggs and soft-boiled eggs, and no eggcups, and no egg-white omlettes and no sunny-side-up and no kheema ghotala and no more midnight egg-bhurji opp Dadar station and no more pudding in Kyaani's and no more egg pastries and no more "egging on" people and no more spoilt eggs.
And the goats are bleating. And the pigs are squealing. And the fish are even more slippery than ever. And the prawns and the crabs and the lobsters are biting the hand that catches them more than ever. And those who live, but for a spinal cord and a nervous system - those who grow tall and short and underground and above it will get eaten with disdain and regret.
Until a virus comes along that makes them all stars of the day. And we have to subsist on pills.
utekkare,
pranay
And no more chicken tandoori in Chembur Camp. And no more Chicken Shredded Poutine (pronounced "foo-tay-ne") in Mocha's. And no more chicken steaks and no chicken legs, and no chicken mixed fried rice and no more chicken mixed steamed hakka noodles with boiled chicken and prawns and MSG sprinkled upar-se from our local Chinese thele-wala.
And goodbye to chicken desi and broiler and english by the kilo, and chicken curry, and chicken stroganoff and chicken masala and chicken burgers at Mcdonalds and no more chicken kadhai at Khyber.
And tata to Venky's Chicken-in-Minutes and Godrej Chicken, and Maggi's Chicken Clear Soup, and Knorr's Sweet Corn Chicken Soup.
And no more Chicken Luncheon Meat, and no more Chicken Loaf, and no Chicken Shashlik at Kobe's or at Yoko's.
And no more saying "Murga ban" to NCC cadets, and no more cocks on the weatherpanes, and no more squawking chickens in dirty chicken trucks and no more chickens crossing the road "simbly" or "to reach the other side" or "to cross over" or any such jokes. And no more business for Narayan Rane. No more chicken business at any rate.
And since there are no chickens, there can not be eggs too. No andelal eggathons, and no eight annas hard-boiled eggs and soft-boiled eggs, and no eggcups, and no egg-white omlettes and no sunny-side-up and no kheema ghotala and no more midnight egg-bhurji opp Dadar station and no more pudding in Kyaani's and no more egg pastries and no more "egging on" people and no more spoilt eggs.
And the goats are bleating. And the pigs are squealing. And the fish are even more slippery than ever. And the prawns and the crabs and the lobsters are biting the hand that catches them more than ever. And those who live, but for a spinal cord and a nervous system - those who grow tall and short and underground and above it will get eaten with disdain and regret.
Until a virus comes along that makes them all stars of the day. And we have to subsist on pills.
utekkare,
pranay
Friday, March 03, 2006
The World is flat. Mind it!
lying down, in response to a migraine
close my eyes to prevent them from descending down to my knees;
bend them quickly. tilt your head up, watch your sweat pour down.
pull in your soggy tummy, and see the fat rearrange itself.
clench your jaws, or your teeth will fall off.
one by one.
run your hair through your hair. no, wait. on second thoughts, dont. its all the hair you have left.
pull your right earlobe to look happy.
now look what you've gone and done. your right one, not your left. so thats why you look like an ass.
from the Rann of Kutch. no, i dont know why the kutchie rann. maybe because kutches win mutches.
get up slowly or your brain will go into shock because of newton's 1st law - persistence of inertia.
and yes, the world is round. hold on tight. or you might just slip into the mariana trench one fine day.
hey, dont con me into this. I'm just a goldfish. I live in a round bowl all day. and sometimes at night too. i dont remember yesterday. that was today wasnt it?
staring at the stars. twinkling fireflies that dwindle not.
scratch your head. maybe it's lice. maybe it's an itch. maybe your scalp is trying to feel your finger up. naughty scalp.
slap your right knee. was that the bad one? no, its the left knee. yes, my dear mutating mosquitoes, come and feast on the most vulnerable knee in my body...
balderdash to you, but infinitely intelligent conversation i am capable of.
complete coherence and sanity.
but not now. later.
utekkare,
pranay
close my eyes to prevent them from descending down to my knees;
bend them quickly. tilt your head up, watch your sweat pour down.
pull in your soggy tummy, and see the fat rearrange itself.
clench your jaws, or your teeth will fall off.
one by one.
run your hair through your hair. no, wait. on second thoughts, dont. its all the hair you have left.
pull your right earlobe to look happy.
now look what you've gone and done. your right one, not your left. so thats why you look like an ass.
from the Rann of Kutch. no, i dont know why the kutchie rann. maybe because kutches win mutches.
get up slowly or your brain will go into shock because of newton's 1st law - persistence of inertia.
and yes, the world is round. hold on tight. or you might just slip into the mariana trench one fine day.
hey, dont con me into this. I'm just a goldfish. I live in a round bowl all day. and sometimes at night too. i dont remember yesterday. that was today wasnt it?
staring at the stars. twinkling fireflies that dwindle not.
scratch your head. maybe it's lice. maybe it's an itch. maybe your scalp is trying to feel your finger up. naughty scalp.
slap your right knee. was that the bad one? no, its the left knee. yes, my dear mutating mosquitoes, come and feast on the most vulnerable knee in my body...
balderdash to you, but infinitely intelligent conversation i am capable of.
complete coherence and sanity.
but not now. later.
utekkare,
pranay
Friday, February 24, 2006
One flu over the cuckoo's nest!
And since it was a saturday, I looked forward to my email eagerly, hoping that someone might invite me for a party. Surprisingly, since I had been relatively illness-free for a long period of time, an invite awaited me - from WHO and the Pharma Council of india. An invitation to interview Bird Flu at the social diseased party of the year at the garbage dump in Worli near Love Grove Sewer.
And since I couldnt refuse, I got togged up in a cotton suit, and tie and trudged along to the party.
To my surprise, the who's who of the illness world had shown up in all their splendour - Chicken Pox, Jaundice, Cholera, Typhoid, Malaria, Dengue Fever and even Leptospirosis had arrived, looking their virulent best, cloistered with their own pet patients. Evidently nobody wanted to be left out on the arrival of Bird Flu on the global stage. Chronic party crashers like Spondilitis, Arthritis, Rheumatism, Asthma, and Obesity had turned up (some even sitting together on a single patient?!), and were seen hero worshipping the industry bigwigs like AIDS, Cancer, Angina, Heart Blockage, and Renal Failure who was hanging around by the bar sipping on Hapless Mortals and Unknown Patients, counting out his pending dialysis sittings and sipping his blood nervously looking around.
Just as the party began losing steam, and the patients started recovering, Bird Flu walked in, like a giant cake being brought in - with Glaxo, Cipla, Ranbaxy, and SKB trailing behind like sycophants, applauding as Bird Flu made it's way towards the dais.
As Bird Flu walked, rumours and murmurs flew about the kind of growth he had accomplished in such a short time, and how with just a few deaths, Bird Flu had grown in stature to an international epidemic. About how skilfully it had operated and the beautiful coup de grace it delivered to unready administrations. About where it had struck so far - Far East, USA, Europe and now India. Sicknesses whispered, "it was only a matter of time before he came to India - with such a large population and consumer base, it would have been hara-kiri to ignore the indian public.
In a corner of the party, sat a small bent deformed demented person, who called himself small pox sat quietly, sipping on a cheap bowl of soup and crackers. Illnesses whispered that he'd blown up the machines to get out. And that IAF had been red in the face trying to deny the stray case and that small pox and its head honchos had been passe - eradicated by the health police for years.
I shouldered my way across the dance floor where Dettol was dancing the forbidden dance of disinfection - alluring but untouchable, and walked towards where Bird Flu was chatting with the health minister, and Cipla's CMD. I coughed quietly to attract its attention, and Bird Flu turned around to greet me as if I was a long lost old pal. "Arre, Its great to finally meet the disease free Utekkare! so you are here to share in my moment of triumph when I will spell disaster for the Indian chicken industry! You shall see me raise Ranbaxy from its recent debacle in UK and USA, you shall see Cipla ride this wave of grief to greater profits, and you will see the Indians eat more fish than ever before - until the government eats Turkey and makes the medicine / vaccines subsidised... Then I shall turn my attention to some other countries!" All this time, AIDS and Cancer sniggered - since they were atleast uncurables - and would never be out of business no matter how subsidised their medicines were... Let this johnny-come-lately hog the limelight for now.. We are the real killers and we will never be out of favour...
Bird Flur continued to crow about his waxing zenith of his powers... about how the chicken farmers lobby had come to his doorstep to negotiate an agreement - and requested him to bypass India. He said that he wouldnt have infected India if they hadnt reneged on the deal to offer him unlimited access to the chickens in Africa...
And all I could think of was why only Chickens? Why not these stupid pestilential common crows???? And so I asked him, why not crows? After all these creatures were everywhere and could spread the disease much faster than a clucking chicken...
Suddenly there was pin drop silence. Bird Flu turned slowly and the color drained from his face.. He lifted one wing and slapped me across the face. "Dobara mat puchna!!!! Damn fool!" and he turned away.
Malaria and Jaundice took me by the hand and threw me out of the party. I walked home, replaying the events over in my head, thinking that maybe it was for the best and that I have had the opportunity to get close to these diseases.. without getting infected.
As I turned into the dark lane leading to my home, Common Cold, along with Body Ache, Cough, and and Head Ache and Runny Nose jumped out of the darkness and threw me down. As they infected me, they screamed,"That'll teach you to suck up to foreign illnesses.. We demand Poorna Swadeshi!!!!"
utekkare,
Pranay
And since I couldnt refuse, I got togged up in a cotton suit, and tie and trudged along to the party.
To my surprise, the who's who of the illness world had shown up in all their splendour - Chicken Pox, Jaundice, Cholera, Typhoid, Malaria, Dengue Fever and even Leptospirosis had arrived, looking their virulent best, cloistered with their own pet patients. Evidently nobody wanted to be left out on the arrival of Bird Flu on the global stage. Chronic party crashers like Spondilitis, Arthritis, Rheumatism, Asthma, and Obesity had turned up (some even sitting together on a single patient?!), and were seen hero worshipping the industry bigwigs like AIDS, Cancer, Angina, Heart Blockage, and Renal Failure who was hanging around by the bar sipping on Hapless Mortals and Unknown Patients, counting out his pending dialysis sittings and sipping his blood nervously looking around.
Just as the party began losing steam, and the patients started recovering, Bird Flu walked in, like a giant cake being brought in - with Glaxo, Cipla, Ranbaxy, and SKB trailing behind like sycophants, applauding as Bird Flu made it's way towards the dais.
As Bird Flu walked, rumours and murmurs flew about the kind of growth he had accomplished in such a short time, and how with just a few deaths, Bird Flu had grown in stature to an international epidemic. About how skilfully it had operated and the beautiful coup de grace it delivered to unready administrations. About where it had struck so far - Far East, USA, Europe and now India. Sicknesses whispered, "it was only a matter of time before he came to India - with such a large population and consumer base, it would have been hara-kiri to ignore the indian public.
In a corner of the party, sat a small bent deformed demented person, who called himself small pox sat quietly, sipping on a cheap bowl of soup and crackers. Illnesses whispered that he'd blown up the machines to get out. And that IAF had been red in the face trying to deny the stray case and that small pox and its head honchos had been passe - eradicated by the health police for years.
I shouldered my way across the dance floor where Dettol was dancing the forbidden dance of disinfection - alluring but untouchable, and walked towards where Bird Flu was chatting with the health minister, and Cipla's CMD. I coughed quietly to attract its attention, and Bird Flu turned around to greet me as if I was a long lost old pal. "Arre, Its great to finally meet the disease free Utekkare! so you are here to share in my moment of triumph when I will spell disaster for the Indian chicken industry! You shall see me raise Ranbaxy from its recent debacle in UK and USA, you shall see Cipla ride this wave of grief to greater profits, and you will see the Indians eat more fish than ever before - until the government eats Turkey and makes the medicine / vaccines subsidised... Then I shall turn my attention to some other countries!" All this time, AIDS and Cancer sniggered - since they were atleast uncurables - and would never be out of business no matter how subsidised their medicines were... Let this johnny-come-lately hog the limelight for now.. We are the real killers and we will never be out of favour...
Bird Flur continued to crow about his waxing zenith of his powers... about how the chicken farmers lobby had come to his doorstep to negotiate an agreement - and requested him to bypass India. He said that he wouldnt have infected India if they hadnt reneged on the deal to offer him unlimited access to the chickens in Africa...
And all I could think of was why only Chickens? Why not these stupid pestilential common crows???? And so I asked him, why not crows? After all these creatures were everywhere and could spread the disease much faster than a clucking chicken...
Suddenly there was pin drop silence. Bird Flu turned slowly and the color drained from his face.. He lifted one wing and slapped me across the face. "Dobara mat puchna!!!! Damn fool!" and he turned away.
Malaria and Jaundice took me by the hand and threw me out of the party. I walked home, replaying the events over in my head, thinking that maybe it was for the best and that I have had the opportunity to get close to these diseases.. without getting infected.
As I turned into the dark lane leading to my home, Common Cold, along with Body Ache, Cough, and and Head Ache and Runny Nose jumped out of the darkness and threw me down. As they infected me, they screamed,"That'll teach you to suck up to foreign illnesses.. We demand Poorna Swadeshi!!!!"
utekkare,
Pranay
Sunday, February 19, 2006
The Human Body - A user manual
Dear Consumer Spirit,
Thank you for choosing a human body as your preferred means of travel in this specific astral period of travel. As a discerning source of living energy and as a committed traveller of the 3 worlds spanning many millennia, we are pleased that you felt a human body would best propel forward your journey towards Nirvana.
We have a superiorly evolved Human Body series - product name Homo Sapiens series 2006. It has been perfected through trial and error over millions of centuries, and has been subtly refined to what it is today. Ofcourse, we continue to keep ourselves updated in the field of research and if we find superior refinements required we shall update the human shell - But this is a time consuming process and we do conduct experiments with product launches some of which fail, while other succeed. We like to term these as deformities until properly patented and replicable. Examples include hyperextension of elbows to promote off-spin bowling / fast bowling in Cricket, increase bodily hair to resemble bears, sharper reflexes to counter growing requirements of international espionage / terrorism, superior recognition software in the brain functions to aid quicker development, and earlier participation in adult activities.
Now, we would like to introduce you to the key features of this human shell you have decided to purchase for your astral journey.
1. Brain: Showing massive reconfiguration, we have interpolated the thought and action areas, and seperated the grey and white cortical masses. We have provided superb cushioning for the sensitive parts of the brain, and have encased in a titanium equivalent of enmeshed boneplate built covering called the skull. Often used as the symbol of evil and power when combined with 2 rather rudimentary crossbones, these skulls usually survive the harshest of injuries unless treated with utter disdain. We have tried and tested these skulls and we can proudly say that they come with a lifetime warranty. If these should be split or cracked or broken in the course of regular use during this astral journey, we will replace this human shell FREE OF COST with a second human shell in your next astral life.
The human brain is state of the art and is completely filled with features to make your life a living wonder of ease :-
- Unlimited Memory storage (limited by only your imagination!),
- Ease of compartmentalisation (imagine the processing power of a million supercomputers at your disposal!),
contd
Thank you for choosing a human body as your preferred means of travel in this specific astral period of travel. As a discerning source of living energy and as a committed traveller of the 3 worlds spanning many millennia, we are pleased that you felt a human body would best propel forward your journey towards Nirvana.
We have a superiorly evolved Human Body series - product name Homo Sapiens series 2006. It has been perfected through trial and error over millions of centuries, and has been subtly refined to what it is today. Ofcourse, we continue to keep ourselves updated in the field of research and if we find superior refinements required we shall update the human shell - But this is a time consuming process and we do conduct experiments with product launches some of which fail, while other succeed. We like to term these as deformities until properly patented and replicable. Examples include hyperextension of elbows to promote off-spin bowling / fast bowling in Cricket, increase bodily hair to resemble bears, sharper reflexes to counter growing requirements of international espionage / terrorism, superior recognition software in the brain functions to aid quicker development, and earlier participation in adult activities.
Now, we would like to introduce you to the key features of this human shell you have decided to purchase for your astral journey.
1. Brain: Showing massive reconfiguration, we have interpolated the thought and action areas, and seperated the grey and white cortical masses. We have provided superb cushioning for the sensitive parts of the brain, and have encased in a titanium equivalent of enmeshed boneplate built covering called the skull. Often used as the symbol of evil and power when combined with 2 rather rudimentary crossbones, these skulls usually survive the harshest of injuries unless treated with utter disdain. We have tried and tested these skulls and we can proudly say that they come with a lifetime warranty. If these should be split or cracked or broken in the course of regular use during this astral journey, we will replace this human shell FREE OF COST with a second human shell in your next astral life.
The human brain is state of the art and is completely filled with features to make your life a living wonder of ease :-
- Unlimited Memory storage (limited by only your imagination!),
- Ease of compartmentalisation (imagine the processing power of a million supercomputers at your disposal!),
contd
Sunday, February 12, 2006
To the right of what is Left.
I wanted to understand whether it was better being a capitalist or a communist.
So I went to the rally conducted by one of our very illustrious left-party leaders. It was the CPI or the CPI(M) - I cannot remember which. The sickle and the star were everywhere and it blurred my currently myopic vision somewhat.
I reached the venue, and it turned out to be a huge rally. Security goondas for the party had gone to nearby villages and had returned with truckloads of hapless mortals to attend this rally. However, they were superb actors, and raised their hands on cue, and screamed "ki jai" on cue and never dropped the ball. Superb. Just superb.
And I waited to hear the leader talk about communism. I waited to hear them talk about common ownership of the means of production. And a stateless lawful society. And a means to eradicate poverty. And a means to stop corruption. And a way to serve the poor and the homeless and the illiterate to stand on their own feet.
And I waited to hear about the rationalising of labour laws. And about increasing India's footprint in the global world. And about pushing reforms forward. And creating jobs for more people by concentrating on Infrastructure. Like Telecom. Like Roads. Like Airports. Like Pipelines. And waterways. And electricity. And pollution control. And cleaning up our rivers. And our lakes. And our seas. And I waited to hear about competing against the best of the world. And winning. And making our competitive edge better. And about boosting revenues by intelligence, not blind stumbling. About reducing expenditure. And corruption. Destroying corruption and the malaise that fills our system. From top to bottom. And about revamping all those babus that eat the 80% of the 100% sanction and why only 15-20% percent works.
And I waited to hear about strengthening our people's resolve to fight back against terrorism. And bigotry. And oppression. And about building out opportunities for the common man to earn his daily bread. Earn it.
And I waited to hear about a stable government. And a stable decision making parliament. And I waited to hear about support. Not puppet strings.
But I heard about Aanganwadis, and Balwadis, and free handouts, and rerationing food to villagers. And I heard about free power. And more load shedding. And load shedding in Mumbai. And I heard about Worker unions. And strikes. and rasta rokos. And vile and juvenile rebukes aimed about just about anyone.
I heard about government sponsored insurance companies. And road building companies. And I heard about unused MP's funds. And about airport refurbishments. And about evil stock markets. And about no disinvestment. And about choosing what is right for our country from within. And not aping the west.
And I also heard about their angst towards George W Bush. And USA. and UK. and Italy. And their friendship with the erstwhile Soviet Union. And Iran. and Iraq.
And I heard about introducing inheritance tax, and a special tax on rich special consumption. And I heard about widening FBT. And about how foreign scandinavian countries have adopted the foreign tax. And about how rationalising Drawback incentives. And how to mop up another 45,000-50,000 crore.
And the leader then ended the speech by warning that a tug of the strings was all that this government would need to collapse.
Then he got off the podium. He got into a BMW 7 series, while talking on a NOkia 9500 communicator. He took off his neta topi as he sat in the car. The faintest words I could here was :Buy Infosys and hold till the markets start dropping.
I smiled to myself and left.
utekkare,
Pranay
So I went to the rally conducted by one of our very illustrious left-party leaders. It was the CPI or the CPI(M) - I cannot remember which. The sickle and the star were everywhere and it blurred my currently myopic vision somewhat.
I reached the venue, and it turned out to be a huge rally. Security goondas for the party had gone to nearby villages and had returned with truckloads of hapless mortals to attend this rally. However, they were superb actors, and raised their hands on cue, and screamed "ki jai" on cue and never dropped the ball. Superb. Just superb.
And I waited to hear the leader talk about communism. I waited to hear them talk about common ownership of the means of production. And a stateless lawful society. And a means to eradicate poverty. And a means to stop corruption. And a way to serve the poor and the homeless and the illiterate to stand on their own feet.
And I waited to hear about the rationalising of labour laws. And about increasing India's footprint in the global world. And about pushing reforms forward. And creating jobs for more people by concentrating on Infrastructure. Like Telecom. Like Roads. Like Airports. Like Pipelines. And waterways. And electricity. And pollution control. And cleaning up our rivers. And our lakes. And our seas. And I waited to hear about competing against the best of the world. And winning. And making our competitive edge better. And about boosting revenues by intelligence, not blind stumbling. About reducing expenditure. And corruption. Destroying corruption and the malaise that fills our system. From top to bottom. And about revamping all those babus that eat the 80% of the 100% sanction and why only 15-20% percent works.
And I waited to hear about strengthening our people's resolve to fight back against terrorism. And bigotry. And oppression. And about building out opportunities for the common man to earn his daily bread. Earn it.
And I waited to hear about a stable government. And a stable decision making parliament. And I waited to hear about support. Not puppet strings.
But I heard about Aanganwadis, and Balwadis, and free handouts, and rerationing food to villagers. And I heard about free power. And more load shedding. And load shedding in Mumbai. And I heard about Worker unions. And strikes. and rasta rokos. And vile and juvenile rebukes aimed about just about anyone.
I heard about government sponsored insurance companies. And road building companies. And I heard about unused MP's funds. And about airport refurbishments. And about evil stock markets. And about no disinvestment. And about choosing what is right for our country from within. And not aping the west.
And I also heard about their angst towards George W Bush. And USA. and UK. and Italy. And their friendship with the erstwhile Soviet Union. And Iran. and Iraq.
And I heard about introducing inheritance tax, and a special tax on rich special consumption. And I heard about widening FBT. And about how foreign scandinavian countries have adopted the foreign tax. And about how rationalising Drawback incentives. And how to mop up another 45,000-50,000 crore.
And the leader then ended the speech by warning that a tug of the strings was all that this government would need to collapse.
Then he got off the podium. He got into a BMW 7 series, while talking on a NOkia 9500 communicator. He took off his neta topi as he sat in the car. The faintest words I could here was :Buy Infosys and hold till the markets start dropping.
I smiled to myself and left.
utekkare,
Pranay
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Things I will never do
And today when I did things I had promised I would never do, like going to Siddhivinayak, and turning my cell phone off, and bragging about a vacation to Mauritius and chatting in the middle of the day, and talking about my brother's girlfriend, I will talk about things I will never do:
Like feeling superior when a small boy comes up and begs. Like shaving with a shaving brush, and Palmolive Shaving Cream and a Gillette Razor. Like walking up to make friends with strange women in nightclubs. Like asking strange women "would you like to make friendship with me?". Like going to first day first show. Like spending 35,000 bucks on the newest latest cell phone. Like going to Singapore (or Malaysia or Thailand or Mauritius) for a holiday. Like going to a stadium to watch a cricket match. Like going anywhere to watch a football or hockey match. Like travelling to Virar (or Vasai or Naigaon). Like walking upto Siddhivinayak.
Like getting a suit stitched to my size. Like getting anything stitched to wear. Like wearing ultraviolet hair gel. Like wearing yellow trousers. Like wearing white shoes. Like wearing sunglasses in a gym. Like "pumping" weights in the gym for 4 hours straight. Like parading myself in front of an actor's house. Even Amitabh Bachchan's house.
Like marry a Gujarati. Like liking to eat karela. Like live in Dahisar. or Mira Road. or Kalyan. or Kasara. Like own a farmhouse.
And things I will never be able to do:
Like make friends with Abhisheik Bachchan. Like play the guitar. Like drive a car. Like take a day off to go attend a writing workshop. Like take a 'sabbatical'.
Like start a film project or write a film script or a film anything.
Like writing a good script for Darna Mana Hai. Like remembering to use the proper figures of speech and use the dots and commas and full stops where they are supposed to be used in a poem; a story; a script; a sentence. etc etc. Like win a music quiz. Like win a bollywood quiz.
And things that will never happen to me:
Like inheriting a lot of money from someone I never knew. Like receiving a love letter written in some deewani's blood. Like owning a make-up van. Like being asked to sing on screen. or off it. or being asked to do a voice over. or to dub for someone. or to scream "I love the Globus Sale" on radio. and expect to be paid for it. Like winning a prize for answering 3 correct questions on Sholay. or Deewar. or Golmaal. Like having children sitting on a sofa next to me on a stage with a large backdrop at my own reception. Like sitting on a horse for my marriage.
more later,
utekkare,
pranay
Like feeling superior when a small boy comes up and begs. Like shaving with a shaving brush, and Palmolive Shaving Cream and a Gillette Razor. Like walking up to make friends with strange women in nightclubs. Like asking strange women "would you like to make friendship with me?". Like going to first day first show. Like spending 35,000 bucks on the newest latest cell phone. Like going to Singapore (or Malaysia or Thailand or Mauritius) for a holiday. Like going to a stadium to watch a cricket match. Like going anywhere to watch a football or hockey match. Like travelling to Virar (or Vasai or Naigaon). Like walking upto Siddhivinayak.
Like getting a suit stitched to my size. Like getting anything stitched to wear. Like wearing ultraviolet hair gel. Like wearing yellow trousers. Like wearing white shoes. Like wearing sunglasses in a gym. Like "pumping" weights in the gym for 4 hours straight. Like parading myself in front of an actor's house. Even Amitabh Bachchan's house.
Like marry a Gujarati. Like liking to eat karela. Like live in Dahisar. or Mira Road. or Kalyan. or Kasara. Like own a farmhouse.
And things I will never be able to do:
Like make friends with Abhisheik Bachchan. Like play the guitar. Like drive a car. Like take a day off to go attend a writing workshop. Like take a 'sabbatical'.
Like start a film project or write a film script or a film anything.
Like writing a good script for Darna Mana Hai. Like remembering to use the proper figures of speech and use the dots and commas and full stops where they are supposed to be used in a poem; a story; a script; a sentence. etc etc. Like win a music quiz. Like win a bollywood quiz.
And things that will never happen to me:
Like inheriting a lot of money from someone I never knew. Like receiving a love letter written in some deewani's blood. Like owning a make-up van. Like being asked to sing on screen. or off it. or being asked to do a voice over. or to dub for someone. or to scream "I love the Globus Sale" on radio. and expect to be paid for it. Like winning a prize for answering 3 correct questions on Sholay. or Deewar. or Golmaal. Like having children sitting on a sofa next to me on a stage with a large backdrop at my own reception. Like sitting on a horse for my marriage.
more later,
utekkare,
pranay
Monday, February 06, 2006
Monday blues
11:55 AM: Just walked into office. We just have to get into a routine. Wake up at 7, reach Gym by 7.30, come home by 9.00, get ready for office by 9.45, reach office by 10.30 work till 2.30, eat lunch, work till 7.30, come home by 8.15, watch tv and work till 9.30, eat dinner, and collapse by 10.00.
hmm, sounds good. but what about all those US buyers you need to kiss ass with. Im sure they can wait. After all the routine should be god, right.
irfan pathan is out, tendulkar is doing his best to get out, but why dont these pakistani bowlers understand that? all they need to do is bowl legitimate deliveries around his knee roll and hey presto, one less indian legend to worry about.
peshawar is such an amazing word. it conjures up images of john rambo, the CIA, the plain of 4 lions, 5 rivers, 6 pathans, and women who get married into harems.
wish i could write a book on peshawar and the life and times of the affluent and not so affluent living and working there
sort of like a diary. but i need to be white skinned and rich for that, i suppose.
hmm, sounds good. but what about all those US buyers you need to kiss ass with. Im sure they can wait. After all the routine should be god, right.
irfan pathan is out, tendulkar is doing his best to get out, but why dont these pakistani bowlers understand that? all they need to do is bowl legitimate deliveries around his knee roll and hey presto, one less indian legend to worry about.
peshawar is such an amazing word. it conjures up images of john rambo, the CIA, the plain of 4 lions, 5 rivers, 6 pathans, and women who get married into harems.
wish i could write a book on peshawar and the life and times of the affluent and not so affluent living and working there
sort of like a diary. but i need to be white skinned and rich for that, i suppose.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Sunday ka Gyaan - Pranay ki zubaani
And so here I am again on a Sunday double poster (borrowed from the NBA ishtyle double header). Some new points of observation and comment. Also some thoughts for food and intelligent sentences.
Like Narayan Rane should never be allowed to be made Chief Minister. He will make all the bar girls to be re-elected from their constituency, and the national symbol for the Congress will be made a chicken. Gade murge ukhadne nahin chahiye.
Black Horse Festival is on. So is Siddhi Vinayak Maghi Mahotsav. So is One Tree Music Festival. I wonder if I will make it to any of these. Just like I wondered if I would make it to the Banganga festival, the Mumbai festival, the Shopping festival, the Diwali festival, the M.F.Hussain festival, the Upper Classes art festival, the Middle Classes Ambarnath local bhajan festival, and the Shivaji Mitra Mandal carom festival. But I didnt make it to any of those.
Like this is one of those free Sundays there is never a Caferati readmeet on. Like I am always free on a non read meet sunday and always busy on a read meet sunday. Maybe one of these days I will learn the art of not thinking about a readmeet. Planning is futile.
Like AAI should be given the "theka" to make worldclass airports. Let them start with Agartala or Kanyakumari. Maybe we can think of Chennai and Kolkata then.
Like Anil Ambani is realising soon that kicking up his feet and throwing a tantrum will get him nowhere in the real world. Like he is understanding that the Congress is giving out the tenders and contracts for the Airport modernisation, not the Samajwadi party.
Like Rang De Basanti has restored fame to Aamir Khan and that he should always wear his hair short. Like he should understand that any film that calls for a handle bar moustache and flowing tresses should be avoided like wildfire.
Like I got a new phone that has a 1.3 MP, and hotswap, and MMS, and RS-MMC, and MP3 and AAC and GPRS and WAP and XHTML and HTTP and Email and Voicemail and MS-Office. And it is lighter than my earlier phone.
Like Rahul Dravid should stay at No.3. VVS Laxman should retire to Sydney, Australia. And Sachin Tendulkar should become Assistant Coach. This is one of my considered opinions.
Like the Indian cricket team hates chasing. They cannot think of batting more than 30 overs on a 4th innings pitch that is bouncing stump high and is moving more towards the covers than the wicket keeper.
Like Mahindra Singh Dhoni and Virender Sehwag should be given a handicap of 2 each before they come out to bat. Otherwise they will never make a hundred.
And finally, Soaps on Indian TV are existential and optimistically fantastical. It is my way of saying they are crap without saying it directly. Hopefully noone will find and quote my blog when I am rich, famous and writing scripts for consumption.
Like Narayan Rane should never be allowed to be made Chief Minister. He will make all the bar girls to be re-elected from their constituency, and the national symbol for the Congress will be made a chicken. Gade murge ukhadne nahin chahiye.
Black Horse Festival is on. So is Siddhi Vinayak Maghi Mahotsav. So is One Tree Music Festival. I wonder if I will make it to any of these. Just like I wondered if I would make it to the Banganga festival, the Mumbai festival, the Shopping festival, the Diwali festival, the M.F.Hussain festival, the Upper Classes art festival, the Middle Classes Ambarnath local bhajan festival, and the Shivaji Mitra Mandal carom festival. But I didnt make it to any of those.
Like this is one of those free Sundays there is never a Caferati readmeet on. Like I am always free on a non read meet sunday and always busy on a read meet sunday. Maybe one of these days I will learn the art of not thinking about a readmeet. Planning is futile.
Like AAI should be given the "theka" to make worldclass airports. Let them start with Agartala or Kanyakumari. Maybe we can think of Chennai and Kolkata then.
Like Anil Ambani is realising soon that kicking up his feet and throwing a tantrum will get him nowhere in the real world. Like he is understanding that the Congress is giving out the tenders and contracts for the Airport modernisation, not the Samajwadi party.
Like Rang De Basanti has restored fame to Aamir Khan and that he should always wear his hair short. Like he should understand that any film that calls for a handle bar moustache and flowing tresses should be avoided like wildfire.
Like I got a new phone that has a 1.3 MP, and hotswap, and MMS, and RS-MMC, and MP3 and AAC and GPRS and WAP and XHTML and HTTP and Email and Voicemail and MS-Office. And it is lighter than my earlier phone.
Like Rahul Dravid should stay at No.3. VVS Laxman should retire to Sydney, Australia. And Sachin Tendulkar should become Assistant Coach. This is one of my considered opinions.
Like the Indian cricket team hates chasing. They cannot think of batting more than 30 overs on a 4th innings pitch that is bouncing stump high and is moving more towards the covers than the wicket keeper.
Like Mahindra Singh Dhoni and Virender Sehwag should be given a handicap of 2 each before they come out to bat. Otherwise they will never make a hundred.
And finally, Soaps on Indian TV are existential and optimistically fantastical. It is my way of saying they are crap without saying it directly. Hopefully noone will find and quote my blog when I am rich, famous and writing scripts for consumption.
Main aa gaya hoon Teja
"It's not fair. It's just not fair, yaar." I fumed and raged and ranted on and on about the unfairness of the situation.
Aashit seemed to just ignore me. "Chhod na yaar, jaane de. It's just a stupid contest. Prize wize bhi nahin tha. Just 3000 bucks." He chewed contently on the two boomers he seamlessly merged into a coheSive mass of bubblegum, by the persuasive combination of saliva, his upper and lower jaws. "Agli baar dekh lenge. Study karke aana.", he concluded, as if to denote the conversation was over.
We were walking along Flora Fountain, after the stupid Black Horse festival. Ofcourse a few hours earlier it hadn't seemed so stupid. Surprising, how not winning at a fiction contest can make everything seem so trivial suddenly.
"You know, I can appeal against this in a court of law. A consumer court even. I can take them to court!!! I will take them to high court! to Supreme Court! I will khatkhatao the doors of parliament!" Now, I was in my element as a courtroom barrister, fighting imaginary courtroom duels, with robe and all. I was eloquent, and smart, and scoring points. I was getting confessions 'bhari adalat mein', and I was dancing like Akshay Kumar and singing like Kishore Kumar as we walked past the Sessions Court.
"Bas bas, ab band kar. Ghadi ghadi drama karta rehta hai. Stop acting like Utpal dutt in Golmaal."
"Ek ek ko chun chun ke maaroonga! chun chun ke !!!"
Well ok, I know I was acting a little hyper about the whole thing, but being disqualified rankled. OFcourse, and the morbid atmosphere around Cama hospital didnt help either.
"You know, I knew they had it out for me. I knew it when I saw that writer judge hobnobbing with that ex-RJ I used to hang out with. I know he always hated me. On the other hand, it could have been that cute judge I hit on about a year and a half ago.. Wonder why she still has a problem with me. But kya karega, must be my cute irresistable charm. Can't switch it off once I've turned it on!", I mused.
"But yaar, tu toh, you don't understand at all!! It's not about the money! Remember woh kya kehte the Esmero Sir? It's not whether you won or lost but how the game was played. And this was absolute cheating yaar!!", I said.
"And remember what Sangram Singh told him when he said that? Winning is not everything, it is the Only thing."
Strong Xavierite teachings still hold good after 7 years. They never wear off. The man can wear off but the teachings won't.
Aashit was trying hard not to control his own laughter. As he looked at me with derision, and tried to make sense enough to string an entire sentence together, I continued:
"Ofcourse, the entire thing could have been rigged and the finalists and winners pre-decided. Bloody networkers! bottom feeders! Saala, Angrezi ka A bhi nahin aata hai! I could teach them a thing or two about racy prose! What was wrong with my story? What was it? Poora within the limits tha! In English, with a trigger and everything. Even a black horse for good measure. I even added a villain and kept it within 300 words!"
Aashit narrowly missed stepping into a grate covered with old and smelly cabbage leaves, and we wound our way between parked trucks outside Crawford Market. "Yea, yea. Your story was good. In fact it was great. There was suspense, drama, trauma, humanity, truck drivers and school children, there was a hero and a villain. Even a couple of songs. Hmm, I wonder why they trashed it." As he spoke, he jauntily stepped into an old basket kept there. His foot went through the basket, disturbing the little home there. Squawking and screaming, 2 extremely irate chickens retreated rapidly into the shadows of the vegetable market.
"Unka bhi time aayega", I thought. "Chickens are brought to Crawford Market to be eaten. Bachke kahaan jaayenge?"
And I went on, " This is a gross injustice to the scriptwriting youth of our country!! Maybe I should have asked the co-ordinator out. Perhaps that would have helped?"
Aashit laughed and snorted nastily, "She wouldn't even look at you in your wildest dreams!"
"What about that cute chick writing earnestly in the front row? Maybe she didn't win also, did she?"
"You would have known if you'd waited till the end. You shouldn't have tossed the chair aside and left in dramatic fashion!"
"Haan, yaar. But that was so filmy, na? Ekdum Angry young man types."
"Ofcourse, ofcourse. Everyone was so happy to see you leave without breaking any more "props". Producer paise dega na." He said, pointing towards himself.
"So what yaar. Izzat is more important than some 100-200 bucks. And I was going to return the money I owe you. Just that I didn't win this stupid contest na...", I trailed off.
As we entered Badshah, I headed straight for the AC section. "Saab, Dus baje ke baad AC seksun band hai. Idhar baithna padenga." The miyan at the counter yelled.
After we ordered our faloodas, I returned to the topic of the day - Story No.1 by Pranay Srinivasan.
"Kaise fail hua? Now I know how Sanjay Kapoor feels every Friday when he goes out to see his new release. Flop.Flop.FLOP."
Aashit chewed noisily as he took out another Boomer. "Yea, boss. Next time karna. Ekdum fielding karke, reading vagaira karke write a nice story."
"But this was the No.1 story yaar! After this all will be No.2 or downwards. What to do yaar, I can't write anymore. This is too tough!"
Aashit said, "chal I'll talk to Peter on the phone. Abhi tak he must be on the train home." He took out his phone and dialled Peter Griffin. When he got through, he got up and walked out. I got up to accompany him, but he motioned me to wait. Cupping the receiver, he said "Idhar hi ruk. Aata hoon."
The faloodas arrived - predictably superb. I slurped mine down and looked at Aashit's temptingly. I took his glass and thought, "If I were to mix his falooda, that wouldnt be so bad would it? Otherwise it would settle to the bottom. Bechaara, he's trying to talk for me, I can do this much for him." So I mixed the vermicelli, the icecream, the rose, the milk and the subja into the falooda.
After a while and still no sign of Aashit. I thought to myself, "The top portion is getting warm. I should mix it a bit more". So I mixed it and whilst doing so, I saw some melting icecream down the side of the glass. "Must keep it clean", and I licked off the icecream. "Now see what you've done!". "no, no", Another voice said. "Take the top off and pour out the top 1/3rd into your glass. That way it'll stay at the bottom and stay cold." So I poured out the top half and the icecream. "Abhi toh it has become jhoota. Might as well drink it up." So I drank it up.
It was turning 12 and still no Aashit. So I thought, "It’s nearing 12’o’clock. These guys are gonna throw us out anyways. Might as well finish his falooda off. I'd be doing him a favour." So 15 seconds later, I was licking my lips and wiping my mouth with some cheap paper tissues.
As I was getting up to leave, Aashit came in. "Abey kidhar tha tu??" I asked him. "What did Peter say?"
"Peter? Nothing yaar. We finished in 15 seconds. Then my girlfriend called and I was talking to her. Yaar, she's not well. She went out and actually just sneezed. It's pretty serious. I offered to go over to her place, but she said she'll be OK."
"Ya, ya ok. What about the story???" I was impatient. Here I was waiting for him in this sadela Badshah Coldrink House, and he was talking to his GF. Asshole. Prick. Stunted Humanoid.
"Oh, that? Peter said that Zanjeer was already written before by Salim-Javed, and that Zanjeer had a white horse, not a black one. He said, tell Pranay to read the rules."
Aashit was looking around him.
"Wasn't there a falooda here when I left?"
The End.
Aashit seemed to just ignore me. "Chhod na yaar, jaane de. It's just a stupid contest. Prize wize bhi nahin tha. Just 3000 bucks." He chewed contently on the two boomers he seamlessly merged into a coheSive mass of bubblegum, by the persuasive combination of saliva, his upper and lower jaws. "Agli baar dekh lenge. Study karke aana.", he concluded, as if to denote the conversation was over.
We were walking along Flora Fountain, after the stupid Black Horse festival. Ofcourse a few hours earlier it hadn't seemed so stupid. Surprising, how not winning at a fiction contest can make everything seem so trivial suddenly.
"You know, I can appeal against this in a court of law. A consumer court even. I can take them to court!!! I will take them to high court! to Supreme Court! I will khatkhatao the doors of parliament!" Now, I was in my element as a courtroom barrister, fighting imaginary courtroom duels, with robe and all. I was eloquent, and smart, and scoring points. I was getting confessions 'bhari adalat mein', and I was dancing like Akshay Kumar and singing like Kishore Kumar as we walked past the Sessions Court.
"Bas bas, ab band kar. Ghadi ghadi drama karta rehta hai. Stop acting like Utpal dutt in Golmaal."
"Ek ek ko chun chun ke maaroonga! chun chun ke !!!"
Well ok, I know I was acting a little hyper about the whole thing, but being disqualified rankled. OFcourse, and the morbid atmosphere around Cama hospital didnt help either.
"You know, I knew they had it out for me. I knew it when I saw that writer judge hobnobbing with that ex-RJ I used to hang out with. I know he always hated me. On the other hand, it could have been that cute judge I hit on about a year and a half ago.. Wonder why she still has a problem with me. But kya karega, must be my cute irresistable charm. Can't switch it off once I've turned it on!", I mused.
"But yaar, tu toh, you don't understand at all!! It's not about the money! Remember woh kya kehte the Esmero Sir? It's not whether you won or lost but how the game was played. And this was absolute cheating yaar!!", I said.
"And remember what Sangram Singh told him when he said that? Winning is not everything, it is the Only thing."
Strong Xavierite teachings still hold good after 7 years. They never wear off. The man can wear off but the teachings won't.
Aashit was trying hard not to control his own laughter. As he looked at me with derision, and tried to make sense enough to string an entire sentence together, I continued:
"Ofcourse, the entire thing could have been rigged and the finalists and winners pre-decided. Bloody networkers! bottom feeders! Saala, Angrezi ka A bhi nahin aata hai! I could teach them a thing or two about racy prose! What was wrong with my story? What was it? Poora within the limits tha! In English, with a trigger and everything. Even a black horse for good measure. I even added a villain and kept it within 300 words!"
Aashit narrowly missed stepping into a grate covered with old and smelly cabbage leaves, and we wound our way between parked trucks outside Crawford Market. "Yea, yea. Your story was good. In fact it was great. There was suspense, drama, trauma, humanity, truck drivers and school children, there was a hero and a villain. Even a couple of songs. Hmm, I wonder why they trashed it." As he spoke, he jauntily stepped into an old basket kept there. His foot went through the basket, disturbing the little home there. Squawking and screaming, 2 extremely irate chickens retreated rapidly into the shadows of the vegetable market.
"Unka bhi time aayega", I thought. "Chickens are brought to Crawford Market to be eaten. Bachke kahaan jaayenge?"
And I went on, " This is a gross injustice to the scriptwriting youth of our country!! Maybe I should have asked the co-ordinator out. Perhaps that would have helped?"
Aashit laughed and snorted nastily, "She wouldn't even look at you in your wildest dreams!"
"What about that cute chick writing earnestly in the front row? Maybe she didn't win also, did she?"
"You would have known if you'd waited till the end. You shouldn't have tossed the chair aside and left in dramatic fashion!"
"Haan, yaar. But that was so filmy, na? Ekdum Angry young man types."
"Ofcourse, ofcourse. Everyone was so happy to see you leave without breaking any more "props". Producer paise dega na." He said, pointing towards himself.
"So what yaar. Izzat is more important than some 100-200 bucks. And I was going to return the money I owe you. Just that I didn't win this stupid contest na...", I trailed off.
As we entered Badshah, I headed straight for the AC section. "Saab, Dus baje ke baad AC seksun band hai. Idhar baithna padenga." The miyan at the counter yelled.
After we ordered our faloodas, I returned to the topic of the day - Story No.1 by Pranay Srinivasan.
"Kaise fail hua? Now I know how Sanjay Kapoor feels every Friday when he goes out to see his new release. Flop.Flop.FLOP."
Aashit chewed noisily as he took out another Boomer. "Yea, boss. Next time karna. Ekdum fielding karke, reading vagaira karke write a nice story."
"But this was the No.1 story yaar! After this all will be No.2 or downwards. What to do yaar, I can't write anymore. This is too tough!"
Aashit said, "chal I'll talk to Peter on the phone. Abhi tak he must be on the train home." He took out his phone and dialled Peter Griffin. When he got through, he got up and walked out. I got up to accompany him, but he motioned me to wait. Cupping the receiver, he said "Idhar hi ruk. Aata hoon."
The faloodas arrived - predictably superb. I slurped mine down and looked at Aashit's temptingly. I took his glass and thought, "If I were to mix his falooda, that wouldnt be so bad would it? Otherwise it would settle to the bottom. Bechaara, he's trying to talk for me, I can do this much for him." So I mixed the vermicelli, the icecream, the rose, the milk and the subja into the falooda.
After a while and still no sign of Aashit. I thought to myself, "The top portion is getting warm. I should mix it a bit more". So I mixed it and whilst doing so, I saw some melting icecream down the side of the glass. "Must keep it clean", and I licked off the icecream. "Now see what you've done!". "no, no", Another voice said. "Take the top off and pour out the top 1/3rd into your glass. That way it'll stay at the bottom and stay cold." So I poured out the top half and the icecream. "Abhi toh it has become jhoota. Might as well drink it up." So I drank it up.
It was turning 12 and still no Aashit. So I thought, "It’s nearing 12’o’clock. These guys are gonna throw us out anyways. Might as well finish his falooda off. I'd be doing him a favour." So 15 seconds later, I was licking my lips and wiping my mouth with some cheap paper tissues.
As I was getting up to leave, Aashit came in. "Abey kidhar tha tu??" I asked him. "What did Peter say?"
"Peter? Nothing yaar. We finished in 15 seconds. Then my girlfriend called and I was talking to her. Yaar, she's not well. She went out and actually just sneezed. It's pretty serious. I offered to go over to her place, but she said she'll be OK."
"Ya, ya ok. What about the story???" I was impatient. Here I was waiting for him in this sadela Badshah Coldrink House, and he was talking to his GF. Asshole. Prick. Stunted Humanoid.
"Oh, that? Peter said that Zanjeer was already written before by Salim-Javed, and that Zanjeer had a white horse, not a black one. He said, tell Pranay to read the rules."
Aashit was looking around him.
"Wasn't there a falooda here when I left?"
The End.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
A lot of articles
I have written many great and enormously inspiring articles. Funny ones. Aggressive ones. Sentimental ones. Subtle ones.
I have written articles about politicians. About film stars. About poverty and abject starvation and hunger and deprivation. About suicidal maniacs and their mental though processes. About social workers who extort money using poor dejected labourers using conniving policemen. About rising fuel prices and about falling car prices. About EMI's and hire purchase and buy-now-pay-later and interest schemes and investment potential and mutual funds and about Securities Exchange Board of India and about money-back and endowment and whole-life and maha-life and about other insurance salesman who make your life miserable on an ongoing basis. About office automation hardware and telephone lines. About mammoth MNC's who behave worse than Government organisations and about thieves who dress up in suits, get paid 6 figure salaries and plot their days work around overbilling your neighbour.
And I have written articles about Cricket. Yes, I love those ones. About Sachin and his fake illnesses and injuries. About Saurav and his fake pride and his fake control on cricket on bouncy pitches against short pitched bowling. About Anil Kumble and the art of bowling leg spin deliveries that spin from leg stump to off stump on a regular basis on a shirtfront wicket. About Dinesh Karthick and dying a silent death without doing anything wrong. About Virender Sehwag and Gautam Gambhir and their sweet short opening partnerships. About Chappell and his gesture of goodwill to Calcutta. About Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar and their many fifties and even more hundreds and their records and their brilliance and their single minded capitalistic aggression and a really short line about how many world cups they won their countries.
And I have written sentimental articles. Beautiful ones. About flowing rivers, and impressive mountains and green pastures and silver streams, and wonderful orchards, and round luscious apples and wicker gates and peasant girls dressed in designer torn gowns tending their flocks of sheep with artistically carved staffs of wood. About dying mothers and penitent sons. About bottles of expended glycerine and overflowing emotions. About tales of heroism, blood, toil, valour and honour. About sacrifice and dedication and girls from villages, who study by the light of their wicker lamps who score exceedingly well and get scholarships from otherwise blunt nosed corporate houses and become a success in their own right. About CRY and Akanksha and little known tales of great honesty and perseverance.
And I have written melancholy articles. That begin with a witticism and dramatically deteriorate into a mess of blurted out platitudes. About my teenage angst and my friends who stabbed my back with notorious regularity. About my girlfriends and the woman I yearned for, for almost 16 years. About my pimpled dreams and my scarring nightmares. About a soldier gazing into an empty piece of paper thinking what he would write to his sweetheart if he only knew how to. About a cow stuck in a wire mesh fence, screaming out in agony.
And I have written some other articles too. But you cannot read any of them. Because the path from my brain to my hands is a long and arduous one. None of the articles survive.
utekkare,
pranay
I have written articles about politicians. About film stars. About poverty and abject starvation and hunger and deprivation. About suicidal maniacs and their mental though processes. About social workers who extort money using poor dejected labourers using conniving policemen. About rising fuel prices and about falling car prices. About EMI's and hire purchase and buy-now-pay-later and interest schemes and investment potential and mutual funds and about Securities Exchange Board of India and about money-back and endowment and whole-life and maha-life and about other insurance salesman who make your life miserable on an ongoing basis. About office automation hardware and telephone lines. About mammoth MNC's who behave worse than Government organisations and about thieves who dress up in suits, get paid 6 figure salaries and plot their days work around overbilling your neighbour.
And I have written articles about Cricket. Yes, I love those ones. About Sachin and his fake illnesses and injuries. About Saurav and his fake pride and his fake control on cricket on bouncy pitches against short pitched bowling. About Anil Kumble and the art of bowling leg spin deliveries that spin from leg stump to off stump on a regular basis on a shirtfront wicket. About Dinesh Karthick and dying a silent death without doing anything wrong. About Virender Sehwag and Gautam Gambhir and their sweet short opening partnerships. About Chappell and his gesture of goodwill to Calcutta. About Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar and their many fifties and even more hundreds and their records and their brilliance and their single minded capitalistic aggression and a really short line about how many world cups they won their countries.
And I have written sentimental articles. Beautiful ones. About flowing rivers, and impressive mountains and green pastures and silver streams, and wonderful orchards, and round luscious apples and wicker gates and peasant girls dressed in designer torn gowns tending their flocks of sheep with artistically carved staffs of wood. About dying mothers and penitent sons. About bottles of expended glycerine and overflowing emotions. About tales of heroism, blood, toil, valour and honour. About sacrifice and dedication and girls from villages, who study by the light of their wicker lamps who score exceedingly well and get scholarships from otherwise blunt nosed corporate houses and become a success in their own right. About CRY and Akanksha and little known tales of great honesty and perseverance.
And I have written melancholy articles. That begin with a witticism and dramatically deteriorate into a mess of blurted out platitudes. About my teenage angst and my friends who stabbed my back with notorious regularity. About my girlfriends and the woman I yearned for, for almost 16 years. About my pimpled dreams and my scarring nightmares. About a soldier gazing into an empty piece of paper thinking what he would write to his sweetheart if he only knew how to. About a cow stuck in a wire mesh fence, screaming out in agony.
And I have written some other articles too. But you cannot read any of them. Because the path from my brain to my hands is a long and arduous one. None of the articles survive.
utekkare,
pranay
Sunday, October 30, 2005
3000 MILES FROM GRACELAND - Flash Fiction Entry
3000 MILES FROM GRACELAND
But sadly, she could not go.
Ann sighed, pulling herself up by the bedpost. If only, she could go out more. But, she could settle for having the house all to herself.
She busied herself with cleaning the bathing pots. She reached back for the soap, and she had almost turned back when she rubbed her eyes in surprise. Was that a broom and a pail doing the tango together? As if on cue, A slightly overweight, middle-aged lady, with an over-smooth skin complexion, walked in. A clap of her hands, retired the broom to its corner, and the pails stopped banging around.
"Are you an angel?", Ann asked in trepidation. "No, I'm just the fairy god mother. Call me Oprah.” She hurried on, "I'll cut to the chase. This is a flash fiction piece, and I don’t have time to make a big entrance.",
She continued, "I'm here because tonight is a very important date in your life; Your future is at stake. You are going to get LUCKY!! Tonight is your INDEPENDENCE night!!“
"Uh, well, oh, Why me?" Ann stuttered. "Oh that's simple dear. God saw you bathing yesterday and thought that you'll be quite the treat for him especially after he saw what that Nielsen fellow and you accomplished. We're quite excited about you."
"So Ann, whenever you're ready." Oprah waved her wand and Ann was sitting on a leather couch, inside a gleaming carriage drawn by 6 of the most beautiful white Arabian horses. Ann had been transformed into a figure of radiance, in an opulent silk-chiffon dress, with puf sleeves in the latest Vogue fashion with spangles, sequins, and glittering gold embroidery.
Ann looked down, and suddenly blurted out, "But Oprah, I know how this ends! I wow the crowds, dance with the prince, forget about the midnight deadline, and run off leaving a crystal shoe behind. And the next morning, he runs from home to home, fitting the shoe onto every girl's foot, but obviously it will fit only me, and soon enough I will be the 43 rd lucky woman to be had by the fat over-endowed Prince with the tight leather pants, the googoo hairdo, the soft gut and the sagging man-breasts." "But, I can't understand one thing… WHY ON EARTH are my shoes blue suede instead of crystal…..???", and before Oprah could respond, A bolt of lightning hit the carriage and burnt the girl to a cinder. And as she died, she heard a deep baritone singing mournfully, and Oprah sighing, "Now, look what you've done."
Priscilla sat up with a start, drenched in sweat. She was breathing heavily, and her bedclothes lay in disarray. She reached from the greyish-white pills on the bedside table and swallowed two, as she oriented herself. She peered out of the half-drawn curtains, and the neon glare of the Vegas Strip made her realise that she was 3000 Miles from Graceland. She turned over and was asleep before her drugged head hit the pillow.
(C) Pranay Srinivasan 2005
Word Count: 499 words :D
But sadly, she could not go.
Ann sighed, pulling herself up by the bedpost. If only, she could go out more. But, she could settle for having the house all to herself.
She busied herself with cleaning the bathing pots. She reached back for the soap, and she had almost turned back when she rubbed her eyes in surprise. Was that a broom and a pail doing the tango together? As if on cue, A slightly overweight, middle-aged lady, with an over-smooth skin complexion, walked in. A clap of her hands, retired the broom to its corner, and the pails stopped banging around.
"Are you an angel?", Ann asked in trepidation. "No, I'm just the fairy god mother. Call me Oprah.” She hurried on, "I'll cut to the chase. This is a flash fiction piece, and I don’t have time to make a big entrance.",
She continued, "I'm here because tonight is a very important date in your life; Your future is at stake. You are going to get LUCKY!! Tonight is your INDEPENDENCE night!!“
"Uh, well, oh, Why me?" Ann stuttered. "Oh that's simple dear. God saw you bathing yesterday and thought that you'll be quite the treat for him especially after he saw what that Nielsen fellow and you accomplished. We're quite excited about you."
"So Ann, whenever you're ready." Oprah waved her wand and Ann was sitting on a leather couch, inside a gleaming carriage drawn by 6 of the most beautiful white Arabian horses. Ann had been transformed into a figure of radiance, in an opulent silk-chiffon dress, with puf sleeves in the latest Vogue fashion with spangles, sequins, and glittering gold embroidery.
Ann looked down, and suddenly blurted out, "But Oprah, I know how this ends! I wow the crowds, dance with the prince, forget about the midnight deadline, and run off leaving a crystal shoe behind. And the next morning, he runs from home to home, fitting the shoe onto every girl's foot, but obviously it will fit only me, and soon enough I will be the 43 rd lucky woman to be had by the fat over-endowed Prince with the tight leather pants, the googoo hairdo, the soft gut and the sagging man-breasts." "But, I can't understand one thing… WHY ON EARTH are my shoes blue suede instead of crystal…..???", and before Oprah could respond, A bolt of lightning hit the carriage and burnt the girl to a cinder. And as she died, she heard a deep baritone singing mournfully, and Oprah sighing, "Now, look what you've done."
Priscilla sat up with a start, drenched in sweat. She was breathing heavily, and her bedclothes lay in disarray. She reached from the greyish-white pills on the bedside table and swallowed two, as she oriented herself. She peered out of the half-drawn curtains, and the neon glare of the Vegas Strip made her realise that she was 3000 Miles from Graceland. She turned over and was asleep before her drugged head hit the pillow.
(C) Pranay Srinivasan 2005
Word Count: 499 words :D
Style justaposed with substance
I am not stylish. Not even close. I dont even purport to appear stylish. At my very best, I am gauche.
But, every saturday night, I like to stretch up as tall as I can, and stare at myself in the mirror at 9.30 PM whilst deciding what to wear when I go out and party. I like to take time over what shoes I must wear, and what hairstyle I must employ, and which conditioner sticks less to my hair, and what is that elusive substance that will make my face look less grumpy than the 6th dwarf.
Ofcourse, I am urbane, and innately brilliant, and intelligent, and I can make conversation about anything under the sun, and I can make people laugh and I can understand complex metaphysical debates. But all that is hidden under a receding hairline and an advancing tummyline.
So, I feel that unless we are writing in a cocoon that caters to only the immediate self, it would be folly to disregard the garnish of the apt figure of speech, the topping of the appropriate example, the subtle after taste of a deeper meaning conveyed through simple sentences.
And, if we are to gain the apprecation of our fellow writers, our reading audience, and garner praise, success, and the approval of the masses, we must, we must try to present our literary offerings without the bogeys of typos dotting our clerical landscape.
For, I firmly believe that contrary to Ayn Rand's beliefs, without our peer approval, it is impossible for us to accomplish that which we have set out to achieve - literary greatness, and satisfaction of having written a sound piece of prose or poetry that will find a place among the upper echelons of writings.
utekkare,
pranay
But, every saturday night, I like to stretch up as tall as I can, and stare at myself in the mirror at 9.30 PM whilst deciding what to wear when I go out and party. I like to take time over what shoes I must wear, and what hairstyle I must employ, and which conditioner sticks less to my hair, and what is that elusive substance that will make my face look less grumpy than the 6th dwarf.
Ofcourse, I am urbane, and innately brilliant, and intelligent, and I can make conversation about anything under the sun, and I can make people laugh and I can understand complex metaphysical debates. But all that is hidden under a receding hairline and an advancing tummyline.
So, I feel that unless we are writing in a cocoon that caters to only the immediate self, it would be folly to disregard the garnish of the apt figure of speech, the topping of the appropriate example, the subtle after taste of a deeper meaning conveyed through simple sentences.
And, if we are to gain the apprecation of our fellow writers, our reading audience, and garner praise, success, and the approval of the masses, we must, we must try to present our literary offerings without the bogeys of typos dotting our clerical landscape.
For, I firmly believe that contrary to Ayn Rand's beliefs, without our peer approval, it is impossible for us to accomplish that which we have set out to achieve - literary greatness, and satisfaction of having written a sound piece of prose or poetry that will find a place among the upper echelons of writings.
utekkare,
pranay
A Matter of Greed - Flash Fiction Entry
A matter of greed
On a deserted road, in a village about 65 miles from Kiev, a Rolls Royce drove down a dark lane.
Yuri rubbed his hands together through his woolen gloves, wondering why his boss had chosen this god-forsaken day for his adventure. He leaned out of the window and saw dark clouds, pregnant with an eminent snowstorm. The engine purred, emitting a stream of smoke as it worked overtime to keep the interior warm.
The car's owner, Alexei however seemed oblivious as he searched for the lamp-post that marked his final destination. As he caught sight of the gnarled remains of a lamp-post, he said,"Yuri. Right there, by that post." As the car stopped, it began to snow.
Alexei reached the lamppost and examined it carefully. He stepped into the third door down the road. Only half a batwing remained. He pulled out a torch from his overcoat pocket and walked in. He reached the bar, and ran his hand along under the bar, until he reached a packet taped to the inside, that held a large key. He raced across the bar to the large steel safe -vault, that lay exposed. He turned the key in the keyhole. The door opened slowly, creaking on it's hinges. As it opened, he shined his torchlight into it's interior. His expression slowly turned from a huge smile to shock to dismay to exasperation, his face aging 30 years in 30 seconds. The inside was wiped clean. A small note was attached to the back of the safe.
It said simply, " You shouldn’t trifle with Lili, young man." As he read the small note, he pictured an old, pale small woman, losing hair, curled up in pain on her hospital bed, battling the final stages of cancer, dying, telling him about her life’s savings held in a vault in a tavern near Chernobyl, now abandoned. How she wanted him to get it for her. How he had planned to keep it all.
He stormed out of the abandoned tavern, pushing through knee-deep snow towards the car. As he reached the lamppost, he looked about him but he saw no headlights around. He stomped about, looking for the car. As he returned to the lamppost, now only a stump above the snow, he pointed his torch and saw a note tacked to the lamppost, written in Yuri's crisp Cyrillic script.
Alexei, suddenly cold in his inadequate overcoat, shivered as he heard the bone-chilling cry of a wolf-pack.
Miles away, Yuri in his driving seat behind the wheel, heard the wolf's howl. He winced as the Rolls entered the outskirts of the city.
(word count: 491 words)
utekkare,
Pranay
On a deserted road, in a village about 65 miles from Kiev, a Rolls Royce drove down a dark lane.
Yuri rubbed his hands together through his woolen gloves, wondering why his boss had chosen this god-forsaken day for his adventure. He leaned out of the window and saw dark clouds, pregnant with an eminent snowstorm. The engine purred, emitting a stream of smoke as it worked overtime to keep the interior warm.
The car's owner, Alexei however seemed oblivious as he searched for the lamp-post that marked his final destination. As he caught sight of the gnarled remains of a lamp-post, he said,"Yuri. Right there, by that post." As the car stopped, it began to snow.
Alexei reached the lamppost and examined it carefully. He stepped into the third door down the road. Only half a batwing remained. He pulled out a torch from his overcoat pocket and walked in. He reached the bar, and ran his hand along under the bar, until he reached a packet taped to the inside, that held a large key. He raced across the bar to the large steel safe -vault, that lay exposed. He turned the key in the keyhole. The door opened slowly, creaking on it's hinges. As it opened, he shined his torchlight into it's interior. His expression slowly turned from a huge smile to shock to dismay to exasperation, his face aging 30 years in 30 seconds. The inside was wiped clean. A small note was attached to the back of the safe.
It said simply, " You shouldn’t trifle with Lili, young man." As he read the small note, he pictured an old, pale small woman, losing hair, curled up in pain on her hospital bed, battling the final stages of cancer, dying, telling him about her life’s savings held in a vault in a tavern near Chernobyl, now abandoned. How she wanted him to get it for her. How he had planned to keep it all.
He stormed out of the abandoned tavern, pushing through knee-deep snow towards the car. As he reached the lamppost, he looked about him but he saw no headlights around. He stomped about, looking for the car. As he returned to the lamppost, now only a stump above the snow, he pointed his torch and saw a note tacked to the lamppost, written in Yuri's crisp Cyrillic script.
Alexei, suddenly cold in his inadequate overcoat, shivered as he heard the bone-chilling cry of a wolf-pack.
Miles away, Yuri in his driving seat behind the wheel, heard the wolf's howl. He winced as the Rolls entered the outskirts of the city.
(word count: 491 words)
utekkare,
Pranay
Saturday, August 13, 2005
A long weekend
And today is the 13th of August. Nothing momentous on its own (Actually anything with the number 13 in it is distinctly considered un-momentous), unless it is conjoint with the fact that it is also a Saturday. A second Saturday. And just 3 weeks after the rainiest of rainy days. And so, it is a day of occasion, since it heralds the beginning of a 3 day weekend. Yes, 3 complete holidays. 72 hours of sleeping, eating, watching Inane TV Shows, Amitabh Bachchan movies, Star Sports, NDTV Profit and KBC, and doing not much else.
When I was in school, I used to be in the NCC. No no, not the National Chappal Chors, but the National Cadet Corp. The days preceding August 15th usually were very hectic, in preparation of the Independence Day flag hoisting and the demonstrations we put up.I remember buying hacksaws from Sion Hardware Stores to make up machine guns from PVC Pipe so we could stage a fake India V/S Pakistan war. The Indians had machine guns and the pakistanis had twigs. A very good example of our military superiority. And our principal always took this opportunity to speak to the sparse crowd about National Heritage, and World Peace, and Honour for your Country, and Serving you Nation. And the boys were looking at the girls who had arrived and wondering if there was half a chance that they might get to go out for snacks after the speech was over. And the girls were preening for the guys, and were trying to decide which lucky guy to bestow the full glory of their attentions with. And the rest of us would just look at each other, surreptiously scratch our backs through the terry cloth material and yawn. Ofcourse the next morning, all the students who had slept in that morning, would look at us and snigger amongst their friends.
On other independence days, when the principal was feeling the effects of last night's whiskey, the school would look deserted and ex-students would turn up with their girlfriends to snuggle in nooks and crannies of the campus, and the basketball coach would call for extra practice in the morning, and we would be running around the basketball ground rather than parading on it. And then we would go home and take a bath, catch up on our homework, and watch "Gandhi" in hindi on DD-1. Surprising that a movie made by Sir David Attenborough and starring Ben Kingsley as Gandhi would be termed as nationalistic and patriotic. In a population of a billion people, a Britisher was asked to act as Gandhi. But these questions were taboo.
And watching films like Karma, and Mr India, and Bhagat Singh movies. And buying flags from street urchins with tachni pins to pin up on your clothes, and buying flag umbrellas to put up in your car, and watching RSS swayamsevaks hoist the flag in sheets of rain on the playground in their khaki shorts and white shirts.
Ofcourse, once you grow up, you are so much more aware of your responsibilities and your duties and your honour for your country and your nationalistic fervour is at its highest. And since you are working to contribute towards your country's GDP and you are a cog in the wheels that turn the nation's economy, it is but natural that you must take a break for a while from your back-breaking toil.
And some of us want to take off to Pune, and Lonavla and Khandala, and Matheran, with 3 day weekend packages, and newly wed couples and children jumping up and down with bright blue and shocking pink polyester-cotton shirts with teddy bears and swans printed on them, and plastic caps and plastic bags of sev, and chivda, and dabbas of achar and thepla and vegetarian resort hotels and mist covered mountains, and verdant greenery with empty packets of Ruffle Lays, and Uncle Chipps and Pickwicks Wafers, and Simba Chips peeking out of the verdant greenery and empty Frooti tetrapaks blending in with the verdant greenery and little ponies carrying big aunties and uncles huffing and puffing along the small muddy mountain paths, and cheap tennis shoes with nobbly soles and red mud sticking between the knobs, and using a stick to clean the mud from the knobs like treacle from teeth. And strawberry fudge, and mid chikki and water fountains with no water spouting from them and little toy trains and mungphali on quaint hillside stations and Neral Station flagstones and sitting on the floor without a care in the world.
And some of us want to just laze around the house and maybe go out into Mumbai when it isnt that crowded. And walk along the deserted footpaths from Mcdonalds (used to be Empire Restaurant) upto Khadi Emporium, and then back from American Bakery upto GPO and the Nepalis selling sweaters on the footpath. And walk across an empty parking lot across Flora Fountain, past Kay Davy's department store, opposite HSBC Bank, and Standard Chartered Bank, and past Khyber lane, where the rich and relaxed people from Cuffe Parade, and Marine Drive and Cumballa Hill and Churchgate come to spend the money they save from Rent Control on lunch. And past Kapoor Lamp Shades and past Rhythm House, and the roadside artists drawing large lifelike pictures of Sai Baba and Hanuman and Ganesha on which there are silver coins, and walking past Chiquitta's with their 32 rupee Chicken Patties and past the first ever Apna Bazaar, and onwards past Cecil Court with Texprocil offices on their top floor and other big important offices in the buildings and past Bade Miya, closed, waiting for the night to begin, and past the Victoria-wallahs past the bombing-wallah parking lot to Gateway of India populated by tourists and pigeons and postcard sellers and coin-operated telescope wallahs who allow you to peer out at oil tankers and Old Woman's Island and Elephanta, and Cargo Ships. And you could go for a ride on a launch to Elephanta and eat packed Kheema-Pav and watch the cuddling couples in the caves and run down the broad steps wildly and have your Frooti stolen by even more monkeys, and buy a stick to run in the water past the cargo ships and the oil tankers and lose the stick halfway. And walk past the twinkling lights of the half-evening to Churchgate Bus Depot and sit in the empty No.5 Double Decker right in front and let the rain, spray and the wind hit your hair as you go home.
Ofcourse, some of us would actually like to sleep through most of Saturday, wake up on Sunday in time for lunch, and then sleep some more, till it is time to greet Independence Day with a few shots of Vodka and Sprite.
And since August 15th is a dry day, we catch up on all our sleep, until it is Tuesday morning again and we can drag ourselves off to work again.
utekkare,
pranay
When I was in school, I used to be in the NCC. No no, not the National Chappal Chors, but the National Cadet Corp. The days preceding August 15th usually were very hectic, in preparation of the Independence Day flag hoisting and the demonstrations we put up.I remember buying hacksaws from Sion Hardware Stores to make up machine guns from PVC Pipe so we could stage a fake India V/S Pakistan war. The Indians had machine guns and the pakistanis had twigs. A very good example of our military superiority. And our principal always took this opportunity to speak to the sparse crowd about National Heritage, and World Peace, and Honour for your Country, and Serving you Nation. And the boys were looking at the girls who had arrived and wondering if there was half a chance that they might get to go out for snacks after the speech was over. And the girls were preening for the guys, and were trying to decide which lucky guy to bestow the full glory of their attentions with. And the rest of us would just look at each other, surreptiously scratch our backs through the terry cloth material and yawn. Ofcourse the next morning, all the students who had slept in that morning, would look at us and snigger amongst their friends.
On other independence days, when the principal was feeling the effects of last night's whiskey, the school would look deserted and ex-students would turn up with their girlfriends to snuggle in nooks and crannies of the campus, and the basketball coach would call for extra practice in the morning, and we would be running around the basketball ground rather than parading on it. And then we would go home and take a bath, catch up on our homework, and watch "Gandhi" in hindi on DD-1. Surprising that a movie made by Sir David Attenborough and starring Ben Kingsley as Gandhi would be termed as nationalistic and patriotic. In a population of a billion people, a Britisher was asked to act as Gandhi. But these questions were taboo.
And watching films like Karma, and Mr India, and Bhagat Singh movies. And buying flags from street urchins with tachni pins to pin up on your clothes, and buying flag umbrellas to put up in your car, and watching RSS swayamsevaks hoist the flag in sheets of rain on the playground in their khaki shorts and white shirts.
Ofcourse, once you grow up, you are so much more aware of your responsibilities and your duties and your honour for your country and your nationalistic fervour is at its highest. And since you are working to contribute towards your country's GDP and you are a cog in the wheels that turn the nation's economy, it is but natural that you must take a break for a while from your back-breaking toil.
And some of us want to take off to Pune, and Lonavla and Khandala, and Matheran, with 3 day weekend packages, and newly wed couples and children jumping up and down with bright blue and shocking pink polyester-cotton shirts with teddy bears and swans printed on them, and plastic caps and plastic bags of sev, and chivda, and dabbas of achar and thepla and vegetarian resort hotels and mist covered mountains, and verdant greenery with empty packets of Ruffle Lays, and Uncle Chipps and Pickwicks Wafers, and Simba Chips peeking out of the verdant greenery and empty Frooti tetrapaks blending in with the verdant greenery and little ponies carrying big aunties and uncles huffing and puffing along the small muddy mountain paths, and cheap tennis shoes with nobbly soles and red mud sticking between the knobs, and using a stick to clean the mud from the knobs like treacle from teeth. And strawberry fudge, and mid chikki and water fountains with no water spouting from them and little toy trains and mungphali on quaint hillside stations and Neral Station flagstones and sitting on the floor without a care in the world.
And some of us want to just laze around the house and maybe go out into Mumbai when it isnt that crowded. And walk along the deserted footpaths from Mcdonalds (used to be Empire Restaurant) upto Khadi Emporium, and then back from American Bakery upto GPO and the Nepalis selling sweaters on the footpath. And walk across an empty parking lot across Flora Fountain, past Kay Davy's department store, opposite HSBC Bank, and Standard Chartered Bank, and past Khyber lane, where the rich and relaxed people from Cuffe Parade, and Marine Drive and Cumballa Hill and Churchgate come to spend the money they save from Rent Control on lunch. And past Kapoor Lamp Shades and past Rhythm House, and the roadside artists drawing large lifelike pictures of Sai Baba and Hanuman and Ganesha on which there are silver coins, and walking past Chiquitta's with their 32 rupee Chicken Patties and past the first ever Apna Bazaar, and onwards past Cecil Court with Texprocil offices on their top floor and other big important offices in the buildings and past Bade Miya, closed, waiting for the night to begin, and past the Victoria-wallahs past the bombing-wallah parking lot to Gateway of India populated by tourists and pigeons and postcard sellers and coin-operated telescope wallahs who allow you to peer out at oil tankers and Old Woman's Island and Elephanta, and Cargo Ships. And you could go for a ride on a launch to Elephanta and eat packed Kheema-Pav and watch the cuddling couples in the caves and run down the broad steps wildly and have your Frooti stolen by even more monkeys, and buy a stick to run in the water past the cargo ships and the oil tankers and lose the stick halfway. And walk past the twinkling lights of the half-evening to Churchgate Bus Depot and sit in the empty No.5 Double Decker right in front and let the rain, spray and the wind hit your hair as you go home.
Ofcourse, some of us would actually like to sleep through most of Saturday, wake up on Sunday in time for lunch, and then sleep some more, till it is time to greet Independence Day with a few shots of Vodka and Sprite.
And since August 15th is a dry day, we catch up on all our sleep, until it is Tuesday morning again and we can drag ourselves off to work again.
utekkare,
pranay
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