AS THE DAY FADES

It is 5.30 p.m. and I am an hour away from my time of departure. But as the day draws to a close, my mind revises this sms sent by a very close friend of mine:

After failing twice to climb, Emund Hillary challenged Mt. Everest.

“I will come again & conquer you. Because as a mountain you can not grow. But as a human, I can…”

But why this sms seems so special today. It is because of the confidence that I imbibed from a human voice. It is said our lives are made of dreams. And there was a dream we all wanted to transform into reality. It was a campus I wanted him to step into and create a history of sorts. Some how this was his first roughest brush with the reality of life! The reality is all dreams in our life don’t achieve fruition at one go. He sounded a bit displeased but also sounded confident that he will load his guns again to train it on the impossible. I know, he will do it! Because he is the brightest and the best. Failure is a word that has never appeared in his dictionary of life.

- vociferous

A DAY CALLED (SUN)DAY

From my childhood days till date I anxiously await the first day of this week. Aptly named Sunday, it still doesn’t fail to charm me. The only exception over the years the many Sundays of my life have made is the way they have gone from lazy to crazy. Not that I was a lazy bump to remain glued to the bed with my face tuck tightly in a softy lofty pillow. The latest record of continuing to sleep late on a Sunday must have been 11 a.m. with Mom making no effort to wake me up. She must have been thinking that I was tired. But I wasn’t tired but going through the toughest phase of my life. Now that phase having disappeared or on temporary debacle momentarily, I feel that Sundays are eventful.

May 24, 2009 was one such Sunday. It seemed to begin on a candid note but also displayed signals of getting tougher by afternoon. The unparalleled varieties of birds turn by turn kept singing hymns of the approaching Mumbai monsoons. The decibel levels kept rising higher and higher. Not willing to challenge their versatile melodic talents, I woke up. Being a holiday, morning walk or a brisk jog was out of the question. After having accomplished my morning chores, I dropped in at my local hair cutter’s very economical joint. His dancing fingers trimmed the extra bits of my now betraying hairline and also cleansed my face of the stubble that developed over the weekend. Carrying a copy of my favourite Sunday edition of Hindustan Times I headed back home. Having bathed myself and having offered prayers to God, I pierced my teeth in the double egged omelette my mom had kept ready for me. I settled down to do some brisk reading. My interior designer Mr. Demand walked in with that same innocent smile of his. Laughingly we discussed the programme for the next three days. Thereafter I sat on my CD Dawn and drove straight to my best friend’s residence, which is being redone for his arrival this weekend. Citing tension and disagreement with the painter quietly doing his job dissatisfiedly, I whisked my way to the neighbouring town famed for brands of duplicity. Over there I got the tail of my lovely bike rectified. Some junkie seems to have not taken to its beauty kindly and had pressed it hard enough to get damaged! Considering the audacity of approaching monsoons, I put a polythene protector over my existing cloth seat cover. Curious as a kid, I took great interest in listening to the eardrum threatening noises of horns blown out especially for me by the shopkeeper’s shop help guy. From there I again headed back home. A dry throat could have hardly resisted the glimpse of a friendly makeshift sugarcane juice vendor. I had downed one glass when Mr. Demand again showed up asking for a monetary helps of Rs. 4k to buy some more material for my friend’s place. I helped him with the same pleading not to ask for more. After coming back to my home, I had my lunch. Catching up with my all time favourite movie Lagaan was fun multiplied with the delicious meal mom had cooked for me. The moment the end credits of the film rolled on the screen I was back to my friend’s place. The painter was wrapping up for the day. This time he made his voice heard by complaining about the insufficient supply of materials at a place as far as New Zealand from India. My head too rolled in outrage. Abducting the painter on my bike, I arrived at Mr. Demand’s seedy joint. While parking my bike, I saw a half nude man being chased by his half nude seductress on the street in broad daylight. Not letting myself being distracted by the momentary pleasure play, I trained my guns on Mr. Demand’s brother. Quite composed and patiently, he bluffed that all the required materials will be delivered at the venue instantly. For two hours, Mr. Demand seemed to have absconded to some Middle Eastern desert region. On the other hand, I also learnt about the electrical complication at my friend’s new place. It seems the not-so-efficient governmental authorities had axed the main connection to his abode for undue delay caused in making the payment towards the bill raised by them! I found it strange but that is how the world’s largest democracy should be – disciplined and dog styled.

In hot pursuit of Mr. Demand, I was already fuming. The electrical episode further intensified the heat I was feeling within. Finally Mr. Demand made an appearance as I was over with my dinner. Apologetically and at the same time unapologetically he assured, not to be tense and expect an early completion of all the pending chores. I silently realised how a man of his stature managed to triumph over my anger, irritation, frustration and impractical threats. I also had my mini rebellious conversations with my granny who still continues to think of all us grown ups as her responsibility. Tension gripped her mind because the results of an entrance exam held few days back are expected tomorrow and it involves someone close to our hearts.

Finally I started feeling the fatigue of a day spent in chasing, yelling and fading. The only thing that could help me cool was an interview relayed on Star Jalsha. It was phenomenal to see a completely bald Rituparna Ghosh not interview but interrupt Sujoy Ghosh in a tête-à-tête conducted by him. Dressed in a ‘Salwar Kameez’, Ritu wanted to know every thing that Sujoy had one his mind. Finally he let go Sujoy Ghosh by gifting him a book duly autographed by Ritu himself. Before I could swap the channels, I realised how insanely I had slipped into a world of so called Sound Sleepiness.

So that was a day called Sunday which could have never be so thrilling had it not been a sunny holiday on the 24th day of an equally hot month which goes by the name of MAY.

- vociferous

IN GRIEF

When we love somebody, we wish that human being continues to live eternally with us. Chota Mashi was one of them. Yes she was. She is no more. After battling cancer bravely, she passed away at 1.10 a.m. today morning when we were lost in dreams while sleeping soundly. We knew how much pain she was going through. In a last attempt to help her survive a little longer, her son himself a doctor had brought her down here in Mumbai. Tata Cancer was the only option we could think of for her to seek proper medication. Hats off to my childhood friend’s wife for not having left any stone unturned to see to it that Mashi was nursed with care, concern and love. The doctor’s verdict was pretty clear. Yet as a last ray of hope to keep her alive a few longer the doctor recommended Mashi be brought back to Mumbai in the month of August. But she lasted only till today. She used to stay in a very beautiful part of West Bengal called Jhargram. Surrounded by dense forests this place is supposed to be sharing its borders with Jharkhand, Orissa and some other neighbouring states. We used to alight here as a part of our break journey from Mumbai-Tatanagar-Kolkata. Jhargram could only be reached by Steel Express that leaves Tatagnagar every morning. Mashi’s generosity was unquestionable. She was highly educated but down to earth. But the last time we saw her she had lost weight and her digestive system had failed completely. It was her will power that had kept her alive so far. As if she wanted to see all of us once. I could spend very little time with her. Every member of our family devoted their valuable time towards her curability. Now that she is gone, Jhargram shall no more be a destination of our interest. The mango trees in her courtyard would miss her care. All the rose plants would miss her watering routines. Her neighbours would never have her as a company for all the morning and evening walks. My heart cries out for her. Being a man public display of tears would mean a cowardice act. Disallowing myself from getting more emotional, I pray to God to take good care of her. Life has become so unpredictable. Survival doesn’t come with a surety. No one knows when the end would arrive uninvited. No one has seen the tomorrow. Her demise generates anger within me about the incurable diseases that exist on this earth. Why isn’t there any cure for such incurable diseases? Cancer definitely is one of the deadliest. Why isn’t there a road of return? Oh God! Take care of my Chota Mashi. One thing of hers that I will never be able to forget is her smile. Her wholeheartedness and her dedication towards the life she led were phenomenal. She is survived by her husband, elder son & daughter-in-law and younger son. Both her sons are doctors but still life’s uncertainty pushed her in the gallows of death! Have mercy God and help my mashi’s rest in peace. It is yet unbelievable she is no more!

- vociferous

WRITE CHALLENGED

Writing is not an easy profession. Creative writing isn’t at all. Writing in every form is tougher than the toughest tasks in the world. Only a few are blessed with the skills of writing something noteworthy, valuable and sensible. Writing can be categorised into two very important principles: 1) Write to make others happy and 2) Write to make own self happy. The former guarantees a square meal. The later form of writing promises starvation.

People who have over the years taken up this challenge to write have been verified & scrutinised through angles of suspicion, disbelief, agony, jealousy apathy. Take for instance an author who for the most of his or her life researches a theme and writes on it. The manuscript is readied for the so called intellectuals to go through. The moment a minute drop of controversy is found hanging around the text, the book or the thought the author wishes to convey dies an untimely death. This happens even before the book hits the stalls, the libraries or bookstores. Then there is the incredible breed of creative writers or copywriters, who slog day & night to write stuff that, sell products, create brands, paint a corporate image and create a revolution. They write slogans, they churn out jingles and they pen the infamous punch lines. Oh yes! They are also accused of being arrogant, cranks, attitude driven and idiots. But they are what they are. On innumerable occasions they write without a proper brief being made available to them. After they are done with the creative labour; a creative head/director, a marketing manager, a client servicing executive and an uncreative guy screw his happiness. Sometimes a creative writer is compelled to think without a cause and work without the basic internet connection to his availability. Then there are the task masters who expect them to work like machines and demand two copy matters be produced on an hourly basis. Then there are those untimely phases of insistence made by perfect nobodies – write something, do something and create something.

There are a very few who have ended up writing to make their own self happy. They are now legends. Some are living legends and some are long dead. Their creative geniuses still remain unchallenged. Take for instance the case of Sri Ram Krishna Paramhansa. Read through his Gospel and you realise how a man who had never touched a book in his life had the God’s gift to celebrate about. His verses and quotes were documented & interpreted by his followers and disciples spread worldwide. They then carefully compiled the same and printed millions of copies to be read in multilingual modes. Mahakavi Rabindranath Tagore, Veer Savarkar, Mahatma Gandhi, Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, P. L. Deshpande, Ismat Manto produced literary gems which have gained the status of being timeless.

Writing is an art which needs to be respected & worshipped rather than pushed into a dungeon or demoralised. Some also have this habit of making poker faces while reading the writings of average or above average writers. As if they were born crying, listening, talking and eating from their mother’s womb. Sarcastic comments are even made by lunatics who don’t understand the basic elements of writing or the language which is proudly called ‘English’.
As a creative writer, I too am never satisfied with all that work of mine. But there are certain moments when I think the work deserved appreciation, accolades and applause. Like an unsung hero of a forgotten war, I simply retreat into a cocoon only to push my head out when asked to take that pen again and create what is perhaps called History!

- vociferous

FIRST OF SHOWERS

Just like the Indian elections and the winning party do we have a winner in our weather prediction department for the year 2009? In so many years their prediction of monsoons hitting the westerly coastal regions has come true. They had announced the arrival on May 20, 2009. The Rain gods kept their promise. It was around 5.30 p.m. in the evening. Seated facing a skyline of high raises, I saw the sky turn golden. The shade that I saw and many others saw could never be found on a palette or a shade card. In one hour the sky turned black. I was placing an order for a very creative name plate for my friend’s new home. The girl in the shop helping me make a choice surprised me by saying, “Sir. It’s raining out there”.

Did I have a choice? I did have. Luckily the water droplets were not bigger enough to leave me drenched. Holding my breath, I started running towards the railway station to board my train. On reaching the platform, I held my hand out of the shed that protected the station atop. It had started raining. It was a very unromantic drizzle. The water was dirty and muddy enough to put a plain white shirt to shame. After having boarded the train I thought the rains must have retreated. But it kept drizzling though not heavily. Some remarked, “Finally its here”. Some commented, “A respite from melting summer”. Silently I cursed, “Why now”?

It is not that I dislike monsoons. Four months of natural water flow from the generous skies are necessary to keep man built reservoirs flooded to quench thirsts for 365 days of the year. But the unannounced arrival of monsoons in an unplanned, unmanaged city of ours is a bit of a shock. No one has paid attention to the potholes that have been abandoned mid way. The biggest event of the month is Election Results. Even LTTE’s destruction following its founder’s death has been overshadowed by our political junkies. So leave alone the monsoons. Because it is a mercy God does on us for at least four months of a year.

As the city celebrates the onset of monsoons, I kind of become a little reclusive asking God to hold it for a few more days. The shades of red, orange, yellow and green have yet not dried up. Secondly my best friend is yet to move into his new home.

The first of showers might have arrived but the first of happiness is yet to fade. Let us first gear up for a healthy monsoon. Let us keep ourselves reminded that crisis is uncared for in our county. Let us upgrade ourselves with the high lying areas. Let us seal the last gateway of seepage into our homes. Let us flood the refrigerators with the available stock of vegetables. Let us visit the neighbourhood shop for umbrellas and rain coats. Let the government wake up to our demands of an accident proof pothole. Let the kids enjoy a few more days of vacation. And then, the first of showers can be enjoyed.

- vociferous

PS: This year I am not slipping into plastic shoes because Woodland would keep my feet protected.

APOLOGIES TO INNOCENT BUDDIES

Dear Kajal / Pooja / Vikas / Sachin / Pritam & Nilesh,

I am unaware as to which corner of this mad city are you all working at. I am also unaware about how good are you performing at your respective positions. And I am completely unaware about how do I contact you. Luckily I am very much in receipt of your email ids, which still leaves that little hope of being able to reach out to you all. I know my departure from W.E. was an unwelcomed move. But it was necessary. I was going through the toughest phase of life which cannot be explained and neither should be explained to younger minds like you. After leaving W.E., I took off to Goa. Spent a long vacation of seven days. I would have never come back had it not been my mother’s unconditional love which made me feel home sick. I started missing my home and her on the very second day of my stay in Goa. I bathed in the sun, I quenched my thirst with the chilled beers of finest quality manufactured by Kingfisher and nursed my soul to the soulful food served at the innumerable restaurants I visited with my friend. In a way I wanted to revolutionise myself. But I only ended up being simpler and got prone to simplicity. This simplicity of mine took me far away from the glamour found in an ad agency. I did join an agency but was at war with my fellow copywriter, whose rivalry made me feel like a loser. For the first time, I started doubting my instincts. I lost faith in my ability to write. I found myself surrounded by negativity, passivity and loss. Some recommended a long list of psychologists to me. There was also another reason to my feeling of having lost it completely. That is one reason I never wish to reveal as it is much more painful. By God’s grace, I once again joined a creative house. For six months, my performance was put under scanner. Then arrived the seventh month when I once again took a break and travelled to Nashik for spiritual intervention in my life. I prayed to the living, I prayed to the dead and I prayed to the non existent. I offered food to my ancestors, I offered water to their souls and I offered my pain to their spirits. Then I cleansed myself in the black flowing waters of Godavari. In the eighth month, I bounced back. I looked back at all the work I had done. They had luckily not met with failure but were appreciated every where. From the eighth month and till now I have only won. All the battles though not have been won but the one’s which have were worthless to put life at stake for. Today I am very much feeling pleasant even though I am facing few complications on health, home and honour front. When I look back, I still remember the faces of you all. Though the time I spent with you could hardly be remembered, I still cherish those moments of confusion. For the first time, I was heading and handling such a young team. With Vikas and Kajal on my side, I wanted to inject confidence into the minds of everybody. But the circumstances and the clumsy atmosphere at W.E. put me at my wits end. I left, I departed with a heavy heart and a guilt to have left you in a dark hole. Today I am sending you this mail to apologise, to let you know that I still remember you all and to let you know never ever give up in life. Times may arrive and they may go but what will remain with you is your honour. Don’t give up. Wherever you are, however you are, whatever you are doing, remember that I remember you and do miss you all.

With love, care, concern and happiness,
Your ex colleague
- vociferous

I MISSED MEETING JEFFREY ARCHER

May 13, 2009 – HE WAS IN MUMBAI

I got acquainted with him when he visited Mumbai last year to promote his book ‘Prisoner of Birth’. I had at that time not paid much attention to his visit or to his book. I consider it an evolutionary phase to soon become a fan of his books. Accidentally I hit upon a link that transported me to the introductory pages of ‘Prisoner of Birth’. I started reading it and I continued doing so at the pace of a jet. I discovered how the characters were being carefully created by Jeffrey Archer to be profiled in a book which was so real at the outset. I knew I had to buy this book of his and I did so. From page one of the book to the last page that I read of ‘Prisoner of Birth’, I found Jeffrey Archer making a very strong statement. It had to do something with the lawlessness of a highly civilised society. It had to do something with the innocent lives of innocent people. The book was conversing with me. In Daniel Cartwright the main protagonist in the book, I found the wronged conscience of mine. From the beginning I knew he was innocent but was eager to find out how he was going to achieve freedom from the highly guarded Belmarsh prison. I was eager to know how he was going to make Beth realise that true love does wait eternally. After I completed reading it, I knew the fan in me had surrendered to the genius of Jeffrey Archer. I wanted to read more of him and more of his books. I googled and I found his official website and his blog. Both made for good read. It is here that I read about his life and the books he has penned. I am now eager to read all of them. Then I also saw the official launch of his new book ‘Paths of Glory’. Once again basing his story on the real life story of a mountaineer, Jeffrey Archer creates a revolution in the world of writing. I am yet to grab a copy of it. On his blog I learnt about his visit to India. He was also coming to Mumbai at Landmark Book Store at the Infiniti Mall to promote his new book ‘Paths of Glory’. He finally did arrive on May 13. I was eager to meet him. I had even carried with me the copy of ‘Prisoner of Birth’ to be autographed by him and had wished to purchase ‘Paths of Glory’ and get it autographed from him. No matter how much time it took. No matter how much effort I had to put in to do so. No matter how much delayed his arrival could have been. But destiny had something else in store for me. I was not able to leave my office. My presence here was important too. I kept looking at my watch and realised how and what I was missing. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be at the feet of my favourite writer. I wanted to catch a glimpse of him. Luckily he is again writing a book; a collection of short stories and I am sure he shall visit India again to promote it. It should be in the year 2010. I hope I survive that long because life now has become highly unpredictable in India. One moment you are alive and the other moment you are dead due to bomb blast, accident or murder. But I truly missed meeting Jeffrey Archer. Better luck next time says the struggling writer within me. Better luck next year says the survivor within me. Better luck next era says the ardent disciple of Jeffrey Archer within me.

- vociferous

ON THE THRESHOLD

I don’t know if my blog is been followed. It doesn’t even host a followers list. The only devoted follower is me and a sole me. When I recommend my blog to some one, it is read instantly. But that doesn’t mean that they would leave a comment. Some are honest, some pretend while some ignore it. Blogs over the world have been considered a reflection of what the blogger does in his every day life. In fact, a blog is a virtual diary made available online to be read by the world. I have been a less generous on that front. Honestly speaking I have been selfish, self centred and self engrossed. One question therefore has been bothering me for the past few days. How far is it justified? I am not a recluse. But have been forced to be one. The experience of nothingness has never been so intense. I have heard about boycotts that are categorised as personal, political and professional. Whatever the category is, boycotts hurt! They do hurt and the pain in intolerable. You are pushed to the limit of thinking otherwise. Suddenly the levels of communication hit an all time low. A pair of dark glasses replaces the natural vision we are blessed with. We try our best to see through it. The lack of transparency makes the situation even worse. I have been no stranger to hurt or discord. My actions have been always a matter of scrutiny and critical analysis. By the time the lamp of the scanner warms up, people are ready with their sharp comments about me. Misjudged from past couple of weeks, today for the first ever time on my blog, I wish to reveal my state of my mind and why am I feeling I am being misunderstood. I am not going to divide this post of mine into paragraphs. I would want the reader to read this piece without a break. When our rights were being challenged, I stood up with the baton in my hand. I could have easily chosen to put it in a violent way but circumstances made me act in a non violent way. Not that I remained unchallenged. Forces were at work and I realised they were stronger than me. I fought back and came out unscathed. I was in a similar position as that of Abhimanyu trying to break the vicious circle in the war of Mahabharata. I found my way out pretty sooner. Being a part of a team was never so rocking. The good times come back to me in sepia toned photographic instalments. Depression was a state of mind I was unaware about. In their company I swam out of it when I was depressed. Just one altercation and time stood still. I am back to square one still trying to figure out what, where, why, how it went wrong? They must have heard something very negative about me. I never had a hand in any conspiracy. If my religious beliefs and attitude is a major hindrance, I may try to tone down on those fronts. For God sake I haven’t killed some one. What is happening now is what I term as ‘blindfolded worship’ or ‘following a blind vendetta’. During tough times I had escaped situations. In my thirty first year of life, I cannot think of doing that. Backing off is like losing the war without even holding the sword against an unseen enemy. Their tones are hushed, their looks are fatal and their minds are poisoned. Had it been invisible, I would have never felt so exhausted. The premise that I stand upon is a known territory. The war declared is against me, my own self and my faith. They won’t give out the reason and neither am I interested in probing into it. I know I have challenged them. I maybe speechless presently but that doesn’t mean I am worthless. I don’t know how to operate a sword but I am well aware of launching an attack with my pen. Maybe some day they would realise that my anger is mostly pretentious and I am a different person from within. Only exception is, this time I am disinterested in dealing with people of less intellect. Barring a handful, most of them talk mindlessly and act insane. I am a kind of person who hasn’t lost his sanity. Life has challenged me again like it had challenged me six years back. Speaking to one of my friends we laughed out how our problems are multilayered and pose the threat of being endless. Losing hope at such a juncture makes me feel less like a man and more like a loser. But who said I am a loser? I am a fighter. The days of survival left maybe less but the days of glory are infinite. With so much of nothingness, I might appear to be on the threshold of going broke but I haven’t lost yet. On their faces I would fire not one but a battery of questions. If they can answer them satisfactorily I will kneel down and salute them and if they fail, I will make sure guilt overpowers them. Being a winner is not that easy and neither being a fighter is. Try being a mortal and you will realise what picture of you people around you paint in their minds.

- vociferous

THE GREAT INDIAN CIRCUS

India is a country where a political circus unfolds every five years. Being the biggest democracy, India has got its own advantages and disadvantages. Advantages are running scarce but there is no dearth of disadvantages. The biggest hiccup is the number of political parties that leave a voter confused and amused. When the elections approach, a battery of political leaders is seen visiting their constituencies. New promises are made only to be broken, ignored or forgotten. They dig believable/unbelievable facts against their opponents and raise issues which can provoke fatal repercussions. But who cares when these parties go to the extent of bribing voters, entertaining with money and implementing every trick to keep people from their constituencies tempted to vote. Months of planning go into trading of trust, loyalty and dedication. Phenomenal money is spent on the hara-kiri. News channels leave no stone unturned to rope in analysts to foresee the invincible.

The Lok Sabha Elections are being held for the 15th time across India. On April 30, 2009 Mumbai voted in full strength but still fell short of numbers. Performers of this great Indian circus were dressed in white, orange, green and blue to fight the odds, balance the evens. The results will be declared on May 16, 2009. Till then as spectators, we would be subjected to visual and oral torture. Worth mentioning also the sound waves which would keep knocking our eardrums. As the day of results would start approaching, due to desperation the jokers of the circus would start doing funny things. They would play their trump cards. They would mount horses to be traded in the open market. Sting operations would suddenly tarnish images. So till the circus is on, lets see and discover for ourselves who wins the bet.

The hand in support of the common Indian – Will it pat or push?
The elephant leading the unknowns – Will it salute or thump on millions of hearts?
The flower in the pond – Will it spread fragrance or emit a foul smell?
The bicycle of simplified transportation – Will it peddle its way smoothly?
The alarm clock – Will it keep ticking at the right hour or go dead?
The sickle and hammer – Will they cut or thrash?
The arrow in the bow – Will it hit the bull’s eye or break midway?
The lantern – Will it spread light or set fire to millions of dreams?

The curtains are expected to go up soon. The jokers are everywhere. The trapeze artists are warming up. The ringmaster is blazing his whip to take control of the show.
And we as spectators wait with oodles of expectation in our eyes to see The Great Indian Circus unfold.

- vociferous