LOVE (Part 1: As an emotion, an experience and an enigma)

It needs no prefix, no suffix.
It needs no introduction, no description.
It needs no reason, no aim.
It needs no time, no notion.

All it needs is a HEART…

To write about,
To think about,
To spread about,
To paint about,
To discover about,
To imagine about,
To create about,
To converse about,

LOVE is…

The purest emotion in universe,
The unchallenged truth in ages,
The most treasured relationship of centuries,
The only emotion that possibly has no substitute!

And if you haven’t felt/realised the power of love,
Try this out…

Just when the world mutes its chaos and goes silent,
Place your hand on your heart.
The pounding that you sense,
Is not just the heartbeat…!
But the humming of a tune only you can listen.
The tune is that of love and longing.

Keep listening to your heart, it hums often.
No one in this world has remained ungifted by this hum.

Not a single legendary poet, writer or the greatest and the unheard of personalities have remained untouched by the magic of Love.

The only difference is they interpreted it differently.

Shakespeare infused the ingredients of crime in it. Tagore blended it with jealousy. Sarat Chandra enriched it with loss. Ghalib sung it in his ghazals. Khusroo described it in his nazams. Rumi wrote it often. Sufis spread it as a message to bring about peace, unity and integrity.

Described in most beautiful words, depicted in most beautiful situations and often demonstrated with purity; LOVE certainly is beautiful.

Love arrives unannounced. It makes no sound. It just happens. Just when you think, there is no one to look up to; it is always advisable to look around. Perhaps an unpredictable smile, perhaps a harmless whisper, perhaps a surprising wink, perhaps a request… kicks starts the chemistry.

Love is certainly chemistry with no formulas. Written in many languages, understood through many signs and symbols; it means one and the only thing - Love. Nothing changes around Love. But Love changes a lot around you. You start liking what you never liked. And you do what you always wanted to.

It is an experience; every one goes through in life. And some go through it several times. But Love is felt only when it comes straight from the heart. Pretensions never help. Love doesn’t demand promises. Understanding is what it demands. Faith is what it craves for. Trust is what it prophesises.

Love is not easy; love definitely is difficult but not impossible. Like the wise men say, “Falling in love is very easy but shouldering its responsibility is tough”. Not every one is able to triumph over the odds. Some hearts break even before their heartbeats become one. Some desires die even before they start aspiring.

Love is a journey to be fulfilled and not left half way. Some board a train and disappear forever. Some wait at the platform to see the train come back. The train keeps coming back, but true love never takes a ‘U’ turn. But true love does take the effort to come back one day and smile straight on your face. It does happen. Bitterness doesn’t come in Love without a specific reason. There are lot of things, which keep acting against love to make it bitter.

Some make fun of love. Some claim it to be farce. Some blame it to be a waste of time. But love in itself is like life. It breathes, it survives, it jumps, it collides, it slips and it balances.

Love is to be respected and not to be regretted. The mind has to stay open to embrace Love. The heart has to be spotless to feel the magic of love. God created it, humans borrowed it. Some turned it into gold. Some transformed it into a palace of grief.

Over the years, the dimensions of love have changed. With time, love has become cup of coffee which is over poured. It is sad that some have made love an excuse to climb ladders of gains.

Love isn’t a game and it is not about gains for sure. It is sometimes enigmatic. It also becomes difficult to make out whether it is true love or at times just infatuation. When a heart breaks, humans alone don’t shed tears. Love sits by the side and cries equally. Love has no roof over its head. It lives in hearts. And when hearts break, it wanders homeless.

So if love comes your way, don’t shut the doors of your heart, don’t bolt the windows of your mind, don’t pull the shutter of your ears and don’t deceive yourself… Just let it happen. Because over a period of time, you will realise LOVE IS SHEER MAGIC, WHICH TRANSFORMS LIFE INTO SOMETHING WORTH LIVING FOR…!

Love is special, it never goes away…
It walks beside us every day, every moment…
Unseen, unheard,
Still near, still special…
Still missed and still very dear,
Love craves for a roof over its head…
Don’t abandon it, don’t turn it away.
Embrace it, pamper it and make it your own…

Because LOVE IS BEAUTIFUL, WHICH MAKES LIFE BEAUTIFUL…
If you love somebody, say I LOVE YOU.
And even if your love is met with denial, go ahead and say I STILL LOVE YOU.
Something which might not happen instantly might happen someday…

So… Live, Love and Long for more Love to come your way…

- vociferous

MY 100TH POST

Before I start, I would like to quote Gulzarsaab.
Reproduced below are the translated lines of his most renowned song from the movie ‘Parichay’. Sung by the eternal Kishoreda and composed by the immortal Panchamda. I can relate a lot to this song. Because this is how, I arrived to my blogging hobby too.

The song goes…

“Musafir hoon yaaron… na ghar hai naa thikana
Mujhe chalte jaana hai; buss chalte jaana”

The translation is equally sweet… which now a part of my profile posted on facebook is given below:

I am but a wanderer, my friends
No home, no address
Wandering is all I am here to do

Where one road stops
Another joins
When I turn
The road too
Curves along with me

I nestle
On the wings of the wind
I am but a wanderer

The day takes my hand
Brings me here
The night beckons me
And calls me there

The dusk and the dawn
I have as my friends
I am but a wanderer

I too am a wanderer.
This wandering of mine began in the year with the first blog entry I posted.

Today is November 18, 2010.
It was September 19, 2005 when I had posted my first blog entry.
Blogging was a whole new world to me.
In bits and pieces, in scribbles and doodles, in cartoon strips and pullouts, in emails and smses; somewhere I read something about blogging.
The entire world was talking about how blogging was turning out to be the next big phenomenon.
Some were doing it for a social cause.
Some were posting entries for a strong purpose.
Some were revealing their fantasies.
Some were unveiling secrets, the media would use to fill tabloids or flood the television screens.
Unknown truths were being revealed.
Revolutions were being fuelled.
Speeches were made available.
To sum it up, the Indian Superstar Mr. Amitabh Bachchan too got bit by this bug.
Then followed, Aamir Khan.
Facebook, Orkut, Twitter… From macro to micro; blogs were happening.
But I was already on it.
The first entry of mine was a reproduction of an article that had got published in a Bengali bulletin, Pratibimba (The Reflection); which is still available on demand. A bald headed gentleman, supported by his very loving wife still continues to publish it. His labour of love, his wife’s dream of a mouthpiece pulled out the writer in me. They both made me write for their magazine. I charged them nil. But thanks to their love and support. Thanks to every effort they made to make me write for them.

But I wanted to stop writing for them. I was not for charity.

The reason or rather reasons were simple… I was restless, I was unabashed, I was stubborn, I was unstoppable, I was impatient and I was faceless. All I wanted to do was to start writing in a way that made me feel good about. Every word that I brought together with other words to form a sentence intrigued me to keep going ahead and produce paragraphs that I would enjoy reading, others would enjoy reading.

At the same time, there was anger in me… Immense anger. My anger has yet not died down.

This anger was rooted in my own deeds, own mistakes and decisions (the wrong ones); I made on my own. I was missing somebody who had relied on me but I never did justice to that faith & hope. It took me seven long years to find that person again but sadly I haven’t met with forgiveness. Because I have failed again.

And I was and am still in hatred of the person who changed the course of my life forever. If that person happens to read this blog, I have no qualms in declaring that betrayal, deception and backstabbing still doesn’t go down very well with me. I might be a changed person today but am still outraged and if provoked, would avenge. I can’t forgive and forget. I can’t hate and smile. I can’t do and deny. I can’t hide and run. I can’t react and repent.

There were lot of things, thoughts, tribulations, torments & tarnished talks, which pushed me to the edge. I was feeling choked, suffocated and breathless. I felt someone was tightening the noose around my neck. Someone was not too happy to see me happy. My successes had started meeting with massive failures. My ascent was poised to meet with a steep descent. And finally I jumped off the cliff, got stuck in between and screamed – HELP! An unknown, unseen entity emerged from nowhere and prompted, “If you are so angry, express it. If you are so aggrieved, cry out. If you are so bruised, salt them. If you are so determined, be firm. Be a Vociferous. Shake yourself up. Shake others up. YELL OFF”
Thus was born my alter ego, my new identity – VOCIFEROUS.
And Vociferous made up his mind to create http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com
I was born and brought up in Mumbai. I grew as a Mumbaikar. And I still am a Mumbaikar.
Political correctness or incorrectness doesn’t bother me. What bother me are faces, minds, mouths and ears with rotten attitude dripping from them.
I named it bengalsurprise, because life is surprising. I am a surprised Bengali. So bengalsurprise means, a surprised look at the world because the world, the universe and everything else leaves the Bengali in me surprised.

Writing this 100th blog was not that easy. Inspiration is what I had waited for long. Finally it arrived few days back. A very special friend, a very special person in my life kept telling me, asking me in fact pushing me – Write or I will never read your blog. Whenever my friend kept going on the blog, my missing 100th entry proved to be a dampener. Yes, very right… I hadn’t posted anything for the past few months. The last entry was somewhere in the month of July and that too when it had started raining in Mumbai. And even two days back, in this month of November rains have taken control of Mumbai.

Tears of happiness roll out of my eyes.
Thrill of writing such a long piece leaves me wanting to write more.

A logo was definitely what I had thought of and I designed it. It is not a serious kind of a logo but a celebrating kind of a logo, a light hearted one and again a ‘feel good’ kind of a logo.

The process of ideating my 100th blog entry was very different.
I first thought of choosing all the alphabets and comparing it with what made me become a blogger. The mind just wasn’t too happy with this idea. So finally over the last three days, endless telephonic conversations, long hours of reading, endless musical moments and a determination to fulfil a promise finally brought the ‘Eureka’ moment. I said to myself, I shall write randomly in a nonlinear format. I shall write what comes to my heart first, then gets transferred to my mind and finally gets transported on my laptop.

My fingers are running faster. My mind is thinking faster. And in the next few hours, I am going to write something meant for twelve long months, 365 days and 8760 hours. In the next few days, I will also complete writing the first chapter of my book, the title of which is known to whom I trust the most, love the most and have faith in the most.

It was never my idea to sensationalise my blog. I just wanted to write what came to my mind. I consider http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com, my most independent blog. It mirrors my thoughts, my vision and whatever goes on in my mind. Apart from this blog, I have the following blogs:

On the account of posting my 100th blog entry, I have created this new blog:

http://safarisurprise.blogspot.com/

The above is a travelogue. The first write-up, I am going to post on it is the half day Lonavala trip I took along with my friend of now 15 years on his state-of-the-art TVS Bike. In fact, I owe him a lot too. Our friendship is one of those, which is apt for a partnership. Maybe very soon, we would take a trip on bike and replicate the ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ experience.

This blog will comprise snaps, my travel experiences and much more… But I am definitely going to limit it to only travelling and everything related to travelling. If someone calls it a weird style of writing about travel, so be it.

Focusing on http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com, I am very content with the style of writing, I have adapted so far. I have on/off reviewed movies. I have commented on society. I have made judgements against specific political movements. This is not just a blog for me. It is a kind of revolution. This blog is also the force, which pulled me out of my phase of depression which lasted from March 31, 2009 to October 1, 2009. It was a painful period. I had packed my bags to leave for the Himalayas. I had attempted what every human being attempts, when he/she is broke. Thanks to my mother, my friends, my family and my blog which got me back on my feet. Or else, I would have never lived to tell this tale.

I know this is the lengthiest, I have ever written and I am not finished yet. I want to take this revolution to a new level. From just being a mere blog, I want to transform it to a full fledged website and an extremely interactive one. I have seen lot of injustice. And I am not that big to comment that I have seen lot in this life. I have walked through the corridors of courts and I have run through the verandas of offices controlled by khaki clad personnel. Now neither the black suit baffles me and neither those pair of brown shoes matter to me. I am not perplexed any more by blank calls or the letter of threats that come knocking every now and then.

I have a face; I have a voice. I have a dream; I have a pair of eyes. I want just not to walk but to fly high, higher and highest.

I dedicate this 100th blog to my mother who continues tolerating me through every year I grow older and she getting older and older. She has her concerns. I understand them. And I am sure, at an apt time; I shall address them. She is a woman who has inspired me the most, supported me the most and taught me the most. Yet I remain indebted to her. Nothing can substitute her presence in my life. And I know how incomplete I am without her. I know we being human beings shall remain for each other eternally. But till the time we are together, I shall remain indebted to my mother.

This 100th blog is dedicated to all my friends.

This 100th blog is dedicated to you, my inspiration.

This 100th blog is dedicated to the reason that still pricks me from within.

This 100th entry is a symbol of my triumph over me. This 100th entry is a reply to the many questions, I keep asking myself.

I will continue on this journey of writing.
I will continue on this madness of posting.
I will continue on this eagerness of reading.
I will continue on this kick of procrastinating.

I was born a very normal guy. I pursued very normal education.

Few dreams remained unfulfilled:

Couldn’t pursue a degree in English Literature
Couldn’t complete my degree in Classical Singing
Couldn’t pursue an MA in English Literature
Couldn’t chase my dream of being a part of Prithvi Theatres

But I feel:

Dreams, never die
Desires, never diminish
Destiny, never deceives
Determination, never defers

I want to dream again.
I want to write again.
I want to triumph again.
I want to LIVE again.

I might not be there forever.
Life is very uncertain.
Today I am alive; Tomorrow I might not be alive.
What shall remain behind will be my remains, my exploits, my writings and my blog.

A labour of love, a result of anguish and an intercourse of ideas; I salute you my http://www.bengalsursprise.blogspot.com

From inception to incredibility, I remain……………………………………………..

VOCIFEROUS

PS: I hope YOU and everyone along with YOU in this world, in this universe takes note that I have finally completed my 100th entry for my blog

This 100th entry comprises: 5 pages, over 2000 words, over 9000 characters with no spaces, over 11000 characters with spaces, 102 paragraphs and 246 lines!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHEN IT RAINS (IN MUMBAI)

Dreams seem to come true in this city. People throng in to this place in search of wealth, love, home, family, destiny and what not. Every morning the long distance trains that enters Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai carries in them dreamers who are here to make it big. Their excitements know no limits once their feet kiss the ground beneath. Tears ooze out of the sleepless eyes to see the city they had longed for after being subjected to a series of movies made in Bollywood. Every hero who comes from a village turns big in this city. And almost every Bollywood movie has a rain sequence. Speaking about rains, Mumbai is unimaginable without its share of monsoons.

Last week, I was extremely thrilled to witness a Punjabi family that was here from US to enjoy the first few drops of rains. Marine Drive is enjoyable and so is the Worli sea face. Rains intrigue passion. And rains power the romance between two sweethearts. But with every monsoon shower that raids the city between June to September and sometimes beyond makes one wonder about how to manage it. Presently Mumbai has become extremely unmanageable during monsoons. Memories of a deluged July 26 have not yet faded from the minds of many Mumbaikars who were either stranded out of their homes or had lost everything to the waters that entered their homes and from homes to their lives and from their lives to their future.

Today the moment, it starts raining panic sets in. The first thing that goes haywire is our largest network of railways. It has been happening for a long time and authorities have been turning a blind eye towards it with a shameless smile on their thrash worthy faces. Overhead wires break off. Signals start malfunctioning. Indicators go berserk. During evenings most of the railway platforms witness a black out. Tracks are waterlogged and all you can see are hordes and hordes of people waiting for their train to arrive.

Accidents too are frequent. Roads wear a dreaded look. Potholes, manholes and every possible hole remain submerged under water. The one’s who are cautious are any ways saved. And the one’s who tend to take it a little casually has to end up paying a price of a princely nature. Sometimes life is also at stake.

Every since July 26 deluge shook the chairs beneath the red taped bureaucrats they converged some of the most destructive minds. These minds were already sick enough. But they did one good thing. All of them arrived on the banks of Mithi River and declared the once freely flowing water body the main villain behind the submergence of Mumbai. We, the people foolishly accepted their verdict and from time to time kept checking the status of how much Mithi was finally cleaned. The cost of cleaning kept increasing. Slums were uprooted. People were dislocated and Mithi was considered the root cause of Mumbai facing flash floods. But does Mithi flow around places like Thane, Vashi, Mulund, Bhandup, Ghatkopar, Kandivili, Borivili, Andheri or say Lower Parel? No!

The funniest of all during Mumbai monsoons are the uncountable news channels. A reporter or a group of reporters specially get appointed to stand in knee height dirty waters near Milan subway. The entire world by now knows that the moment Milan subway goes under water, Mumbai is finished. The world is being made an audience to this hara-kiri of very Indian flavour.

For once, it is important to think as to how and why the once enjoyable Mumbai Monsoon has suddenly transformed into a nightmare or a dreaded natural calamity. No! There is no use going to the politicians. In stead given a chance, every politician should be kicked on their butts and straight into the Mithi River. If some one is really thinking of questioning the municipal authorities, don’t be surprised to see how bad they are at crisis management. They have all been given a crash course on ‘Mithi is the Real Villain’ topic. Since I travel a lot and the local train is my safest mode of transport, I frequently come face to face with such municipal authorities. When I cross question them, the reply they have is – what have we got to do with Mother Nature’s fury? Monsoon comes, it goes. We get our salaries on time. Let the world go into a big black hole.

Mumbai sinks every year. Ten to 50 Mumbaites die every year. Five to 10 Mumbaites go missing every year. When it rains (in Mumbai), peace goes on a vacation every year. Save Mumbai by saying no to those sick plastic bags, this is the root cause of all. And avoid decorating the drains by secretly dumping them with garbage.

I love Mumbai. If you do, move your lazy butts a bit to do your bit!

Or else when it again rains (in Mumbai), we will have to see it somewhere up there because by then we would have been a victim of a manhole kept open mistakenly.

- vociferous

FACT IS STRANGER THAN FICTION

Tough times demand support, a strong support. The battles begin not on a set premise but from the homes thousands begin their lives. There are those who can and are able to fight a lone battle. And there are those, who need somebody especially family.

In recent times, I seem to be missing out on loads of news which paint a picture of a happy family. If a daughter marries of her choice and her marriage gets into trouble, the parents turn their faces away. If a son marries of his choice, he is abolished from every right he enjoys and if again the marriage is in trouble; the son is welcomed back to start a life afresh.

This is the picture of changing India. Marriages have become fragile. It is said a marriage is not between a man and a woman but between two families. But what happens when the marriage starts showing signs of trouble? In recent times, nothing happens. There are courts that are managed by guys dressed in black suits. Some are honest some are utterly disgusting. Some are interested in putting an end to a conflict at the soonest and some of them love to prolong it.

Today no one seems to be of no one. Family members pull back their support when a girl is in trouble. And for the guys too, it is getting difficult. Half of the damage can be credited to the mindless serials beamed on every Indian television set. And half of the devastation stands credit to the set of outdated laws set by some one dimensional thinkers.

In the serials that I sometimes watch I find one or the other family member trying to avenge over something. In real life, these things are happening and it is a cause for concern. The more we are getting closer to life, I am realising fact is definitely stranger than fiction. Real life stands more entangled because of circumstances! I hope you are hearing it because the only way out now is to think of an alternative that is positive, hopeful and simply favours the brighter side of life.

- vociferous

TRAUMATIC

Life is very short. One single incident or a series of unforeseen incidents can make it worse. So worse that it won’t give us even the time to blink an eye of ours. Never in my life, have I felt so helpless. But I was deeply moved when I moved into a Trauma ward of a famous hospital in Mumbai. The patient in question is a young lad not older than 25 years of age. Even though I don’t know him very closely or dearly, I felt it my responsibility to pay him a visit. I was a bit shaken on hearing that he was admitted in a government hospital and was operated, attended and cared for there.

I was prepared for the worst. I have never been abroad and neither do I see myself doing so in the next two years. But if I go, I really would like to understand how the governmental health institutions out there function. Are they in a plight of misfortune like that of our government run hospitals or they are far better than the one’s we manage to survive out here in India?

Focusing back to the patient admitted in one of the well known government run hospitals in Mumbai, I was in for a shock. The first thing that amused me was the lack of security issues. I entered the hospital from the exit or the wrong gate that too unchecked. It didn’t make any difference though because neither entry nor exit was written on the gate. On my shoulders, I was carrying a huge backpack which comprised my laptop, my portfolio and other important stuff that are required to keep me in motion. No one cared to even ask what I was carrying with me within. What was more surprising was to find a police van being parked in the premises and the cops taking no notice of me walking straight inside. This brings into light one heinous fact that Mumbai is still vulnerable to terrorist attacks. And yes, our security concerns are like toy stories.

On walking in, I headed for the trauma ward. The details provided on the board were hardly understandable. More than written, I would term it as scribbled. Names were spelt erroneously. Condition of the patient was beyond imagination to draw a conclusion. Not able to properly locate the patient’s name, I was looking for I headed a little deeper into the hospital. There was no one except some odd people waiting and squatting with their buddies or whoever that was. I found a small window open. As I peeked through it, I found a woman sitting with a magazine in her hand and headphones tucked deep into her ear listening to music played to her by her Nokia XpressMusic 5310. I politely called her as Madam. I did it twice. On understanding that either she was lost in music or just in a mood to ignore me, I banged on the wooden table placed in front of her. She leapt like she suddenly spotted a tiger. Irritated and frustrated before she could satisfy my query, she looked at her watch and only then made up her mind to present me with a reply. I politely asked her about if there was any other trauma ward apart from the one I had visited. Puzzled to the core, she first seemed to have suddenly gone blank. Finally she sprung back to life talking to me in a high tone and telling me that there was only one and why the hell was I bothering her? I apologised and cursing her from within, I went back to the trauma ward I was trying to locate the patient at. I failed once again. Finally I looked out of the door and saw his parents seated under a shade provided by some kind politician or industrialist for relatives and well wishers of those admitted inside.

The patient’s father led me to just the entrance of the ward. Being a highly sensitive ward, we were supposed to not enter it. Before I could react, the door opened and a dead body was pulled out like a fly is thrown out of a tea. The floor inside was red with blood. The moment the body reached the corridor, an elderly woman screamed out and I was deafened more by her pain rather than her voice of grief. I just caught a glimpse of the young patient who was now in a state of coma.

The patient’s parents gave me an account of what had led to the young lad’s admittance to this deathbed. It seems he is a fresh victim of flouting unmanned traffic rules. He was part of the three friend battalion riding on a bike at a speed of 70 km/hr on a rainy night. Rumours suggest they were drunk after a hard night of partying. Let me be specific, rumours suggest that they were drunk. Gossips suggest that they were just racing. Being a rainy night, the roads had turned slippery. After getting to a connecting bridge, the bike suddenly skidded off. All three of them fell of. The one who was driving got away with minor scratches. The third sitting on the rearmost position had to sacrifice with 2 of his left leg fingers and 1 of his right leg fingers. The second person who was sitting in the middle who happens to be our neighbour’s son and the patient in coma was badly hit. He fell while in motion and his head banged straight into the divider. Within seconds, the skull was left open. Blood oozed out and he slipped into a state of unconsciousness. In the dead of night, he was transported from the site of accident to this horrendous site of struggle.

From within, I was shaken about the patient’s war with life and death. And on the other hand I was very angry looking at the plight of the hospital. I felt even if little hope is left for a patient to survive, the deteriorating reputation of this hospital would definitely shatter every single ray of hope. I was seeing patients with saline needles on their forearms running behind doctors. I was seeing women with tears in their eyes running behind ward boys. And I was seeing one after the other patient brought in some strange, serious and most injuriously critical conditions. There were my patient’s parents who seemed to be equipped enough to make a choice between the dying and the dead. I consoled them and advised them to be strong. The patient’s father told me how everything within the hospital is connected. Nothing seems to function smoothly in here. Either palms are to be greased or tough contacts are to be used to make your case rolled ahead.

As I prepared to leave the premise, I saw some guys and girls maybe in their 20s jumping traffic in front of the hospital. The cops seem to be more interested in the revealing outfits of the strange girls rather than in performing their duties. I missed a heartbeat when I saw them cross the road and escape being hit by the running vehicles. One of the girls’s even dared to exclaim, “It went so closely, I thought it had almost touched me. But anything for a pizza date!” I was stunned but could do very less. Their fate hung between the raging road, the frightening footpath and the traumatic place called Government Hospital.

I left with a heavy heart, looking up to the sky and praying to God for a miracle. I wish the prayer gets answered. If not a miracle at least the plight of government hospitals get a little better to help people live a little better life. I have nothing against the doctors because to me they seemed like a group of astronauts who were warming up there to take a leap into the sector of private practicing.

Certainly traumatic but not laughable at all! The pain I felt most was of the bleeding hearts of the parents of the lad who was admitted in that rotten government run hospital!

- vociferous

A PROMISE WELL KEPT

Indescribable…
Rains couldn’t have got that worse like it did that day.
Roads were getting waterlogged.
Trains had started running late.
Almost every source of transport had started plying behind schedule.
But then there are those who are determined to fulfil promises.
I know a person who braved the odds.
Thunderstorms and thundering are specific reasons for that person to be scared of.
Rains are not that bad. But when it is about a promise and the rains threaten to dampen it; risks run higher.
Though it was decided to make it at 5.30 pm, some commitments led to 6.30 pm.
Mumbai by then was under the influence of heavy rains.
Drenched and completely clueless, the wait was going to be longer.
Pritish Nandy’s new book of poems ‘Again’ was the only option that made things lighter.
And finally the keeper of promise appeared.
I saw a soul drenched in rain and I saw a mind drenched in thoughts.
There was nothing less but a smile that lightened the moment.
To sum it up, I had no second thoughts that a promise was well kept.
Indebted for life… Trust me!

- vociferous

CASTE-OFF

The title of this blog is the title of the fifteenth chapter in Jeffrey Archer’s newly released book of short stories ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’.

There is a specific reason of me deciding to zero in on the title of this blog. And the intention is also particularly specific for me being Jeffrey Archer’s biggest fan.

I discovered Jeffrey Archer by accident for sure. It was I think seven years back. I was stuck in office due to rains. There was nothing particular to be done. It was drizzling out and from that office in suburban Mumbai; all I could see was tiny droplets of rain. The mood was extremely romantic. But at the very same time I was going through the roughest patch of my life. It was raining and the rain showed no signs of stopping. I thought of staying back a little long and accidentally my eyes fell on a book with an interesting title Sons of Fortune, which was released in 2003. This happened to be my first encounter with my all time favourite author.

I never could read a single page of it and then the time came when Jeffrey Archer released his book A Prisoner of Birth in 2008. I was at Kemps Corner waiting for a friend of mine. I had to kill some time and I thought of taking a look at the new arrivals in Crosswords Book Store. Everywhere I could see one book that was displayed proudly and that was A Prisoner of Birth. I grabbed a copy of it and sat at a corner flipping through the pages. By the time, I reached on page fifty; I decided to buy it. I was definitely carried away.

I came home and couldn’t separate myself from the book for the next four days. After I finished it, I knew I had found a writer I am going to call one of my favourite authors and a prolific storyteller. In a short span of time he released Paths of Glory in 2009. He visited India and I still regret having missed the opportunity of meeting my favourite writer.

Today I have a collection of most of his books. And I am waiting to own a copy of his all time hit Kane and Abel which was released way back in 1980 when I had been just two years old. A friend of mine has suggested waiting a little. He seems to be having the first original copy of it, which he feels, would be proud to gift me once he returns from New York. Even if he doesn’t I shall buy the latest edition which was launched a few months back.

Focusing on ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’ and the fifteenth & the last story of the book, which is based in India; I was deeply moved. Titled Caste-Off, it narrates the love story of Nisha and Jamwal. They meet up at a traffic signal in the every busy vehicle heavy road of Delhi. Both end up racing their cars. Jamwal follows Nisha into the hotel, she checks in. And Jamwal decides, Nisha is the girl he will make his life partner.
Jamwal is a Rajputana Prince with a fortune to die for. He is flamboyant and has affairs with the best of women. Nisha on the other hand is the daughter of Shyam Chaudhary and believes in living a life of content. When they meet up at a party they both are in love with their respective partners. One day, Nisha leaves for San Francisco and Jamwal follows her all the way till there. She is surprised and thinks, is he the man? Jamwal is a favourite with gossip columnists for his involvement with women. Nisha is but smitten. Finally both decide to get married. Nisha’s parents are more than happy to see their daughter being married off to a prince of a Rajput clan.

Jamwal returns home to Jaipur for his parents’ final consent. During his visit, his mom declares that they have found him a royal bridal match. Jamwal decides to defy his father, his mother and his entire family to begin life with Nisha. His father abolishes him from any claims to be made to their family assets. Jamwal and Nisha get married and fly off to Goa for a lovely honeymoon. Jamwal pursues Nisha to join him for a swim. Nisha disagrees. Jamwal still takes a plunge into the swimming pool and after some time, Nisha sees blood floating on the surface. The story seems to end there. But then enters Jeffrey’s mastery art of storytelling. Jeffrey himself makes an entry in the story of Jamwal and Nisha. He confesses that he shamelessly flirted with Nisha and found it strange that Jamwal was never discomforted. The party gets over. Every one leaves. Jamwal sits there only to be helped by Nisha on a wheelchair. The accident at the swimming pool left Jamwal paralysed for life. Childless but very much in love, Jamwal and Nisha continue to live a life of content.

I was moved by the story very deeply. Here are two people in love who know no boundaries. Jamwal’s handicap could have been a reason enough for Nisha’s departure from his life. But Nisha never forgot Jamwal’s sacrifice. I wish love in real life could have been that real. By the way Jeffrey tells us that this is a true story. If this is a real story, let me tell you – LOVE IS WONDERFUL. One should only have the courage to support the partner he or she is in love with.

Saluting Jeffrey Archer to make me believe in love again… I sign off saying Love is Beautiful so Life is Immensely Beautiful! (I hope you heard that… )

Jeffrey Archers book of short stories - ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’: Strongly Recommended!

- vociferous

MOTIVATE/INSPIRE SOME ONE

It doesn’t require a fortune to motivate/inspire some one. It certainly does require a little bit of effort. But the effort has to be genuine because some one relies on us. As human beings we are not born with negative thoughts in our minds. Circumstances, situations and many other factors inject negativity and therefore we end up thinking drastically different from how we should be thinking.

The world I feel is made up of two varieties of people. One variety is of those who are eager to think positive and do positive things. The other variety is of those who need a little bit of help to think positive and do positive things. At times, we fail to notice that even our closest friend might be in need of some motivation or inspiration to achieve feats, which he/she thinks are of impossible nature.

To begin with, the first and foremost thing one needs to do is sacrifice, surrender and submerge the little bit of attitude or arrogance to be of help to others. Yes it is necessary. Personally I have realised when I was driven or overpowered by my ego, things never worked out. Leave alone motivating or inspiring others, I was considered nothing less than a dread factor. But it is better to wake up before irreparable damage is done to your own self or to the people around you.

I suggest when any of us as human beings start our day, we should say to ourselves – LET’S MOTIVATE/INSPIRE SOME ONE TODAY. Simultaneously we should also pray to God to give us the courage, strength, determination and willingness to do so. If you endeavour to do it half heartedly, believe me you would neither motivate nor inspire. All that you will end up doing is making that some one feel more miserable.

Insecurities definitely surround us when we take the onus of going ahead with the task of motivating/inspiring some one. Does that mean you should remain indifferent? Certainly not! Genuine souls always make it a point to remember that motivation/inspiration till the end of their life. And even if they don’t, we should make ourselves understand and stay happy that whatever he/she is achieving, has achieved or will be achieving has been possible because of your presence. Not everyone is on the scene. I believe the real motivators/inspirers are those who toil behind the scene. Popularity, fame, wealth may not or never come their way for all the good work they do. But the biggest treasure being a motivator/inspirer you can earn is Trust. There is nothing precious than trust. Once you inculcate it and work towards nurturing it, a lot of difference can be made.

Yesterday I motivated and inspired some one. It was a great feeling of satisfaction and fulfilment. I was equally elated to know the accolades that followed. I am sure in the near future that person will never fall short of motivation/inspiration. All it required was a start. All it required was a trigger to inject the confidence. Facing an audience is no child’s play. Stage fright or the sudden fear of forgetting well rehearsed lines sometimes might make the confidence dip. But once you speak out valiantly even in front of a handful people, I say half of the job is done. Because by now you have earned confidence to face the odds and even it as per your will, desire and vision.

So, no need to shy away. Make it a point to motivate/inspire some one. If not with royal rewards, you will definitely be compensated with two things – Trust for Life and an Everlasting Smile of Confidence from your benefactor.

- vociferous

TIME TO THINK POSITIVE

It was once a choice of my real self, I had decided to retreat and coil in to a cocoon. But I failed miserably. I was surrounded by my well wishers through out my conquest for the real meaning of life. I had once decided to renounce everything and take the journey to the foothills of Himalayas. A friend rightly remarked – The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari effect. To some extent, it was! But then I was going through a phase when nothing seemed real. I had by then once decided to detach myself from the unrealities of universal nature.

I shut myself from the world. I made up my mind to never switch on my cell phone. I was enjoying my solitary confinement. I spoke very less and I sat quietly looking at people around me. People gazed at me in surprise when they saw me sitting on a railway platform spending time looking at the trains passing. I also mustered the courage to board the train to Kolkata and sheepishly alighted at Kasara. Something was holding me back. I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong.

Life had started acting strange. Similarly I too had started acting strange. Nothing interested or impressed me. I was shocked to realize how easily I had given up writing, listening to music, watching movies, meeting friends and expressing my views on love, life & luck. I then heard a voice of oneness from three of my best friends. They said, “Wake up; it is time to think positive”.

I said to myself it is time to think positive. The energy of thinking that I felt I had lost was back. One of my friends remarked, “The Bengal Tiger has started moving in the cage restlessly to prepare for a hunt”. I was never a tiger. I can never challenge nature’s other creations. But I could feel that how weak I had grown when I had started thinking negative. It was this particular phase I lost friends and I sacrificed some of the finest moments of happiness.

I still remember one of my old friends who saw me with beard on my face and screamed, “Eeks! Is that you?” I remained silent. I knew it was all about my own negativity. But once that phase got over, I was back on the aisle of what seemed like invincibility. My ascent had already started becoming a threat to the one’s who had taken control of things during my psychological absence in the real/unreal world. I announced that I was back to stay longer, fight longer and achieve bigger.

Destiny had something else on its mind. Jealousy, insecurity and incapability of others somehow tried to mar my reputation. I only followed one ideology – Think Positive. So much positive was I that when I met new people, made new friends, mobilized new conversations; I realized that I was taken notice of.

Today I am stuck in a moment that was once negative. But the time has come to again think positive. To protect certain relations, it is the need of the moment to think positive. The past really has passed away! It is all about the present and the future. I am not going to coil into a cocoon. I have vowed not to give up any more. It is my self assigned responsibility to make things the way they were or used to be during that once moment of negativity. If that means apologizing over a million numbers of times, I am ready to do so. If that means renouncing everything once again, I am ready to do so. The only desire is to put misunderstandings, misconceptions and miscommunications to rest. I have started doing that by reconnecting with those with whom I had once broken all my ties.

Time will stand witness to how much justice I do to my vision. But I am sure now that I have started thinking positive, things won’t be that complicated! One mighty force which remains with me is God himself. His miracles don’t create a sound, thunder or a visual impact. The Almighty is the most secretive operator, I have ever discovered. Had He not been around or within every human being, positive thinking would have become a thing of the past! He is invisible, he is untraceable, he is an entity with no specific structure. But he is around.

Paying my respect to God and offering my prayers to the Supreme Power above us, I once again say to myself – It is time to think positive. I know all that I had lost will come back to me. Be it friendship, success, love, power or whatever else. I am waiting because I know I am thinking positive and positivists never are known for giving up but are known for taking life to a new level of self actualization. The clock is ticking. And I am thinking positive. Join me to think, do, create and make possible a lot of positive things around us.

Love you the most; I might have hurt the most! I am extremely sorry!

- vociferous

I OWE A LOT

Life has been like a roller coaster ride. There have been happier, lovelier, sadder and lonelier moments. Thinking in the retrospective, I sometimes feel how much I have done justice to those moments.

These moments were not automatic. But these moments were and I still consider are a product of my deeds. In short, I owe a lot to those who made a difference to my life.

My life began say 29 years back when I really started knowing the things around me. The excitement of making friends was simply indescribable. Friendship kept growing till suddenly I never realized that even that is so short-lived. Still I would say school was the real midpoint to form bonds for life.

After school, it was college and the years just flew away. Luckily all that was left behind was a bond of true friendship. Some betrayed, some abandoned and some simply chose to ignore. Still I clung on to that hope of staying positive in life.

College was over. The time had come to explore myself and the skills I had honed to earn myself a livelihood. My dad was so right. The honeymoon period was over. This was the real world. The real world stood in front of me like a mirror. In this mirror I saw my face. I was myself not sure whether this face belonged to me or my body belonged to that face.

The journey of true life thus commenced. To begin with the first job I took over was like a laboratory. Here I met people of all sorts. From good to the best to the excellent and to the super excellent, they were all made of traits I had never known. Some made me smile, some made me feel nervous. But at the end of the day, it was life unlimited. One human being who still remains a part of my life is the memory of a certain Mr. Rao or I still respectfully address his Raosahab. This man taught me that take life the way it comes to you and never expect anything from anybody.

Even though I had ignored Raosahab and his courteous wife’s proposition to fly with them off to Dubai, I still couldn’t convey to them how much I owed them. Till date, Raosahab’s impact hasn’t found a substitute in my mind. He was invincible. He was terrific. At times, I used to secretly wish – God make me like him. Committed to his wife, to this son and to his family, Raosahab led me like an elder brother does to his younger brother. He gave me the name – Puru.

I owe a lot to him.

And then there are those who chose to first come to my life as friends and then made me realize even friends can wear masks. I wish I had self cautioned me. These were not friends but elements which resembled like friends. Luckily they left as faster as they had arrived. Once again only the true form of friendship was left and still remains with me. I met such friends yesterday. I realized the world is not that bitter as it seems to. I wish I had never lost out on the years of absence from their lives or their absence in my life. They are very close to me. I would never want to lose them. They are the one’s who make me feel the real me. When I get home, they put me a sms saying that it feels great to reunite and they sign off saying – let there be more such moments.

Friends, I owe a lot to you all. (I don’t wish to take names because they will understand I am talking about them. They are that dear to me.)

I have been equally responsible for causing pain to those who never deserved it. Some spoke out loud and some chose to whisk out quietly. One of them said that arrogance never suited me. That person also added that the little amount of arrogance made me ruin my own happiness. And I realize how my own arrogance had caused that human being the deepest pain. Today when I come face to face with that person, I ask myself what did I achieve or gain out of the way I behaved! The reply is simple – nothing. I know however hard I try that person will keep going back to that juncture of disbelief when I was so indifferent. My own deed is irreversible and the guilt is unfathomable.

I owe that person a lot. I owe that person a lot because that person hasn’t changed a bit from the time I had decided I shall never speak to that person.

I have changed. I imagine or speculate that I have changed. A little amount of arrogance might have held my mind hostage for some while. But I fought it out, buried it deep and moved ahead to be with the ones, I consider my own.

At the end, it’s my life. I owe it a lot. Though it has been gifted to me by my parents who brought me to this world, I feel I still owe it a lot. The sacrifices that my dad made when he was alive and the adjustments that my mother keeps making are simply indescribable.

Dad never was vocal. He was in complete control of his emotions, expressions and even expectations. Mom has always been a friend and continues to be so. At the end of the day however busy I am, I come back to her. She makes me feel great. Even though she gets stressed, worried when I am not around her; she manages to sport a smile and tells me – You are back my son.

I owe a lot to you Maa and to you Dad up there! My dad is up there listening to me. He is seeing his son. Some say, I have his face and I look like him. But I say, he was the one and only Dad I would love to have as my dad for every life and my mom the only mom for every life.

I do owe a lot to all…!

- vociferous

SOME THINGS IN LIFE REMAIN UNDONE

Seven years is a long time. So long is it that minds tend to fall short of memories. So long is it that relationships go through sea change. So long is it that we grow immune to our own surroundings.

Seven years just passed away like the fistful of sand, we tried our level best to hold but it just slipped away. One thing is for sure that time never stands still. It moves, it keeps moving and along with time, move us!

I remember only the train and the passenger who left with an unfulfilled aspirations and too much of pain in heart thinking how can a person’s attitude be so overpowering & mightier! The eyes had swelled with tears and the heart might have ached so much that she had remained speechless.

After seven years, the same passenger alighted from not a train but a taxi and had become a traveler. In the last seven years one thing that has not changed about her is the smile and the free flowing hair. From a distance, all one can see of her was a serene and composed personality who stood their waiting for somebody.

Time seemed to be coming to a standstill but there were so many questions to be asked and so many answers to be found out. Every question traveled back to that juncture of separation seven years back and every reply was centered on the present. The conversations might have begun with a Smiling Hi but the farewell didn’t signoff with a Smiling Bi.

To arrive at a conclusion all that can be said of those seven years that some things remained undone. Had time taken the two back to that juncture, maybe things would have been different. If the person bidding farewell from the platform could have boarded the same train and held her hands, seven years would have not just passed away in remembrances, in pains and in expectations.

Life might have moved on but the conscience within keeps reminding that some things still remain undone. Now that the wait is over, maybe the two of them can look ahead to more questions and more answers.

The smiles that had once faded were back on faces. Moments that had run out of magic had turned magical again. The sun was setting, the skies had turned cloudier and the birds were heading home too.

After an entire day of smiles, tears and a promise to see each other again, they departed.

But one of them still left with a heavy heart and went to the same platform; the train had left from seven years back. He spent two hours recollecting what had happened and once the mistake was realized, he moved on. And just then the mobile rang. The voice on the other end was smiling too…!

The above is just an account of two strangers who never were strangers but very much in love till destiny did them apart and brought them together AGAIN!

- vociferous

THE FIRST & SECOND CLASSED POPULOUS

The British seem to have introduced class divide in India. I have my doubts. Going by the way, we travel in Mumbai in cramped trains; I believe the greater divide rests here. The city just doesn’t fail to surprise me every time that I hop onto one of those trains. After I make my way in, I repent my decision of traveling in that certain class. The divide begins here and promises never to die or diminish.

Local trains, considered the lifeline of Mumbai are segregated into first, second and third class. While I am pretty comfortable with the first two, the third one stands for the luggage or the vendor coach. This is no different coach but a part of any of the coach we travel in. Entering into one of these is perfectly suicidal, if you plan taking a morning train down to suburbs from Mumbai CST. Because during this hour, not people but fishes of every big and small varieties travel in these compartments. They are preserved beneath thick layers of battered ice and stored in round bamboo baskets. They travel under tight security, provided by the accompanying fish selling women and the porters who will drag the baskets down the compartment once the train comes to a final halt. Being the third class, no one is generous enough to take a ride in it. In fact, these compartments emit a strange stink for the entire day. Sometimes, they stink of fish, sometimes sweat and sometimes beetle stains left behind by generous travelers.

Next in the category comes the second class. This class outdoes every other class in the train. In these coaches travel the hardworking populous. They aren’t strugglers but potential achievers. They speak the local lingo. They are crowded with secularists. There exist no distinctions on grounds of caste, creed or sex. Birthdays are celebrated by distributing potato stuffed and steamed samosas and thirsts quenched by extra bottles of water carried by fellow travelers. Ladies are offered seats on priority basis. Their cleavages are gaped at with special fervor. Seats are abandoned on a station to station interval basis. Abuses are hurled without any reservations, reluctance or rigidity. This is the class of complete equality. Like they say, “In Gods eyes every one stands equal”. The second class is available to both males and females. Every day millions cling out of the doors and also the windows of the second classes. Every single moment two trains pass each other. All one can hear of during those magical moments are cat calls from gents compartments piercing the atmosphere and entering straight into the ladies compartment of the opposite train. If lucky, one can also take the liberty of making lewd gestures. Then there are ‘Me also Tarzan’ moments. Desperados can be spotted jumping over roof. Records show that every day major accidents are caused when one of those jumping jacks fall off the train’s roof or get electrocuted. But who cares, this is Mumbai that never fails to celebrate the undying spirit of life.

First class is the only compartment, which pretends to stand out. The first classes have been in the recent times stripped of their privileged status. Day by day with the increasing pressure of population in Mumbai, people are highly in favor the first class rather than attempting to sweat it out in a clumsy second class compartment. The ladies first class compartments have still maintained their uniqueness. The men might have silenced their resistance but women in Mumbai are hell bent not to allow their privilege to be taken for granted. There is no scope left for second class travelers to even land up erroneously in one of these gifted compartments. And if they manage, the women travelers make it a point to yell at the peak of their voice exclaiming – Arey yeh first class hai, special dibba (this is the first class, a special compartment). Every morning, it is an adventurous moment to see the women pour into their a little bigger than a pigeon’s hole first class compartment. This is followed by a strange gesture of pointing finger guns at each other. These gestures are necessary to understand and gauge the time each lady passenger would need to occupy a seat. This practice is religiously followed in the second class ladies coaches too. Some women, even though dressed well prefer to sit down rather than wait endlessly for a cushion seat.

Men on the other hand in first class are the breed that God might have developed to represent the real class divide. Conversations are scarce. Expectations of occupying a favorable seat always remain unfulfilled. The movement is very rigid. Strange looks are exchanged if appeals are made to demand a seat. Sometimes laptops and most of the times a game of cards festoon the not so plush interiors of first class compartments. Most of the communication is done through eyes and expressions. Still travelers who travel in a group are ending up creating that little bit of never heard noise in the first class compartments. Unlike ladies first class, there are no finger guns pointed out here.

In Mumbai’s first class gents’ compartments, one thing that every one dies to be a part of is the video coaches. All second thoughts of getting to see video must be trashed without further consideration. These video coaches are those which are an open window partition between the male and female first class compartment. Millions of love stories have taken place over these single windows. And definitely the same windows have ended up being reasons of lust worthiness. Newspapers have carried out articles on wrong conduct and incessant teasing of women by white collared men. This doesn’t mean that the women are less generous. Sometimes gestures and expressions made by men meet with equal amount of good response from the fairer sex.

Today therefore Mumbai stands divided. This is a city, which might be categorized in many different classes. But when a bomb explodes or the motormen go on an indefinite strike, the class divide disappears. Differences are buried down and the city springs back to action. Crisis management techniques do come easy and a tough night of terrorist attack is also dealt with gutsy attitude. Maybe that is the reason, Mumbai goes to sleep terrified. The night grows darker and murkier. And then the sun wakes them up to live a new life. Once again, Mumbai gets ready to stand divided into First and the Second class. But the journey is a kaleidoscope of what is known to the entire world as Mumbai Magic!

Just another way to say, Mumbai is still the best city in this world and continues to stay at its prime 24x7.

- vociferous

THE OBNOXIOUS MR. AAYDAL

The biggest threat to a writer is Mr. Aaydal walking into his/her life. He has a weird face much worse than the most dreaded monsters described in old legends. Mr. Aaydal is an expert in adapting himself to the changing tides of time. He positions himself in every agency/corporate house/communication designers, where writers are found slogging it hard to make ends meet. His grim appearance sends shivers down the spines of writers. Be it in the brightness of a day or in the darkness of a night, Mr. Aaydal becomes the shadow of a writer.

People are always found talking or being very curious about how Mr. Aaydal finds his way into swanky offices. These offices are no less than digital fortresses that are protected by password complying doorways. Passwords can never shoo off Mr. Aaydal. He is ageless and has lived eternally through the times; civilisation started taking shape in this world. Mr. Aaydal has always been interested in the form of writing and has been on a mission to challenge the existence of writers.

Mr. Aaydal has found a mention in the writings of modern and ancient authors. He is strategic. He stages his inception in great style. Once he finds a place in the writer’s life, nothing of the writer is spared. Slowly, Mr. Aaydal starts manipulating the writer’s actions. He wrongs every right and imperfects the perfection. He has exterminated the mightiest and the weakest of writers. The weakest could not face the force; Mr. Aaydal has always subjected them to. The mightiest did try to resist but in the end gave up.

Writers who committed heinous crimes, attempted suicide, slaughtered their pens, immolated their manuscripts or suffered a paralysis attack always wished they would never had allowed Mr. Aaydal to gatecrash into their lives. They had no choice because Mr. Aaydal just entered their lives.

Mr. Aaydal has also from time to time helped employers or publishers to do away with writers. He has self appointed himself and vowed to make life miserable for numerous writers. Mr. Aaydal is an expert in self cloning too. He can be found all over the world at the same time, causing harm to writers. Some debate, Mr. Aaydal is a myth. But very few know he is a harsh reality and a dark truth. Experts protest that Mr. Aaydal doesn’t self invite but is welcomed by writers to shun the chores they are entrusted with. Mr. Aaydal conspires, Mr. Aaydal threatens and Mr. Aaydal devastates. Especially when it is appraisal time, Mr. Aaydal activates his venom filled lungs and spits on the many performance sheets of writers. This leads to two probabilities: 1) Dismissal and 2) Demotion. After a final decision of the writer’s fate is being conveyed to him, he gets a nausea attack. As the writer steps out of the cubicle to run towards the restroom, Mr. Aaydal prevents him from making it on time. The writer collapses on his knees and starts pleading to Mr. Aaydal that he wants to survive for his own self, for his family. But Mr. Aaydal doesn’t believe in mercy. He only believes in merciless tactics. Mr. Aaydal makes a roll of unattended papers then thrusts it into the mouth of the writer. The writer starts choking. His eyes start showing towards the sky and turn bloodshot. The writer starts experiencing insurmountable pain. His nerves and veins poised tend to burst out. His heart starts pounding ceaselessly. Suddenly he plunges into darkness and couldn’t let the vomit eject out of his mouth. Mr. Aaydal starts putting pressure on the writer’s throat, keeps pressing it and gains success in killing the writer.

After this ghastly act, Mr. Aaydal stands firm on his feet. He takes a few step then turns back to see if the writer is dead or alive. If he senses a movement, he waits and once again tries to strangulate the writer till he breathes his last. Mr. Aaydal then finally stands up, kicks the writer’s body to confirm that it is lifeless then smartly walks out of the office in search of his next target, the next writer, the next victim.

The above mentioned technique of murder is just one of the favourite techniques; Mr. Aaydal is very fond of to slay writers. His other techniques are far more heinous. The most affluent the writer, the most brutal is the death.

Mr. Aaydal refuses to leave this world because he too is under a spell to destroy writers. But he never repents his action. He was created to make writers understand that hard work is always not rewarded with precious rewards. Mr. Aaydal is not a friend, he is a foe. I being a writer myself feel too vulnerable to Mr. Aaydal. Though he is supposed to arrive unannounced, I can sense he is very much around. I am equally tense how brutal he would be, when it comes to me being a victim of his outrage and his mission to silence writers like us.

Let God be with the writers.

- vociferous

MUMBAI-YOURS OURS MINE HIS HERS OR WHOMSOEVERS

The spirit of Mumbai is omnipresent amongst all of us, who have made this lovely city a home to dwell in. Proudly we proclaim Aaamchi Mumbai. But ever since this fervour towards the city has started gaining political momentum, the threat of losing out in a city of dreams continually hovers on our heads.

Experts believe the change in name has stripped the city of its gothic character. But it is equally interesting to discover, in this city business continues as usual. A particular faction might be against interstate migrations but the authority to oppose seems to have automatically slipped into the hands of the less opportune! The less opportune are characters, which we bump into knowingly/unknowingly. Over 80% of these characters travel by Mumbai’s lifeline – The Local Train. Mumbai’s railway network which is divided into three zones namely the central, the western and the harbour lines cater to the gusty motion of local trains throughout the day.

I, vociferous am a regular traveller of the central railway network. Every morning the train I take from my place of residence to the place of my work, is sometimes pleasantly packed and occasionally over packed. The real problem is with the travellers who prefer to take a back journey from starting point even though the train takes a halt at their station just 4 minutes later. Luckily being loosely associated with the so called group/gang, I enjoy the privilege of occupying a comfortable corner to squeeze in and start reading a book. The conversations between the members of this group/gang range from the usual profanities to female gazing and to the right to be a Mumbaikar. It was one such day, the journey began. I was hooked on to Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City-Bombay Lost & Found. The doorway was blocked by the frail as air Mr. More, the dumb as blonde Sarkar (addressing him as Mr. is extremely suicidal), the notorious as Dennis Sardarji and the agitated as a street fighter Mr. Transport Agency Executive (He prefers to wear a watch that has the BSE logo on it).

The train came to a halt at the second station. As usual, travellers barged in like this was The Last Train to Pakistan. Some fell down, which in many ways has become a tradition now. Some stumbled. Bags got stuck. Neckties strangled their owners to death. The burden of laptops squeezed the marketing guys to a miniscule pie. The senior citizens sounded resistive for being ill treated time and again by those greedy to grab the window seat. The door blockers raised their voice by yelling, “Enough Pressure. Now No More”!

Sudden influx of passengers in bulk sparked a conversation over how Mumbai got so populated over a span of 24 hours. I was luckily engaged in my book. At the third station, some more displayed their expertise of holding a train hostage and endangering the lives of fellow passengers. The circus continued at the fourth and the fifth station too. I wonder why the British engineers who had designed this railway network never ever had considered the fact that they were creating a Frankenstein monster. As the train’s speed accelerated, a guy who has started joining us in this train for the past few weeks pulled out a bunch of papers from his backpack. On these papers were written codes, hardly of any significance to me. For the first time, I inquired with him, “What are these”? He gently replied, “Programme Instructions. We have designed a new database system that will be installed today and thereafter we have a presentation to make. So before reaching office, I chose to improvise so that I am self updated.” I wished him good luck and the train experienced a jerk. Due to this volatile jerk, the edge of the papers held by this computer guy collided against Mr. Transport Agency’s neck. Outraged and bereaved, he turned back and in his goon toned voice threatened this guy to take care. Trying his best to control a second collision, this computer guy once again couldn’t help holding his papers back which hurt Mr. Transport Agency’s (TA) neck. Turning his head, Mr. TA started abusing him. Mr. Nice Guy apologised. But Mr. TA was not in a mood to give up. He took the conversation to an entirely different level. His first object of hatred was me. Pointing at me, he told the fellow travellers that this arrogant bookworm is the trendsetter. Mr. TA then trained his guns on Mr. Nice Guy. The first word of abuse to find an exit from Mr. TA’s foully mouth was directed to a sister’s modesty. The second abuse was directed towards the parents who committed the mistake of giving Mr. Nice Guy his life. The third was a voice of concern over the pressure increasing on Mumbai. Mr. TA felt and also garnered support that Mr. Nice Guy is the main reason behind Mumbai’s swelling populous of frustrated non performers. Quite proficient in Hindi, Mr. TA said, “Pataa nahi saaley kaha sey aa jaatey hai Mumbai mein gandagi failaaney” (There is no clue about where these stupid people land up from in Mumbai and start spreading untidiness). To which, Mr. Nice Guy replied, “Boss! “Pehle apney aapp ke andar jhaanko phir bolo” (Boss! First self analyse yourself then talk out). The argument came to an end with Mr. TA threatening of bashing Mr. Nice Guy after both alight at the sixth station.

Some travellers eagerly awaited a major showdown while I almost knew what the conclusion would be. The train came to a halt. All of us, we jumped out of the train and Mr. TA caught hold of Mr. Nice Guy’s well ironed shirt’s collar. The conversation started with abuses to mother, father, sister and some more objectionable mentions. Mr. Nice Guy was calm but Mr. TA was all charged up to train his muscles, which have been lying idle over a period of time. Luckily a senior citizen intervened and brought the situation under control. Mr. TA departed with a threat to strike back while Mr. Nice Guy stood shaken. I preferred neither to console nor to empathise with the wrong doer or the right doer. Even though I am a part of this group/gang, I don’t make myself felt belonged to it. I sped towards the bridge, climbed the staircase, cut through the crowd and finally exited the bulging-to-explode railway station to attain solace in my otherwise hostile workplace.

From the entire circus like situation, I could not figure out how Mumbai formed the core of the argument. We are all travellers. Our journey of a little over thirty minutes is meant for livelihood. During the entire journey, we don’t discriminate on grounds of religion, race, caste or creed. But the commoditisation of this city of dreams has already started making us pay a princely price.

Mumbai as a city belongs to whom? Does it belong to the current breed of politicians who have preferred to milk all its resources and leave it lifeless? Does it belong to the fanatics who regularly make it a point to plant bombs at crowded places and endanger innocent lives? Does it belong to the local citizens who keep spitting on the walls painstakingly painted by frail framed labourers? Does it belong to the rich who get drunk at a rave party and prefer to drive on bodies lying lifelessly on pavements? Or does it belong to the creators of this city who are long dead and maybe twisting & turning in their graves faced with the irony of this situation?

To conclude, Mumbai belongs to somebody or nobody and is just a commercial hub to earn a livelihood!

- vociferous

MY MIND - THE CONSTANT WANDERER

A lack of a passport limits an individual’s journey across the globe. Luckily the human mind doesn’t require one, to traverse seven oceans. Like all other human beings, I too am human and like every one else, my behavioral system is controlled by my mind. But I am surprised to see the amount of wandering; it has been doing for the past few days, weeks and months.

Beginning with the advent of New Year on January 1, 2010 my mind remained motionless. It didn’t react to the excitement of innumerable champagne splashes that were made around the world. In stead, it kept wandering on how much sense it made to be slogging for more than nine hours when 97.65% of the employed world was busy taking a nap after a night of celebration on December 31, 2009.

Being an Indian mind, the reaction level has really hit an all time low. Ruchika was molested and forced to commit suicide many years back. Though the maligned cop Rathore is sure of being held responsible and put behind bars, he is smiling. But my mind is wandering over the confidence that he sports while facing the media. He doesn’t regret his actions. In stead he says, “The more it gets tough, the brighter I shall smile”.

The Kiwis hate us. But my mind keeps wandering as to how we allow them to extricate on our cricket pitches. Every fortnight one or the other television channel relays a news of an Indian being assaulted, thrashed or burnt alive by a group of Australians or a single goon. As Indians, we sit quite. We try to establish a dialogue with the country of attackers. On a fine day a higher Australian authority makes an announcement, “Indians are much safer in here rather than out there in their own country”. My mind wanders how our Indian authorities would react to that.

Kashmir burns and so does the hearts of us Indians. Terrorists keep playing the game of hide and seek. Under the pretext of a ceasefire, the defaced neighbors keep repeating the same mistakes. My mind wanders over the videos of Aman ki Asha. Celebrities smilingly reiterate the feelings of many white collared decision makers sitting on the peacock throne of our capital. They keep saying, “Love thou neighbor”. After having seen the stories narrated by victims of 26/11, my mind wanders how tolerant are we.

A calendar of tempting beauties is being shot miles away beneath the scorching temperatures of sun in an island country. Every Friday, I deliberately make it a point to miss the photo shoot. But my mind wanders as to how much money, is being spent to make possible the voyage of twelve beauty snaps easier to a database of just 5000 clientele. Slender bodies with super souls, they pout and my mind just can’t stop wandering about the kind of beauty management these hot properties have to adapt themselves to.

Opportunities come and opportunities go. Lucrative are those, which are grabbed on time and made the most of. My mind being the constant wanderer rewinds through the many such moments of loss. But I pull it back by making it understand that opportunity once lost is lost forever. Still, a kind soul manages to strike a chord with the other unknown side of me and injects the confidence to create my own opportunities. I therefore calm down and once again turn to my mind to ask the same question, “Hey Mind, What’s up”? It replies, “WANDERING”.

- vociferous