THE REAL STORY

On a new note of re-beginning and retelling, many might want to know if at all I believed in the prophecies of the world ceasing to exist on December 21, 2012. To be precise, I didn’t! Not before, I had reposted on my blog. Did I miss updating it? I did. Did I manage to get rightfully inspired? I did. So much has happened over these last five months. Rise, fall, debacle, devastations, evolution, diminution and so much more to make me feel at unease with life. For a moment, I had sacrificed the thoughts of continuing to blog. Three things that kept me going strongly were – reading, writing and being loved. But two thoughts kept me thinking vividly – frustration and facilitation. Silently yet vociferously, I survived. I kept the grit alive to come back to write – THE REAL STORY.

It was on September 22, 2005 at exactly 22:45 hours that I filed my first post under my personal blog - http://bengalsurprise.blogspot.in/; I never knew the kind of relationship that I was getting into. Irresistible was my lust for seamless writing. Between many professional heartbreaks and personal displeasures, it was a decision to hop on to the then called bandwagon of starting to blog. Right from its inception, I wanted to set a dark context for my blog. I was never bothered about opinions. I was only driven by the preying quality of this epidemic to start my very own blog. Being a sinner myself, I could have never thought of preaching. Being insane myself, I could have never agreed with my brutal conscience to write sanely. Not a saint and so much more of a shaitan, I had to make a head start somewhere, someday!

THE REAL STORY is not a piece of ode to my salt sprinkled journey of life. Neither is it a sugar coated monologue of my many misadventures. THE REAL STORY is the other side of the real side that I am privy to. THE REAL STORY begins from that point of life when I refused to walk into an office of monotonous schedules. THE REAL STORY begins from the 10^th floor of Maker Chambers 4 where a hair-greased-with-oil Depot Manager turned my life upside down by kicking my ass off to a gallows like destination – Bhiwandi. It was a premium price; I had paid for being honest. THE REAL STORTY is a recap from the first day of being on my first job and reporting to a wrongly-believed-to-be-an-inebriated boss, whom I still consider to be my best boss. I learnt from him, one basic truth of life – LIFE MEY NA BHENC@#@ KABHI KISISE DARNA MAT. I saw him passionately running to an abandoned spot, to capture a moment of rapid action on his camera. That rapid action was of two cobras trying to tangle each other. He walked back valiantly, looked at me and proclaimed – AGAR AISA KUCH MISS KAREGA TOH DUNIYA TUJHE CHUT@#@ BANATI RAHEGI AUR TU CHUT@#@ BANTA RAHEGA. Did I ever look back to him after that incident? Yes, I did till the day he took off to Kuwait; abusing me for not holding a valid Indian passport. His last words to me were – TERE JAISA BARA BEWAQOOF MAINE NAHI DEKHA. His only desire was to take me along to the Middle East. When I asked him why? He had specifically replied – PURU IS THE ONLY ONE WHOM I HAVE EVER KNOWN TO HAVE RUBBED HIS ASS AGAINST ALL ODDS JUST LIKE ME, ALMOST LIKE A REAL BROTHER OF MINE.

I moved on. The illicit affair with Nariman Point continued. During late evenings, I watched many a young things age in the confines of cars parked motionlessly by the footpaths. During the dead of nights, I realized someone follow me and solicit my attention. The affair only ended when I got whisked away by another destination – Worli. THE REAL STORY’s twist which had waited to arrive finally arrived. I stepped into the big, ad world of limitless desires. Much to the dismay of my father, who had predicted my downfall from the following instances – 1) I was never able to fix a TV antenna, 2) I chose earning a Bachelor of Arts degree over my friends pursuing engineering and science, 3) I showed keen interest in music, movies, moodiness, 4) I kept pushing myself to a corner of my room and taking notes, and 5) I gaped at the TV Commercials, maintained cutouts of print ads and spoke animatedly about advertisement. My heart broke when I earned my first ever appointment with real triumph in advertising and my father left for his heavenly abode. I still remember the day December 1, 2001; he had for the first time spoken something, I can never forget – I TELL EVERYONE ABOUT MY SON BEING IN THIS CRAZY THING CALLED ADVERSITING. HE BUYS BOOKS WORTH THOUSANDS OF RUPEES. AND I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT HE DOES. I rushed back early in the evening, from my diploma classes in Churchgate, packing all the props and materials required to be presented in the biggest ever viva, which was supposed to earn me the best job in one of the best agencies in India. I arrived home. Beneath my building, I saw an ocean of people waiting for me, not to greet me. But to break an untoward news! As I started ascending on the staircase confused and concerned, a neighbor held me tight and screamed – Be Strong. By the time, I reached my home on the third floor; I felt cheated by destiny and by God. Lying on a clean sheet of cloth was my father; calm and composed. My strong as iron mom, hiding her face behind unknown faces. Whatever I was carrying in my hand, slipped off. I just yelled – Baba. My childhood friend Prashant, my college buddy Nikhil & his family and my whole family stood by me. Eleven years is a long time and yet that feeling of being cheated hasn’t healed. His demise was just the beginning of a series of calamities that followed. Broken, challenged, erased; I embarked on a quest for THE REAL STORY that I wanted to be a part of. Maybe it was his death that helped me unmask the ugly side of Indian politics. A prominent political personality didn’t shy away from issuing a direct threat to me – BAAP MAR GAYA TOH SAMAJH PAISA BHEE GAYA; ZYADA UDEGA TOH TU BHEE JAAYEGA.

Angry, frustrated, heartbroken and derailed; I continued looking for inspiration to fuel THE REAL STORY. The Indian film industry was so far, an alien element. The only source to quench my thirst for creative inspirations, the film industry had its own pros and cons. Work was good, money was bad. Temptations were fierce, after effects were formidable. Never wanting to bid adieu to the illusion of being associated with an industry where I met lyricists, musicians, producers, directors, writers, junior artists, aspirants and the unsuccessful(s); I had to take a tough stand and knock on doors to ask for money. This was just the beginning of my begging days. Sometimes shooed away by a dog and sometimes a door slammed by a familiar personality from the world of television on my face, I ran away looking for answers in the Arabian Sea. I sat on the Marine Drive and continued sitting through late hours. I looked around me, how the world changed. From happy couples to client soliciting professionals, I discovered human stories. For the first time, I saw a woman lift her veil and press a cigarette between her lips. I astoundingly saw her take puffs after puffs. After crushing the butt beneath her feet, she took a few steps towards me then turned back and landed a tight slap on the face of the man who had accompanied her. She hailed for a taxi and disappeared. The man looked back at me, looked around and drove away in his car; only leaving me with an inspiration to culminate into a love story, I wish to go back to and complete writing about two characters – Nayantara and Neelanjan on http://nayantaraandneelanjan.blogspot.in/.

THE REAL STORY is still not what it seems like. It is as lethal and as acidic like that sensation of seeing your heart being set ablaze with a truth, you had never wanted to encounter. Deceived by a person you were once madly in love with. A close friend being chosen over you and to be shattered into pieces by an invitation to the most hated wedding of a lifetime! Once again an inspiration to evolve into something as heart wrenching as the letters, I would love to invoke on http://esotericletters.blogspot.in/.

But THE REAL STORY is far more elusive than just being an illusive replica of the ‘Real Me’ and categorically vociferous. Because it brought me closer to the man, I considered my guru in advertising – Prasoon Joshi. I remember, I had met him once and told him – I AM READY TO SWEEP THE FLOORS OF YOUR OFFICE, PROVIDED YOU GIVE ME ONE OPPORTUNITY. Who can forget the year 2010, when that dream translated into reality and I walked home with not one but two awards and a precious reward! The award was the biggest to come by in the healthcare segment. The idea was the most gigantic to keep up with benchmarks set by other stalwarts in healthcare advertising. The imagination was the most eccentric when approved by one extremely passionate Ryan Menezes. The journey towards success, powered by the video created by someone as talented as Monisha Rana Raj. And someone as talented as Ulka, who believed in my idea, my madness and more over in me to make my dream come true. Not only did she inspire a new episode of THE REAL STORY. But she went ahead in winning over rudeness, indifference, impatience and harshness of someone as intolerable as me.

Having consumed many a combined packages of success and failures later garnished with uncreative endeavors, once again the mind is breathing. Inhaling the aroma of creative freedom once again, I am all set to reemphasize that my passion for writing continues to be alive. I am still as unchained as I used to be when I started my creative journey twelve years back. Inspired by the will power of one important human being in my life, my mother… I never abandoned what I took over. My mother is my friend, my mentor, my motivator and everything to me. So is my better half, imagining and ideating with me incessantly.

THE REAL STORY has no ending. And THE REAL STORY would not have been a story at all, had it not been the presence of friends like Prashant, Swati, Nikhil, Satish (for always pushing me to write more), Rohini (for believing & trusting), Shankari (for motivating) and many others. A separate blog post is required to present the untiring list of friends, who pulled me out of depressing moments.

To (un)conclude, THE REAL STORY re-begins from today. My apologies to those, whom I have either tried deliberately or unknowingly to hurt! My sincere gratitude to my four siblings – Antara, Arpita, Udayan and Nibedita for making me feel sane and more.

On an ending note, but with a fresh breath of re-beginning; all I wish to say – THE REAL STORY is not yet the same; as written and read. THE REAL STORY in reality is a never ending saga of being a virtuous vociferous - UNABASHED AND UNDEFEATED.

-vociferous 

MONSTER OF A MONDAY

I don’t care if ire comes my way.

I don’t care if abuses come my way.

I don’t care if stones come my way.

I really don’t care, if someone really makes a big issue out of what I plan to write in the next few paragraphs. The issues are practical. The complication is of general interest. And if someone begs to differ, I am not going to resist it. Because I am going to dare and bare my feelings about a Monday that I wish should have never followed a Sunday.

It is not a general belief for me but a reality that on Monday mornings, I either tend to get late or get late by default. Obviously being the first day of a working week, I am in a mood to be a part of the rat race and impress all the concerned in office about my punctuality. Frankly speaking, it is a myth. I want to make it to office on time to leave on time and console myself that I finally lived through the Monday.

From Saturday evening, I begin to struggle against the fact that Sunday is round the corner and it will come to an end like a bursting bubble. Therefore I avoid sleeping early on a Sunday night. I refuse the temptation of relaxation. I rebel against the Kingdom of Sleep. I resist the imagination of dreams. Frankly speaking, Monday mornings begin with nightmares. The trains are flooded (and not crowded). People are sweat-bathed and not bathed. There is a stench of pretentious dedication in the first class compartment that I travel in. And the much audible laughter of fellow travelers is just a cover-up of primal fears they hold within for a Monday.

Come Monday and you rush through the office door. A biometric machine eagerly awaits your thumb to touch it. On many occasions, I have tried to tease it with my middle finger. After settling down and having switched on the computer, a military of emails start descending in the inbox. As a note of immense dissatisfaction, I would frankly say that they give out nothing but paint a sad picture of how bleak your morning is and how idiotically you had fared in the last week.

Monday… A colleague says, “I die to come back to office on a Monday”. Possibly because there was nothing interesting left in this world for him to do. Or he has been abandoned by his love interest. Or his parents think, he is good for nothing. Another one comes up with that usual query of – Hey dude, how was your weekend? What did you do on your weekend? Brutal but true, I find these questions extremely stupid. If at all, I have to mention a movie that I liked immensely. The reply will be instant – What a bore movie man, how could you sit through those two hours of agony? To be truthful, he too might have seen the movie and sat through the same two hours, understanding nothing and considering himself an esteemed film critic had decided to write off the maker of the movie.

Monday… Expect the taxi driver to be generous and promise a smooth ride to your office. I am sorry to say, their asses harden up. Their egos are inflated. And it is only on Mondays that they refuse to use a flyover and fantasize getting stuck in a traffic jam to drill a hole into the traveler’s bruised pocket.

Monday… You will find the most unexpected colleague to be present in office on time, who might have never made it on time in the last one week. He will wink at you. He will sport a broad smile; take a sip from his ugly cup of sugarless coffee/tea/urine and ask you the first question you might have dreaded for centuries and deliberately in Hinglish – What boss… weekend bahut dhamaal spend kiya kya? Such idiots should be hanged till death from an electric pole.

Monday… Trains will take you on a teary ride. Be it monsoons or no monsoons, they will run late. The announcer will assure you of a 15 minute delay. But most of us have never been surprised when the train must have arrived exactly 25 minutes late. The crowds will swell. Indiscrimination on grounds of groups, age, sex, caste, creed, color, religion, faith and beliefs will be rampant when the question of offering a seat shall arise. By chance, if you happen to occupy a window seat and kill the prospects of a regular occupant, they will kill you with their words, highly vocal abuses in-directed towards you. At a point of time, you will feel like committing immediate suicide. And the train will take its own sweet time to see to it that you are marked late on arrival in your office.

Monday… You will dress well. But a tobacco chewing Romeo will spit and your attire will resemble a canvas of modern art. You will feel like a loser and vow to never dress well on any other Monday or be it any other day.

Monday… The boss will not cease to take potshots at you. He or She will begin with a curtain raiser to the torment – Remember that day on Friday, you left early and the work got stuck… He or She will remind you of a holiday that you might have availed on a Friday eons ago. He or She will then train their guns on some useless P’s of recent professional jargons – productivity, perfection, precision and practice. He or She will give out a speech on Time Management, Brand Development, Relationships with Client, Pleasing the Seniors and Business Development. And by the time, they end you will find yourself sweating restlessly in the rest room, trying helplessly to deal with a urinary tract infection cause due to the delay caused by His or Her confusingly boring conversation.

Monday… You will miss the whole point.

Monday… The office looks like a graveyard. Actually most of the offices that we travel to are makeshift arrangement. In these makeshift arrangements, the egoists are busy weaving cobwebs of supreme complications. We end up being trapped like a bacterium spreading fly or a paint licking cockroach. These offices are not clean on Mondays because the housekeeping staff might not have arrived on time or they might have been abducted by aliens. The dustbins are unclean and the leftovers of a freaky Friday look up to you and demand – Clean us, Liberate us, Discard us and please Hate us. Secondly the already dull ambience will appear at its dullest best. The mood will be grim or grumpy.

Monday… A meeting will be conducted in the conference room. Some minds will speak. Most minds will mute their rebellion. And some idiots like me will yawn or fantasize about a holiday in Singapore. In the meeting ugly charts will be put up. Another presentation will be made on the scope of work or an ugly head will mess up with some connection and suddenly put up a WIP chart (Work in Progress chart). A serious face will glance at even more serious faces. And a funny face like me will look at no one and doze off in the chair that is offered to me by my immediate colleague.

Mondays… I believe have lost their charm. Ever since timesheets have come into existence and a hire-fire policy have been put up in place, all the Mondays sunk in the deep ocean of sadness. I have myself lost faith in every arriving Monday because none of them have been cheerful. In the last three years, every single time that I have signed the muster, placed the finger on the biometric machine or swiped my card… one dream has died, an imagination has been sacrificed, an idea has disappeared, a passion has escaped.

Can we not go back to the valley of beautiful Mondays? Can we not go back sailing in the stream of balanced schedules? Can we not go back to the village of appreciations? Can we not dream of a better Monday? Can we not fuel the beginning of better Mondays?

But for all that to happen… we need motivations on Monday, magnificence on Monday, melody on Monday. And we don’t want people who will kill the Monday mood by quoting something stupid…

It is hard to believe how Monday has become a monster of recent times. If not anything, I wish to end this blog post by saying – Let’s add a little fun to this Monday and put the bossy remarks behind.

If a Monday is lived well, the rest of the week grows smooth as well.

Wishing you all courage, I invite you to another MONDAY. Survive well.

-vociferous

POSTCARD FROM WASSEYPUR

“Goli nahi marenge saaley ko, kehke lenge uski” - The intellectuals might point a finger to this single dialogue and term it too explicit. Frankly speaking while watching the movie, the same dialogue hits you like a thunderbolt. I stand undivided with my admiration towards GANGS OF WASSEYPUR (GOW). And I am shamelessly biased towards the movie too. Since West Bengal is my native land, stories of coal mines situated around Asansol, Dhanbad and many other places formed the crux of summer vacations spent there. I have myself heard about handmade bombs hurled over minor issues of idol immersions during festivals. So how could I not enjoy GOW?

I have been a huge fan of Anurag Kashyap from the days of him being credited with Saurabh Shukla as the writer of Satya. He continued with his journey and brought us Kaun, Shool and Darna Mana Hai. Later on his partnership with Ram Gopal Varma came to an end. It was like a blow but nonetheless necessary. Anurag Kashyap did not disappear. He stuck around and painted the portrait of a BLACK FRIDAY on the single screen. Just like other truthful movies, this one too met with protests, allegations, sabotage and unreasonable ire. Major newspapers reported about the 1993 blasts accused filing a writ petition against the producers Mid Day and Anurag Kashyap for tampering with evidence. They also managed to stay the release of the movie. But truth be told, BLACK FRIDAY released in the most daredevil way. Once again I was awed by the personas of every character that were detailed, determined and delivered more than the book had on offer. Being one of the maverick torchbearers of meaningful cinema in India, Anurag Kashyap took the liberty of writing and directing NO SMOKING. No one liked it. People blamed him of being self indulgent and too sarcastic. But little did they know that he was just igniting the much needed spark of change.

NO SMOKING flopped badly. It was accepted internationally with immense fervor. But back home, the Indian film industry had grown nastier. As if all of them had vowed to oust Anurag Kashyap from the premise of filmmaking. This was the darkest phase. I remember seeing an interview wherein Anurag had shared how he had literally begged to be given a chance as a scriptwriter. But no one was listening. Being a creative writer myself, and continuing to remain exposed to threats of abolishment; I was extremely moved by the plight of such a talented writer and director. But God is great. Or maybe luck had a better role to play. Situations overturned and Anurag Kashyap came roaring back with GULAAL on his face. Strangely his unapologetic PAANCH remains tanked. But when I watched it on youtube, I was astounded as to what was so drastic about the movie? Was it too much graphical? Was it too erotic than the Poonam Pandeys and Sunny Leones of recent times? Or was it that, a director with a non filmy background had emerged a threat with PAANCH to his credit. The film industry lay low. But Anurag held his head high and gave us DEV D, co-produced UDAAN, directed THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW BOOTS, produced SHAITAN and finally settled down to enthrall us with GOW.

Based on the many articles I read in the media over GOW, I gathered a lot of things about Anurag Kashyap. He is a worshipper of ideas. He reads everything that interests him. This also includes endless editions of Manohar Kahaniyan available at economical rates on every book stall at major railway stations. He champions the cause of fresh talent be given an opportunity to showcase their skills. And he never shies away from being associated with unconventional cinema. The story idea of GOW was presented to Anurag by an aspiring actor Zeishan Quadri, himself a native of Wasseypur (yes..The real place exists in Jharkhand). Zeishan handed over to Anurag an eight page concept note while he was seated at the Prithvi theatres in Juhu. Anurag read the script, took a close look at Zeishan and said to him – I AM GOING TO MAKE THIS FILM. But Zeishan put a condition to his script that he be given a role in the movie. Anurag agreed and countered the condition with another by asking Zeishan to audition for the role he demanded. Zeishan auditioned, bagged the role and will be seen soon in the second part of the movie as a character named ‘Definite’. But it would be ideal to discuss more on that later. At this point it is GOW Part 1.

The opening sequence is extremely engrossing. Who could have imagined that only bullets could have diverted the attention that this nation assigned to the sob opera – Kyunki Saas Bhee Kabhi Bahu Thee? Anurag imagined it and fired the first bullet so powerfully that a winning script was emerging loud and clear on the silver screen. The next 30 minutes after a mansion being showered with bullets engrossed me further as a viewer. It made me and the other audiences travel to the history behind Wasseypur. The reference to Sultana Daku arrived thereafter. Those who are unaware of this legendary dacoit should immediately read Sujit Saraf’s book CONFESSIONS OF SULTANA DAKU, which was released in 2009. At the end of this book, it was beautifully described how Sultana Daku disappeared in thin mist. People got over his presence by saying he was long dead. A British officer remembered him escape. And the popular belief that took shape was – Sultana Daku’s presence was just a myth. Therefore Sultana Daku’s conspicuous absence produced unsung replicas of him. In the British ruled Wasseypur, Sultana was kept alive by two clans – the Qureshis and the Pathans. Trains were looted and a war broke out over who the real Sultana Daku was and if both Sultanas had to operate, one has to part with his booty. A true Pathan could never tolerate such an atrocity. Abolished from his native town, he is forced to take refuge as a coal miner under the supervision of Ramadhir Singh. On a rainy night, the Pathan’s wife delivers a baby boy and dies. The Pathan with little help from his timid brother brings his son up. Ramadhir appoints the Pathan as his personal Pehalwan and one day bumps him off dramatically because he smells a conspiracy.

Before the Pehalwan is taken out of this world, Anurag constructs a well written plan which clearly shows how some people don’t choose to change with changing times. The Pathan’s son Sardar Khan grows up with a shaved head. Sardar Khan is the real story of the hero. But Anurag makes him much more vindictive. Sardar gets married and uses his wife to satisfy every manly urge. Power corrupts his mind. But Anurag keeps Sardar reminded of his primary mission – Kehke loonga. Sardar’s fondness for women is not veiled. He visits brothels but never makes lewd remarks. He eyes a Bengali woman Durga and wins her heart magically. Anurag once again spins the wheel by making Sardar say – Islam humein chaar nikaah karneki ijaazat kyon detaa hai. Arey chaar ghar ka bhala jo hota hai. Aur pataa nahi log kyu iss baat ko lekar itna bawal machaate hai.

A master of narrating a story with great conviction, Anurag makes Sardar juggle between his legally married wife and his illegitimate mistress. Both the women are themselves not naïve enough. Durga holds a certain grunt against Sardar and sets her scores right at the right moment. And Sardar’s real wife is not shy of dropping her guard while sharing a night of passion with his own uncle. Anurag twists the story and makes Sardar father four sons. On the other end Ramadhir keeps playing dirty games. He speaks of seeing ghosts in dreams. He slaps the man, who had once told him that after bumping Sardar’s father he had cut him into pieces and buried him deep. Tighmanshu Dhulia (director of Haasil, Charas, Shagird, Paan Singh Tomar and Saheb Biwi aur Gangster) essays the role of Ramadhir Singh. He competes with the character of Sardar Khan performed with panache by Manoj Bajpayee. Both shine like real diamonds. Ramadhir Singh’s brutality is best explored in the scene where he beats up his own son Jai Prakash Singh and calls him an idiot in front of all. Later on he goes ahead and insults his own son further by asking him to help his mother arrange the table for guests.

Anurag Kashyap puts his fearless self to good work as a director of GOW. He makes Faisal Khan (Nawazuddin Siddiquie) get addicted to the weed. His addiction is the result of being witness to the night of passion Sardar’s wife spends with his uncle. While his elder brother Daanish (actor’s name not known) starts supporting his father’s gang lordship. Faisal is a diehard fan of Amitabh Bachan and Anurag makes him act comically when he suddenly decides to hold the hand of his girlfriend.

Since vengeance is inherited, Anurag introduces more characters. One of them is Sultan Qureshi. A butcher by profession, he strongly resists his sister’s marriage to Sardar Khan’s elder son. In a gem-of-a-dialogue, he warns a copy saying, “This is Wasseypur. In here a pigeon tries to fly with one wing and shields its honor by the other”. He develops an undying distaste for Sardar Khan and vows to finish him.

GOW is not an easy film. It is real. The characters are infectiously believable. In a well written scene, the wife of Sardar Khan is shown busy serving food to the men of the family. She tells them to eat well before they can make out with women somewhere outside so that the honor of being true men is not lost. Anurag cleverly unleashes the sexual undercurrent within the women. The intimate encounters are enjoyable and the female leads do well with their own roles confidently while gracing the bed with their sexual prowess.

There are no lip synched songs to deter the pace of this story. Thankfully Yashpal Sharma plays the best item girl ever of Hindi cinema in this movie. The movie proceeds to a climax of utter bloodbath between the fighting groups. It truly does justice to the proverb – Kehke loonga. The movie ends at the note of an intense shootout at a petrol pump; a caption appears ‘Kahaani abhi baaki hai’ and the credits roll up. After some while the trailer of GOW2 starts playing. Faisal Khan replaces his father Sardar Khan in this part. He is seen wooing his girlfriend. And three new characters wait to be introduced and thoroughly enjoyed in the second part. Have you ever heard of character names of people like DEFINITE, TANGENT AND PERPENDICULAR. Action rolls over even more intensely in the second part. There is more sex in it than there was seduction in the first part.

I travelled back home astounded by the magnanimity assigned to GOW by Anurag Kashyap. This man is an extraordinary thinker. He is to be respected and worshipped. I am thankful to him for having made this movie, which is so fearless right from its onset. I don’t care if the Indian audiences or critics want to pan it. One of my own office colleagues remarked teasingly that Anurag has delivered a dud. I didn’t even feel the need to reply because this colleague of mine is not a writer but an average employee who is just found typing words on his PC. If passion is what needs to be seen in Indian cinema, watch Gangs of Wasseypur (meant strictly for adults). And yes, liking it or not liking it is a matter of choice. At least don’t come out insulting Anurag Kashyap. Remember he has taken great pain to make us travel to Wasseypur and promises to make it even merrier in the second part.

Go watch it and listen to all the songs in full volume.

Bowing my head to Anurag Kashyap, I sign off.

-vociferous

OFFICE IDOL (Idle) – NOT BY CHOICE BUT BY FORCE

No one ever comes to office to sit idle.
No one cultivates passion for work to get accustomed to rework.
No one dresses well to look badly dressed by the end of the day.
No one takes up a job to be threatened by possibilities of rendered jobless suddenly.

Recruitment ads of recent times are extremely misleading. They paint a picture of an environment, which is more of fantasy and less of reality. On the day of the interview a prototype of a happy workplace is presented to an interviewee. Once you are in, you are trapped. All the talks about following the diktat of ‘WE NEVER WORK LATE’ fizzle out. The hope shown in you as the most prospective recruit erode away. And the little that one gets to do possibly is whine to others.

In this case, who is to be blamed? Most definitely the job seeker is to be held by his/her neck. Background check in case of taking up a new job is a tradition; we have made a practice to evade. We are driven by money, location, position and rewards. We are always unaware of the witty politics that goes around in name of professionalism, precision and perfection.

In the recent past, I stood witness to a dangerous situation to the plight of a fellow writer friend. The Project Manager at his office had announced of having bagged a prestigious project, a client now considered the czar of Indian corporate houses. The assignment revolved around creating communication material for a grave issue of recent times. As a general routine, whenever creative work arrives on the desk, the first thing to pop up in the mind is a brief or a concept note. In this case, both were either absent or invisible. The client had given a briefing three months back. But the concerned team of seniors had paid no attention to put in their efforts to create a framework for the work that was expected to be delivered. Hara-kiri was already in making. Fresh recruitments made the situation even worse. In a fit of sudden excitement, these seniors ferried all of these new recruits to the client’s office. They were equipped with some creative communication. The moment, the meeting started, everyone was in for a bumper surprise. The client screamed at the peak of her voice – THIS IS NOT WHAT I HAD EXPECTED YOU TO COME UP WITH. Everyone left the served tea unattended. The biscuits on the table lost their charm. The entire team hurried down the staircase, instead of using the lift. Panting heavily the entire team drove back to office and started recounting the course of events that had left them feeling astounded.

The next meeting was arranged without consulting the team again as to how much time they might require to develop the communication. This time over the client chose to don the role of a ringmaster and asked the entire team to revisit the office. The client knew the team was still unprepared. Therefore she strategized more intelligently. First she expressed her desire to conduct the meeting at 4 pm. After some while, it was postponed to 5.30 pm. By the time, the team had finished their lunch; the client called again at around 1.30 pm. She wanted the entire team to be present in her office by 2 pm. Like toddlers on their first trip to a picnic spot, the team hurried along to the client’s office. Once again, tea, coffee, biscuits and water were served. The laptop sprung to life and images started getting projected on a white screen. On display were posters, logos and website templates. The client neither batted an eyelid nor did she utter a word. After the presentation of 5 and ½ slides came to an end, the client rose from her throne, circled the entire team of starry eyed creative team and yelled – WHAT ARE YOU GUYS UP TO? HAVE YOU MADE UP YOUR MIND TO SCREW ME? She caught hold of the Project Manager of the creative team and asked the trembling soul to list down as to how the team was briefed. For a person whose heart had already sunk in boots, jotting down snippets from an actual brief was nothing less than committing suicide publicly. The truth was that the Project Manager knew nothing about the core concept.

An ultimatum was issued by the client this time over – YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO PROVE YOU ARE HUMAN BEINGS EQUIPPED WITH A MIND TO THINK, HANDS TO WRITE, ONE PAIR OF EYES TO SEE AND AN INTERNET CONNECTION TO DO INTELLIGENT GOOGLING. What followed thereafter was nothing less than setting out on a Charlie Chaplin kind of an adventure. The entire team without having consumed any of the refreshments served during the meeting drove back to the office. The decision taken this time over was to spend a night in the office to create an award winning communication. Till 12.30 am and having consumed four pizzas in a row, the creative team decided it is advisable to leave and come back to office early in the morning. The new sun of the next day brought everyone back to office not before 11 am because everyone was dead tired. One of the so called Senior Managers took the lead of writing the first few lines. Coincidentally the assigned creative writer to this campaign had already triggered the campaign with a line. But that was ignored. Thousands of words were typed. Millions of ideas were bounced. And by the end of the day, the so called campaign was in place. The entire campaign was mailed to the client. And finally, the client reverted with 10% satisfactory feedback. The other 90% of satisfaction had been left seriously molested on the chair that she still occupies in her dangerously air conditioned office.

Everyone was confident, the ordeal was over. But the real game was to begin now. The creative writer was held responsible for not being supportive. The Senior Manager claimed to have churned out everything that he thought was as-perfect-as-picture. The Project Manager held the creative writer responsible for not being cooperative. The Senior Designer held the creative writer responsible for not being creative.

All the other facts revolving around the discrepancy of being unable to deliver well took a back seat. No one raised a question as to why the Senior Manager chose to fall ill suddenly? No one raised an eyebrow as to why the Senior Designer left for home by 5 pm, the other day after having consumed 4 pizzas in a row? No one raised a doubt over the Project Manager’s sudden outstation trip? But the noose was tightened around the Creative Writer’s neck. The very little that I know of him now and the conversation I had with him two weeks back, he mentioned that he has been sitting idle in his office. I asked him about what happened of being the most prospective employee of the organization? With a hint of irony in his voice, he clearly mentioned that the prospects were flushed out after one week when a client shamelessly blamed him of not being a desired professional. The truth is that the client had never checked the corrected content, this creative writer had mailed across.

As a result, the Creative Writer is left with no option in his hand but to sit idle. If he takes a newspaper out of his bag to kill the idleness that he is caught up with, a gun is held on his forehead and a bullet of man hours is brutally drilled into it.

The moral of the story is simple. Never trust those who paint a picture of what LIES in stock in the form of being a most desirable workplace. But trust those who try to build excitement around the work that you are supposed to do. And if someone says you are the next big Office Idol. Try to do a background check as to how they spell idol – IDOL or IDLE???

-vociferous

BACK ON/OFF THE TRACK

I am not a parasite. At the same time, I refuse to be counted amongst the socialites. My identity, my interests, my hobbies and my hesitations belong to me. There is nothing particular or peculiar about me except the fact that I am a creative writer. A writer, who is passionate about life, loves to dream, eat, laugh and travel extensively. And I haven’t yet developed distaste for what I do as a job, as a commitment, as a responsibility and as a breadwinner.

At this moment, what really matters is my presence after a long hiatus. Some might mask the reality by claiming to be bouncing out of hibernation. But I can’t pretend and neither can I lie. Either I myself or my body language shall give out the nude truth – up, loud and volatile. I was on leave for a good span of three weeks. How far it was relaxing is my lookout. How far it was enjoyable is what the world seems to be curious about. The reason definitely was super personal. People are still complaining for not having received invitations. Frankly speaking, I remain unaffected.

The state of mind that I am in, is nonetheless closer to the plight of the protagonist Chuck Noland (beautifully brought alive on screen by Tom Hanks) in Cast Away (released in 2000). All the impending work seems to have been completed. There is no trace of stress in the office. Ugly jokes are being cracked. Some unthinkable categorizations and segregations are fatally visible. Some laughable rules have been implemented. And some unthinkable stringencies promise to be making life of a creative writer even more difficult. It is worth mentioning that facebook also has been blocked to increase productivity, deliverance and of course results. Surrounded by vibrant walls and colorful colleagues, it is worth thinking if taking a leave is lethal or legal!

The level of being lethal or legal stands undefined. In India right from the day you request a leave on basis of a wedding, birth, death, health, work etc; the perceptions towards you stand unaffected. It is the phase after you are back from leave that you realize the world has suddenly changed. The first to hit you straight on your face are your immediate colleagues. They will make you realize time and again as to how during your absence, it was their presence which saved the world from drowning deep in a shithole. Thereafter come the subordinates, the human resource ambassadors and of course the so called superior you report to. The superior is the most interesting character. He or She makes an appearance once in a day. He or She peeps in like a squirrel into the cubicle that we think is our own private world. A smirk on their otherwise avoidable face makes you realize how big of a criminal you are for being on leave. And then arrives a long phase of silence.

The phase of silence is most loved. No work arrives on your desk. To kill time most commit the mistake of checking through the many emails one might have missed checking during the absence. This heinous error should seriously be avoided. In the many emails that one might have missed checking, at least five to seven of them will be forwards of what the clients might have sent for not having met the deadlines. No matter how hard you bang your head on the wall, it won’t break. It is necessary to be remembered that these walls are not just made of bricks, concrete and steel. On the contrary these walls stand strengthened by layers and layers of misunderstandings, gossips, rumors and of course taller than ‘Eiffel tower of Paris’ egos.

At the end of the day, with no work coming your way and staring blankly at the Adam aged desktop monitor most wonder – what made you come back from the leave? Some have the tendency of rushing towards and asking how was the first day after a long leave? Is everything really fine? How does it feel to be bombarded by deadlines? Has anyone informed of a fellow colleague having put down the papers and is life getting back on track? It is only a case with Creative Writers that they wish, they could have explained – LIFE IS NOT BACK ON TRACK BUT THROWN OFF THE TRACK.

-vociferous

Statutory Warning: The produced piece is a work of fiction and is not inspired or influenced by real events. It is neither written out of frustration nor depicted in an irritated tone. It is just a state-of-mind, which needed a wordy justice and I seriously think I haven’t failed in carrying it out to a readable extent.