GOOD BYE – LAST MONDAY OF 2013

I find it a bit strange to write about a recent past in the present tense or sense. But then something needs to be written about the most important day of our lives. The day might have retired but the experience hasn’t. The moment might have retired but the relationship hasn’t. The Monday might have paved way for Tuesday but there is still something, yet to be shared about. 

Besides being the last Monday that it was, it was also the 364th day of 2013. I must confess even though it was a Monday, there was no frustration to be left feeling outraged. It seemed like that Monday itself had decided to spare us whatever it brought across as an excess baggage of impossibilities for us. I am unsure about others. But that stood true for me this Monday. For once, I didn’t hate the last Monday of 2013. Even though I’ve time and again shared a sweet & sour relationship with many Mondays of my life, today there was a different kind of warmth that existed between us. For once, the last Monday of this year and I were not at war. Today’s Monday seemed a bit meditative, a lot more speculative and at the same time very native. 

I feel strange at times as to how I’ve never been left awestruck by Monday! To be honest, I was myself born on a Monday. My mother fondly remembers the day 30th January (Monday). At the hospital, every second child born at that hour was a girl child. My parents never had a fixed expectation of whether God was parceling a girl child or a boy child. Throughout my life till my father was alive, I think he was keener to have a daughter rather than a rebellious son. My mother though has always been supportive of me being a rebel and but kept me reminded that being a son does not bring with it a universe of privileges. But the only problem, I survived with (despite being born on a Monday) was my bipolar relationship with Mondays.

The Mondays that I am talking about have been carriers of either grief or uncertainty. The Mondays I am talking about, always followed a well lived Sunday. During childhood, Mondays made my mom leave for her school and I was left to feel separated from her. During college days, Mondays always had an extra lecture of some unlovable professor. And then came that phase of life of being recognized as a professional. I think it was more because of peer pressure that I pursued the habit of abominating Mondays. Everyone around me took great pride in thwarting all the vibes generated by a Monday. Whatever little was left of feeling slightly better on a Monday met with disagreement from fellow colleagues. Some hated it while releasing a smoky puff from their mouths while some criticized it by drowning in an ocean of intoxication.

I am also a great fan of the irony that Mondays stand associated with. To be put across politely and on a spiritual note, The Lord of All Lords – Shiva is worshipped on Mondays. Devotees bee lining in temples across the world, place the customary Bel Patra on Shivlings. The tri-foliate form of leaves symbolize the trident that Shiva holds in his right hand (this line is sourced from good old friend Wikipedia). Time and again whenever Lord Shiva seemed to have lost his temper, Goddess Parvati or His ardent devotees have placed the leaf on his head. It had an instant calming effect and the universe, which seemed to be on a verge of collapse due to his anger; returned to a sane form. Therefore Monday is a special day. A day when The Lord of All Lords – Shiva is worshiped and sang hymns about! But why then has Monday earned itself a status of being detested unanimously? I think it might take another hundred years for some great mind to embark on a voyage of research to unlock the mysteries of hatred associated with Mondays.

As observed, Mondays being the first week of the day seemed to always hold special powers. On every Monday, deadlines turn severe, bosses are in a bad mood, clients slip into a threatening avatar, colleagues are caught discussing the Sunday they abused with a bottle of whisky in their hands or got stoned, WIP reports seeming nasty and a lot more. As opined above, chaos and complication have been inseparable from the many Mondays you and me have so far survived.

But the Monday which departed last night at 12 AM was also the last Monday and the 364th day of a fading 2013. I think we should observe it a day of learning. Even though we will continue committing the same mistake of hating it every new week in the New Year too! Somewhere we need to sensitize ourselves and try to respect these Mondays a little. Maybe we should perceive it in a different way! These are my personal opinions. Maybe we should crown Mondays to be the beginners of an energized week. Maybe we should observe Mondays to be professionally reborn. Maybe we should celebrate Mondays for helping us turn sane again. Because if we continue to hate Mondays further, there will be no sweetness left in a day which suffers the fate of being the first day of a week. I think I personally might have gone a bit overboard with my insensible hatred for Mondays. I don’t think everyone else has been that unkind. 

Come 2014 and a new package of 52 Mondays will get auto delivered in our lives. I might be sounding philosophical now but I might again end up hating it 52 times, except the time when I might be vacationing or spending it with my loved ones. But then let us pray to the God of Days to make Monday, a blessing for us. Let not select sections of the society derive special powers from these Mondays but let us also enjoy the privileges of these Mondays. 

Dear 2014, please bring along with you 52 momentous Mondays that are high on happiness, love and bonding.

-vociferous 

THE LAST SUNDAY OF 2013

Another day, another Sunday; but also the 363^rd day of 2013! Two more days shall collide between each other and the year shall end. No matter how hard December 30 will try its luck to overshadow December 29 and make an attempt at diluting the impact of December 31; like every year the last day, the 365^th day shall stand the undisputed winner. After three days, another Sunday will arrive. But till then, it somehow seems important to write in honor of the last Sunday of 2013.

In 2013 there were 51 Sundays (I hope my mathematics to have matured through all those trying years). Most of these Sundays have been more of a routine. I’ve followed the routine of waking up almost on time, freshening up, offering prayers to Almighty, getting the newspapers, eating my breakfast, drinking my coffee/tea, household chores, other chores and a lot many etc’s. At the same time there were some Sundays when I betrayed the routine or the routine itself got betrayed automatically. There were Sundays when I followed my heart. There were Sundays when I pursued my passion (of reading, writing, driving and photographing). Out of the 51 Sundays, I can count very few Sundays on my fingertips that I did something that my real self might have prompted me to do.

I am in possession of fresh calendars. But I haven’t counted the Sundays that I will be celebrating or detesting in 2014. In my lifetime, I don’t remember having hated Sundays. Except for those Sundays, when I might have received a bad news. Except for those Sundays, when I fought with a loved one. Except for those Sundays, when I was left feeling lonely, ignored and defeated. But on this last Sunday, I am thinking of reimagining the definition of upcoming Sundays. Today I might be at the liberty of enjoying long weekends that is an amalgamation of a nonworking Saturday and an obvious holiday on Sunday. But going ahead that might change. I might have to go to office on Saturdays or slog till the early hours of Sunday. I am unaware what future does my Sundays hold in 2014 or the years to follow.

One corner of my heart says, “Leave the routine you follow on Sundays”. A much unvisited corner of my heart says, “The world over, many follow a Sunday routine, why are you trying to run away?” Who is running away? I, me, myself! Am I really running away or am I trying my level best to come back home to a different Sunday? I hate this situation to be caught in juxtaposition. Yet I still am being in some position at the least. So whatever I made of all the 51 Sundays of 2013 or the many other Sundays ever since I grew aware of one such day in a week, I have been less active or not proactive at all. It was just on 362^nd day that was the last Saturday of this year, I realized the game is about to get over. The dates might remain the same. But the days, the years, the moments and the experiences will change.

I must confess I did a lot less than what I could have done to the Sundays of 2013. I could have gone on longer drives, better events, written more, photographed unstoppably, read untiringly, shopped relentlessly, conversed endlessly and so much more. But I was in no mood to make the Sundays of 2013 stand out. I didn’t visit a museum. I didn’t make my way to any of the art galleries. I didn’t give the time, my loved ones expected of me on Sundays. I was absolutely unromantic when Sundays were full of warmth. I switched my gears in between being rude and being selfish. But not for once did I think of growing generous on a Sunday. Almost on every Sunday of 2013, I cocooned myself from the changes that were occurring in the world and changes that were occuring within the family too. Maybe that is one of the reasons; I was left hell shocked when a third generation representative insulted someone from the second generation of my own family. Maybe that is one of the reasons; I decided then and there for no Sunday to be wasted in doing nothing. But have I seriously done something great on any of the Sundays in 2013? Sounding like a lecturer or an orator on the 363^rd day or the last Sunday of 2013, might just seem impressive. But it fails to build a really unforgettable impression. It miserably misleads the motive that I’ve been living with for every Sunday of my life.

It is only on Sundays that writers, poets, philosophers, photographers, storytellers and many other souls from the creative walks of life; gather beneath a tree or maybe meet up at lovely places to talk about the many creative things of life. But I rejoiced feeling marooned on all Sundays of 2013. Many friends met, disguised their inner hatred with the mask of reunion parties and celebrated fake achievements on Sundays. But I remained away from all the high decibel fun (fake fun). I am responsible for having turned many Sundays into sheer waste. I accept the blame to have strangulated the fun in many Sundays.

On this last Sunday of 2013, I might do nothing but read the papers, do the usual household chores, grab a nap in the afternoon, drive the car in the evening, watch and laugh at Kapil Sharma’s jokes in the night and my relationship with yet another Sunday shall come to an end. Once again a Monday would arrive (this time it will be the last Monday of 2013 and 364^th day of the fading year). On Monday, I am usually found fuming over unnecessary issues. On Mondays, if someone is lucky; they will find me cursing the bygone Sunday to be too short. But Sundays are never short. They are normal. If I don’t make good use of a Sunday, how can I hold the following Monday responsible for having killed the fun unnecessarily?

I think I have a rigid personality or my mind might have been assembled in a different manner. On this last Sunday of 2013, I am feeling a lot guiltier than I have been on any of the last Sundays of the previous years. To be honest, I wish to stop being dishonest to the coming Sundays of my life. I am sure of one Sunday that will be interesting in January 2014 itself. I will be in Kolkata with my camera, my diary and my commitments. But why should I allow the excitement to stay limited? And there will be other interesting Sundays for reasons known to me.

Therefore I wish to ask for forgiveness from all the 51 Sundays of 2013 on the last Sunday of this year. I want to promise myself and the most loved ones around me that no Sunday of 2014 shall end up being a waste. But how do I promise? The future is unpredictable. All I can do is wish that I see myself either unpacking my suitcase or pursuing my passion of reading and writing on Sundays. I can no more afford my Sundays to go unused or less enjoyed. God has made only one Sunday for every week. Let me give my total self to the good cause of living up to the many other upcoming Sundays of my life, our lives. You never know when life might fall short of too many Sundays anytime, anywhere!

-vociferous

BACK TO THE RUINS OF APATHY, ANARCHY AND ANXIETY

A junior designer who became a Copywriter.

A Copywriter who became Manager of Corporate Communication.

A Manager who stepped down and stepped up to become a Senior Copywriter.

A Senior Copywriter who became a Senior Manager of Content.

A Senior Manager of Content who became a Creative Lead.

The Creative Lead who was pushed back to become a mere Copywriter.

A Copywriter who will defy nonsense henceforth because he deserves to continue as a Creative Lead.

I am slightly or maybe completely inspired by the legendary quote from the forever favourite flick – GLADIATOR. Also on very few occasions, I’ve been this vocal about my feelings and opinions about situations that I am surrounded with.

To make a beginning, Diwali holidays are over. I am not ashamed to reveal that I was very much pleased to remain detached from work, for the whole of four days. No phone calls. No ugly smses. No negative competition. Absolutely at peace with loved ones. The same loved ones, who wait for hours to see me return from the workplace. But I don’t return. How do I return because there are some blind people around me, who only open their eyes to see me depart and never see me enter! They don’t have a life of their own because they remain immersed in fake show-offs.  

Therefore there is a specific reason why I started with the first few lines, which are (honestly speaking) heavily inspired from Gladiator. Time and again, I watch that movie whenever it is telecast on satellite channels. Or I browse through YouTube to hunt for specific moments from within the movie, which make me feel of being in a virtual coliseum; fighting to sustain my identity. I won’t say my identity is under direct threat. But I would say, it is being challenged from wrong quarters of uncreative mind-sets. On an everyday basis, I’ve to deal with the constant insult of making some jugheads understand that creativity is not a fly-by-night process.

The story began somewhere around four months back. Seated in a glass cabin, facing the reception and cross examined by two men; it was the same me replying positively. After a brief moment, they demanded that I make a presentation and show it to them to decide; if I was worth it. After ten years of being in the creative sphere, such things don’t deter me anymore. I spent a good sum of one hour or a little more than that to put together a presentation. One of the men from the odd strongbox of two or three man team sat across the table and explained how the presentation has to be upmarket to be presented to the CEO. I complied and made it look more presentable, more appealing and more promising.

The remark ‘Good Job’ was the first trump card to pull me in. I was guided to a CEO’s cabin. The darkness within should have been a clear indication of a nasty path ahead. But I paid no attention. Speaking to the CEO should have been a pleasant experience. But there was something he said in Hindi – Humein achey logon ki zaroorat nahi hai. Achcha bankar kya karoge, HELAAOGE? (We are not in need of nice people. By being nice, are you going to shake it?) For a moment, I was amused as to who was I speaking to! Is this how a CEO speaks to a prospective Creative Lead? Is this how you get introduced to a person of higher repute on your first meet? I still paid no attention. Many temptations, fake promises and high hope later; I gave in to what they showcased. Having set their second trap, they succeeded in pulling me into the game.

The game was well planned but with evident loopholes. My introduction was colder than North Pole. A negative image of a hardworking team was painted. For the first three months, I didn’t know that there was a fresh thinking and hardworking copywriter in our team. Fake stories were seeded in as to how history was created. To be honest, at a place with wrong geographical thinking; even the immortals can’t create history. The incessant tale of wanting to change some old habits continued to do the rounds. I continued respecting everything that came my way. But there was more to come. I soon realized that I had stepped into a wax museum of illusions. For all the so called creative work that came our way, there were no proper briefs ever shared. At a point of time wherein we were talking of Social Media, we were talking of media that we didn’t understand or bother to evolve with. We were making commitments to clients that were not even considered for a slide in the PowerPoint presentations, we made.  Time started seeping away. Luckily I established a connection with the same team that was painted as criminal minded. The more I started working with them, the more I realized about the body of lies that was roaming around me; nude and ferociously. Every time this body broke for a smoke, I felt relieved.

The epidemic of late nights came striking hastily. Every single task was tagged urgent or crucial to sustain the business. Work suddenly swelled without a reason. Our minds started turning obese with bad ideas. The clients we started dealing with had their own set of ideas in place. We agreed to start executing them. Never was the team once consulted about it and neither me, the Creative Lead was consulted ever. The story continued at a bitter pace. New characters started jumping in. The walk-ins of new characters fuelled the already derailed structure of work. We welcomed those who knew nothing about creative process. This was a new breed. This new breed screamed on whatsapp, faked on facebook, lied on twitter and ran away with all the credit of good work. They decorated their eyes with fake tears during moments of our personal triumph. They patted our backs with filth in their hands. The murk continued. Briefs stopped coming in. We were called by the clients to be insulted. One man took the onus to put up a show, which held promises of being a gala flop. This man is the recent mismanaged man on mission. Every time he held a meeting, his opening line for that moment would be – I CAN’T TRUST MY TEAM. If he somehow managed to be in a good mood, he would vomit saying – YOU AS A TEAM HAVE YET NOT CONVINCED ME TO WIN MY TRUST. If this is how you are supposed to talk during meetings and boost the confidence, then I think this man never had worked with a team or known the word – LEADERSHIP. More murk continued. Till a day arrived when everyone gave up and took the issue to people, whom they thought will do justice and liberate them from tough times.

Along with others, I too chose to speak in high decibel. From within, a voice prompted – YOU WILL BE FRAMED AND THE TEAM TOO WILL STAND TO SUFFER. But then bad habits never die soon. The mutiny continued. I didn’t speak as a torn individual soul. We spoke as a team and as one soul of many torn souls brought together. We waited for hope until despair knocked on our doors.

A new story is in the making. The grey characters are having fun with all the vibrancy around them. Evil has taken over the good. And as opined by the CEO - Achcha bankar, we are or maybe I am heelaofying (We or I in particular are shaking it by being nice). But like all bad times, the good times of Diwali arrived. All the negative moments seemed temporarily erased. But then Diwali is not celebrated for 365 days. It’s celebrated for just four precious days. The other 361 days are yet to be lived, survived and fought out.

To announce an ending, Diwali holidays are over. It is high time to go back to the ruins of apathy, anarchy and anxiety. In the ruins where evil awaits to insult credibility of being what we are – truthful. In the ruins the evil awaits to avenge an insult, we had inflicted on it.

As a sign off, I wish to say this is not something to be called as frustration. But I’ve spoken the truth not considering the future prospects of it. Many might not like it. Many might not understand it. But personally, I feel satisfied to have written something that I think, I should have written long back. I simply hope the avalanche of fake hope stops here and now. And for once, stop hiring people to insult them or their expertise at a fixed monthly wage of peanuts.

-vociferous

PS: Don’t make creative minds commit uncreative crimes to get your torn egos massaged

IN QUEST OF THE WRITER/WRITERS WITHIN & AROUND

Barring the long serpentine title above, I wish to confess this post of mine comes after a long overhaul of experiences. At the same time, it might seem like a chronicle of confessions. My blog has been suffering of late because of two reasons: 1) Procrastination and 2) Pessimism. I had made myself as well as my blog grow susceptible to both. Until the thought came striking within me; what is it that I am in quest of?

The quest is about the long suppressed writer within me and the omnipresent breed of budding writers around me. To be honest, I am not a skilled writer but I enjoy the skill of writing spontaneously. At the same time, the cumbersome breed of budding writers makes me realize about the serious lack of passion that we all are suffering from. The passion has gone missing for long. I myself have lost a count of times, I felt like giving up my profession and looking ahead to an alternative career. A great soul had long back advised me, the vocation of writing is susceptible to saturation. I wished not to heed the advice. I ignored and I implored myself to not give up. Today during my almost a decade-old journey of creative writing, at times I feel let down. I feel let down not by others but by me, myself. I question myself as to why I limited myself from acquiring more knowledge.

A self confessed daydreamer, I’ve been cooking stories from my college days about how I wish to become a writer. To this date, I’ve seen those daydreams culminate into bitter nightmares. Simultaneously I’ve been challenged by the new breed of me-too-want-to-become breed of writers. They talk to me in the language of Stephenie Meyer and they argue with me with the temperament of E. L. James. I still enjoy my passionate affair with the morning newspapers. They ignore this old world charm of reading by using F.O-with-old-habits expression. Am I jealous of them? To be honest, I don’t have the right to be. Do I feel humiliated? No! All I feel is that the passion is dead. Most of them are writing with their minds in place and not the hearts in place. They are resistant to the idea of rewriting. They are reluctant to the idea of rethinking. 

Am I any different? I will slap myself, if I say I am different. I will be dishonest, if I say I haven’t turned technical. I have become very methodical with my writing. I have grown more dependent on briefs. For years, I haven’t seen a proper brief come my way and have still been held responsible for the debacle of a campaign. But for a writer, what is the significance of a brief? For a copywriter like me, the brief’s significance and importance will never lose its steam. Even though, the seamless writer in me doesn’t desire to bow down to the demands of the outer world; I bow down shamelessly. Creative writing makes me earn my bread and butter. Seamless writing helps me earn only accolades, appreciation, applause and audience.

Friends ask me, “What happened to the book that you had started writing?”

To be honest, I had started with many books, many ideas but have completed none. My stories have revolved around the dark alleys of Mumbai, travelled into the grey sheds of prostitution dens, delved into the shallow world of complicated relationships, dug the truth out of partly exposed skeletons, stood a mute witness to the most passionate physical affairs of a seedy hotel room, got interested in the mind games of child widows and ran naked on a street of fully clothed bystanders. The writer in me, never really took off or maybe I held it back from taking off.

Does that make me sound like a loser? I haven’t given it a thought. Am I frustrated with the world of creative writing for advertising? To a certain extent, I am. I wish to ask a question – Why are we writers not allowed to write passionately about brands? Why we are not allowed to weave a lovely story around the brand? Why we are asked to follow guidelines? And why there is so less time allowed to explore the many possibilities of writing?

The new breed of writers might be in love with the term ‘turnaround time’. I am neither awed nor wowed by that word. It makes me feel sick of being a writer. The little bit of passion left in me as a writer, starts fading away. ‘Turnaround Time’ is a term established by the dispassionate world of BPOs and KPOs. Trying to sound not that offensive, these places lack the sanity for writers to survive. For heaven’s sake when someone comes to me asking for ‘Effort Estimate’ of a task that requires me to be on board as a writer, I squirm! The writer within me dies a million deaths while filling the many green, yellow, red and violet columns of an Excel worksheet.

As a writer, I’ve fielded many questions and misconceptions. One of them has been the most clichéd – Even though you are a writer, you don’t look like a writer. Only to be followed by another clichéd – You don’t look like a corporate, but seem more of a creative person. The world has problems with the old as well as new breed of writers. Why should we be answerable to misconceptions? Why are we not left alone at peace with our passion to write? 

I never started writing with a ‘me-too-wants-to-be-a-writer’ attitude. I always was a great fan of the story sessions; my Didu (maternal grandmother) enthralled me with. Her stories were always about positive people. She spoke more about victorious kings, dedicated queens and kingdoms of happiness. Stepping into adulthood, I started reading more about conspiring kings, deceiving queens and doomed kingdoms. Did that change my perception towards my granny’s passion of storytelling? Certainly not! It was her passion of telling stories in a positive light. In today’s world, it is my passion of narrating stories in a negative light. But barriers are being raised that is seriously hampering the growth of my passion. The new breed might sound speaking passionately about writing. But it is only money that is pulling them towards this profession. They are interested more in the lucrative side of writing. They are ignorant about the irrational side of writing.

Even though I have been writing in different forms for the last one decade and a little more but I am yet to deliver my best. The quest is incessant. At times, I am on quest of a creative habitat that helps me do justice to my passion of writing. I have been a nomad in travelling to various destinations just to be at peace with myself and writing. But many a restless souls have not allowed the writer in me to be in full elements. At the same time, I think it is extremely untoward and unexpected of me to raise my shameless head and hold others responsible for discounting my presence as a writer! I have been equally dishonest and brutal to the writer within me.

Thirteen years back when I had embarked on this journey of writing, very few opportunities were presented to me to flex my writing skills. In today’s age, I willingly extend an olive branch to the new breed of curious writers. But they upset me when they burn the passion within and try to move ahead on the wrong path. I never stop them. But they start growing over smart. Ignoring the passion for writing, they start growing passionate about the many other social maladies. I am not insensible to their desires. But I am insensitive to their pathetic attitude towards the joy of writing.

Nearing the pinnacle of this blog post, I still see myself being on a quest for the suppressed writer within me. And I still find myself abandoned by the dispassionate writers around me. Lack of creative freedom, presence of wrong mindsets and some untoward terms like ‘turnaround time’, ‘effort estimate’ and ‘timesheets’ are driving the yet to be discovered side of us writers  crazy. Even if I try to pretend to be sane, I am not sane. Even though I try to deliver the best, I am delivering crap. For the simple reason being, the quest of the writer within and the writers around is unquenchable. And the struggle continues to demand more creative freedom, more creative space to grow and become a desirable writer some day before we meet with our easy or painful ends!

-vociferous 

A DAY WELL LIVED

January 30 has been special in many ways.

So many years that this date has been observed in the many ways. Two things have stood coincidentally constant – 1) Gandhiji’s Death Anniversary and 2) My Birth Anniversary.

One is observed and the other is celebrated.

There has been no twist in the story so far.

But initially I had lived with the juxtaposition of sharing a connection with the Mahatma who breathed his last by chanting ‘Hey Ram’.

Thirty years later after the Mahatma was assassinated, arrived me on the same day.

My early days of being ‘A very different me’ proved that I was not an incarnation of the great soul who had taken extreme steps to make us taste salt, inspire us to embrace satyagraha and denounce a non-cooperation movement launched by his own self. I was the extreme opposite - violently rebellious, selfishly adamant and fatally vocal. But still there was a common element that existed between the departed and the arrived. In love with India, was him. And in love with India still, I am.

Like a fleet of flamingos traversing across continents, the years of my life kept flying away. And finally arrived today – Five years added to three decades of being vociferous. Surrounded by so much that I am yet to come to terms with the surprises that came my way.

But I wish to dedicate this day to my maa, my both mamas, my both mami maas, my siblings, my better half, my in-laws and to my universe of loving friends. Everybody made it a point to wish me in their own ways. Gifts do come the way of a Birthday Guy. But the big difference is brought by three important elements – 1) Blessings of elders, 2) Love of beloved, 3) Wishes of world.

I am the same ‘me’ who had once self-turned life into an accident. And I am the same ‘me’ who is poised to take a new turn. I desire to consider nothing as ordinary but tag everything and everyone around me as EXTRAORDINARY. To be honest, I am a little selfishly proud of my memory. Though I am in no mood to boast about my own self. But I want to assure that I forget nothing in life. From the day, I started understanding things; everything has just remained unchangeably with me – Friends, Hobbies, Mischief, Crushes, Crashes, Journeys, Destinations, Dreams, Desires, Imaginations… Nothing have I forgotten. At times, I might not call someone for months, years and ages. But that human being and every moment spent with remains etched in my memory.

Innocent I am not. I too have my own faults. And I will never want to keep them veiled. Being as human as others, I have been at my level best to misunderstand, hurt, criticize and ignore many a souls. At the same time, being human I wish to apologize to everyone in every way possible for being so indifferent.

My biggest disadvantages have been my bitterness, selfishness and my habit of holding on to the past. But having come so far, I wish to learn some new lessons. Because as human beings, the day we stop learning; knowledge dies harshly. Being a writer at heart and passionate by deeds, the death of knowledge will leave me thirsty forever.

Therefore in the midst of all the invisible battles that I have been fighting against time and so much more, I decided to take a pause… look back and say, “Hey why not live well for once”.

And thus arrived January 30. And so did the coincidence recur of a nation observing the loss of a great soul and an entire universe of family & friends conveying their wish to me. The day that started on a note of worldly surprises, I shed my inhibitions to see to it that I live this day to the fullest. With everyone I smiled. And to every phone call, I replied. So that on this day that is today (January 30), I make a new beginning of being more responsible towards every action and reaction of mine.

My apologies to those whom I have hurt and still keep hurting. And my love to all who have made me believe in the power of love… I just wish to say ‘A BIG THANK YOU’. So beautiful was the experience of this day that I grew a younger more, to call it – A DAY WELL LIVED!

-vociferous