WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?

I could have come up with 100 odd lies to tell a half-baked truth about my next subject/object of interest to start writing about. Believe me but I am still faking too much. At the same time, there is some truth to it. By truth, I mean the one, I haven’t told you yet. The truth simply being, I wanted to begin writing this post with an introductory paragraph that was supposed to be completely different from what I have ended up writing in here. It could have been much better; once again a less spoken truth, which stalks/haunts me forever.

 

Since journeys interest me, I probably would have weaved a story around some expedition of mine. But there are these sometimes rude, sometimes soft characters, which keep visiting my thought process. Some are real, some fake, some are fictionalized and some don’t even exist in this world. Due to sheer lack of passion, I excused myself from writing again, once again thinking what am I writing next?

The name Bukani resonates. Who is she? A village girl! Do I know her personally? Yes I do. She used to be my childhood friend, who lived in the front row home of our village lane. I remember her till the 16 or 18 years of my age. She had stopped coming to our home. Someone told me, she has been married off. Her name remained with me. I saw her young but never found her turn into an adult. She was much matured and senior to us (me and my cousin brother), yet she would spoil her clothes to partner  our mud slung roughness, close the doors behind us to chase cats and lizards, call out to us to show us what she had discovered underneath the dirty, stinking staircases. What am I writing next then? Bukani! Why Bukani when I know Yamini (once again a fictional character) personally!

In this jungle of a fictional inner world in a factual outer world, I am not lost but angry, hungry and thirsty for passion. This passion that I am talking about arrives/evolves straight from the womb of an idea to write about.

Who is Yamini? A woman with a past, present and future like that of none other. I met Yamini in crowded trains, in loud weddings, in cosy corners, in dirty lodges, in five star hotels, in business forums and sometimes calling out to me from her lusty wilderness.  She sat across legs crossed, short hair, without make up, extorting heartbeat, exchanging provocative looks and yet she always remained unwritten. So am I not writing about her? No I am not because there is this guy nameless, without an identity and ignored in hell or heaven; forgotten by me, his wife, his part time lovers, his crimes, his philosophies.

He sold our ideas to every client. He would strike a conversation with the receptionist, take them to premium restaurants for exotic dinners, carry them home in hired taxis, rented cars, auto rickshaws or ask them to ride pillion on his bike. He would slip into a group discussion, make his eyes dance, woo the sister-in-law of a company’s founder, fly to Mauritius for the most erotic vacation of lifetime and come back to settle with his love of life. After a long, long time I would meet his wife, completely drunk, clinging to the shoulders of one of her drunken colleagues, turning towards me and telling me about the debacle of their marriage. But then I am not writing about him or her too. What am I writing next then?

I think I am not going to write anything next till I relocate the core of my inspiration. On many occasions, I turned on the laptop, clicked on Microsoft Word and abandoned millions of thoughts, which could have transformed into stories, poetry, monologues or plays. I think I am not going to write the next best thing from my temporary territory of existence. But I will definitely write once I board the same train where I made new friends and heard their stories; our group was called Zatang Group.

I am waiting for that day when I pack my bags to head back home and begin a new conversation with the Arabian Sea. I will begin to write then. But what am I writing next? I think many things.

-vociferous

 

A REVOLUTIONARY BEGINNING

Some hours are deliberately or nonchalantly spent in writing shit; in the name of being a professional and for the sake of a designation, which sticks to your ass like a long lasting ailment. You try your level best to get rid of it and yet it stays stuck there, to your ass, not wanting to be healed and treated. So what do you do then? Die of pain or churn a way out!

When there is nothing else to be passionate about; but writing, writing and more writing every second, every minute, every hour, every single day and every moment of our lives; we need to think of something that liberates us. We need to liberate ourselves from being repeatedly insulted by rotten mindsets and stinking demands by those who don’t have any inkling about writing.

I, for instance, having migrated to a new place to seek solace in the richness of writing had already started feeling stuck. The people, I’ve been communicating with on an everyday basis, for the last few months, were conspicuous in their approach towards ‘just another’ creative writer. One of them from the top management also had the audacity of asking me or rather warning me against throwing tantrums. After a decade old journey of writing, I haven’t come across myself as a tantrum throwing weirdo. Still, I gathered my thoughts and decided to mend some things around me. But I kept missing out on one thing and that was freedom of writing.

Rendered breathless and hopeless, I had stopped reading books, stopped observing things around me and had almost stopped giving up. Then a message arrived on the WhatsApp Messenger, which read, “I want to write, will you help me with how do I start?” Not in the best of my mood, initially I had decided to simply ignore it. But then there was something that was very interesting about this proposition. Here was a soul, a soul still not brazen by all the bullshit of an otherwise uncreative life, who was eagerly sharing a desire to want to write. I kept aside my iPhone and then revisited the message.

First and foremost, writing, especially independent or creative cannot be straightly taught to anyone. But yes, there is no harm in helping someone to improve upon his or her writing skills. Therefore I gave my consent and thus began the process. The first step itself was effortless, so effortless that all it needed were two mobile phones and a WhatsApp messenger to unify and initiate it. Neither did the need arise to meet in person and begin writing nor was there a language barrier to stop us from starting, what I now term as a writing revolution of sorts.

We zeroed in on a topic, which had two characters; a man in his mid thirties and a woman in her mid forties. Two stories were born in a short span of time; both written independently without letting out a word about the central theme. The stories were absolutely different in their treatment and in their telling. Secondly we followed no rules while writing them. None of us spoke about the grammar or how precise, we should be about the date, time and day of the events, which take place in the story. The only norm, we followed was to write it as a first person account.

The two stories, which emerged from this revolution of two minds, threw open a new avenue of not a mere collaboration but also the formation of an entity. An entity, we ‘now’ as partners in crime are in no mood to reveal. I know the word ‘crime’ doesn’t suit us. But still there is lot of crime involved because we are going to spill loads of ink.

Here am I raising a toast to the new beginning of writing unabridged.

-vociferous 

EVER SAY, ALWAYS AGAIN

My mother has very recently taken to reading. She also expressed, how happy she is; after I introduced her to this hobby. We have our in-house library, comprising books; purchased from book fairs, from bookshops, airports, roadside, seconds shops, gifted, stolen, borrowed, smuggled, imported and also pirated versions. She somehow never fancied reading any of them. When I handed over to her a copy of Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts; she had asked, “Is this a book or a mythological epic, which you might never end reading?” Luckily I read the same and also narrated to her in not less than thirty minutes flat, a summary of what I thought was the most powerful piece of writing.

Coming back to my mother’s recent stint with reading, she is now booked, devotedly and dedicatedly with Pratham Alo (First Light), written by Sunil Gangopadhyay.  Respected for his style of writing, remembered for the characters created by him (my favorite though is Hathat Nirar Janya) and the favorite author of controversies, Sunil Gangopadhyay has weaved a tale that chronicles the lives of West Bengal’s ‘Renaissance Era’. As she continued reading, she brought to my notice an instance, wherein the author is describing Kabiguru Rabindranath Tagore’s penchant for writing. It seems, when the great author used to settle down to write a story, he had this habit of allowing his mind to drift. He would create multiple stories from a single theme or multiple themes from a single story. His style of writing was so inspirational that many were not only left surprised by his caliber but also the gems he bestowed on us, the benevolent Bengalis.

This instance takes me back to the memory of the play ‘Colour Blind’, directed by Manav Kaul that attempts to rediscover Rabindranath Tagore. Swanand Kirkire, one of India’s best lyricist, plays the role of death in this play. He is shown visiting Rabindranath Tagore during his last days. Dressed in black, he calls upon the author and informs, “Your time is over. Let’s go now.” To which, Rabindranath Tagore replies in an engaged tone, “No not now. I’ve many things pending to be written down.” This irritates death and he remarks pointing Rabindranath Tagore to the audience, “What kind of human being is he? Every time I have come to his home, I’ve found him drowned in writing. The day his mother died, he was writing. The day his wife passed away, I saw him writing. The day his first child breathed last, he was writing. How can this man be so addicted to writing?”

Writing, I believe is an act of pure passion. But looking at the silence that I had allowed this blog to slip into; I think writing has also got to do a lot with the circumstances around us. If I call myself a blogger, I have definitely not been a regular at it. My last blog post was on March 24, 2015. Post which, I’m writing today (one month later) and may or may not post this piece on my blog, in a short while or a long while. Where have I been all these days?

All these days, I had been writing but not on a piece of paper, not in a word document and neither in my regular diary; but my writing has been happening imaginably in my mind. Apart from that I’ve been carrying a few small diaries in my bag, during outdoor trips; in these diaries I’ve been making quick notes. Then there is my iPhone, which has an inbuilt Notes App to help me punch in, whatever I observe, listen and experience. At the same time, my facebook wall bears testimony to a lot of my writings. But the real writing regularity that I wish to remain associated with, suffers from occasional bouts of procrastination. On my birthday this year, I had started writing a (so called) novel; a love story between two people. I chose to term it or rather categorize it as an unethical story. I’ve no issues with the controversies and criticism, this debut book of mine might attract. But from the inception point of writing this novel, I’ve decided to remain unfazed by anything. The funny thing though is that I’ve written and discarded all the four drafts, of the very first chapter that I had written of the book. At this moment, most of this book of mine is a part of my daydreaming. Even though I don’t want to divulge much about the theme and the characters, two things play an important role in this book of mine – Mumbai Monsoons and the Arabian Sea. I think most of the inspiration for the parts, I wish to write about Mumbai Monsoons arrives from the 1979 song ‘Rimjhim Gire Saawan’ from the classic Amitabh Bachchan and Moushumi Chatterjee starrer Manzil. The song is so well shot; it is difficult to make out as to when the onscreen lovers are getting wet in the real or unreal rains. Definitely a masterpiece of yesteryear, the song brings alive in me emotions that are real and inspiring. Only in my story, the monsoon slips into different roles of playing the cupid, the betrayer and also at times – the storyteller.

Speaking about writing, I’m not being completely passive. An eBook publishing company has already readied my first poetry book of fifty poems. It is only me, who has delayed authorizing the version and am yet to allow it, to be made available for download. The book ran into some serious technical errors. Designed laboriously by my wife (to whom I shall remain indebted infinitely), my first book of fifty poems looks warm, romantic and desirable. The eBook publishers failed to understand that emotion and had messed up with the final copy of compilations. Outraged and upset, I curse myself for not having gone the Amazon way of making it available on KINDLE. But now that the crooked patches have been ironed out and post my authorization, the book is good to go.

In the coming days, I might be in many moods – happy, sad, lazy, active! I might choose to travel extensively or prefer staying locked in a room or watch back-to-back movies. Therefore I am again apprehensive; my writing might hibernate. The only way to continue being in writing, is to try and write more, read more and of course keep writing more.

Till the next time I write, I shall ever say, always again.

-vociferous 

IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN OF OUR PROHIBITION SHUNNING CULTURE

Have you noticed the space below any of the signboards, which read – DO NOT SPIT HERE? To your utter dismay you will find large patches, which resemble blood stains, symbolic of years of spit deposition, sponsored by the easy availability of raw tobacco, mawa or the recently banned gutka.

Rising close to the challenge are the signboards, installed near railway stations – DO NOT CROSS THE RAILWAY TRACKS. Such messages, I guess, generate high dose of kinetic energy and provoke to risk all. Therefore instead of using the foot over bridges, the railway authorities take years to build, many prefer crossing over the tracks, putting their lives in danger and cursing; if at all they miss out on the biggest thrill of breaking yet another rule.

Equally pitiable are the signboards, which loudly announce – DO NOT URINATE HERE. This space is largely used by those, who don’t prefer standing in a queue. But they have no qualms in performing with their fly open in public view.

These are just a few instances of old and recent times, which make our nation seem like a circus of oddities. The latest to join the row are the recently installed escalators in railway platforms and metro stations. I cannot understand why some people prefer running over them, even though they are meant to transport us to upper or lower levels at a friendly speed! This urgency is to be found in both cases, during ascending and descending.

Speaking about escalators, I have been busy discovering a new breed from the last few days. This new breed prefers using the escalators in a reverse manner. In short, if the escalators are gliding down, they will try to pace upwards, defying the onward motion. And if the escalators are moving upwards, they will try to run down, once again defying the onward motion.

Such examples paint a picture of a banana republic. Are we not educated enough? Or are we being too bold to represent ourselves as born rebels. I am not bothered about what the world thinks of us as a nation and us as a nationality. But I am deeply concerned about the falling standards of complying with prohibitions.

In the first place, why are such prohibitions imposed on us? Definitely after years of lampooning, somewhere we need to be coming across as well cultured living beings. But animals are faring well and we humans are repetitively failing in keeping up with them.

Just last week, while I was busy withdrawing cash from an ATM counter, a man just walked in, not even bothering to read the board, which informed – ONE PERSON AT A TIME. Being a one machine counter, he should have waited for his turn. I overheard the conversation he had with the guard manning the ATM. The guard did mention to him that two people are not allowed at the same time. To which, this man replied, “Don’t teach me your rotten rules and regulations. I am in a hurry. It is that guy who needs to quickly get done with his bloody business.” He entered while I was still withdrawing my cash. Under the influence of alcohol, he stunk badly. I ignored the situation, not without wondering about his intentions.

Even at cinema theaters, during the movie screening, and having been requested in advance across the screen to either SWITCH OFF YOUR MOBILE PHONES or PLEASE PUT YOUR MOBILE PHONES ON SILENT MODE, there are those who prefer speaking aloud over the phone. Just try to reprimand them and pat comes the reply - “It was an urgent call and I had to attend it.”

The point I am trying to make is, it doesn't take much to follow certain rules. Being a rebel helps when we are leading a revolution. Such unnecessary actions yield nothing. I am saddened over the fact that such actions are contradicting the efforts of innumerable volunteers, who champion such causes. Is it then advisable to bring shame to their good work, which they are doing to better our society? Or are we happy being inhabitants in the public domain of our prohibition shunning culture?

Think, Understand and then Act.

-vociferous

  

END OF A RELATIONSHIP – Hindustan Times and I are no more on reading terms

When it debuted in Mumbai, on a monsoon-pregnant day of 2005, I wanted to grab the first copy and retain it as a symbol of my fascination. Prior to that I had to heavily rely on those who traveled between Mumbai and Delhi regularly; requesting them to carry along a copy of it and make it available to me for a mouthful of reading. Thereafter during my innumerable trips to Delhi, I never missed the chance of carrying a copy back home.

The arrival of Hindustan Times (HT) in Mumbai seemed like a fresh breath of journalistic air in the clutter endorsed culture of The Times of India and DNA. Every edition of HT came well packaged with its own set of cliché defying reportage. What was more striking was the absence of advertisement deluge in the newspaper. Being from an advertising background, I do understand the value, every media house attaches with ad releases. But then the noise was too less, with regards to HT. It appeared like a newspaper, which I definitely wanted to wake up to read every day.

Since reading HT was full of pleasure, I opted for a marathon subscription of almost five or seven years in a row, which finally ended on March 17, 2015. But I am relieved by the breakup. HT’s personality had changed, ever since I renewed the subscription, two years back. It was an unwilling move on my behalf; had it not been for the humble sales guy who came pleading at my doorstep, I had made up my mind to strangulate the relationship.

The ties had started weakening from the time HT decided to discontinue supplying THE BRUNCH (a special supplement with Sunday edition), beyond the city limits of Thane. Was it then our fault to be residents of a destination, roughly 36 kilometers away from the central suburb of Mumbai! Then too my friend Prashant and I continued revering the internet edition. In fact I have still retained some of its old printed versions, which carries my name in the letters section. The issues of THE BRUNCH were fresh, awe inspiring and indulging.

But good times don’t last for long. I won’t say I am, in particular, angry with HT alone. But I am definitely annoyed by the repetitive style of reporting issues of all newspapers, which disturb our mornings, spoil our afternoons and leave us feeling anxious during nights. Incidents definitely are to be reported. But the language is strictly uncourteous. Secondly the heinous typo errors in the print as well as e-version kept putting my mind off. Sometimes names, places, events and personalities were misrepresented or misprinted. Finally when the subscription manager of our area called to ask, if I am ready to upgrade my renewal further, I straight away put down the request. This time I was in no mood to heed to their humility or honesty. I knew I had lost interest in HT.

This might seem like an end of the road for my experience of newspaper reading. Well not exactly. I am already hooked to HT Mint Lounge series, published on every Saturday. And I am gradually mending my mind to adapt to the journalistic mannerisms of THE INDIAN EXPRESS. Secondly I have for a long time stayed away from magazine reading. Maybe I will catch up with a couple of them. Apart from everything else, there is always the good company of books I enjoy.

I am not trying to build a negative opinion against HT, which still continues to be one of my favorites. But I clearly remember the day, I chose to not continue being its fan for a long time. On the third or fifth page of the edition, I came across a filthy ad. This advertisement was of someone wishing birthday to a wealthy chap. I believe that was the last nail, to pierce the abyss of the coffin.

Today HT and I are no more on reading terms. The only link between us is the HT Mint Lounge, which comes my way, every Saturday. I am not repenting over this disassociation. Instead, I am moving ahead to a better world of reading the ones, I haven’t tried till now. Maybe it is high time that my collection starts comprising TIME, The New Yorker and The Economist for a change.

The end of a relationship is actually the beginning of a brand new relationship. It also marks the commencement of happy reading, twice upon a time with reloaded energy.

-vociferous 

WOMEN #MakeItHappen ALWAYS

For the uninitiated #MakeItHappen was the chosen theme for 2015; I got to know about it on http://www.internationalwomensday.com/theme.asp#.VP1jF3yUdQ8, a day later. I should be ashamed of it. But I am not. I know women, in particular don’t require a single day to be recognized for their efforts, their contribution and the various roles they play in rehabilitating this society. There is a specific reason, why I chose to use the word ‘rehabilitation’ in context with women and their commitment towards a better future.

When someone utters the term ‘women’, the first thing to cross my mind is colors. I find women very colorful. Women were created by the Super Creator, driven by an objective to make them extremely versatile. Almighty knew that this creation is going to be the significant-most evolution of all times. Womanhood is definitely not easy. Being a man, we might repeatedly fail to do justice to what women really want. I am not trying to criticize the universal breed of men. But in general, women exude multiple shades. Look at the women around us, the multiple roles they slip into, adapt themselves to; without batting an eyelid, never once pestering, just being on their own. These multiple shades are that of motherhood, sisterhood, companion, partner, friend, colleague, mentor, guide, teacher, motivator, acquaintance. 

I was nonetheless keen enough to write and publish this post on March 8. But I avoided doing so, on a day, when the world was busy doing that. The interest never paled out. I think it was a vinyl print that got me intrigued enough to start writing this post a bit differently. This vinyl, targeted towards women, comprised four scary men shouting out of the print and to the left was a softly touched photograph of a young lady. It was not difficult for me to figure out of her being the wife of one of those scary men. In bold letters five of them were wishing HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY to the women of today. Are they trying to say, “There is no country for old women”? Such grammatical confusion can spell disaster; if probed and analyzed on linguistic terms! Luckily no one made a note of it, knowing that all of the well-wishers had been and still continue being eve teasers and mild sex offenders. When such great men come together to wish Happy Women’s Day, I definitely think, it should be left across to women to seek justice and definitely #MakeItHappen.

Women do #MakeItHappen. In my lifetime, I’ve come across an extraordinary pedigree of such women. Starting from my maternal and paternal grandmothers to my own mother, sisters, my beloved and the many others. Every woman left her impression, not just on my mind, but in the entire course of my life. I haven’t forgotten the smallest of things that these women did, to pacify me during extreme outrage, to embrace me during grief, to extend care during adversities, to make me feel at ease while taking up challenges. I think even though I do all the greatest of things, I would never be able to express my gratitude to each one of them, for their resplendent presence in my life.

Sometimes relationships fail. Some of us curl into a cocoon of our own and never wish to come out of it. Women have a tough time dealing with such failures. For them, it is not about just being with somebody, but about someone being there for them. But they never give up. I am sharing this out of sheer experience. I’ve myself been witness to their triumphs. They take it all in their stride, spare a tear or two, seek the skies and then tell themselves, “I can #MakeItHappen”.

Today women are independent than ever before. They are still ill-treated and exploited (every newspaper reports an average of 10 rapes committed across the nation). Equally concerning is the rise of another kind of mentality of brutalizing 2 year olds and 5 year olds. But I am sure that won’t weaken women. Because women are extremely powerful. They are blessed with the special power of creating another life. For the nine months that they treasure this life; the most powerful thing, only women can take the whole credit for.

To sum it up, let me say that women are courage-embodied. In every women there is Goddess Shakti, a Maa Durga. Rightly put forward by Amitabh Bachchan, in the climax of the Vidya Balan starrer masterpiece KAHAANI, he expresses, “Sometime even Gods go wrong. It is said the Gods created the Asura and when the Asura went out of their control and wanted to destroy the universe… the Gods created Maa Durga. All Gods put their powers together and created her for destroying evil. They say the strength of all the mothers was used to create Maa Durga. Every year Maa comes. She vanquishes evil... And she goes back after… making sure all her children are safe.

As a practice, Women’s Day will be back next year, and let me leave it at that by saying they will continue doing their best, they will #MakeItHappen.

-vociferous 

MY FANBOY MOMENT WITH SIR JEFFREY ARCHER – PART 1

I reached the Kemps Corner outlet of CROSSWORDS at 6.40 pm. A mini gathering of people stood blocking the entrance of the bookshop. One of them was holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands; continuously adjusting his grip and also adjusting his neck, sometimes to the left and to the right. At around 6.45 pm, a white colored AUDI pulled in. Seated inside was Sir Jeffrey Archer, the master storyteller; he had arrived much ahead of the official event time of 7 pm. An executive opened the door for him. Sir Jeffrey Archer slowly stepped out, waived at all greeting him and graciously accepted the bouquet.

At a distance, I was busy pacing. The security personnel politely asked me to stir clear of the way so that they can ensure a safe passage for Sir Jeffrey Archer. I didn’t protest. I wanted to be a part of this first-hand experience. I moved to the left. In less than 20 seconds, the bestselling author walked in. Even though I had expected him to show up in a suit, he seemed at ease wearing a light colored shirt and a dark hued trouser. The legendary lines on his forehead didn’t seem harrowed by the adulation, he found himself surrounded with (he has never been a stranger to all of this). I pulled out my mobile and captured every single second of his short walk from the doorway to the cafeteria located on the mezzanine floor of the bookshop.

The crowd that emerged at CROSSWORDS were all genuine fans of Sir Jeffrey Archer. They were all waiting with baited breath. I wasted no time to grab the copy of his newest launch MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD. Every attendee tightened their grip over the new book and his other offerings. He has been writing the CLIFTON CHRONICLES for long. Honestly speaking, this book, which is supposed to be the fifth in row, is my first ever possession of the globally popular series. I know, I am not going to start reading it, before laying my hands over the previous four (not very far from doing that either).

Sir Jeffrey Archer emerged from the cafeteria, this time escorted by another Mumbai based crime writer, Piyush Jha. He made his way to the dais, stood there for a while, absorbing the loud round of applause that filled the event space now. A mike was handed over to him. He raised his left hand, established an eye-to-eye connection with the crowd and broke into a speech by making an honest confession about the cricketing team of England, the country he hails from. He said, “I think England is going to win the World Cup of 2015”. His declaration attracted a vocal retaliation (in a friendly tone) from the crowd, which claimed it was India again that will retain the title. Sir Jeffrey Archer grabbed this opportunity to put his amazing sense of humor to good work. Even though he called the Indian cricketers lazy, he quickly added that the team was very serious about such a sporting event of global demeanor. He expressed as to how he continues to remain pleasantly surprised by the energy of these cricketers, who understand the game better and take it very seriously to compete with a vengeance.

Being a storyteller, Sir Jeffrey Archer left everyone awestruck with a short anecdote, which was based on his personal observation of the booksellers at traffic signals. His enactment of the bookseller (who was coincidentally a kid), walking with a pile of books was so perfect, I could relate to it instantly. As his car came to a halt at one of the traffic signals, he heard a knock on his window. He rolled down the window glass. The child bookseller pushed his new book in and asked, “Would you like to buy the new Jeffrey Archer book on offer?” Sir Jeffrey Archer looked deep into his eyes and replied, “I am this same Jeffrey Archer who writes these books”. The little child looked somewhat unimpressed. The crowd couldn’t hold back its laughter.

(to be continued in… Part 2) 

-vociferous

MY FANBOY MOMENT WITH SIR JEFFREY ARCHER – PART 2

(continued from Part 1)

Amidst all his other fans, I stood there, emotionally touched by the author’s honest voice; redeeming my personal fanboy moment. As he spoke, my mind pondered over those numerous years of struggle, when I wanted to see him, meet him in person. But I couldn’t. Every year, from the year he started coming to India and visited Mumbai, I nearly missed out on these opportunities, for reasons that I don’t wish to mention, count or recollect. The seed of eagerness to see him, was sown in me by his book A PRISONER OF BIRTH, only to be followed by many of his other books, purchased at a feverish pace of my own. I busied myself absorbing all the passion he showed in describing his books, inspiration for characters, the plots, the handwritten drafts, the corrected versions, his respect for R. K. Narayan, his admiration of R. K. Laxman and the upcoming editions of his old books. Shining bright at 74, he made no bones about his age. What I found interesting about this man, was his love for life and his love for the lives he writes so believably in his books. I was glued to every single word, he let his fans to feast upon. So focused I was. Nothing mattered to me. My mobile phone did ring, an sms did arrive, from none other than my beloved. But she cooperated, knowing very well that this moment was precious than anything else; by anything, I mean to say our wedding anniversary (but more on that later). 

I could sense nothing but the author himself. Standing afar, I was thrilled infinitely. Pushed to the side, sometimes pressed from behind, and holding my copy high; all that I cared for was Sir Jeffrey Archer. I was carrying with me a printed copy of my review of one of his stories CASTE-OFF that I had published on my blog www.urbansurprise.blogspot.in (http://urbansurprise.blogspot.in/2010/06/caste-off.html). It was a precious advice from my wife, who apprised, “What if you do get the chance to speak to him and can quickly share your writing with him?” Heeding her paid off well (not in the expected way, but definitely in a way, I hadn’t anticipated).

So carried away I was by his conversation, which he didn’t prolong a minute more than those 45 minutes of his memorable presence; I didn’t realize that the crowd was now gearing up to seek Sir Jeffrey Archer’s elite autograph. A senior lady murmured in my ear, “Son, if you don’t mind, could you please shift a little to your right?” She added, “If you do so, we will be able to stand parallel to the queue that has started making its way to the dais.” The suggestion was viable. I thanked her for the same, my thoughts about the author remained undisturbed. Even though our queue didn’t move an inch, my determination had long stepped on the dais, got a selfie clicked and walked away smiling. But reality bites. For a second I felt, I have to return empty handed, with a book that didn’t bear my favorite author’s signature. The finale to my dream was just 7 souls away. Finally I stood there, waiting for my turn. My book was laid on the table, he gently raised his hand, the pen’s tip touched the second page, and it moved smoothly. Sir Jeffrey Archer had penned down his signature. I requested, if I could share some space to click a photograph of us both. To which he politely responded, “Son, if I honor your request, it would be tiresome and time consuming to pose with this entire ocean of my fans. Anyways thank you for asking”.

I couldn’t have asked for more. As I started walking away from the dais, I knew how strong my determination had grown. The experience has not yet paled out. The aura that Sir Jeffrey Archer exuded was unforgettable. I kept looking back, if I could once again find the space, to squeeze in and slip across to him, the printed piece of my review of his short story CASTE-OFF. But the day March 2, 2015 didn’t just belong to me, it belonged to his numerous other fans too, who were waiting in the queue, now outnumbered, flowing out of the CROSSWORDS bookstore of Kemps Corner. As I started leaving, my eyes fell on Ms Nisha Jamvwal, the main inspiration and also the central character of Sir Jeffrey Archer’s short story CASTE-OFF. This was the best ever thing to come my way on this special day. I found her standing at a counter, speaking to someone. I approached her, reminding her of the blog that she had also left her comment on, almost five years back. Not only did she recollect the blog, but also shared some vital information, which she requested if I can add and either rewrite the post or present it in a different shade of hope! I agreed. She didn’t refuse to sign a copy of the published blog and said, “I will be looking forward to your email.”

The crowd had started spilling out on the road. I glanced at my watch. It was 8 pm. I hailed for a taxi. The driver was amused and asked me, “Why this place is so crowded Sir, is someone from the filmy world visiting?”

I replied, “No not at all. But the guest is bigger than anyone else, an author from England. Sir Jeffrey Archer.”

I am sure, he knew no one by that name and ferried me across to Mumbai CST from where I embarked yet again on a journey of memories, imaginations and more.

-vociferous 

MUCH AHEAD OF THE MOVIES

Hours before I leave to watch a movie, an army of expectations keeps parading between my thoughts. I won’t label it paranoia. But I would agree upon the word - ‘excitement’. Punctuated by restlessness and driven by the haste to be at the movie theater, marking my attendance from the first frame till the last; about everything in general, keeps me at the peak of my curiosity.

I've time and again tried to decode this premonition and failed repeatedly. In between, having watched a movie and while gearing up for the next, I've tried to practice mediation, to calm myself down. The habit seems to show no positive signs of ceasing easily.

I think, I slip too deep in the skin of an avid movie watcher’s real character. This edginess is deep rooted in the frequency with which, I continue watching the movie trailers. Before deciding to watch the movie, I get into a questioning mode – Will they delete a certain scene? Will the movie get banned? Will some activists stall the movie screening? Will the promo song play in the beginning or is set to act as climax? Will there be a cameo by a secret actor? Will it prove the critics wrong? Will it leave me feeling fully entertained and sufficiently satisfied?

In this modern era, movies are just not limited to single screen theatres, multiplexes or video parlors. They have started intruding the comforts of our palms and grown instantly watchable at our thumb’s touch. The advent of iPad, tablets, phablets and other gadgets has a dual impact on hyperactive people like me. Take for instance, I come across a recently released movie, which is watched either by a colleague in the office or by a fellow traveler in the train. An imaginary bulb of analytical nature starts flickering in my mind. I start concentrating on a particular scene, thinking, is this the beginning of the movie, is this the scene on the other side of interval or is this the end? Just then, the original watcher, the owner of the motion picture (definitely a pirated version) decides to act like a ring master. He sharpens his index finger, places it on the screen and moves it vigorously (forward, backward). The entire movie either gets rewound or is pushed many scenes ahead; leaving me (the secret watcher) harrowed. Once again all hopes are pinned on the next day, next show or last day, last show. And thus, once again, I grow restless.

This composition of exhilaration is not just limited to the upcoming experience of planning to watch the movie, but it also extends to the time I shall spend to arrive at the movie screening. Almost on all occasions, to avoid getting stuck in a traffic jam or to escape standing last in a queue to procure my tickets booed online, I have found myself reaching almost 60 minutes in advance of the actual screening time. When I am alone, I am not bothered. But when accompanied by my calm mannered spouse, equally calm mother and other family members, I am the most preferred subject to be regarded as an irritant. For what I declare as punctuality, I am conferred the title of being ‘a little too much’ of a manipulator.

I am planning to watch another movie this evening, once again at a multiplex nearby. This movie that has been earning rave reviews ever since it released has been playing itself within the confines of my mind. Since it is a dark thriller, drenched thick in the hues of revenge; how can I control myself? And yet I find myself in control. I think my real test would be during the final hours of departure from my workplace and the actual time of arrival at the multiplex. It is then, I shall get to know, if the army decides to parade again! Till then, it is only the trailer, the reviews of critics and the promo song playing back-to-back, like blockbuster hits in my imaginary trails of the storyline. As insane as I should be getting, I guess!

-vociferous 

A CONCRETE STEP TOWARDS PASSION

Almost two months and it is indeed a long time to find the space, the breath and the voice to share something over the resolution for 2015. Strangely this year, there was an exception. Absolutely no one walked past the whole nine or twenty yards to pop the question, “What is your resolution for this year?”

I did have friends around me who echoed their opinions about the resolutions they had made. Some wanted to stay away from alcohol. Some wanted to experiment and grow closer to it. Someone expressed her anguish over failed relationships and wishes to settle down with a successful one. Someone expressed his happiness over having found the right person to get into a relationship and foresaw a happy life, resolving for more love, more sex, and of course kids. The odds, the evens. The prime, the faded. The heard, the unheard. All of them did resolve; only chose not to be overtly vocal.

Last year, I chose to keep my resolution wrapped. Beneath mountains, deep in a sea bed, suppressed to extremes; it remained a closely guarded secret. Revealed yet to no one and written somewhere, I shall go back to it some other day, other year. But this year, I chose to make an exception. Sometimes a change of perspective helps. And now arrives my resolution; not from the mind, but from my breathlessly pacing heart. A resolution that is not crafted or created. But a resolution, that can be called ‘quite evolved’.

I resolve to ‘take a concrete step towards something I am passionate about; the passion of storytelling’. My ‘now branded as a weekend venture’ goes by the name of EVERYDAY STORY MAKER. The passion of this storytelling is not limited to narrating stories, but extends to creating them, not one, but many of them, all original, inspired from reality around us, inspired by the Indian folklores of yore, global folklores of today and much more. Will I keep this limited only to storytelling? Only time and I shall tell.

This is not at all a late start to the year for sure, neither is it a delayed initiative. The concrete step that I’ve resolved to take to pursue my passion is well founded, deep rooted in my psyche to grow a lot more social, out of the web of social media but through original social presence; almost everywhere, every time.

Some did ask me about EVERYDAY STORY MAKER’s success rate and my plans for life. Some even asked if at all I’ve weighed my options of success or failures. Let me take this privilege of signing off by quoting someone I read from recently or maybe created from many of my facebook posts – “There is more to life rather than celebrating success and grieving over failures...”

-vociferous