WHEN IN KONKAN PART-2

In our concrete cities, everything is readymade; luckily in the wide expanses of Konkan, things are still natural, human. Take for instance, right here, in our cities; we walk into a restaurant and are sure of getting served on time. But when you are in Konkan or anywhere else, which is considered to be ‘the’ countryside, erase all your expectations, once and for all.

Therefore, taking ahead from where I had left last time - The destination ahead was already beautiful in the mind; I wish to now proceed a little further (and not at all faster).

Once we alighted at Kudal, our bellies were reeling through first & fresh pangs of hunger. Since we had hired a van, we could feel the urgency of our hunger. Similarly, our driver too knew, how to settle us down. So once we had huddled inside the van, he drove a little faster and stopped only when he knew, he had the right restaurant on his mind to host us.

Remember, when we are traveling out of our cities, the rules of eating out changes! Restaurants stop being flashy but, the food starts getting tasty. Restaurants grow a little clumsier but, the hospitality starts growing warmer. We had a similar experience. Not too far from Kudal station, we walked into a restaurant, which moderately advertised itself as Hotel Pankaj and had it written loud within a bracket – Only during afternoons. This meant, we shouldn’t expect the place to be open during other hours or the food to be readily available at any given point.

Hotel Pankaj was thin on manpower but high on taste. The place was packed. Families, lovers, friends, groups, locals, runaways; everyone seemed to be thronging that place. We were politely told that we might be made to sit separately (this also meant, we could be brushing shoulders with strangers…complete strangers). We were also told that the food will take long to come to us. But finally when the food arrived, we were left overjoyed. The fish thalis, the chicken thalis, the veg thalis, the fried Surmais, the fried Pomfrets; all of it tasted so divine that we were no more left hungry. But we were left feeling greedy. For a moment, I thought we could have been blessed with a better appetite to consume more.

We were done with the lunch. We were done with the chewing of a sweet delicacy too. By the time, we stepped out of Hotel Pankaj, other groups rushed in. Their hunger pangs seemed far higher than us. As we geared up to board our van again, we could hear a flurry of burps go up in the air. To conclude, all that is cooked well ends up being eaten well in Konkan.

To be continued....

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 10 | December Blog-2A | 2017

Hotel Pankaj, Kudal

The 'Only Afternoon' rule, the warm little hotel follows

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-1

When in Konkan, the sea never seems too far, the food is never too late, the extended hospitality is never an unpleasant experience. And Konkan is where we chose to be at, for a short span of three days; December 1-3, 2017.

The time spent might seem too little. But the experience will continue to be too special. During this short trip to Konkan, I realized why the natives long to come back to their hometowns.

Konkan kept me excited. Maybe next time when someone invites me home to Konkan; I am going to promptly accept the invitation and pack my bags up.

Kranti, our tour team leader had proposed this trip while we were on a tour of Kaas Pathar plateau in Satara district. Initially I showed no interest. I was not even in a mood to give this outing a thought. Simply because, I wanted to save the weekend from just another trip and the exhaustion that ensues. But nothing was going to stop Kranti from planning this trip for us.

The blueprint was ready. The time had come to simply execute it. Kranti got everyone onboard and there we were; at 5:15 AM, on platform number 5 of Thane railway station. The much awaited journey was to begin now. Our gang was a motley crowd of 9 individuals. All of us were excited because we were travelling by the Tejas Express. On arrival, we didn’t have to hurry. Our seats were reserved in advance. Once we stepped in, Tejas treated us well. The AC temperature within was perfect enough to ensure desired coolness. The breakfast was delicious. The destination ahead was already beautiful in the mind.

To be continued....

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 10 | December Blog-2 | 2017

The Tejas Express

At the core of the sea

The Pomfret Thali

Dual Surmai in one plate

Ready to Sail

YES, ENOUGH

Enough of this life, which is normal.

Enough of this promise, which is unbreakable.

Enough of this faith, which is deep-rooted, inseparable.

Enough of this vision, which keeps seeking the watchable.

Enough of this mind, which is prone to sane thinking, again and again.

Enough of this journey, which takes me to specific destinations.

Enough of this breath, which is laden rich with the choicest of aromas.

Enough of this pen, which rightly shapes the form of my writing.

Enough of this bond, which is too believable, lovable and shatterproof.

Enough of this happiness, which carries the echoes of honest laughter, impressions of humid smile.

Enough of this passion, which is addictive, infectious and magnanimous.

Enough of this devotion, which is a routine every day.

Enough of this book, which is being written, rewritten, rethought and recreated again, again, again.

Yes, enough of everything, which is so accessible, simple, shareable and achievable.

Enough of this soft board, which is flooded with the best moments, happy moments.

Enough of this stubbornness, which intends to win over everything, leave nothing.

Enough of this wardrobe, which is so well-organized, arranged with care and compartmentalized.

Enough of this plan, which seems to get everything almost so perfect, unchallenged.

Enough of this voice, which is louder, over the top and carries a magnetic attitude.

Enough of this melody, which is so well-turned and all the notes producing almost the right sounds.

Enough of this friendship, which is so robust and continues being a strong bond.

Enough of this love, which is so picture perfect, referred to, recommended and given examples of.

Enough of this road, which is well laid, taken often, returned to and continued upon.

Yes, enough of everything, which is so durable, defined, demonstrated and opined of.

Enough of this me too, which was clueless till yesterday.

Enough of this me, being me.

Yes, enough of simply being and wanting to go beyond. Going beyond being this enough.

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 09 | December Blog-1 | 2017

IN THE SERIES OF NASTY REALITY/REALITIES

In general, I am too careful about anything or everything that belongs to me. I am overprotective. I am over possessive. I am overzealous in making tall claims about how nothing goes missing. But such are the twists of times. In the last one month’s time, I’ve lost two things; the loss of which pushes me down the aisle of unnecessary thoughts. But the truth remains unchanged; I couldn’t insure myself against these losses. 

So, what are the two things, which I couldn’t protect from losing?

A total of two: 1) A digital lock and 2) The duplicate key to my bicycle.

In a span of two months, two losses! Therefore, this is not my moment of glory or considerable fodder to imagine, craft, write or narrate a story. But I am still at it; greedy enough to tell the story.

The digital lock that I am speaking about just disappeared. Even though I don’t remember the exact time day, date and the moment of the loss, I remember having returned from my seven-day stay in Kolkata and seeing it hanging intact, from one of the corners of my suitcase. A minute later that I was reminded of procuring the same and putting it back to its regular place, the digital lock had disappeared. But I believe the loss was inevitable. The signs and symbols of its loss had been coming my way for a long time. I ignored all of them. I do remember a similar experience in the month of April. We had not gone too far but, we still chose to pack our clothes in a suitcase, which was locked with the help of the same digital lock (now lost). On our return, the lock had disappeared in similar circumstances and resurrected after a week. This time, the loss took an irreversible form when the combing operation launched by me (within the residence) produced no results. The investigation was carried out for one week in a row. The investigation included lying flat on the ground to check the remains beneath the bed. The investigation also involved a moment wherein I extracted every stinky content from the trash can, placed them on a piece of paper and still failed to locate the digital clock. The digital lock had disappeared. I suffered a loss and I haven’t yet stopped repenting the loss.

The second incident of losing another possession of mine took place this morning. At around 5 AM, I put my hands in a cloth jacket, to pull out the keys to my bicycle. On pulling out the key-chain, I was shocked to see one of the duplicated keys having gone missing. Once again, the instantly launched combing operation yielded no results. Signs of this loss had come my way in the beginning of this week. The (now) missing key had chosen to dive out of my trouser. But I managed to put it back. But the story changed this morning. I had incurred another loss.

But I am amused by the pattern of these losses. The digital lock went missing in the beginning and was followed up by the loss of a key. Are these back-to-back losses trying to hint at something? The lock was the first in the series, the key next and then what next? These two losses also make me realize that nothing is permanent in this world. The concept of ‘nothing is permanent’ is too special to me. The credit of my faith belongs to the creation of a Mandala, the representation of the world in divine form, perfectly balanced, precisely designed, is meant to re-consecrate the earth and heal its inhabitants. But it is more than a picture. It requires millions of pieces of sand to make a mandala five by five feet square. It requires a team of monks working anywhere from days to weeks, depending on the size of the mandala, to create this floor plan of the sacred mansion that is life. It requires the interplay of vivid colors and ancient symbols.

When the mandala is finally finished, however long it takes for the monks to deal in this divine geometry of the heavens, they pray over it — and then they destroy it. They sweep it up, every last grain of sand and give handfuls of it away to those who participate in the closing ceremony as a final memory of sublime possibility. Then they throw the rest of the sand into the nearest living stream to be swept into the ocean to bless the whole world. And that’s it. It’s gone. In an instant, after all that artistry, all that work, it’s over.

The underlying message of the mandala ceremony is that ‘nothing is permanent’. Nothing. All things are in flux, it says, beautiful but ephemeral, moving but temporary, a plateau but not a summit. All things are called to balance and enlightenment and the fulfillment of the Divine image in them, yes, but in flux. Always in flux.

Nothing is permanent, neither their state in life — nor ours. The fact is that the politics of permanence is a sham. It has never lasted, and it never will.

I am sure there is an underlying message in my two losses too. The loss of the digital lock indicates that I should not lock myself within the confines of my past or present, pleasant/unpleasant, memorable/forgettable memories, experiences, emotions. I should break free. The loss of the duplicate key to my bicycle indicates that I should endeavor unlocking new doors, new experiences and a new life (a ‘nomadic’ life). In short, I need to let go millions or handful of things by telling myself – ‘nothing is permanent’. And I have to accept the fact that the series of realities will continue being nasty.

(Please note: The text for Mandala portion is a reproduction of https://www.huffingtonpost.com/sister-joan-chittister-osb/mandala-why-destroy-it_b_970479.html)

-Virtuous Vociferous | November 25 | November Blog-2 | 2017

NOMADIC BY CHOICE

Ralph Weldo Emerson had once quoted

“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air”

From the time I discovered this quote, my mind hasn’t stopped slipping in and out of a meditative state. Every action, I’ve been initiating since then has been a lot more footloose, free and fun as well.

Talking about being footloose, free and fun, reminds me of the nomad that I’ve been seeking for a long time. Therefore, today when I settled down with a sane mind to think, I decided that I would rather write things with a nomadic bent of mind.

I can sense the nomad. From millions of miles away, I can sense the nomad. Do I need any words to describe it as well? I am fine being the nomad with the nomad.

The transition may seem sudden but it isn’t. The transition is a result of many untaken journeys to barren lands, forgotten destinations and unheard philosophies.

I am enjoying this transition. Even though it is just a week now; the nomad and I have been together. We are exploring. The nomad is invisible at the moment. Right now, the nomad is an imagination, which doesn’t necessarily demand to be presented in a human form. Is the nomad human? Undoubtedly the nomad is human. I would rather say - "I am in love with my Dear Nomad. Let the world count my words and sense through."

The nomad is immune to all opinions. The journey with the nomad too is immune to all opinions. To sum it up, I am in a mood to celebrate this nomadic state of being rather than staying stuck in fulfilling expectations.

My desires are in place - “To live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air”

But I am not alone anymore; this fertile phase of transition is with me. The nomad is with me! Cups after cups of coffee to run an unending marathon of words. Thankfully the thinking nomad's soul beats within me to keep me going strong and take the right turn to destinations undefined!

At this moment, as I stare at a blank piece of paper, I can envision the path ahead. There are challenges; big, small and unimaginable. But are these challenges going to pose a bigger challenge? As if I care! The path that I am envisioning right now possesses an element of distance; a distance that can’t be gauged or covered within a span of few hours. The presence of the nomad is the truth. The truth now is nomad.

As I reach the end of this post, I would like to open an imaginary bottle of champagne in my mind and spray its contents on everybody around it. Why am I celebrating? The reason is something; I think the other half of my imagination, the nomad is in a position to reply.

Days will conclude as weeks, weeks as months and then months as a complete year. Happily, there will be no regrets. Because even if none of us travel solo or together, the journeys would continue in full swing.

I see no reason to better conclude this post without bringing the nomad’s words into play - "The cleaved soul of the Nomad was left open to fix up. The other Nomad shamelessly slid in with love and stole it forever."

-Virtuous Vociferous | November 19 | November Blog-1 | 2017

STARDUST ON HER EYELIDS

I wasn’t expecting the rains to come lashing back towards the fading end of September. Despite the reasons potent enough to complain against this fluid recurrence, I continued traveling adamantly. Purely driven by the instinct of the tireless Train Spotter Updater within me, this evening was no different. I had just left the metro behind me. The rains had started swelling. Each drop hit against the skin like missiles. Trains were plying way behind their schedule. But I remained unshaken. I was chasing the solo objective of boarding a train, protecting myself from the rains and trying to make it home on time. I was eagerly waiting for the train to arrive.

The train’s arrival sparked an infectious excitement among all eager bystanders on the platform. I was one of them; the Train Spotter Updater. As the train came to a halt, I jumped in and cut my way through the crowd. Even though my intentions were pure but my actions seemed otherwise. Pushed, pressed and pressurized against my wishes, I found myself almost squeezed against the giant screen of the gent’s first class. This giant screen is a passport to fantasies unlimited. This giant screen is also called the video coach. This is a gold window for us men to get to stare at women traveling by fist class. Some of us stare with loads of love in our eyes and some with unapologetic lust. Not too excited with this prospect, I continued making some space to stand comfortably. The train started picking up speed, so did the rains. Many arguments later, the women in the first class agreed to close the doors of the compartment. This gesture of theirs helped us men stay dry.

Two stations later, I too couldn’t resist the temptation of staring at the giant screen. My eyes fell on her. If I am not mistaken, she was on her way back home after attending an event. Or maybe she was one of those who sell highly priced brands of nail paint, lipsticks, kohl etc from behind those counters of beauty in a mall. Dressed in a dull pink top and a black skirt she was trying against her own luck to save the makeup. It was eroding. Yet she looked stunning. Especially because of what shone on her eyelids.

A thick layer of stardust seemed to have claimed their occupancy on her eyelids. The rains had left a few parts of it wet. Delicately but with great care, she was still trying to save it. In between regular intervals, she would pull out her mobile, activate the camera and put it on selfie mode to keep checking if the stardust was wearing off.  I could see her smile. If that wasn’t enough, she would pout, click multiple selfies and stash the mobile back in her bag. She kept repeating her actions. I continued gazing at her. The train was slowing down. The rains were roaring. Yet the stardust on her eyelids continued shining.

The journey concluded. The fury of rains continued intensifying. I saw her walking; a few yards ahead of me. Following her was not on her mind. But going ahead, she herself paused. I continued reducing my speed of walking. Had she caught me gazing? Had she sensed me following? I didn’t see any of it coming. Taking a pause, she pulled out her mobile again, activated the camera and put it on selfie mode. I started walking across her. I turned around and found her seated on a bench. After a short while, she too started walking; this time out of the station. The thickening effect of rains seemed to directly threaten the stardust on her eyelids. But she started saving it with great pain, not allowing the stardust to wither. I stood there, watching her. The rains were showing no signs of stopping and neither were my eyes tired of dreaming.

-Virtuous Vociferous 

NEWTON’S THIRD LAW OF MOTION

Right now I’ve constrained myself to remain unaffected by the sight of the well-made bed. I simply wish to avoid the temptation of sleep, the reward of leisure and the bonus of pleasure. The Sunday is bound to die soon. Monday will follow like a rude beast of sorts. Therefore sleep should be the first thing on mind. Somehow I think, today I will succeed in postponing it; provided Newton doesn’t interfere.

Is something bothering me? Well, of course something is! Or else I wouldn’t have been spending this time, patiently thinking and writing these words. I am wondering and trying to choose between two sides of my life as a professional, a creative writer and a creative director. What are these two sides all about?

Side #1 – Should I turn a blind eye towards non-performers and embrace ignorance?

Side #2 – Is it OK to act like a coward and secretly keep praying to save the job?

If given a choice, I wish to abolish both. Seventeen years of my tough career in advertising have taught me certain principles; one of which is – Seeking Clarity. Even though I stuck to it like a dictum; in the last five years, I haven’t stressed on it firmly. As a result, a not so rare breed of unthinking client servicing executives seems to have taken undue advantage of the same. Rather than blaming them or holding them responsible, I wish to plead guilty. A certain guy called Sanjay Mukherjee spoilt me to the core. His was a personality of a hardcore client servicing executive who easily brewed an infectious blend of passion, persuasion, precision and presentation. How could that idiot never walk out without impressing or winning the client’s approval? Some say, he was blessed. But I don’t believe them. I cursed him every time because he drove me crazy with his ambition to achieve. Bloody hell, I succumbed so easily that I am yet to recover from that process of winning. Circa 2017, I am struggling to make the nonbelievers in good advertising to still seek the bigger purpose of creative communication. Shame on me!

I feel more ashamed because I read from the Bhagwad Gita every morning. Why does it time and again remind us to expect no gratification from our deeds and continue slogging? I feel ashamed because I memorize the line, extend it further by adding ‘never expect anything from anybody’ and I still fail on all counts. I start demanding answers. I start seeking results for the hard work I put in by setting my ass, my mind on fire. It sucks even more when the responsible act irresponsibly, choke the communication network to death and come running towards me to announce – ‘Taking a note of the caused delay in delivering, the client has sent a stinker’. I own up to the discrepancy and deliver. Suddenly the client seems to be in no hurry and the conveyor of the stinking news starts showing withdrawal symptoms. I start demanding answers again. I betray my own learning from the Bhagwad Gita – Continue delivering. Expect nothing. When none of these work, I voluntarily decide to rest my case and lose my cool. This is where Newton’s third law of motion jumps in.

I feel more ashamed because I read from the Bhagwad Gita every morning. Why does it time and again remind us to expect no gratification from our deeds and continue slogging? I feel ashamed because I memorize the line, extend it further by adding ‘never expect anything from anybody’ and I still fail on all counts. I start demanding answers. I start seeking results for the hard work I put in by setting my ass, my mind on fire. It sucks even more when the responsible act irresponsibly, choke the communication network to death and come running towards me to announce – ‘Taking a note of the caused delay in delivering, the client has sent a stinker’. I own up to the discrepancy and deliver. Suddenly the client seems to be in no hurry and the conveyor of the stinking news starts showing withdrawal symptoms. I start demanding answers again. I betray my own learning from the Bhagwad Gita – Continue delivering. Expect nothing. When none of these work, I voluntarily decide to rest my case and lose my cool. This is where Newton’s third law of motion jumps in.

To conclude, the fearless mind that I have been born with and the restless soul that I will continue being, I believe my action will definitely lead to reactions. Will that stop me from causing ruckus? Will I stop demanding answers? Will I decide to act like a coward? Or simply raise my voice and allow Newton’s third law of motion to take over! I think only when the apple falls; the issues concerning me will gain some gravity. Till then, I shall rebel.

-Virtuous Vociferous

ABRUPT LOVE STORIES

Picture Courtesy: Google Images

The time has come to bid adieu to sugarcoated love stories. In my opinion, all the visible sweetness is mere illusion. Or somewhere we are still trying to convince ourselves to stay believed in pretentiously sweet love stories! But they aren’t sweet. The line between love and lust hasn’t blurred but it has vanished forever. It is this cusp that makes me realize that love stories aren’t tender any more. Thankfully I have accepted the fact and I am not convincing myself to try narrating a sweet love story ever again.

My abrupt love stories take place between a Certain He and a Certain She. They don’t have a name. They are invisible to your naked eyes but omnipresent. Do they believe in religion? Are they victims of communal tension or soft targets of fluctuating faiths. Do they pray? Or they are happy being atheists! Are they rich or poor? Do they indulge in sex? Are they bisexual, homosexual, heterosexual, metrosexual? Are they sound, sane and in control? Or simply rebellious, wild hippies! Do they smoke and drink? Do they sleep with different people on different occasions? Have they been living under the same roof or they have been renting apartments in numerous cities, and disappearing without clearing dues for months! Frankly speaking they are an interesting twosome of a Certain He and a Certain She.

Both characters are a sum of their vices. Before He knows it, She is already done plotting something against him. By the time She comes to know of a certain action, He outsmarts her by being constantly, lethally active against her. I haven’t met these two characters in person. But I have met their exact opposites in the many journeys I have smoothly or abruptly embarked upon. Be it the certain He or the certain She that I am talking about, I know them of being emotionally unattached to each other.

The Certain He and the Certain She I have been talking about hide nothing from themselves or the society. They live within the stories and breathe within the stories. At the end of the day, their stories, which are so abrupt by nature, continue to matter the most.

Abrupt Love Stories are my hottest obsession, passionate possession and unmistakably my most favorite creation. Will these abrupt love stories culminate into a book? I am not even thinking of it right now. What if someone tries to copy them or copy the style? Did I say the stories are not getting copied, shared or reproduced? And I would never say that the style is yet a virgin. Thankfully, if searched by the hash tag #AbruptLoveStories; most of the results and almost all the results bring into fore my series of Abrupt Love Stories.

When I started writing the couplets with the hash tag attached to them, a few eyebrows were raised. But these are my #AbruptLoveStories and why should I reveal the source of my inspiration? If you wish to know more about these stories, follow the simple path – READ THEM, FEEL THEM, LIVE THEM.

All the love stories, which are abrupt in nature derive inspiration from the hidden side of the lives, we live without sharing a thing about them. My interest stays anchored deep in there. Where else but that little seed of abruptness, I observe in the love stories that most of us are faking like fake orgasms on a bad night of abrupt sex. Therefore if you come across a love story that’s sweet; chuck it and suck up one abrupt love story at a time.

-Virtuous Vociferous

JULY 26 IN 3 PARTS – Reality/ Fiction/ Reality

Considering July 26 as just another day of our lives and just another date on the calendar is the most convenient way to move ahead.

If at all you plan to get emotionally involved with this day, you will recount two events in particular – 1) The Kargil War of 1999 and 2) The Mumbai deluge of 2005. Being an observant, I will not only recount those two events but, I will remember them and imagine a story to be inserted between the two events. This story is a work of fiction and takes place in the year 2011. The date remains unchanged - JULY 26.

Interestingly the Kargil war, the Mumbai deluge and the fiction are separated from each other by a span of six years.

The first story unfolds accordingly:

July 26: Part 1/ Reality – The Kargil War, 1999

I don’t think it is that easy to allow the memories of Kargil war to fade out. I can’t. Neither will the families of those soldiers who sacrificed their lives. As citizens we shouldn’t. As humans we wouldn’t. The Kargil war showed the ugly face of a neighbor. The war revealed the atrocities of an intruder. The war made us realize about our vulnerability to terrorism. One image that never fails to evoke tears is that of Captain Vikram Batra. A day before or so, he was being interviewed by a television journalist and asked to share his views on enemy attacks. He had bravely remarked with a cola brand’s punch line – Yeh Dil Maange More (This Heart Desires More). The next day (if I am not mistaken), he was shot dead by intruders. His remark was played repeatedly on all the news channels. He became legendary. Tears rolled out of my eyes and I was filled with anger. Every day a new casualty was reported from the battlefield. Yet somewhere, the heart prompted that we will succeed to overpower the enemy. July 26, 1999 is the day when our brave Indian soldiers succeeded in completely evicting Kargil of the intruders. Since then we have been proudly celebrating this day as Vijay Diwas (Victory Day). 

July 26: Part 2/ Fiction – The Lovelock, 2011

She knew this wasn’t the life she had asked for. Her marriage had hit a roadblock. A child was dependent on her. The dilemma that she was facing right now was that of making a choice. The constant traveler that she was, the late traveler that she was, little did she know that he too was travelling alongside every day. Her demanding job left her exhausted. But she found solace in long journeys. She had developed a habit of boarding a train and traveling as far as the local train would take her to. But she set a condition for herself. She had to come back home; to her son and her mother who shared a modest apartment with her. Married for as long as five years, her husband chose to work abroad, stay abroad and never invite her abroad. She delivered their first child in his absence. The only communication channel they shared were handful of phone calls, some abusive messages and emails written in threatening tone. The marriage was on the verge of collapse. She continued to save it by doing her bit. Thus she was happy being this constant traveler. She had no idea about having won the attention of a fellow traveler who followed her through these journeys. It would take her three months to realize that someone could be stalking her. On confronting, he revealed that her eyes had never left his mind for a day. On probing as to where he might have spotted her, he replied that he had always seen her boarding one or the other train and kept observing her. She sensed this being a different phenomenon. The fellow traveler had become her obsession from the day she confronted him. She felt silly of not having even asked for his name. After a month or so, they revealed their names to each other. She found it funny. He found it remarkable. They started traveling together, exploring new places. He had stories to be shared. She had her own share of woes to be shared. On a rainy day when they were stuck at one of the stations of Mumbai’s harbor line, he took her hands in his and stared deep into her eyes. Sensing too much intimacy she revealed, she was married. He kept staring at her, uttered no word and neither allowed her to release her hand from his. After a late night’s journey, he followed her home. Throughout the journey, she had rested her head on his shoulder and poured her heart out to him. When the journey ended, he had announced his love to her. It was the month of July. The rains had swelled. The puddles had thickened. Standing beneath her apartment, he expressed his desire to follow her upstairs. She didn’t expect this from him. He was persistent. On opening the door, her mother was reluctant to allow a stranger walk into their home. She had kept the apartment secluded from probing relatives. He saw her son playing around. Gently he took him in his arms, kissed the little one’s forehead and put him to sleep. Turning towards her mother, he touched her feet, sought her blessings and rose to leave. She pleaded with him to stay back. Her mother couldn’t understand the series of events that were unfolding at such a late hour. He stepped out of their apartment and started climbing down the slippery staircase. He lost his balance, banged his head against the wall, started bleeding and collapsed. The next morning he woke up with immense pain in his head. The first aid had worked but she was keen to take him to the doctor. Her mother had reservations. She took her aside and started speaking to her in whispers. He managed to leave the bed, went closer and bravely announced that he loved her. She couldn’t believe it. Her son was too young to realize that some change was occurring in his mother’s life. But her mother had her reservations. She didn’t want her to divorce her husband and settle down for a second marriage with a child in her lap. On the other hand, he started making preparations to fight against the world and bring her home as his newly wedded wife with a child in her arms. They started traveling more and during one such journey her mobile rang. Her husband was calling to apologize. On reaching home, she didn’t answer any of his calls. All his messages to her yielded no reply. After a week’s time, his phone rang. Though upset, he couldn’t resist answering the call. She expressed her desire to meet. They boarded the train at Churchgate and chose to travel till the farthest limit of Virar. During this journey she revealed to him that within two weeks’ time, she was planning to join her husband abroad. He was left heartbroken. Throughout the night, he tried many a times to hurt himself. Thoughts of suicide showed no signs of being shy. But he lived. The next morning he woke up to a series of messages from her. He remembered the last three words of her first message – I seek freedom. When they met, she expressed her desire to spend a day with him, away from the city, away from those journeys. He sensed the end of this relationship being closer. Stealing a day out of their schedules, they traveled to a village of fishermen. A few kilometers deep in the heart of the village stood a resort. From this resort, the sea looked like a beautiful portrait of thousand emotions and the rowing boats created a vibrant spectacle. She opened the windows of the cottage he had rented to spend the day with her. She allowed the breeze to brush against her skin. The saline aroma of the village left her feeling intoxicated with love. Bolting the door behind her, she locked her lips with his. As he tightened his grip on her body, tears rolled down her eyes. They surrendered to each other and remained locked in the cottage till midnight. The next morning even though they had woken up tangled into each other, he couldn’t accept the fact of her departing. He pressed her for reasons. She maintained a stoic silence. After a while, she freshened up and pulled out a gold chain from her purse. She requested him to put the same around her neck. They left the cottage, traveled to the nearby station and boarded the train, which would take her back home. During the journey, she said nothing. Once they reached the destination, she alighted and stopped him from following her. She moved a little ahead but returned to hug him. He found the hug to be intimate and painful. She kissed him again and before turning to leave home, she told him – All the time that we were locked in there; I couldn’t tell you as to why I took this step. My husband needs me more than ever. My son needs his father like never before. Above all, my mother won’t allow this marriage to end.

Before he could react, she had left. A year passed by. He was in one of those journeys when the tone of a message caught his attention. The message read – Remember. Today is July 26. Same time last year, we had locked ourselves in that little cottage of love.

He read it twice, alighted from the train, hailed for an auto and made his way to the same cottage. He bolted the doors, opened the windows, placed the cake on a table and messaged her – Between memories of you and me, we exist. July 26, our love lock!

July 26: Part 3/ Reality – The Mumbai Deluge, 2005

I was working with a Thane based corporate communication agency. At around 10 AM, I had offered prayers at the Mahalaxmi temple and proceeded to meet my client in an adjacent corporate center. The office seemed abandoned. The receptionist had arrived late. She was drenched. The client, I was supposed to meet was busy making phone calls. All appointments have been cancelled. An international webcast was put on hold. Phone lines had started going dead. I was flipping through various magazines, which lay scattered on the table. My eyes were about to fall on an important news item, when the cable power was cut off. On seeing me, she was surprised! She didn’t waste any time. She started running her fingers through the dummy copy of a magazine, which we were supposed to proof check. After an hour or so, she stared out the window, turned towards me and advised that I should leave early. I assured her of things being normal. But she insisted that I should try getting back home as early as possible because my mother could be alone; she might need my help too. The last few words left me worried. I realized something was really wrong. Was it a riot, bomb blast or some unforeseen tragedy? I stepped out of the building. Before I could hail for a taxi, a black & yellow fiat stopped in front of me. The driver shouted that I should hop in immediately before the city sinks. His words left me feeling sick with worry. On probing further, he sped across the roads, dropped me at Byculla station and before pulling out he cautioned – Get home soon sir, the city is sinking. I had read in many books that Mumbai was a group of islands and many of its actual terrain were reclaimed from the Arabian Sea. It felt like the seas were outraged and were now avenging the reclamation. The platforms wore an abandoned look. College students were huddling together to board that one train, which was supposed to be the last train back to Thane. I boarded alongside. One of the girls, standing adjacent to me, asked me from below her veil, if the train can make it till Thane. I thought she was insane. On reaching Thane, I alighted and rushed to board the bus to my office. On reaching, I realized my office was sinking. I couldn’t understand what was wrong. The rains had swelled. Before we knew it, water started gushing in from the drains of our bathroom. We locked the office and escaped. I had to swim through shoulder high waters. In an hour’s time, our peon spotted the corpse of an animal floating across. Someone then screamed that due to a cloudburst, Mumbai was experiencing he worst ever flood in its long history of other major and minor calamities. My first priority now was to reach home. My mom was alone. It took me two hours to return home, which otherwise was not even 30 minutes away from each other. Luckily our home was at a certain height. The waters hadn’t reached there. My mother and I spent the next few days together at home. My office colleagues joined in after 48 hours. They stayed with us because their homes were lying submerged beneath 7 ft of water. It took days for the water to recede. Rumors of an epidemic started doing the rounds. The worst scene that I could recollect was that of the two wheeler parking lot near the railway station. None of the bikes had left the parking space. All of them stood submerged beneath 5 ft of stinking rain waters. Having survived that day, even today I live that moment every year remembering the calamity, which was so not called for.

-Virtuous Vociferous

WAR ISN’T EASY

On a lazy morning, we went in search of food, water; we found nothing and wandered endlessly.

Through those narrow lanes, we walked being clueless.

Just then the skies brought on us a different kind of rain. This rain was not of water but of few handbills, which made us realize that the enemy was coming for us.

But before we could think of it, gunshots went off. Life was in the grip of death.

The ocean swelled, ships drowned and strewn bodies painted a portrait of utter failure.

Isn’t it clear by now, war isn’t really easy.

The pilots put their lives at risk.

They chased the enemies in the blue skies. They flew furiously. Some so down; we thought they will come crashing on us.

War isn’t easy.

The constantly ticking sound is not that of a time bomb hidden somewhere. But it’s our mind ticking maybe. Or is it the heart that is beating abnormally. It’s war. The war isn’t allowing us to go home.

Help, help, help, we wish to shout. But there is no one to heed to those shouts.

Bombs, missiles, grenades, guns, blankets, uniforms, bullets, lifejackets; we have so much to run in our favor. But the war isn’t growing easy.

Oil from the destroyed ships has now slowly started corrupting the sea waters.

To hell with that coward who reacted so violently that a seafarer’s associate stumbled down the yacht’s deck and died.

They are taking turns to evacuate us from this place; including the wounded and ignoring the dearest dead.

Finally when we got to go home, we were applauded.

We fought at DUNKIRK.

Don’t you know? DUNKIRK is in news again.

My favorite director Nolan has hit the bull’s eye.  I think, DUNKIRK will help me develop new kind of love for war based movies.

Hats off to the vision, the sound effects and the realistic war scenes; my feelings are still with DUNKIRK.

-Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 3

The descent was to begin at 2 pm. The size of the team had contracted. From 20 or 25 maybe, we were down to 10. Sharanya dared all odds to be a part of the descending team (one woman alongside 9 men). But what’s the big deal. On first count of Krishna’s signal to descend, Sharanya had proceeded. I was sure that the descent was going to be a little ‘Ahm Uhm Mmm’ of an affair. Did I tell you that I have always been afraid of heights? Well, if I haven’t then its fine. The trek helped me overcome the fear.

Rains had not left us. We hadn’t left the rains either. Some preferred to get wet while I preferred to wear the new jacket. But during the descent, I did away with the jacket too. Sharanya had left us nine men far behind. As Ravi called out to her – Nari Shakti; it literally seemed like she was possessed by an enviable energy. I slipped many a times, others too slipped. But none of us fell or suffered injuries. If I had to single out Sharanya; she rose to the occasion by descending faster than all of us.

Did we take breaks during the descent too? Yes we did! During this breaks, we broke into sudden laughter. We struck some interesting conversations. Even though we were trekking down through the same route, everything seemed new.

Krishna and Ravi kept narrating us stories from their other treks. All of their stories were indicating at one truth – Treks are an experience to be enjoyed repeatedly.

The sudden onset of rains had turned the mountains into a magical object of affection. As we continued to descend, I kept looking back at the 1200 ft magnanimous reality. I had tamed it. Wow, I had tamed it just like others had.

We surely missed our fellow trekkers. But we enjoyed the company of the handful few. During the journey back to the village, Sharanya shared an interesting desire, which resonated with my interests too. She remarked, “All these paths lead us somewhere or the other. It would have been so amazing to have explored each of them!”

Once we were back at the village, we left no chance to treat ourselves to freshly served snacks of Vada Pav, Pakodas and of course tiny cups of tea. None of the mobile phones were spared to click hefty selfie of the mighty us. We had lived the moment. We had trekked. I had trekked.

As I write this piece today, let me tell you, the trek hadn’t left me for four days in a row. I was in pain. Every aching muscle reminded me of the fact that I had scaled well on my first trek. The pain subsided only by Thursday evening. Once it subsided, I made peace with myself. I patted my own back. I reminded myself of having conquered the fear of heights. Before I could complete writing this experience, I am already browsing through the list of upcoming treks.

Thank you Dark Green Adventures for gifting this experience. A big thank you to the new friends, I met. We might not keep in touch regularly. Our conversations might keep thinning out. But the possibility of bumping into each other will always stay alive.

So, till we TREK AGAIN, I wish to conclude by saying – Every step we take together is a movement. Every step we take alone adds strength to that movement.

 -Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

I think recollecting memories of an experience should be turned into a ‘must have’ hobby. Yes, it should be! At the same time, this hobby should not be confused with memory game. According to me, game is a moment and recollection is an experience. My intent behind this opinion is rooted in what I am going to write now. I am writing about the first trek of my life, which I embarked upon on July 9, 2017. I am recollecting memories of that trek, a week later and thoroughly enjoying writing about it. Now you know why recollecting memories of an experience should be turned into a ‘must have’ hobby!

The decision to trek was impulsive and not so impulsive as well. I was enjoying my sabbatical from Facebook. Over a period of time, I got bored of what I was posting, sharing and debating in that space. But someday, somehow a return was on the cards. When I returned, a post by Dark Green Adventures about a trek to Sunset Point in Matheran grabbed my attention. Matheran, it was; my womb of inspiration.

There I was and we were, as decided, at Panvel railway station by 7 am. Krishna, our trek instructor had created a group on WhatsApp. We coordinated through the same and without wasting a single minute, proceeded to Dhodani village (located at 20.4 kms from Panvel railway station). After a quick round of breakfast of Idlis, Tea and Krishna’s Knowledge Nuggets, Krishna sought our introductions in the courtyard of the local temple. The first few names I can recollect at this moment are Aranya or Ananya and Sharanya, Hitesh, Ravi, Deepak, Pranav, Rohan, etc etc.

As planned, we started trekking at around 10:30 am. We were supposed to scale 1200 ft. Krishna led us, so did our hearts and our determination. We kept taking stops. Our first encounter was with paddy crops. Moving ahead we lost our hearts to a tiny waterfall. Post this point, Rohan had to retract; dehydration (maybe) had claimed its first victim. The trek continued.  No one was in a mood to stop or take breaks. But when the opportunities came by, no one shied away from taking that stop and the much needed break to guzzle water, chew some handy snacks, catch up with some breath. Rains were nowhere to be seen. The sun kept getting mightier. Through thick vegetation, we could see two youthful females take the lead; Ananya and Sharanya. I was in the fourth position. Krishna was somewhere in between. Hitesh continued nonstop as well. Pranav was busy discovering the unknown corners. Ravi was to climb last.

From a distance, we could spot the edge of Sunset Point. Fellow trekkers motivated us by remarking, “You are almost there”. But the so called ‘almost there’ kept postponing itself by additional 15 minutes. Did we lose our mojo? No. Did we get it back? But we had never lost it. Once we climbed over, a thick layer of fog enveloped Sunset Point. The much needed rains were here and they came heavily upon us. We were hungry, thirsty but not angry. We knew we had stories to go back home with. The team stuck together. Trekkers as we were. First timers, pro, seasonal, regular; trekkers were rocking. We had done it!

Lunch was served in Osbourne House, a tiny home owned by a villager. Rains had turned thick by now. The little home seemed like a universe of hope for us hungry trekkers. When the food arrived, the first six of us simply jumped in. We finished like Formula One racers and set out to spend some time at Louisa Point. Some of us went missing but, we were tracked down by Krishna’s special searching prowess. Ten of us decided to descend. If the ascent filled us with thrills, the descent was going to be another spinning moment of our lives. Someone was to lead and someone was to finish last. But joy was on its way.

Don’t miss the conclusion - TREK #1 09072017 Stage 3

-Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 1

It goes somewhat like this and a lot less like that.

Much before July 9, 2017 came into my life; I had religiously followed the unreasonable urge in me to avoid embarking on a trek.

Trek in the language of a dictionary means ‘a journey or trip, especially one involving difficulty or hardship’.

Many eons ago, when I would get invited by a friend, colleague, well-wisher or a professional partner to be a part of a trek; I would shudder!

But from mid-2016 (once again, the month of July to be precise), things had started changing for me! Some of my colleagues had trekked their way to Matheran. They uploaded these pictures on the social media. Mist was their backdrop. The wet piece of marshy land beneath their feet was their landing pad. The smile on their faces was the reward of a trek well completed. Temptation had set in. I clearly remember telling this to them, “If you plan a trek next time, I shall join in”.

I realized, I needed some more time to make up my mind, muster courage, fortify my determination, configure my apprehensive organs and convince the ‘little negative me’ in me to embark on my first ever trek. Sadly and happily it took me a year to finally say YES against the many Nos which continued to defeat my decision. In short, I trekked! 

As I lifted my feet and began climbing over the immense offering of nature (also called a mountain), the unreasonable urge to avoid trekking diminished.

This is the story of that trek. It’s not based on a true story. But it’s the true story of my first ever trek. All the characters in this story are real. This is not a work of fiction or an effort at creating new metaphors. This is sheer originality at play. Let me tag this post and the following blog posts as distinct in mood, dramatic by nature, dashing in telling and dynamic at its core.

Starring first time trekkers, seasonal trekkers, pro trekkers, a trek instructor and his partner; this is truth about a trek well told.

This blog post/this story of my first trek contains no added flavor or colors. All of it is natural and any coincidence to the living, reincarnated, forgotten or remembered is purely coincidental or deliberate by nature.

To conclude, I would like to quote - Every action has a first. Every first is an action.

Coming Soon - TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

-Virtuous Vociferous