Thursday, July 27, 2017

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

Sunday, July 23, 2017

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

Monday, July 17, 2017

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

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

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