MY DEAR DAY

In the middle of nowhere, I chose to look out for you; I was pleased to see, you hadn’t left; you are still here. You know, how much I love this beautiful relationship of ours. I never feel, I’ve ever taken such efforts to be able to spend more time with anyone; not even with the ones, I had once called mine.

You aren’t clueless that I was planning to write to you. Forgive me; I delayed writing to you. I should have finished writing to you, two hours back. But you are well aware about my commitment towards something else as well. I did conclude writing 12 very special letters to the year that it was; about learning, about changing my perspective, about saying a simple Thank You. Thus the delay caused in writing to you.

I wish to ask – are you in a hurry? What are you seeking from this hurry, this urgency? Just sit back, relax and enjoy all the attention that I am showering on you. I wish, if I could make you wait a little longer. But the wry smile on your face tells me, that you were already aware of your short lived aura.

You remember, last year too, around the same time, I was dealing with a dilemma of a similar nature. But you slipped away. Why are you so heartless? Don’t you for once feel something for this admirer of yours? Why should you? You are by now, well-versed with this repeated emotion of mine.

Can you feel it? I hope you can. The vibration of my heavily beating heart; the sensation of my brazen breaths getting heavier with emotions; the complication of thoughts in my wild mind. Even though you are ensuring to make a comeback soon, will these feelings return! But this moment; will you be able to bring this one back as well?

I hate these questions, which keep rising within the mind. But these questions hold the potential to take the shape of prophecies too; interestingly everything I feel about you can sound like prophecies.

The clock is ticking. My eyes are as much on the constantly ticking clock, as much as yours are. Looking at your unease, I only hope that you want to be left alone. No matter, how much you wish to be left alone, I will still be around you.

May I ask you something? Why can’t you slow down a bit? Trust me, this hurried pace doesn’t seem like a matter of high comfort. I was just thinking, if I could share with you about the few scattered ideas, which I sewed together to create a special fabric of my creative pursuits. But I think, I can avoid that at this hour. Your silence speaks louder than the voice of my thoughts.

Did I tell you, how much ink, I played in with? You were here. I am wanting to tell you about it; simply by imagining that you may have missed it. Do I sound irrelevant? Are my one sided conversations sounding like dead sermons? Perhaps yes. This golden silence of yours; it is more painful than any other characteristic of yours.

Listen. You still have a lot of time left with you; before you decide to finally move out. Things went by well. Being here, you were a witness to the events. All so rich in texture. Interesting, very interesting!

Oh! So is it time then? That gesture of yours; is it trying to convey across something? Oh yes! Let’s hug. You’ve to bid multiple good byes. You are someone famous. What do I address you as? Famous personality or a celebrity! Ok, both! Happy? Oh come on, don’t make faces. I assure you, I will be fine. Yes, I will be fine, even after you leave. And, why are your eyes moist? You mean to say, yours are moist because mine are! What rubbish? You are insane. Anyway bidding adieus is a tough thing for me. But when I am faced with this moment of saying a final good bye to you for this year; my dear day, trust me; I am going to have a tough time missing you.

See you soon. Drop me a message, once you reach. Yes, I know it will take one fresh week of another new year for you to return to me again, by being different and being my dear day again – SUNDAY.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 30-31 | December Blog-4 | The Conclusion | 2018

AT THE EXTREME EDGE OF NIGHT

She is not home tonight. She seems to have found a new companion. During festive seasons, she keeps busy. The neighborhood is quite abuzz with curiosity over some of her secret doings and some not so secret doings. She is bold. She drinks a little more than the men, she befriends. She eats a lot less than the women, she detests. She is not home tonight. I feel relieved that she is not home tonight.

I think, it is the fourth time in last two weeks, that she has gone missing. Last time, she had wrongly knocked on my door. Right in the middle of the night, she had knocked on my door. Bloody hell, who could it be? That was my first expression. On opening the door, my second expression was charming enough to leave a lasting impression – Oh, I am so sorry to have not imagined, it could be you!

Was she impressed by that corny line of mine? Yes, she was! I couldn’t press the door against her any longer. She walked in. She smelt of alcohol, burnt tobacco and the perfume advertised by Kristen Stewart (Channel or Chanel). She came closer; too close to make me feel uncomfortable (actually to get me more excited).

Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still echoes in my mind. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me excited. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me feeling a little pissed off!

After having asked the question, she had walked back to her apartment. I had followed her. Had she seen me following her? Had she not? She had slammed the door on me. I remember it tonight. Because, she is not home tonight.

I wish every night could be like this night, I am left alone with desires to hold her tight.

What is that smell all about? She had asked me once, when I had crossed over to her apartment, right in the middle of the day. She had gently opened the door. Her home seemed a little undone. I could see the traces of an undesired visitor show up loudly in her eyes. I had turned. She called for me. I turned again and made it back to the door of her apartment. She invited me in. I sat on the sofa and waited for her turn to close the door and settle down for a conversation. But all she did was, ask the question – What is that smell all about?

I remember of having sniffed and also having replied – That’s not a smell, that’s the fragrance of my new deodorant.

Deodorant? She had questioned. Deodorant? She had asked again. Deodorant? She kept asking. It’s still a smell; she had remarked.

Before I could call her a bloody whatever, she had suddenly come closer and whispered in my ears – Men smell good when they don’t wear a deodorant, do you understand Mister Ambassador of Deodorant?

There have been complaints flying wild in the air, within the neighborhood and around it. I was left a little unsettled by the realization – What if they ban her from entering her own home?

The fear of my realization did find its home in the notice they had slammed on her face. But somehow, she managed to stay back and continues to stay here, right here, in this home. Many haven’t seen her come in or go out; many nights after nights. But I’ve seen her sit here, sleep here and stay right here.

Because at the extreme edge of night, it is only her spirit, which wanders around. And prior to that, whoever saw her alive was of the opinion that she is one of those walking dead.

Thankfully, she is not home tonight. But I can still hear her hum:

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

I still wait for her; be it in her real form or in the form of a ghost that she shall come; we will definitely meet at the extreme edge of night.

Only, I have a different name for her, I call her INSPIRATION. And what’s the harm, if she decides on her own to visit my mind, at the extreme edge of night! And she is the one to also make me write; again at the extreme edge of night.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 26 | December Blog-3 | Making of the story | 2018

HOLDING ON TO WINTERS

She stepped out of the bed; he was still asleep. She placed her feet on the floor, which had turned ice-cold by now. She climbed back into the bed; cozied up to him; tried to seek his attention! He was warm, she wasn’t! After repetitive trials, she gave up. Just then, he turned; she saw a flash of hope. He gently opened his eyes, which met hers. He looked deep into her eyes, took a deep breath, dragged her closer; they kissed. They kissed till the time the alarm went off; they kissed till the time the sun showed up; they kissed till the time they were ready to wake up; they kissed till the time was up for him to rise and leave. His departures hurt her more than his disappearances. Her agony hit him more than her angelic appearance. But this time, it was different; he didn’t move an inch away from her; she moved many more inches closer to him. The winters had cast a spell. All they looked forward were reasons to hold on to themselves; hold on to each other and the idea of holding on to winters.

Winters! Do we feel it in Mumbai, the way the two lovers are feeling up there, in the above paragraph? Or we feel it more in Kolkata and Delhi! How about Chennai? Is Bengaluru pleasant, mild or wild during winters? It must be snowing in all parts of states, which are located closer to the Himalayan range! Why is the city of Pune always too pleasant? Why some of the homes in Nashik don’t require a fan during winters? Should the hunt for warm clothes in the bed cabinets be intensified? Should the routine and pattern of everyday clothes change? Winters! They leave so much in between to imagine, initiate and intensify.

Intense. As intense or as cold as the love between them, the two lovers above! Because all they looked forward were reasons to hold on to themselves; hold on to each other and the idea of holding on to winters. Such intense is love during winters. The intensity is so severe that kisses and embrace don’t suffice; the experience evolves into something, which is known as the phenomenon of oneness.

Oneness. Winters are always about oneness. Not just the oneness between those two lovers; but the oneness one embraces, while sitting around a freshly lit bonfire. Or the oneness, friends feel while making another Patiala peg to be put up on offer. Frequency of partying goes up. Repetitiveness of eventualities to meet someone multiplies.

Multiplication. He loves it more, only when they are together. This multiplication has got nothing to do with arithmetic or other calculations. This multiplication is of human nature; both, physical and psychological. Love multiplies, emotions multiply. Her desire to continue being with him multiplies. In short, winter plays a bigger role in fueling the many innumerable multiplications of life.

Life/Lives. Lives during winters tend to grow so different. Maybe not too different in Mumbai. But definitely different in Kolkata and Delhi. Winters in the winter prone places are so much about stillness. Winters in the not so prone to winter places are so much about knowing.

Knowing. Knowing each other every time they meet, is in many ways more romantic, and immensely desirable to continue holding on to winters.

Now, in the bed that they are together again, they will create some new stories. But will there be stories from people and lovers, apart from them? If not, would we really mind creating or cooking up stories of our own.

All of it, for the simple desire of those two lovers and the seekers like us. Or much like some well-known hobbies or just an easy hobby of holding on to winters.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 17 | December Blog-2 | Making of the story | 2018

WHEN AM I WRITING NEXT?

In a disgusted voice, a friend remarked – For how long are you going to sport the title of WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?

I asked – WHERE?

The friend, in a heightened voice of disgust remarked – ON YOUR BLOG.

In a timid voice, I expressed – OH!

The last line of the WhatsApp message read – DO ONE THING. TITLE IT AS ‘WHEN AM I WRITING NEXT?’

By the time, I could craft a reply, the WhatsApp chat window froze. The two tick marks never turned blue. I was agitated; not because of the remark but, because of the sharper than razor reminder of I having written nothing new. For almost two months; since my last blog post on September 16, my personal blog www.virtuousvociferous.blogspot.in slipped into a slumber of sorts. I was at my wits end to sense what had made me discontinue blogging, which is almost like a habit. I suspected my newer addictions (Netflix & Amazon Prime); I regretted my older addictions (unmentionable). But, it didn’t take me much time to realize that I had not lit the table lamp; I had not turned the new page in the diary; I had not sought inspiration; I had not maintained consistency. Things had to change.

Therefore, rather than regret and turn the thought process into a regressive piece of junk, I made sure that I don’t leave the cup of warm memories out in the cold. The fast approaching winters might turn that cup ice cold. Faced by guilt and reminded of the scathing remark of ‘When am I writing next’, I decided to warm up to conversations, readings and observations. As I continued to warm up, my throat turned dry; my breath turned heavy; my vision grew skeptical; my voice stumbled.

Thus, to restart from where I had left on September 16, I decided to go back to my age-old series of #TrainSpotterUpdate (if you’re on Instagram, do follow the hash tag). Since 2011, the series has been active and somewhat popular, in many ways on various platforms of social media. But, Instagram helped me redefine the life of this objective and vision; now known as #TrainSpotterUpdate.

The series took me to Dadar foot over bridge and I found inspiration roaming around. The series took me to the extreme corner of Train No.12137-Punjab Mail. The series took me back to places, I’ve always felt belonged to; the great Indian railways. But, I would like to clarify that my blog will not be limited to stories from in and around railways. My blog will continue being the canvas, which holds together bright imaginations of stories, I have always wished to narrate to myself and you.

So to answer the question – WHEN AM I WRITING NEXT, I would just wish to conclude saying, this blog post is just the beginning. Await the next.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 12 | December Blog-1 | Making of the story | 2018

IN THIS PART OF THE TOWN

I am not a stranger in this part of the town. I never was! The station, I alighted at; isn’t this the same station, mom would repeatedly remind me of alighting at, if I had to visit the Taraporewala Aquarium to quench my thirst of curiosity about marine life.

Isn’t this the same road, on which I have walked often to attend interviews or in search of absolute nothings? Yes, this is indeed the same road, which is now home to the most famous Saifee Hospital. It’s hard to resist its towering personality. So many healthcare professionals might be at work in there; saving lives, breathing in new life and dedicating their lives to the art of nurturing human lives.

But I am not writing this piece to explain my historical or geographical connection with this part of the town. It is in this part of the town, wherein some of my friends have their homes and they still live here as its integral citizens. They are so deeply rooted in here that they don’t have to brandish any tag, logo or banner to be called true Mumbaikars. They are Mumbaikars by nature, by existence and by the legacy they belong to.

I am writing this to express my gratitude to an experience, I was invited to be a part of, within the unmapped and timeless legacy of a home. So integrally weaved into the social fabric of the urban culture of South Bombay, this home spoke to my soul. Right inside this home, is installed the idol of Lord Ganesha, as a part of the ten-day festivities of Ganesh Chaturthi. Decorated in a traditional style, minus all the fakeness of the now banned thermocol or any other cosmetic decorations; the deity is surrounded with artefacts, lights and a cutely designed cloth roof above. The home is filled with the aroma of freshly lit incense sticks; the fragrance seems to be travelling in from years of faith in the God, who puts an end to all troubles. He surely does. Who am I, but just a mortal human being to describe the Almighty’s big wonders!

The home is surrounded by a perfect blend of varied cultures. Be it the little church, the temple on an escalated platform, the police station, the well decked homes of peace-loving Parsis or the many other communities, which peeped out of their balconies to send a smile or a happy greeting to someone known or even unknown.

Outlets of industrial steel occupy the ground floors. But they aren’t causing any harm; except the loud Marwari voices of laborers working inside or the Rajasthani hammers beating the lives out of the steel ores. The neighborhood is interesting. Mistakenly I entered the wrong wing. I knocked on their doors too. Since they had CCTV cameras installed in the lobby and having spotted me as a stranger, they chose to not even open their doors. Thankfully I found the right wing and once I stepped in, I slipped into my chosen space of spiritual ease.

My friend and the family members gave me a warm welcome. I was surprised, that such kindhearted people still live in this part of the town. The conversations were so close to the heart; not for once, did I feel like a stranger or like a first time visitor. The home, the beams which support it, the flooring, the wooden furniture, the staircase, the cavity in the wall to lit a lamp or two; everything seemed so perfect and precise. But what held my attention were those three windows, which made me connect with my ancestral home in Kolkata. The windows overlooked the road below and the snakelike row of two wheelers parked haphazardly. The windows made me imagine about that day of a forgotten year, when a small ritual was held to step in, for the first time, in this blessed home. The people who might have walked through the road, in search of this home, asking for directions or reconfirming the address. The first festival that was celebrated or the first big event that was held.

After offering prayers, I might have walked out of that home. But the taste of water offered to me, is still fresh. The delight of the food served to me, is still so alive. The aura is unforgettable. I am left already missing it so much; I think it is only advisable that I keep coming repetitively in this part of the town.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 16 | September Blog-2| Making of the story | 2018

TRAPPED BY MIDNIGHT

Midnight.

I love it. Everything is so pure. Everybody so unavailable. Everything so unconnected.

Midnight. The background of my imagination, the premise of my poems, the canvas of my writings.

At times, I step out. On most occasions, I don’t.

Yet, the midnight! In its complete glory of a newlywed bride and sometimes in full bloom of a secret lover, chooses to take over. I, on my end, just surrender.

Casting a spell, seducing my mind, also flowing within my veins, the midnight puts things in place to emerge as the most likely winner.

Midnight makes music my best friend. At the same time, it reminds me of the best friend, I haven’t spoken to on many wasted nights.

I’ve seen unlikely corners come to life. I’ve felt unfamiliar voices coming my way. With due courtesy to midnight, I once again see the storyteller, seated well past 12 am and writing this piece. It is perhaps 3.30 am or maybe 4 am, the writing continues.

The table lamp is no more in action. But the desk is still very much alive. The laptop is doped. Maybe it is the midnight, which is trying to trick me in one or the other way.

A drop of ink from the fountain pen lands on a blank sheet of virgin white paper. The mesmerizing voice of Sophie Simmons; well how do I put it, but, she seems to be anchoring a walk by the seaside.

Though simplicity seems to be at the core of this midnight. I still feel trapped by midnight.

Not many mid nights ago, I stood by the window. All I could see were the shadows of two disloyal lovers. These lovers had found their way in our lane, to perhaps make out. Luckily by the next midnight, their lust story was over.

The rains echo deep. It is after all the vastness of this midnight, which turn the rains into something much more unimaginably lovable. Then suddenly the aroma of wet mud takes over. What follows next is what I know as magic. Or should I say, the midnight magic.

But just like other changing things, this midnight too isn’t permanent in nature. The elements around it would automatically change.

I will still be here, imagining, dreaming, reading or simply writing. I feel happy for being driven and sense that I somehow enjoy being trapped by midnight.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 09 | September Blog-1| Making of the story | 2018

IN HOT AND COLD PURSUIT OF MY OWN WORDS

Ever since, I’ve started reading Karl Ove Knausgård's ‘A DEATH IN THE FAMILY’, the first book in his ‘My Struggle’ series, one line has stayed with me. On the 218th page, he reveals – Writing is more about destroying than creating. Let me add, people who aren’t passionate about reading or not remotely interested in writing, will definitely get this line wrong, absolutely wrong. It is not just a line; but it is a deep insight. An insight, Karl Ove Knausgård credits another writer with. He speaks about Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, who seems to have realized this, at a very early age. But my second only post for the month of August is not about discussing Knausgård’s books or Rimbaud’s philosophy. This blog post is driven by the insight – Writing is more about destroying than creating. 

As someone had said in the past, it’s difficult to understand some of my writings. Initially I took it as a scathing remark and criticism of my work too. But I think, I misinterpreted. I feel so because they have never been close to the passion of writing or to the habit of reading. At the same time, everyone has the equal right to react towards anything and everything. 

I wish to simplify it further. Not many years before when social media exploded in our lives, we took to it like fish to water. After the debacle of Orkut, my writings found a new home in Facebook, a studio apartment in twitter and a penthouse in LinkedIn. The sense of freedom was so immense; I chose to develop a new identity of my own. Even though this newly designed identity demands a complete story of its own, I wish to push ahead by saying that Virtuous Vociferous is my alter ego on Facebook. On twitter, I am @puruthegreat; on LinkedIn, I’ve stuck to my presence as Purnesh Bhattacharya. Under all names, I chose to write what I think, I should; because I believed in my thoughts. I never gave it a thought that the outer world is equally interested in my thoughts. No I didn’t give it a second thought, because I was not completely interested in the thoughts of others. Thus began my journey of words.

Sometimes I went too far; at times, I stayed too close and on most occasions, I wrote seamlessly without any apprehension in my mind. As my words grew braver, my text bigger and my thoughts wider; the outer world deep dived in my writing matters. 

Recently someone read this on my LinkedIn page - The habit of asking too many questions might go against you in the real world. Especially when others don't believe that asking questions are the first necessary steps to lead change from front. The person who read this, first liked this post and then went out announcing to the world that I am writing dangerous things on LinkedIn. My writings/posts on Facebook met with the same fate. Objections, opinions and oddities swarmed together, which eventually led to me deciding to stop sharing my thoughts, up loud or clearly on Facebook. I don’t know, who decided to take things in their control and start telling me that I was revealing more than what could meet the eyes of my contenders. Prior to that, a school friend of mine had made fun of the length of my writings on Facebook; he chose to even ask a stupid question – How much does Facebook pay you to write so frequently and so much on your wall? Initially I chose to brush him aside. But he didn’t stop there; he started posting filthy comments on my writings. I didn’t block him. I only blocked him when he thought that advertising his recent hobbies was really cool on Facebook. His length of thoughts seemed to spill out of his own wall on Facebook. Some more recent digs over a year led to me abandoning writing on Facebook, LinkedIn and even twitter. Then came Instagram and life changed. But more than social media platforms, some beautiful people (beautiful by heart) made me change my mind and recharged my mind to start writing across all social media platforms; on which, I am very much active.  

Therefore, in hot and cold pursuit of my words, I can’t wait to restart. The philosophy which went into developing Virtuous Vociferous or @puruthegreat can’t ever stop midway. To conclude, if you are still reading this and still are in a mood to create your own opinion about me, go ahead; my journey has just begun.

- Virtuous Vociferous | August 26 | August Blog-2 | Making of the story | 2018

IN THE KINGDOM OF CAPTAIN KIAN

Captain Kian

I felt his soft fingers tickle my chin. As I slowly opened my eyes, his eyes were on me. For a moment, I had forgotten that I had gone partying last night. Had it not been for him, I would have not believed of having woken up in the little kingdom that he proudly stakes his claim to.

In the ‘Kingdom of Captain Kian’, I am his subject. On other days, I have never felt the need to spot a snail. Neither have I placed a rarely found stone and a beach shell around a snail, to serve as an interesting topic for a perfect Instagram update. 

Captain Kian’s kingdom holds a special place in my heart for the things, his kingdom holds within itself. My favorite sighting though is his little bicycle, which is parked right below his father’s bicycle, which actually hangs out of the wall, right behind their kitchen wall. Or did I mention about Captain Kian’s tiny helmet, which is placed right on the top of his father’s huge helmet and besides his mother’s stylish helmet!

I’ve always been a fan of Captain Kian’s enthusiasm. Just last week, he won a medal for having run a marathon of 5 kms, which took him through hilly terrains and plain lands. The vision of the medal dangling around Captain Kian’s neck is yet to fade out of my memory. It won’t, I am sure, the vision won’t fade; no memory of his has ever faded out. 

Captain Kian is a quick learner. His proud mother shared with me an incident as to how Captain Kian strummed his guitar to an audience of marathon runners and participants. If I am not mistaken, he was instantly bestowed the title of ‘The Young Guitarist’. 

At the age that Captain Kian is now, I hadn’t even thought of taking up cooking. But apart from pursuing many hobbies, Captain Kian has a penchant for cooking too. His mother had once shared with me a video of him presenting his very own procedure of cooking a delicacy. I was stunned by his mannerisms. If he takes this part seriously, he may fare exceptionally well as a chef too. How can I forget mentioning the breakfast he made for me? A breakfast of bread slices, with cheese and peri peri between them! I wish, I could have had them more! Only that, I had chosen to begin with a light diet.

Captain Kian's Kingdom of Joy

By now, while reading, you must have realized that Captain Kian dons many hats. He is a very good creator too. If you get a chance, do take some time off your busy schedule to see as to what he does with his Legos. I got the chance to see it. I sensed the passion with which, he had created a structure. This structure holds a swimming pool, two Bankura horses (wooden toy horses, I had gifted to his mother). He has also parked a huge vehicle, closer, very closer to the structure. The vehicle, in Captain Kian’s words, “is a transformer and can take any shape anytime.” Since the structure needs security, Captain Kian has deputed one of the many robots one gets to see in Michael Bay’s movie version of the ‘Transformers’. 

In here, I also wish to mention that Captain Kian is an animal lover too! He secretly smuggles in kittens in his home (even though his mother is highly allergic to them), feeds stray dogs and shares a warm relationship with birds.

Captain Kian and I have one thing in common; we both love books. I’ve seen him sit with a book. He won’t leave a single word unread. Once he is done, it becomes our automatic responsibility to make ourselves available for the series of questions, he would demand answers to; of course from us! But I trust his knowledge more than mine. He might be a bookworm but his ways of learning things are not bookish. Maybe that is something, he seems to have inherited from his cinematographer father or his writer mother (others know her as a medical writer, for me she is a writer; a fellow writer).

Of the performer in him, that I am a fan of, Captain Kian leaves no stone unturned. If he takes a liking to someone, he can put up an instant performance too. Till the time I was preparing to take his leave from his kingdom at Shivaji Park, he shook a leg or two to a folk song. I recorded that moment on my mobile. I shall cherish it for days to come.

As I bid a heavy hearted good bye to Captain Kian, he came closer to me and whispered in my ears – Why can’t you stay back? Why do you have to leave every time? Can’t you spend an entire day with me/us? To his questions, I had the simplest answer in the most affirmative tone – I will definitely make sure that I meet every demand of yours. By the window side, where we had our morning breakfast and our cups of tea, Captain Kian once again expressed that he wishes to revisit my residence. He further added, he wishes to stay back for a day or two.

If the future gives me a chance, I would like to write an entire series with Captain Kian as the central hero. Will his character be that of a detective? I don’t think so. But if I ever get the chance to establish one connection between his character and mine, it would be of that pure emotion, which stirred within me the feeling of parenthood. All this, in his little kingdom of joy… Captain Kian’s Kingdom of joy!

- Virtuous Vociferous | August 12 | August Blog-1 | Making of the story | 2018

IN THAT PERSONAL SPACE OF ‘I BEING ME’

In times of uncertainty, we delve deeper. We develop a habit of interrogating every cause and their immediate effect. Being human, we are more inclined towards evidence, which can be documented, disbursed.

These are also the times, when we are caught in the radar of adversaries. They never reveal their real identity. They hide behind masks. They are ten steps ahead of us. They wait to strike with their flappy plans. They see their favorite prey in us.

Things grow murkier, when we, the uncertain us, join hands with our adversaries to follow what they claim to be the best; also certain about. This agreement is based on the pure insight of we supposedly seeking support to sustain our sinking belief, faith and trust in us. We are too late to realize; this is how we make ourselves available to be taken for granted. In short, we cross over to an unknown territory, a space where we don’t belong to, a space which only belongs to our adversaries. Forget it, shit happens, things stink; we need to move on.

Thus, I decided to differ and use this opportunity to create a personal space of mine. This is that personal space of ‘I being me’. I am at no one’s mercy. I am in no one’s favor. I am the one to decide, when I am faced with a single challenge or an army of unthinkable contingencies; as to whom I am answerable to; whom I am not answerable to.

When I am in that personal space of ‘I being me’, I am not sure of my actions going down well with everybody. I might sound very less demanding of others; I might seem very excessively demanding of me, myself. This space could make me grow nasty or turn me into a beast of worst things. Time suggests, I take complete advantage of this space. Trust me, I have started doing that.

Now the question arises of whether I stand to hurt the feelings of those, who are trying to help me through uncertainties. It is up to them to decide. I haven’t spoken a single word, which is bitter in taste; neither would I act against their instincts. Only my response would be ill-timed or probably out of context. If they trust me, they will continue to respect this space. If they don’t, they can each their own. On an honest note, favors are not forgotten; they are to be done justice with. Why would I be different then?

Right now, I am in a happy space. It did involve the much anticipated bit of struggle to find my way into this space. But I am left with no regrets. Neither do I repent over the wrong decisions, which only ended up making me more vocal to demand what is right with regards to my fundamental right.

‘I being me’ is a selfish little space of being content. I am not seeking solidarity in here, but I am aware about its existence. This space may make one grow intolerant. The levels of discomfort may hit an all-time high. But this move is a constructive activity; the steps already taken or to be taken are of statistical nature; the overall objective is to surrender to this space and rediscover the nature and the character, I am made of.

To conclude, if I am a being, I have the right to claim, to create, to construct and to constitutionalize what I truly believe in. Since I am not just a being, but a human being, who is endeavoring to be different, I don’t need your permission. I just wish to continue being in that personal space of I BEING ME.

PS: Dedicated to the seventh month of all months – July… and to the one born in this month of July.

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 29 | July Blog-5 | Making of the beast | 2018

THROUGH THE DAY

She is relentless.

Over the years, she has been wielding power.

I remember the slogan, she had introduced us to – Mother, Earth, Human.

We were waking up to brightness from an era of darkness.

Her arrival on the political canvas had meant independence from hooliganism.

Sorry to make a note and blow a bugle of caution; she has reversed the course of hooliganism and remolded it into something worse than that.

Her political demands have never followed a pattern.

In the past, she was a rebel, I had personally looked up to.

Today, she is someone, I don’t wish to even catch a glimpse of.

Her speeches are punctuated with hatred.

The least, I had expected of her was to witness an unnecessary change – West Bengal to Bangla.

What next?

She is talented.

Today she turned the stage into a space of well-choreographed miracle.

I read through the reviews, she had curated to be shared across.

It didn’t take me much time to realize; I had missed out on a real talent, performing live on stage.

Till the eventuality of ‘next time’ resurfaces and she decides to dance on stage, I shall wait.

She is unpredictable.

I know it was not on purpose.

The language is to be blamed. The time is to be held responsible.

During late hours, none of us are at liberty to weigh the impact of words.

I might have overreacted; it seemed so unnecessary the next moment.

Just a word, to think about. In the end, everything remains the same.

She is happiness.

I am sure, she might have repeated the shade of yellow.

Her fondness for that particular color isn’t hidden.

It was her birthday yesterday. She made sure to wear the shade, which always makes her happy.

Our conversations were too thin throughout the day.

But somehow, I left her craving for a cup of tea, just through a menial conversation of mine.

She is trying.

I know, it is not too easy to tolerate someone who has grown unpredictable.

But life needs to be balanced between possibilities and probabilities.

I think someday, she will definitely get the picture right in her mind.

Maybe that day, her anger and her irritation will also settle down.

She is daredevil.

In the toughest of moments, she will end up sending a message, which will guarantee a hefty laugh.

Her approach towards life is so positively driven, I am timelessly greedy to continue seeking inspiration from her.

She is calm.

Storms don’t move her a bit; emotional storms to be precise.

She never reacts. She neither overreacts.

She prays. She prays through days. She prays through nights.

All she has is the one, she gave birth too.

She makes sure, he continues to live his dreams and makes their dreams comes true.

She is clueless.

Guided by wrong people, her mistakes are not to be counted or discussed about.

After a period of time, she is to be forgiven and forgotten.

She is she.

Spending time amidst children with special needs isn’t easy.

But she does it with envious ease.

Through the day all I sensed…  

She is some kind of a mystic medley that surrounds me.

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 27 | July Blog-4 | Making of the beast | 2018

THE RAINY PREFACE

The first thought

10.45 PM – It is raining

10.45 AM – It was raining

I am seated in the farthest suburb of Mumbai, which according to residents of SoBo (South Bombay) can’t even stand eligible to be addressed as NoBo (North Bombay). I am seated in my very own corner, writing this piece; also thinking, how nothing has changed in a course of 12 hours. Not the people, not the conversations, not the conspiracies; nothing at all has changed. Neither do I expect them to change because it is me, who has to become the change.

Skipping work came naturally. I am happy I skipped making fool of myself as well. As the rains kept lashing, journalists of innumerable news channels turned into weather experts and kept reporting bullshit. But am I supposed to complain? Nah! Instead I kept staring at the rains, from the comfort of my dream home. Every drop of rain left me with these lines, which I call the rainy preface (also the title of this blog) –

TODAY IT RAINED

TODAY IT POURED

I STOOD DRENCHED

FOR A MOMENT, I FELT

ARE THESE RAINS CAPABLE ENOUGH

OF MELTING A MORTAL BEING LIKE ME?

ME… THE @#@*@#@*@#

The special characters form the name of my second book. For days, I’ve wanted to start working on my second book. I invested an entire year, thinking of it. I invested an entire year, trying to adjust to it. Interestingly, I invested two years extending my seva, my meva to a place, which in return has given me new lessons to learn from for a good life (this line is dedicated to the advisors, who will continue holding me wrong for all reasons and once again ask me to not get frustrated, stay diplomatic, decent).

The Final Thought

11.00 PM – It is raining

11.00 AM – It was raining

Away from the trappings of emotions, WhatsApp messages, birthday wishes, Facebook likes & dislikes; I lived through a peaceful day. This day was exactly the kind of day I wish to have a constant affair with. I drove in my car, walked below my umbrella and continued conversing with some intelligent minds. Some questions did come my way. I chose not to answer them. I am sure, some will come advising me again of being obsessed and being wrong. Having decided to follow what the heart prompts, I continued being myself and kept chanting a mantra for my well-wishers – My Foot, My Foot, Foot, Foot, Foot. They disappeared!

Concluding on a happy note by saying… Writing begins and continues every single day!

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 9 | July Blog-3 | Making of the beast | 2018

POST INTERVAL

Beneath a thick layer of ice, a certain province in Kashmir is inhaling hope and exhaling despair. Terrorism is at its peak. So are the precautionary measures and military operations. Half of the men have disappeared and have been declared untraceable. A chorus of gloomy voices seem to be puncturing the insanely tense, hung environment. Just then, a man walks out of the woods; wrapped in thick blanket, wearing post-surgical eye glasses, he takes a pause then proceeds. An unusual limp in his walk makes us sympathize for him. It’s interesting to note that the arrival of this man mutes the chorus of gloomy voices and triggers a crescendo.  This is the very moment, when the screen comes to a standstill and one word floods the screen – INTERVAL.

I am sure, we are familiar with this term, this word called interval and its immediate cousin - INTERMISSION. If we haven’t paid too much attention, we may realize that these two words have also played an important part in our lives too. Haven’t they? Well, if you haven’t yet realized then you might be living in some other world till now. Thankfully I am living in this world and after having stayed awake through the major portion of night, which served as an interval, I am ready to step on the other side. This other side is called POST INTERVAL. At this juncture, nothing remains the same. Change is the only constant and the signs of this constant, show up instantly.

Post interval, the gloom, the grim, the nightmare and the dream; everything start to settle down or grow adverse. This is when, the heart decides to shed the excess baggage of apprehension, inhibition, reluctance and regret. On the contrary the heart decides to rebel.

Rebel it will; but is the heart ready yet? Of course it is and maybe somewhere deep within, it isn’t ready. The traces of heart’s readiness could be found long hidden in some of the most inhuman strategies ever adopted or implemented by some human agents of anarchy.

Post interval may also unleash truths, no one else wishes to know about. Just then a new breed would come barking from nowhere and position itself being diplomatic.

We are no more in need of any diplomacy. All we are looking forward to can be termed as being in action. After the interval, the cogwheels of probabilities and possibilities will experience certain friction. This friction will give rise to eventualities of an ouster. Who is afraid of it?

Now that the interval has concluded, life is up for grabs. Who wins it over or who loses it will depend on the story-line. In my case, the story-line would be that of a rebel who holds his head high against fear. All the fear, all the chaos is man-made. The urgency that we are asked to think deeply about is a ploy to fail us. Only I am not ready to fail this time over; I have decided to win. In this phase of post interval, it is me who will win and it will be the big bad gang of contenders who will fail; they will lose badly. So, what’s the plan? Nothing, but being ready to live every moment of being me post interval.

As I conclude, I wish to draw your attention to the first paragraph of this post. It refers to a moment from the Vishal Bharadwaj masterclass retelling of The Hamlet in its Indian context – Haider. It is the interval, which introduces us to the mystic character of Roohdar. This character has a vendetta of his own. Inspired from the same vendetta, I now cross over to the best side of life post interval. So, see you there, right out there on the battlefield.  

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 9 | July Blog-2 | Making of the beast | 2018

SUNRISE ON THE FIRST SUNDAY OF JULY

My car is parked in the open. The beams of bright sunlight have been constantly hitting its roof since morning. As my eyes stretch out of my gallery and from the window of my bedroom, I see the top portions of some roofs, which are covered with blue plastic sheets, reflecting the brightness of sunlight. I am trying to put a strong belief in place; this is the second month of Indian monsoons. What we are faced with is a sign of delayed monsoons ahead. If told differently, the monsoons may just prolong themselves.

Going by the beginning of this blog and reading through the title, may create an impression of a geological article or an environmental thesis. Sorry to say, none of the both can be associated with this written piece. What I wish to write now has nothing to do with both and yet has something to do or undo, with regards to both!

July is supposed; I hope I am writing it right when I say – July is supposed to be the month of heavy downpour. The skies are supposed to be constantly overcast. At least from the time, I started appreciating or avoiding the monsoons, all months of July in my 39 seasons of monsoons, have looked the same. But one of the Julys from the many Julys could be figured out being different. Maybe this is just that kind of a different July. But why am I speaking so much about this specific month, out of the 4 crucial months of monsoon? There could be a reason.

The sunrise in the title is symbolic of hope. The first Sunday in the title is symbolic of inspiration. The July in this title is symbolic of present phase of life.

From the past few months, I’ve been witnessing the rise of a phenomenon around me. I would like to tag or label or call this phenomenon as something vexatious^#1. Even though I have been trying my level best to ignore this evolution, I still get tousled in its web. 

The minds behind this phenomenon, which I now label as Something Vexatious, come with their own share of history. I would like to raise an alarm in here. This is not exactly the kind of history someone could be proud of. This history is truculent^#2 in nature. Even though, I haven’t dug deeper into their past. But, I am sure, they have remained this way throughout their lives. This is what their present is all about. This is what their future will be all about. The only exception being me and some others, supposedly like me.

As the phenomenon keeps getting heavier and affecting optimism, my mind fluctuates between grimness of heavy monsoons in July and expectation of sunrise someway.

Therefore, when I woke up at some other place this morning and peeped out of the window, my eyes fell on the beams of a sunrise, which prompted me that hope is still alive. When my eyes fell on the calendar, it reminded me of today being Sunday and also made me aware of the reality that inspiration is not yet dead.

To conclude with an ode to present phase of my life, I wish to write – Hello July. This is my month, our month to excel. No matter, where the propellers of the vexatious phenomenon come from, I shall triumph, we shall triumph!

-Virtuous Vociferous | July 1 | July Blog-1 | Making of the beast | 2018

Vexatious^#1 – annoying / Truculent^#2 – aggressively hostile 

NEXT YEAR OF NO MANGOES

The Jadhavs have shifted to a new neighborhood. Their modest bungalow is supposed to make way for a multilevel apartment. Fortunes have changed overnight for the much deserving Jadhavs. Long live their ambition and long live their prayers for a good life. We are happy for them.

Jadhavs and we have been neighbors for almost twelve years. We saw their son grow up from a toddler to a teenager. Evolution has been an integral part for the Jadhavs, our locality and of course the neighborhood & ties we shared.

As news spread about the Jadhavs planning to make their bungalow available for demolition, real estate developers started queuing up at their doors. The Jadhavs must have rejoiced the opportunity of handpicking a developer, who promised to not only raze their bungalow but also flatten the existing piece of land. Apart from the deals, which were finalized on paper, the Jadhavs seemed to have made another deal. This one turned out to be of lethal nature.

Their property comprises three trees; the mango, the jackfruit and the Indian bael. Of all the trees, the mango tree has been a consistent favorite for many reasons. Year after year, we have consumed these mangoes; sometimes in secret and sometimes with due permission of the Jadhavs. We’ve spent many afternoons, staying sleepless, only to spot a mango drop and hop over it. Never did the mangoes betray our excitement of wanting to consume them more.

But as mentioned above, apart from the deals, which were finalized on paper, the Jadhavs seemed to have made another deal. This one turned out to be of lethal nature. According to this deal, the mango tree has to go and make way for the multilevel apartment. Mowing down of the mango tree means there will be a ‘next year of no mangoes’. In short, we will have to do away with all the emotions, we held for the mango tree.

In this situation, I am reminded of a song sung by Manna Dey in Bengali. In that song, the singer questions – when a human is murdered, the court decides upon a punishment; but when a rose is mutilated, who is supposed to convey the sentence to hold someone responsible. The felling of the mango tree is a depiction of human brutality on nature’s precious gifts.

Not many years back, I remember, Jadhav’s little one Yash coming down to our home and inviting us for a mango buying festival. He had collected all the mangoes, put it in a bamboo basket and was selling them. Every mango turned out to be sweet, juicy and worthy of repeat.

All these memories will remain unchanged. But what will not remain unchanged is the fate of that mango tree. For those, who took up the task of chopping the branches off, tearing the leaves apart and ripping the tree were ruthless in their act.

To conclude, tired people won’t ever get the chance to seek shelter beneath this tree. There will be no tree at all. All the adventures of spotting a mango will also draw to a painful end. As we progress with our life, we will be reminded of a mango tree, which stood here. We will choose to not forget about jackfruit. Maybe we will be reminded about the next year of no mangoes.

-Virtuous Vociferous | June 14 | June Blog-2 | 2018