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