JUST ANOTHER SUMMER

Before I start putting together the words, which would make this the so called first ever post after a long break (I had posted last on January 13, 2021), I wish to take it forward from where I had left… The title of that blog post was – A Humble Note.

Honestly speaking... I miss my writing too.

I don't write till I feel like writing.

I don't read till I feel like reading.

The numbers of books keep swelling in my library.

The stock of my stationary keeps mounting.

But when will I write next and what am I writing next seem like permanent questions.

Someday I might seriously try seeking answers or answering the many questions of others.

Till then, on a humble note... I shall take your leave till I write to you next.

Therefore, I think I should now once again grow active on the blogging front. I can’t be lazy any further. I can’t be careless any further. If you look at the situation around us, we are all paying a heavy price for being lethargic; for not caring to care about basic safety; for not being what we should be during a global crisis. Have I already started sounding preachy? Then that is not me. I am not a preacher. I am not a promoter. I am an observant. I am a writer. Or I would rather want to call myself and be known as An Observant Writer.

So, as the title of this post suggests, we are experiencing just another summer. How is this summer? It isn’t warm. Summers aren’t warm. Summers are hot. But this season of summer is growing hot for all the wrong reasons as well. If I start listing the wrongs, I might get nothing right. Ironically I have too little to list in the category of being reasonably right. But once again who am I to categorize anything as right or wrong. Let time decide what is right, what is wrong, what is advisable, what is inadvisable.

On a personal front, I enjoy a sugar and salt kind of a relationship with every summer. The heat leaves me exhausted. But the clarity of the skies excites me. The rising temperatures leaves me sweating profusely. But the idea of stepping into my home, switching on the fan and surrendering to airy waves definitely is indisputably a pleasure of its own kind.

If I had been a poet, I would have write about this summer in a manner such as:

Just another summer

To look up to the window

Which has remained closed

In my neighborhood for years

But I remember

The memories which were created

In there

From childhood to my adolescence

And to my adulthood

No matter how many summers

Came my way

But every new year of summer

Will fly away being a memory

Of nothing less

Nothing more than

Just another summer

And as we gear up to experience just another summer, I restart with this post of mine.

And if you really wish to know WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?

Keep logging into www.virtuousvociferous.blogspot.com

 -Virtuous Vociferous

 April: Blog #1/ April 19-2021/ 07:46 PM/ Location: Same place called Home

As a writer in the Freedom Month

Notes from 2016

August 06-2020/ Blog #1

I am wondering 

as to when I’ve enjoyed 

writing the most.

At times, I feel good to introduce myself as a Writer.

Writer by itself doesn’t sound like a designation.

It is a title. A title not necessarily bestowed. But an earned title.

A title, which is so close to my heart and (maybe) to the hearts of those, who know me as a writer.

I do get asked:

Are you a writer?

What do you write about?

Why don’t you write love stories?

How about trying your hands at writing a movie script?

Have you considered writing a web series?

When will you experiment with something sensuous?

Do you write porn?

After that first book how long should we wait for your second book?

What does it take to become a writer?

Which writer inspires you the most?

I don’t deem it necessary to answer all of them.

I think I am content with the fact that I am a writer.

Some might also argue that they don’t get to see much of my writings. 

I’ve never disagreed. Maybe because I am not in a mood to make everything too apparent or visible to everybody.

So here I am, the so-called Writer.

Thinking about myself and writing a little part about myself by being myself.

As a writer in the Freedom Month, I am wondering as to when I’ve enjoyed writing the most.

Naturally I’ve enjoyed writing the most when I have felt free; free of prejudice, free of malice, free of botheration. 

But then someone will again argue - Writing comes from within; it doesn’t need a day, a date or a time for something to evolve. I would again not disagree.

As a writer in the Freedom Month, I would only wish that the freedom to write is never taken away from me.

-Virtuous Vociferous/ What If/ 2020

Maa Always

My Maa

Always more. Always stronger.

Here and everywhere.

‘Maa’

My first breath.

‘Maa’

My first dream.

‘Maa’

My first utterance.

‘Maa’

My first speech.

‘Maa’

My first known person in this world.

‘Maa’

My first partner in innocence.

‘Maa’

My first friend.

‘Maa’

My first listener.

‘Maa’

My first teacher.

‘Maa’

My first mentor.

‘Maa’

My first master chef.

‘Maa’

My first written word.

‘Maa’

My first sung hymn.

‘Maa’

My first, admirer and fan.

‘Maa’

My first leader.

‘Maa’

My first philosopher.

‘Maa’

My first Goddess.

‘Maa’

My first everything.

Maa. Nothing less; always more. Nothing weak; always stronger. Here; always here. And everywhere. It’s Maa Always.

- Virtuous Vociferous | May 10 | May Blog-2 | What If | 2020

IT IS TOUGH TO RECOVER FROM A MOVIE MARATHON

The marathon must be over 
but the stories and their characters 
are still alive.

It was just after that Friday; I had deposited my mind in the reservoir of the night. For a good amount of hours, the reservoir helped the mind to season well to wake up to a Saturday, then follow it up with a Sunday. 

A Saturday, which eventually began at 9.30 am. Rains were in full bloom. Painting the skies in gloomy shades of grey and making the earth feel more wet with its rage, the rains bulldozed every single plan of stepping out in bright colors. 

It didn’t take me much time to decide upon a movie marathon.

So, what was on the platter?

1) SWEATER – a Bengali movie
2) BADLA – a tight Hindi remake of the brilliant 2016 Spanish mystery thriller THE INVISIBLE GUEST 
3) A National Geographic documentary

Sweater. Beginning with the name and the star cast turned out to be no less than a gem. Slightly slow-paced, Sweater transported me to the hilly comforts of Darjeeling. Tuku’s father has found her a match. The prospective groom’s family arrives at an unearthly hour and demands to meet Tuku. Not meeting with much success, they return another day and a strange condition is proposed to Tuku, to be taken in as the bride. The entire story revolved around this strange condition. But as a storyteller and a creative writer, I could understand the various themes, the director helped us to sail through. The climax was unusual. Thankfully, memories of that warm Sweater still lingers in mind.

From the cool comforts of Darjeeling, we drove our way to the ice rich locales of Glasgow. A grey haired public prosecutor had his client believe him that he will put up a winning side for her. Built like a network of barb wired storytelling, Badla made for a good watch. But, having seen the original in Spanish, the climax didn’t have the same impact on me. Still, it was a delight to watch two lovely actors in a remake of a well-made foreign body of work.
   
Thereafter, we jumped into a huge National Geographic vehicle to capture super speeding lightning and thunderstorms. All of it was both; thrilling and jittery too. Yet, the joy of watching a documentary of such stature only left me inspired.

Saturday concluded. Sunday had just begun. Greed to continue with the marathon was still in the back of my mind. 

Thus came in Uronchondi. A Bengali movie shot in and around Purulia district of West Bengal, the movie hurled interesting characters at us. Even though it lacked a serious storyline, I loved the Imtiaz Ali kind of treatment given to the screenplay. I can’t say if the movie would make for a memorable experience. But I am sure of wanting to visit the places, shown in the movie.

Even though the Sunday is long over and I am stubbornly awake, writing this blog post, I must say it is tough to recover from a movie marathon. Because, the marathon must be over but the stories and their characters are still alive; in a way inspiring to get indulged in few more experiences like these.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 09 | September Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

BEING WITH SELF

Courtesy: Google

Solitude is a boon.

The sooner we accept this reality, the lesser aggrieved, we shall start feeling. Because in solitude, we are free to discover the other side, we ourselves might not be well acquainted with. Solitude makes it possible to celebrate being with self. The same self, which is otherwise caught in conversations, with the subconscious mind. At times, don’t we wish, these conversations had been a little more audible!

Being with self puts an end to expectations.

The self doesn’t cause delays. We don’t have to wait for anyone to report to us or met us on time. We can ourselves pursue punctuality and reap its benefits.

Being with self, makes life breathe through that single window opening of hope. Hurts of all nature; be it physical or emotional, start maintaining a safe distance. Mediums of healing are always found to be in agreement with the self.

This self shouldn’t be confused with being selfish. Usage of terms like, ‘me time’, ‘my space’, ‘my time’, ‘my zone’, ‘my world’ sound good and land closer to the core thought process of ‘being with self’.

The self that is being written about, the being with self that is being pursued is immensely interesting. The characteristics are brighter like freedom, happiness and oneness. It is understandable when it grows a little hard to move on from your faithful others. But this is different. The time to move on with this infectious self is now.

This self could be the strength behind that long harbored determination to fall in love again. This self could be the partner in the long wished journey to the invisible tip of the globe. This self could be the next train you wish to board and travel unannounced to an unknown destination of not your choice, but of instinct.

Some say, “Being with self is loneliness.” Try looking at it in a slightly different manner and soak in the abundance.

The abundance of being with self. And yes, discover the richness of being with self.

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 20 | February Blog-3 | Never Settle | 2019

WHAT COULD BE MY FEBRUARY STORY?

It takes time to crossover from one written piece to the other. Yes, it does take ample amount of time for the crossover to take place successfully. After having posted my last blog update on December 31, 2018, I couldn’t match pace with my restlessly thinking mind, vigorously browsing vision and self-imposed relaxing therapies. Thus, I am yet to figure out, ‘what could be my February story?’

My February story could be my second book. When I talk about my second book, eyebrows go up like mini parachutes, lips are left partly ajar. Surprises are always going to be welcome, when my first book was a self-published attempt, which eventually didn’t get caught in ugly thunderstorms of irrelevance or failure. The book made its silent debut and still sits on the desks, in the shelves, over wardrobes of innumerable friends and well-wishers. Poems and quotes from my first book still find mentions on some pages of social media. Coming back to my February story, it could be my second book for sure. The so called second book has an interesting character with an uncharacteristic name. This uncharacteristic name will remind everyone of something about themselves. I would have loved so much to reveal a little more about my second book and the characters in it; being selfish, I won’t!

Since winters have made a comeback, my February story could be the winters by themselves. But then, won’t that be a repeat of something I wrote and posted on this blog with the title of ‘holding on to winters’, dated December 18? Anyway the verb ‘repeat’ enjoys a healthy association in the bar, which serves top and low quality alcohol to insanely thirsty throats and egos. Thus, my February story needs to be different.

What if February being the month of love, my February story talks about love? Does that sound like a good idea, when 100s of websites are ready to bombard us with free bytes on love? No matter, how strange, it may sound; Valentine’s Day just missed the mark of being my February story.

Did I tell you that I watched URI-The Surgical Strike? I could easily have written about it. If I ever make a movie or shoot a documentary, which I would, someday (definitely a documentary), I would want to write it that way! Since I am a fan of bound scripts, I won’t make the film/documentary till I have a proper script in place. At this stage, the overall thought of wanting to shoot a documentary could be my February story. My only concern is, when I am talking about the February story, does a desire sound like a story? Does it really sound like a story? I think, this part is in need of some introspection. Yet, it lacks the gravity of becoming my February story.

And then, the other day I was traveling by train. Just one of those journeys when I wasn’t in a mood to pick up a fight with a fellow traveler. Little did I realize, first class compartments are filled with good, bad and ugly egos! Yes, these egos can grow immensely loud and can act like bloodhounds. Trust me, they can. From a single moment of me refusing to put a passenger’s bag on the rack, the situation catapulted itself to a warlike situation. To conclude, it was a bag it or die without it situation. Sounds interesting? Thus, it will always find a place in one of the other books of mine (soon to begin work upon). Therefore I chose to strike it out from the list of many things, which I think could have been my February story.

As I get ready to conclude this update and am left to decide upon my February story, I am trying to probe, why did I leave January alone? Well, January begins with a big bang of resolutions. And I think that is what my heart is still transfixed with. To keep it simple, I think I have stumbled upon my February story. Will I be writing it? If I could think about it, I can definitely write it too!

To end on a happy note, I think, I was busy seeking and searching for my February story. I found it.

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 11 | February Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

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

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

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 

MEDITATING UPON A CONVERSATION

This is where it all began

Picking up a thread, from where I had last time, I am writing again.

Yes, the urge to write has always been honest. But, the urge to seek inspiration, I agree has earned some reputation. I won’t wish to still tag it as procrastination. But, the process of writing, as an art form, has definitely slowed down.

Thus days went by. After ‘My letters for October’, I really didn’t write anything much interesting. Today, as I write this piece, I am left with very little choice or no choice at all. My inspiration, this time over too is none other than the man, who created that magical drama on celluloid called OCTOBER. The man, Mr Shoojit Sircar.

I’ve been his fan, ever since his first cinematic presentation of YAHAAN. Yet his imagining of PIKU, PINK and OCTOBER, turned me into a bigger fan of his. Of late, I’ve been spending a lot of time on YouTube; listening to his interviews, watching the making of his movies, discovering him share his experiences & learning. Just then, a post popped up on Instagram. IFTDA (Indian Film & Television Directors’ Association) had put up a poster, which informed about a Masterclass to be conducted on May 19. I knew I had to grab this opportunity.

There I was, seeing and listening to the man himself; Mr Shoojit Sircar (The Storyteller) in conversation with Mr Anjum Rajabali (Another Storyteller) at the ISKCON Auditorium, in Juhu.

Besides sharing some rare gems about how he respects his writer, Mr Shoojit Sircar left me feeling rich with an experience, I can’t define in an ordinary manner. At the same time, he taught me something very important. The learnt lesson is so significant that it made me grow selfish by the time, the seminar ended.

I must confess that Mr Shoojit Sircar put all my inner and outer conflicts to rest. The lesson, I learnt from his conversation, almost magically, took the shape of meditation. I am in no mood to reveal any details of that very special lesson. Instead I am going to turn this learning, this meditation into highest source of inspiration.

This inspiration will lead to something; I haven’t felt before or associated with either. His words were simple but their intent was extraordinary.

Even though, I was eager to present him with the copy of my blog, in appreciation of OCTOBER, I hardly got a chance to meet him in person. But that leaves me with no regrets. There’s always that next time to hope for and the next moment to be a part of.

Suddenly all the excitement, which seemed to have taken a backseat, has returned. Yes, the urge to write has always been honest. Yes, the urge to write will continue being honest.

One person, who made this possible is Mr Shoojit Sircar. If not today, maybe someday very soon, I am going to sit across and convey my heartfelt gratitude to him.

Two amazing storytellers in action

-Virtuous Vociferous | May 20 | May Blog-1 | 2018

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-4 (THE CONCLUSION)

Kevin Kelly had quoted – TRAVEL IS STILL THE MOST INTENSE MODE OF LEARNING. The three-day trip to Konkan was one such learning. I learnt how strangers become friends and eventually evolve into a family that travels together.

The day broke earlier than expected. Our bags were packed, the breakfast was served and Vicky stood there supervising every move. Bidding adieu, we moved out of Vicky’s guesthouse.

We stopped by a newly built temple, which is regularly seen in one or the episode of a famous Marathi serial – GAON GAATE GAJALI. The next stop was yet another temple. From here, we made our way to Vijaydurg fort. History seemed to be still alive in here. This is a fort, which was built by King Bhoj, won over by Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj and now in ruins. Luckily we were helped by a guide to understand the history as well as the geography of this fort.

By the time we finished, hunger had announced its immenseness. Local food rushed to our rescue again. After a sumptuous lunch, we made our way to Vaibhavwadi. This is where, right in the middle of crops and with a mountain range serving as the backyard, we were welcomed to Kranti’s (our team leader) native home. The temperatures had dropped. The mosquitoes had grown fierce. As we spent a large chunk of our time at her blessed home, we couldn’t stop ourselves from checking our watches.

At around 8.30 pm, from Vaibhavwadi station, we boarded the Tutari Express back home. All we held closer to our hearts were memories. Memories of Konkan.

When in Konkan… Make sure to have all the fun!

Dedicated to every awesome soul on this trip.

-Virtuous Vociferous | January 01 | January Blog-1A | 2018

Saying a Goodbye 

Visiting the temple

Temple run continues

Vijaydurg fort

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-3

There’s a difference between checking in and walking into a hotel. But it makes a big difference, when you step into a home and are left to think, “didn’t they say this is a guesthouse?” Vicky’s guesthouse in Malvan did exactly the same. We were left to think. Initially I had my doubts as to what a guesthouse could put on offer! Trust me, these guys have put more than one can expect. Had they not done so, they wouldn’t have found a mention in the considerably prestigious ‘Lonely Planet’.

Vicky’s guesthouse seemed to be one of the best parts of this trip. Possibly the best discovery too, through our team leader Kranti’s extensive research. The more we thank her for this trip, the less it feels in the tradition of conveying gratitude.

After freshening up, from the lovely surrounds of Vicky’s guesthouse, we dashed to Tarkarli beach. This was one of those moment, I had been personally waiting for since long. Especially after I had closely missed accompanying my friends from Pune, for a New Year bash on December 31, 2016 (regret it for reasons, not closer to the heart anymore). At Tarkarli, not only did we bathe in the saline waters but, saw the skies change colors, heard the waves grow louder & fall silent too, sensed a different kind of energy run within us.

On returning, we were treated to one of the finest dinner spreads from Vicky and his family. This was the moment, when we realized how Vicky had transformed his guesthouse to a home, for many of his guests. Each of his family member (including his fiancé) worked together to keep us happy. After we rolled in, some foreign guests checked-in too; we got introduced to only in the latter part of the day.

The next day morning by 9 am, we were already sailing around the outer peripheries of Sindhudurg fort. Our only expectation was to spot some dolphins. But we seemed to have already run out of luck. The dolphins had retreated. The boatman apologized. I somehow felt sorry for him and hugged in return. It’s while boarding this boat that I misplaced my camera’s lens cap. I was instantly reminded of my own piece ‘IN THE SERIES OF NASTY REALITY/REALITIES’ (http://virtuousvociferous.blogspot.in/2017/11/in-series-of-nasty-realityrealities.html). In this piece, I had tried to establish that the things we lose might just be hinting at us to do away with the past. This lens cap too was a part of one such past. Post the breakfast, we were back at the beach to try our hands at parasailing. I must say we did pretty well.

In the evening, we sailed to a massive historical experience called Sindhudurg fort. The moment you step in; the fort makes you realize the great prowess of the greatest Maratha warrior & ruler Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj. The legacy that he left behind is fast fading out. I wish, the so called custodians of a million odd things could have, for once saved the forts. I would like to put it this way – Old, unattended, uncared forts are earth’s most helplessly decaying monuments.

To conclude in the next post…

-Virtuous Vociferous | January 01 | January Blog-1 | 2018

On the quest for dolphins

Kissing the skies

Sindhudurg fort