STARDUST ON HER EYELIDS

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

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

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

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

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

-Virtuous Vociferous 

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming Soon - TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

-Virtuous Vociferous 

UNTAMED

In 2011, I posted my first TRAIN SPOTTER UPDATE on facebook and I thought I had done the most brilliant thing in this world. Late one night in the same year that is 2011, Saroo Brierley located Burhanpur railway station with the help of satellite images put together by Google Maps. He kept following those satellite images and located the town of Khandwa. Finally he was ready to head back to his real home and to his real mother. Six years down the line when I sit down to write this post for my blog, I am unable to relate to everything, I thought was brilliant about my first Train Spotter Update on facebook in 2011. I don’t wish to demean my action but, I can’t separate myself from the story of Saroo Brierley who made my eyes well up.  

The movie LION had that kind of an impact on my mind.

Honestly speaking, I don’t recollect memories of having come across any book in 2013, which had a very foreign title A LONG WAY HOME. I don’t recollect coming across a cover, which described this journey as a boy’s incredible journey from India to Australia and back again. Back then, I am sure to have missed spotting this book in a book stall, missed reading a review of this book, missed reading about the author Saroo Brierley who was telling his story to the world and of course missed the mention ‘soon to be a motion picture’. Thankfully I didn’t miss watching the book transform into a movie with a title as unusual as LION.

I remember watching the trailer of this movie and compare it immediately to Slumdog Millionaire for the commonalities it shared. The trailer showed a train, two brothers onboard, one of them getting lost and ending up being adopted. But the voice of that kid who plays young Saroo in the movie kept lingering in my mind. One of the scenes from the trailer is that of the kid standing surrounded by some kind of flying insects, remained with me. I turned to my colleague in office and I said, “I am going to watch this movie”.

Call it my gut feel or my instinct; I started following the conversations that had started taking place around this movie. I watched the interviews of actors, the makers, the producers and the man behind the movie Saroo. My expectations were at peak and once the news of LION being Oscar worthy started making the rounds; I knew I am going to watch it. I wanted to watch this movie with my mother. As planned, I did so finally. My mother and I left together for our movie date.

From the time, the movie started narrating the real life story of Saroo Brierley on the big screen, we were both left stunned. I could sense the story that its director Garth Davis had imagined narrating to me and my mother; his audience. The camera kept moving between the trails of little Saroo and his elder brother Guddu. The soundtrack placed me right there where the story was getting its voice from. But one of the most incredible things that LION as a movie did to me was to pull me into that train, which ferried little Saroo to Howrah Junction. The well-crafted screenplay made me sense the fear that little Saroo could have felt while travelling stuck in a locked compartment of a fiercely moving train.

The movie took us to Kolkata. The movie also took us to the Howrah Bridge. But it showed to us the other side of a city which comes alive only in the dead of the night. The movie revealed to us the faces, which look simple and yet they are rich with stories. The movie never stopped to make us stay connected to the real story and the challenges faced by Saroo.

LION took us to Tasmania. LION made us find our own way to good life. LION rendered me speechless.

I was seated beside my mother and recollected memories of the times, I had spent staying away from her. Yes, I had spent almost a year staying away from her. Saroo stayed away from his real mother for a long span of 25 years.

Having said that I would put it this way – LION is an amazing movie. Personally speaking, I loved it.

For God sake, don’t leave the Cineplex without watching the little piece of surprise, so beautifully weaved into the movie. And this LION roars, the echoes of that roar are absolutely EXTRAORDINARY.

-Virtuous Vociferous

THE LAST SUNDAY OF 2013

Another day, another Sunday; but also the 363^rd day of 2013! Two more days shall collide between each other and the year shall end. No matter how hard December 30 will try its luck to overshadow December 29 and make an attempt at diluting the impact of December 31; like every year the last day, the 365^th day shall stand the undisputed winner. After three days, another Sunday will arrive. But till then, it somehow seems important to write in honor of the last Sunday of 2013.

In 2013 there were 51 Sundays (I hope my mathematics to have matured through all those trying years). Most of these Sundays have been more of a routine. I’ve followed the routine of waking up almost on time, freshening up, offering prayers to Almighty, getting the newspapers, eating my breakfast, drinking my coffee/tea, household chores, other chores and a lot many etc’s. At the same time there were some Sundays when I betrayed the routine or the routine itself got betrayed automatically. There were Sundays when I followed my heart. There were Sundays when I pursued my passion (of reading, writing, driving and photographing). Out of the 51 Sundays, I can count very few Sundays on my fingertips that I did something that my real self might have prompted me to do.

I am in possession of fresh calendars. But I haven’t counted the Sundays that I will be celebrating or detesting in 2014. In my lifetime, I don’t remember having hated Sundays. Except for those Sundays, when I might have received a bad news. Except for those Sundays, when I fought with a loved one. Except for those Sundays, when I was left feeling lonely, ignored and defeated. But on this last Sunday, I am thinking of reimagining the definition of upcoming Sundays. Today I might be at the liberty of enjoying long weekends that is an amalgamation of a nonworking Saturday and an obvious holiday on Sunday. But going ahead that might change. I might have to go to office on Saturdays or slog till the early hours of Sunday. I am unaware what future does my Sundays hold in 2014 or the years to follow.

One corner of my heart says, “Leave the routine you follow on Sundays”. A much unvisited corner of my heart says, “The world over, many follow a Sunday routine, why are you trying to run away?” Who is running away? I, me, myself! Am I really running away or am I trying my level best to come back home to a different Sunday? I hate this situation to be caught in juxtaposition. Yet I still am being in some position at the least. So whatever I made of all the 51 Sundays of 2013 or the many other Sundays ever since I grew aware of one such day in a week, I have been less active or not proactive at all. It was just on 362^nd day that was the last Saturday of this year, I realized the game is about to get over. The dates might remain the same. But the days, the years, the moments and the experiences will change.

I must confess I did a lot less than what I could have done to the Sundays of 2013. I could have gone on longer drives, better events, written more, photographed unstoppably, read untiringly, shopped relentlessly, conversed endlessly and so much more. But I was in no mood to make the Sundays of 2013 stand out. I didn’t visit a museum. I didn’t make my way to any of the art galleries. I didn’t give the time, my loved ones expected of me on Sundays. I was absolutely unromantic when Sundays were full of warmth. I switched my gears in between being rude and being selfish. But not for once did I think of growing generous on a Sunday. Almost on every Sunday of 2013, I cocooned myself from the changes that were occurring in the world and changes that were occuring within the family too. Maybe that is one of the reasons; I was left hell shocked when a third generation representative insulted someone from the second generation of my own family. Maybe that is one of the reasons; I decided then and there for no Sunday to be wasted in doing nothing. But have I seriously done something great on any of the Sundays in 2013? Sounding like a lecturer or an orator on the 363^rd day or the last Sunday of 2013, might just seem impressive. But it fails to build a really unforgettable impression. It miserably misleads the motive that I’ve been living with for every Sunday of my life.

It is only on Sundays that writers, poets, philosophers, photographers, storytellers and many other souls from the creative walks of life; gather beneath a tree or maybe meet up at lovely places to talk about the many creative things of life. But I rejoiced feeling marooned on all Sundays of 2013. Many friends met, disguised their inner hatred with the mask of reunion parties and celebrated fake achievements on Sundays. But I remained away from all the high decibel fun (fake fun). I am responsible for having turned many Sundays into sheer waste. I accept the blame to have strangulated the fun in many Sundays.

On this last Sunday of 2013, I might do nothing but read the papers, do the usual household chores, grab a nap in the afternoon, drive the car in the evening, watch and laugh at Kapil Sharma’s jokes in the night and my relationship with yet another Sunday shall come to an end. Once again a Monday would arrive (this time it will be the last Monday of 2013 and 364^th day of the fading year). On Monday, I am usually found fuming over unnecessary issues. On Mondays, if someone is lucky; they will find me cursing the bygone Sunday to be too short. But Sundays are never short. They are normal. If I don’t make good use of a Sunday, how can I hold the following Monday responsible for having killed the fun unnecessarily?

I think I have a rigid personality or my mind might have been assembled in a different manner. On this last Sunday of 2013, I am feeling a lot guiltier than I have been on any of the last Sundays of the previous years. To be honest, I wish to stop being dishonest to the coming Sundays of my life. I am sure of one Sunday that will be interesting in January 2014 itself. I will be in Kolkata with my camera, my diary and my commitments. But why should I allow the excitement to stay limited? And there will be other interesting Sundays for reasons known to me.

Therefore I wish to ask for forgiveness from all the 51 Sundays of 2013 on the last Sunday of this year. I want to promise myself and the most loved ones around me that no Sunday of 2014 shall end up being a waste. But how do I promise? The future is unpredictable. All I can do is wish that I see myself either unpacking my suitcase or pursuing my passion of reading and writing on Sundays. I can no more afford my Sundays to go unused or less enjoyed. God has made only one Sunday for every week. Let me give my total self to the good cause of living up to the many other upcoming Sundays of my life, our lives. You never know when life might fall short of too many Sundays anytime, anywhere!

-vociferous