Didu can never be forgotten

Didu always

We still feel

her presence

among us, within us

She spoke the language of love because she knew only to love. Didu, Amma, Thamma as she was addressed by us; her battalion of five grandchildren, she was special, she will remain special. Even though I am the eldest among my siblings, I would often feel that her love was getting a little more shared between the other four. Well, that is how Didu was; ever loved, ever generous, and ever supportive of us. And all the five of us, loved her infinitely.

On many occasions, that we revisit our memories of her, we remember how she was our friend, our mentor, our guide and as my brother put it – our partner in crime. But what were these crimes, which we would commit and she would happily be a part of? Most of these crimes included purchase of few more candies from the shop, a piece more from the crispy French fries made by her or an extra serve of a piece or two of the mutton she cooked or a little extra cash. Beyond that she would sometimes also be supportive of deducting the extra hours, which our parents might demand us to contribute in studies. But Didu would do this only on one condition; she would make us promise that we should make up for the lost hours in our next session.

Didu was our gravity. She took over from where Dadu left. My two sisters and I were lucky to get pampered by Dadu as well as Didu. My brother and my little sister never got to see who Dadu was or the person, the human being that he was. But they got to see Didu. And Didu showered them with love and blessings. Before she breathed her last on April 20, 2018; it was my younger brother and youngest sister who served her and attended to every demand of hers. One of my sister was already married by then.

My relationship with Didu had been that of grandmother and grandchild. But she was my sister during Rakshabandhan; my mother during my mother’s absence while she was teaching in her school; my father during my father’s shift duties; my teacher while studying. During my college days, I stayed with Didu. I would stay awake till she was awake. And I would sleep when she would sleep.

Two years faded away. But even today, her memories remain fresh in our minds. Be it her own children or us; her grandchildren. At times, I remember those moments when I had fought with Didu. These fights were just like the fights, we break into with our friends and forget about them; as immediately as possible. She would never take offence. But yes, she would grow emotional. Still she was strong enough to make us stronger and make sure that we are prepared enough to take up all challenges of the future, she prayed for us.

The fondest memory, which I hold about Didu is the train journey between Mumbai and Kolkata of 1993. I had just appeared for my board exams. My parents took the landmark decision to send us both to Kolkata. This was my first ever solo journey sans my parents. Didu was traveling with me. During the journey, a mother and son were our fellow travelers. The son would demand anything and everything, which her son would demand. My Didu would buy it for him and I was left fuming. On many occasions, I tried stopping her from doing that; Didu didn’t budge. Finally, there was one such moment, when the mother happened to visit the bathroom and I got the opportunity to ask Didu some tough questions. But the compassionate soul that she was, Didu silenced me in two seconds. When I asked her, why was she spending so much for that kid? She replied, ‘His mother has been putting her hand in the wallet to fish out money. But do you know that she is penniless. Her husband made her board the train but didn’t give her any money to spend during travel. She will only have some access to money when this train reaches Howrah station and her brother comes to fetch her.’ I asked Didu, as to who shared this information with her. Didu replied, ‘When you were fuming and being angry at me for buying him that toy, she saw you. She broke down and told me her story.’ The journey ended. The woman and her son were attended by their relative. I looked at the woman and the child; they smiled and waved at us. I felt a lump in my throat.

So, as another year passes by after Didu’s absence from our lives, we still feel her presence among us, within us. Because for the kind and compassionate soul; Didu can never be forgotten.

- Virtuous Vociferous | April 22 | April Blog-2 | What If | 2020

SHE WILL WAIT FOR ME

She is a love story.

She is a heartbeat. 

She is no secret. 

She comes dressed in a lemon-yellow shade of wild butterflies. She is slowly walking behind the hurricane like office crowd; she has put on moderate makeup; she is not pretentious of being a little late than the decided time to meet; she is smiling. Of late, she seems a bit harrowed by the pressing demands of a scorching September heat and faltering monsoons. At first sight, I am besotted by her. She is a love story, I wish to repeatedly narrate. She is a heartbeat. She is no secret. She is Kolkata.

To others, this might seem like a mere coincidence. But for me, this is reality. I am missing her immensely. My plight is that of an addict, to whom the reason of intoxication (read reason of happiness) is forbidden. Since, she is Kolkata, my emotions are running high due to some known reasons:

Reason #1: YouTube is sharing suggestions of videos dedicated to Durga Puja. Also on the playlist are those jukeboxes of Dhak Music for Durga Puja (each spanning over 60 minutes).

Reason #2: Twenty minutes into the Soumik Sen directed Bengali movie MAHALAYA instantly reminds me of the timeless tradition, I have been following – listening to Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s recitation of Mahishasur Mardini.

Reason #3: As I am about to finish reading Biswanath Ghosh’s book about his experience in Kolkata (Longing Belonging – An outsider at home in Calcutta), he leaves me feeling emotional again. It is this description on page 187, which moisten my eyes; through his words, he is painting a portrait of the euphoria, I feel along with millions of Bengalis, about the arrival of Durga Puja.

When the flowers of Chatim, devil’s tree, begin to drench the nights with their sharp, seductive scent, you know Goddess Durga and her four children are on their way to a pandal near your home. 

I feel, with every passing day, she is making it so impossible to stay away from her. Especially during the upcoming Durga Puja, I wish, I could be with her. No doubt, she says something very amazing about herself – I am myself, the city of joy. It’s so tough to not love those, who come to my life. For the few days or the lifetime that they continue being in my life, I make sure that they don’t leave. And even if they wish to leave, they do so by feeling the joy of being with me.

Romantic and rebellious; often taken for granted on certain occasions, she walks by my side in the park. I am almost caught unawares, when she suddenly takes my hand in hers, looks deep into my eyes and asks – Will you not come to be with me during Durga Puja? I stare at her blankly. I hesitantly pull out my mobile phone to check the calendar. My heart cowers when I tell her – Sorry. I can’t!

She turns her eyes away from me. She looks straight into the horizon, where the waving waters of Mother Ganges are merging with the skies. A boat passes through. She looks at me again and tells me with a drop of tear in her eyes – I will miss you. I repeat – I will miss you (too).

Today when I call her, in a trembling voice, she tells me – I am a little upset. I stay quiet. All of a sudden, she says – Hey. I am fine. I hear her get excited over some suggestions, she eagerly wishes to share with me. I don’t stop her. After she is done with her long list of suggestions in one breath, I break her heart again. I tell her – I will try. But I know, I will not succeed. Maybe next year.

City of joy, as she loves to be known and addressed; she quietly listens and tells me – You can come down any time of this year. Let’s celebrate our lost moments of Durga Puja by being happy together.

I am about to disconnect the call, when I hear something playing in her background. I ask her – What’s that sound?

Joyously she replies – Someone is playing Dhak in the background. Durga Puja is round the corner.

Finding it tough to fight back my tears, I grow silent for some while. Then I tell her – From next year, every year, during Durga Puja I shall be with you.

She hears me and says – I am your city of joy. Your one and only Kolkata. Come to me anytime; I will eagerly wait for you.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 18 | September Blog-2 | Never Settle | 2019

THE SHADOW OF THE EVENING

FRIENDSHIP is 

THE SHADOW OF THE EVENING, 

which increases with 

the setting sun of life.

‘I did read your story. You know, one of those stories, you had shared a link of it one fine day. Yeah, now I remember. THE TINY TRAIN TO NOWHERE. It was a good story. I loved it. I simply loved it.’

If I had paid attention to the roaring sound of swelling rains. If I had thought about my car, which I had parked beneath a half bent branch of a fragile tree. If I had focused on the 50 second promo of an upcoming sitcom… If I had done any of those; I could have missed these golden words. These words are from an evening, which I had almost no hopes from. But I still chose to drove down. And during discussions around our love for books, he spoke up. In the shadow of rains and a ruthless power cut; these were his words. Words, which came my way from my dear friend of childhood.

‘At times, I look at your Facebook posts. I must tell you, I don’t like them. You are a positive person. You are way more optimistic than me. You read so many books. But why are you so angry? Why are you so hurt? Get rid of those negative energies and stop being rude to yourself. If you wish to send out your own vibes, make sure they are positive!’

More than social media, he has known me more in reality. I never thought, we can ever be friends. Strangely little did we know that we were bound to be friends, from our college days till today. Not only does the journey of our lives run parallel to each other. But the journeys of our tragedies have been running parallel too. Honestly speaking, we share the same timeline of bitter events and broken memories. Yet, whenever we meet in the shadow of our conversations and breathless laughter; his words echo within me.

‘I am the roommate of your friend. As I like reading she suggested me if I would like to read your book and return to her. So I did read half of the book and I really liked it. It's the less words which impacts, and you made it clear with your book. Though I have few questions out of curiosity if you don't mind answering!! I am yet to finish your book; I will give you feedback once I am done with it totally. Till then take care.’

In the shadow of my table lamp, on July 28-2017, at round 9.07 pm, I was reading this email from her. I hadn’t seen her. But I knew, she had read my first ever book – BETWEEN MEMORIES OF YOU AND ME, We Exist. Then she wrote again…

‘Things that came to my mind when I was reading your book that is... Has he been through this? Or has he seen anyone around him going through the same and he has written in? Where did you get your inspiration to write this book? And why this subject? I am just curious because every writer is a normal person first that is the reason I am asking you this question. Don't worry about responding soon. Take your own time I have no hurry!! Hope you have a good week!’

Since July 28-2017 till today, our conversations sounds the same. She writes in more to me than I write back less to her. Yet, she is one of those, who will sit in the shadow of the most simplistic thing, smile effortlessly and make me imagine again. My imaginations will continue stretching between July 28-2017 and August 02-2019. Still nothing would change between this friend of mine and me.

‘Be in allowance. Question everything. Don’t expect anything. We are all here, in this world for a reason. Let life take its own time. Let the universe answer everything in its own way. Don’t be rigid. Be in allowance.’

We met after a decade. We met in the overcrowded, loud surrounds of a food court on the second level of a newly opened mall on a less known highway. Her thoughts had changed. Her life had rapidly changed. But she had remained the same friend, I had met almost ten years ago. We never had long conversations then. She had just joined the office. Yet, we stayed in touch. Only to thank this today in our lives, when we still discuss our lives at ease and with loads of love. She has been a positive influence and in the shadow of her soulful smile, I always look forward to a life, which hasn’t yet showered all the little gems of happiness on us.

‘One day, I wish to go there with you, my friend. I have heard it’s an ‘unreal’ place.’

On October 18, 2016, in the shadow of tough morning hours, I read this message of hers. These words of hers were written across to me, in the company of a photograph. The photograph was that of Havana in Cuba. These were her honest words. And when I did meet this friend of mine, she came down dressed in my favorite shade of yellow. From then till today, I have always called her ‘HOLOOD PRAJAPATI’ meaning Yellow Butterfly. As a friend, from a distance of more than 2000 kms, she sends me positive vibes of immense nature. Every time, I am faced with a challenge, she empowers me with one or the other mantra of Good Life.

‘I had to make a choice between a call, chat, message and a letter. And I chose to write a letter to you.’

Between the months of May 2018 and August 2018, I was a broken soul. I had left the job with an agency I had given 48 months of my life to. I had sacrificed my personal happiness too, to meet their deadlines and build a reputation of high honor for them. But I was mistaken. They ignored me and made sure to build up pathetic pressure, which left things intolerable for me and I chose to depart. My salary was withheld. My bank accounts were running dry. And I was in serious debt. In the shadow of unending problems, I received a call. She was my one-time colleague from a communication house, we had both worked together in. She was calling me to make an offer. That offer was going to change my life forever. I ended up writing the script for UBUNTU, a play performed by the autistic kids of a well-established school in South Mumbai. The school paid me, what I demanded. The script was well-appreciated. And I am still thankful to my friend of mine, who introduced me to the never known world of innocence. Even today, she reads every word of mine with great interest and always tells me – Keep Writing. 

All words, I wrote here are real words of no one else but my friends. These are those friends who have stood by me during all the thick and thins. These are friends who have stood by me during broken days and shattered nights. These are friends and their words who have always made me believe – They are there for me.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that those who are not friends any more are not important to me. They are very important. In fact, when I helped them, they still chose to show me, I mean nothing to them. I thank them for this honesty of their betrayal and hurt. At least by betraying my trust and hurting me deeply, they have proved to me that FRIENDSHIP is THE SHADOW OF THE EVENING, which increases with the setting sun of life.

Trust me, those six up there are the six most important shadows of my life. And if you are wondering, why haven’t I mentioned their names; I must say they don’t even need to be named. They know, I love them all IMMENSELY.

Apart from the six most important shadows of my life, A BIG SHOUT OUT TO MY FRIENDS FROM PUNE. LOVE YOU ALL FOR EVERYTHING THAT YOU MEAN TO ME AND WILL CONTINUE BEING TO ME.

Love you all. Happy Friendship Day.

- Virtuous Vociferous | August 04 | August Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

A VERY PERSONAL STORY

To that place of our lives,
we were born in, we might
end up feeling indebted 
to the author who’s penning
down the book for. 

We don’t live there anymore. But we never miss revisiting that place in our conversations. The place is such. It always manages to find a mention in some of our anecdotes from yesteryear.

I would also like to say that we grew with the place in our hearts.

Even though it took me some of those job interviews of initial days to figure out, that this place was yet to find a geographical confirmation. I never gave up mentioning it proudly in my curriculum vitae.

I still remember how people would make faces. Some would say that they had never heard of this place.

During one of the interviews, I had to put up a skit of ten minutes to lie about this town being a place closer to Navi Mumbai.

Yet, the significance of this place remained unexplored.

Until it took one of its own to decide and put this place on a broader spectrum of conversations.  

This place that I’ve been writing about for long is none other than KALWA.

Still a small town of innumerable possibilities, thriving by the banks of the stupendous Thane creek and for once actually serving the common link between Navi Mumbai, Northern Mumbai and Greater Mumbai. And one should not forget to mention; Kalwa even today proudly matches its steps with Thane as its neighboring town. In much better ways as well.

But who is this one of Kalwa’s very own, who has decided to put it on a broader spectrum of conversations? He is Mr Nishant Mhatre. My best friend Mr Anil Mhatre’s younger brother and a son of the same soil that we grew up playing with, shaping our future with.

Nishant’s pursuit is exceptionally interesting. He still prefers to call Kalwa as his native place or his ‘own’ village. He makes it sound more personal when he says it – My Village Kalwa. He supports it with a sub headline, which brings to fore his love for Kalwa. In his sub headline, he mentions Kalwa as his place of birth and his place of workmanship. 

All of us who were born and brought up in Kalwa, should appreciate Nishant’s passion for the place. At the same time, we should support him with whatever we hold closer to our hearts and has to do something about Kalwa. 

I still remember being at his elder’s brother’s place in Pune. As the conversations rolled out and Anil’s wife Anita served me a glass of water; we had Kalwa on our lips. Anita, Anil and I grew up in the same locality. Anil made it more interesting when he called Nishant one of the most important custodians of Kalwa. 

Nishant’s project of passion came into limelight when my mom showed a WhatsApp message. In this message, Nishant had asked her about old photographs of our school; our very own Jnan Vikas Mandal’s New English School. He too remembers our school from our days of black and white memories; a thatched roof, a modest beginning and a memorable metamorphosis of sorts.

If Nishant’s passion for the place is to be believed, he has put himself up for a mammoth task. I only hope he manages to weave in together the time, the energy and the vision to complete this project on time. 

Exclusive copyrights are with the author

He might be writing this book in Marathi. But if he agrees, I would like to be the first official English translator of this book to take it to a wider global audience.

At a stage when I am yet to properly finish work on my second most book, Nishant has already lit the mind with a tiny spark of gigantic inspiration. I would happily want him to surpass me.

For whatever Kalwa has been waiting for, Nishant is going to be the pioneer to make it happen.

To the Kalwa of our lives, we might end up feeling indebted to Nishant Mhatre for his dream to come true.

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