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

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 

PURNESH@PANCHGANI

Purnesh@Panchgani

The memories will never fade.

The photographs will find their way to the soft board.

The fireflies will continue flying between trees.

The temperatures will keep dropping.

I will untiringly travel back to Panchgani.

I will excitingly travel back to Panchgani.

I will repeatedly travel back to Panchgani.

Destinations, which echo in the mind, body and soul are where we should keep going back to rediscover ourselves. This is what, I, as Purnesh, a normal human being, minus all the pseudonyms thinks. This is what, I, as a writer, minus the titles of a creative director, a copywriter, an artist thinks. This is what, I, as an observant, minus the tags of a blogger, a hobbyist photographer, a fan of Instagram feeds thinks. The experience being so magical; I associate my name with the place, which moves something extremely deep within me. Just three days of stay, the third proper vacation, the second awesome accommodation at the hill station, leaves me with so much to ponder about, write for and continue imagining with.

Pouring in Panchgani

Little am I aware about the restaurant, which sounds like a pure vegetarian restaurant; they serve me the best chicken thali for lunch. My eyes try to stretch as far as the abyss of the valley is. The roof vibrates, the temperature drops, the blowing breeze turns extremely cold, the aroma of wet mud diffuses. The rains are here. The camera, lies unpacked in the hotel room; the mobile rings to rescue. The first glimpse of raindrops, in their full glory, make a straight entry into the memory card. The white car, parked just outside the restaurant now wears a shiny look; the heavy downpour has left it look like a new one, a renewed version of its old freshness. Once again, a confirmation, Purnesh@Panchgani; happy, thankful to self.

Excuse the limited but happy space

Only two cars are parked in the limited space that the hotel offers. Other guests join in; families, lovers, kids. None of them loud. Everyone aware about maintaining the serenity, sanity of this sleepy hill station, which is now busy soaking the rains. The texture of the water run, wet mud is worth a thousand more glances. The noon has turned cloudy again. The rains return to calm the valleys, which are losing out their patience to the scorching sun. The absence of an air condition doesn’t bother. Unfolding the blanket, I celebrate the short but satisfying afternoon siesta. Once again, an assurance, Purnesh@Panchgani; at ease, at peace with self.

Auto-focus to manual focus

For the first time in last five years, the camera shifts gears from auto-focus to manual focus. I as the hobbyist photographer chooses to go rapidly footloose; shoots curtains, windows, flowers, people, greens, doors, guests, kids, empty bottles of wine, a newly gifted coffee mug, lobbies, guests, birds, smoke, homes, hotels, dish antenna, raw mango, black cat. Every time, I release the shutter, a new story is revealed. Once again, an imagination, Purnesh@Panchgani; capturing, creating freely.

In company of the two varieties of wine 

Those two bottles of wine, Satori Tempranillo and Wonder Wyne (Apple Wine), add up to the splendid experience that Panchgani already is. I pour myself from both, raise a solo toast to myself; both are successful in giving me a high. I switch off the lights and the night takes over. Two stories keep me busy throughout the night, by appearing as dreams (sounds strange but true); the third one crawls in from a lost conversation in space. Once again, an inspiration, Purnesh@Panchgani; sleeping, dreaming.

The dinners are served; purely non vegetarian on the first night, purely vegetarian on the second night. Before the hunger pangs set in, stories make sure to engage. Stories about crabs, germs, ghosts, betrayal, deceit, backstabbing, conning, revenge, hatred, spirituality, reincarnation, realities. Once again, a delight, Purnesh@Panchgani; eating, relishing.

Fireflies fill the skies. The caretaker of the hotel mentions that they are common when it rains. He says, he is sure of seeing more in the coming nights. I smile at him. The smile makes him converse more about the owners of the hotel, his modest family, the kind of guests who keep checking in. I am staring up there between trees, up in the skies, into the open garden area and beyond; the fireflies are putting up a stunning show for me. Once again, a visual treat, Purnesh@Panchgani; spotting fireflies, expecting more fireflies.

Before I gear up to drive out of the hill station; sometime around 6 AM, the mind is racing back to the night before. A couple of candles after being lit, release an aroma, which fill the senses with innumerable desires. Someday I shall live them. Once again, a surety, Purnesh@Panchgani; seeking, telling.

Releasing the shutter

I take another turn. I am home. The day goes by. The evening disappears. The night takes over. I switch on the laptop to insert the memory card. A little window leads me to the folder of PANCHGANI JUNE 1 AND 2. I find myself. Standing solo, in front of a mirror, in the hotel room, releasing the shutter and a thought jumping out of my mind – Purnesh@Panchgani; ready to return again. Where else? But to Panchgani, for writing many sequels hereafter of Purnesh@Panchgani.

-Virtuous Vociferous | June 04 | June Blog-1 | 2018

ISN’T MOTIVATION THE KEY?

I remember being very young when my father walked in during a midsummer afternoon and declared, “Wake up, you got to learn cycling from today.” He held my hand and I followed him to a local bicycle mechanic’s shop. I remember the mechanic only by his first name – Abdul. His physical features were uncanny with a hairstyle that could inspire many hilarious characters for a comic strip. His jawline was peculiar, seemed a little misaligned and he broke into a smile every now and then. My father chose a bicycle for me, a maroon colored mini cycle of Atlas make; strong and sturdy, inviting. We made our way to the adjacent playground. My father gave me some basic instructions about how to pedal, maintain balance, take control of the handle bar and switch between looking upward, downward. As I sat on the bicycle, I told myself, “This looks pretty easy.” My father released a gentle smile and I started pedaling. I might have gone a little ahead when I lost balance, hugged the ground and smeared with red mud. The children playing nearby rushed to my rescue but, my father discouraged them and walked closer to where I was lying helplessly; now staring at the rude blue sky.

My father asked, “What happened? Why aren’t you getting up?”

I defended, “I can’t. This is not my cup of tea. Look at me, I am all so dirty.”

My father, now having raised his volume slightly warned, “You learn it this way or never.” 

Seeing my adamant behaviour, my father didn’t press me further and let me tread on my own. For more than a week and less than a month, I didn’t ever head to Abdul’s shop to hire a bicycle to start learning bicycling. I was mocked by my friends. Some of them showed their compassion while others simply decided to give me a miss. My mom stood by me; she opened the door, pushed a note of Rs 5 deep in my palm and warned, “You are not returning today without learning. Make the world stop laughing at you or I will make sure that you learn it my way.” Shuddering and breathing heavily beneath the threat, I rushed to Abdul’s shop, grabbed the same bicycle and was back on the playground. This time, Abdul had a little mercy on me; he accompanied me to the playground and promised to not let me lose my balance. Abdul’s assurance made me feel confident and I started pedaling. I pedaled for quite some time, turned my head to see that Abdul was long gone. My heart sank and I hit the ground instantly. I was so outraged that I felt like pelting a stone at Abdul, breaking his misaligned jawline and make him suffer for life. Before I could set my thoughts into action, Abdul came rushing; he helped me gain my posture back and said, “Good job. Next time, you should pedal more, fall without worrying and start cycling again.”

Abdul’s words kept echoing in my ears. I returned home valorously. The story that I built around my learning experience seemed to have no end. I kept repeating the same to my mom and she kept smiling. After some while, my father debuted right in the middle of the story and doubted everything that I padded up to support the core of it. Next morning, he promised to accompany me to Abdul’s shop and verify my claims.

As the sun rose, my heart cursed the morning; on a nasty front, I also prayed for an earthquake and a heavy downpour to thwart my Bicycle Training Programme. But God seemed to be on leave too. Abdul happily let the bicycle go; he accepted my father’s bet that if I don’t fall, he will not charge us a penny. The pressure was mounting. As I took control of the bicycle, my mother’s words echoed again, “You are not returning today without learning. Make the world stop laughing at you or I will make sure that you learn it my way.” I looked into my father’s eyes and he seemed to be communicating silently to me, “Son, don’t make me say what I said that day. Prove me wrong. Don’t let me should at you, pushing you to learn it this way or never.” After a while, he yelled, “Pedal. Whom are you waiting for? Go ride. If you fall, get your ass up and ride again. Or else, I am never going to pay for your bicycle practice.”

Some of his words might have been negative but they had a positive connotation. Being a father, he didn’t want his son to fail. My mother didn’t want her child to fail. On the tad end I saw Abdul, being an entrepreneur, he too was betting his luck on me and somehow I felt, he wanted to lose out on that small bet of Rs. 5; he longed to see me succeed.

I started pedaling, I temporarily lost the balance and then regained my composure. In a matter of 45 minutes, I had completed taking five rounds of the playground that had treated me like a loser. In the sixth round, I fell off the bicycle. But my father ran to my rescue. His single word for that moment, “Finally.” Abdul let out a sigh of relief and when we returned home, my father had a story to narrate. I was the listener this time. My father told it the way the events took place. He didn’t pad up a single thing. Abdul found a momentary mention too. My mother stared deep into my eyes, drew me closer, hugged me tightly and said, “Didn’t I tell you I will make you learn my way?”

Emanuel James "Jim" Rohn was an American entrepreneur, author and motivational speaker had once remarked rightly – Motivation is what gets you started. Habit is what keeps you going.

My only regret is; people around the world have suddenly stopped motivating and have started taking keen interesting in conspiring. Thankfully I will hold on to my ground to continue being a motivator for those who need my help and my timely advice.

-Virtuous Vociferous

PS: My father was a person of few words but he had the strength to bend a mind. I am unaware about Abdul’s whereabouts but, I am sure he meant everything he said. My mother still continues to be my source of constant inspiration.