SHUBHO BIJOYA

Strengths of all mothers 
in this universe were combined 
together to create Maa Durga.

I guess, I am the latest entrant in the long list of avid readers on twitter. Yes, apart from being an active twitter user and before publishing another tweet out there, I too am a reader. As I continued with my journey of reading, I came across this little piece by Ronita. Titled ‘Bijoya Doshomir Chithi’ meaning ‘A letter on account of Bijoya Dashami’, Ronita left me with intense longing for Kolkata again. She wrote and I quote:

BIJOYA DOSHOMIR CHITHI

Bijoya Doshomi is a testimony
that evil may celebrate 
a momentary win but the victory
belongs to the one who has 
the courage, powered by truth.

Debi Durga comes to visit us every year
to remind us that, we have ten hands 
to fight all evils around us. 
She is a symbol of limitless.
May you win over your own limits.

Choto der bhalobasha, 
Guru jon der pranaam 
Ebong bondhooder janai
Sharodiya priti o subeccha.

Iti, Ronita

The ritual to bid adieu to Maa Durga

Words, which instantly struck an emotional chord and will not fade out too easily from my mind; our minds. Simple lines but so rich in feelings. These feelings will continue to run deep in this system of a so called Probashi Bengali. 

Ronita’s words also remind me of the climax of Sujoy Ghosh’s startlingly original climax of Kahaani, when Amitabh Bachchan’s baritone voice echoes: 

Sometimes even Gods end up committing mistakes of grave nature. Gods themselves created the demons; gave them power. And, when these demons started misusing the same power, Gods created Maa Durga; to put an end to the blood-soaked reign of these demons. It’s said, strengths of all mothers in this universe were combined together to create Maa Durga. Every year Maa comes home. She puts an end to all the sins of this world, and then returns to her divine abode in the skies. So that we can continue living happily, peacefully without any fear in our minds. 

This year too, Maa Durga came and she left. She made sure that she liberates this earth of all the sins. But she left behind an evening of unfinished conversations, discontinued journeys and yet to be written stories. Another twelve months of an incessant wait might sound frustrating. But then the many avatars of Maa Durga started giggling joyously. The Sindoor Khela had just commenced. Even though, the moment is not too joyous, these women, draped in red bordered white saris have come out in large numbers to announce the victory of this year. 

Sindoor Khela 

And, I bow down to touch my mother’s feet. She moves back saying – Son, I am wearing a chappal. 

I smile at her and tell her – Your feet are where my Universe is Maa.

She smiles and I see an idol of Maa Durga slowly being immersed in the waters of Holy Ganges. And I also hear the crowd announce – Ashchhe Bochhor Aabar Hobe (Coming year this will continue in the same manner). 

The evening takes over. Clouds clash with each other. Rains descend. The electricity supply goes off. The electric supply is restored. The WiFi jumps into action; a message on WhatsApp makes me smile; it reads – SHUBHO BIJOYA (meaning Positive Victory).

Note: Picture courtesy - Google. 

- Virtuous Vociferous | October 09 | October Blog-2 | Never Settle | 2019

DURGA PUJA (PUJO) IS ALMOST KNOCKING ON THE DOORS

Durga Puja is oxygen,

survival, a moment of awakening

for the red blooded Bengalis.

Devlina Ganguly happily wrote on September 30; just two days after Mahalaya - Calcutta during #DurgaPuja is a fairytale land. No matter the workload, the traffic or any other shit, the Pujo (Puja) feel is so contagious that the smile keeps coming back on your face. The heart brims over with happiness.

Durga Puja, Picture Courtesy: Lonely Planet, India

For a moment, the heart jumped with joy.

The heartbeats tried to synchronize with the rhythm of Dhak playing on Gaana.Com.

Unexpectedly, the mind gently slipped into the dark comfort of a cute little boat, which set sail from the Princep Ghat; now moving slowly towards the middle of the sacred river.

I know, all of it is just an imagination.

But, before that, it was my friend Satabdi Sarkar, who sent an urgent message on WhatsApp; the message carried the title of this blog post in bold – PUJO (PUJA) IS ALMOST KNOCKING ON THE DOORS. I just added Durga in the beginning to make it more obvious, clearer.

The door/ doors, mentioned by Satabdi Sarkar, is the heart of a Bengali or the hearts of innumerable Bengalis (including me, my immediate neighbor, my others); be it the Resident or the Probashi. Durga Puja is oxygen; Durga Puja is survival; Durga Puja in every sense is a moment of awakening for the red blooded Bengalis.

I must tell you, opinions stand divided too about the happy population of Bengalis.

Some onlookers, followers, critics, reviewers, fans of Bengali culture wish to know:

• What does Pujo do to Bengalis?
• Are Bengalis busy seeking love during Pujo?
• How can Bengalis have nonveg food during religious festivities?
• Is it true that Bengalis grow completely insane from Panchami to Dashami?

To me, the rising smoke from Dhunuchi is the first sign of Agomoni (the arrival); the first rhythm, the Dhaki sets the Dhak to is the second sign of a much awaited festival; the early morning of Mahalaya is the third sign. And once the Devipaksha begins; there is no looking back. It is all about the Pujo; not just ordinary Pujo but Durga Pujo (Puja).

Festivals are to be celebrated together. But, just when the Pujo is about to begin, what if someone breathes her or his last? The heart sinks; the mind numbs; the vision narrows; the words disappear; the euphoria calms. But does the Bengali soul in us sit down quietly? Perhaps not! Because by the time, I reach the end of this blog post, a Bengali from the other corner of the world will be wishing Shubha Panchami to a Bengali from just another corner of the world.

Yes. Durga Pujo (Puja) is almost not knocking on the doors any more. It has begun! Time to bring the hands together, blend into festivities of yet another amazing year. And, maybe wait for yet another love story to unfold. Oh did someone say, they will be serving Rosogolla after the Bhog? Dada, count me in. I will be right there. Come Maa. Let’s go!

- Virtuous Vociferous | October 02 | October Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

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

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

OF MANY MAHARASHTRA(S)

OF MANY MAHARASHTRA(s), 
this abusive terrain of MAHARASHTRA 
is depressing.

A few hours ago, Zee Marathi had held me spellbound with the story of ANANDI GOPAL. And, many hours down the line, I am thinking of the many MAHARASHTRA(s); I am aware of; or all of us could be wanting to making ourselves aware of.

Of course, the MAHARASHTRA(s), which I am willing to talk and write about are different. But I wish to write this from the deepest corner of my heart – I AM HAPPY TO CALL MAHARASHTRA MY FIRST HOME; I WAS BORN HERE. THE FOOD I EAT, COMES FROM THE SOIL OF MAHARASHTRA. THE AIR, WHICH I BREATHE IS OF MAHARASHTRA. THE LANGUAGE, WHICH I UNDERSTAND IS OF MAHARASHTRA. THE HOME, WHICH WELCOMES ME BACK IS BUILT ON THIS BRAVE SOIL OF MAHARASHTRA.

Now, coming back to ANANDI GOPAL, I once again wish to say how concentrated were the efforts to bring this story to our households. We have known Anandi Gopal as the first female physician of India. I hope all of the MAHARASHTRA(s) too knows her as the first female physician of India. But have we made her a household name yet? Sadly, We Haven’t! Or some have, but we aren’t updated about! Sounds strange, isn’t it? 

Interestingly ANANDI GOPAL was born and brought up on the same land of Maharashtra, on which most of us have been brought up in. But that era was different. Yes, we prefer saying that often – ERAS DIFFER. PEOPLE AND THEIR THOUGHTS DIFFER. And, I stand to argue, where have we left the better part of MAHARASHTRA behind? Why have we even left many MAHARASHTRA(s) behind us?

At this juncture, I intend to add a little more strength to my argument. Right now in 2019, we are in MAHARASHTRA again. Of the many MAHARASHTRA(s) that I have known; of the many MAHARASHTRA (s), I recently discovered during my road trip; of the many MAHARASHTRA(s), which has been home to some of the finest people in Indian history and civilization, I am not too happy to see an ill-treating MAHARASHTRA.

I meet this ill-treating MAHARASHTRA every day. This Maharashtra is not found starting a day with the song of GARJA MAHARASHTRA MAJHA. This Maharashtra is found bouncing abuses every morning. What kind of MAHARASHTRA is this? People walk on feet to catch only a whimsical glimpse of Lord Vithala during the month of Ashad. People carry palanquins on their bare shoulders to show their faith in their Lord. People forgo non vegetarian food for a month to welcome their favorite Lord Ganesha home. And this is the same MAHARASHTRA, which addresses each other as Motherfuckers. Yes, of the MAHARASHTRA, I am speaking about, this is the everyday code of conduct. 

This abusive MAHARASHTRA is the most depressing part of all the MAHARASHTRA(s), we are proud of; I am immensely proud of. No one is spared in these MAHARASHTRA(s). The saga begins with Mothers. Then it travels to Sisters. When desperation sets in, this saga catches hold of the throats of Wives, Lovers, Partners, Friends, etcetera, etcetera.  

OF MANY MAHARASHTRA(s), this abusive terrain of MAHARASHTRA is depressing. I am curious to know, how can ‘being abusive’ motivate someone to greater extent! If it does, then of many MAHARASHTRA(s), this is the best. And if I see no one still feeling motivated, then this MAHARASHTRA is not the dream of Tilak, Gokhale, Savarkar, Mangeshkar, Madgoolkar, Shantaram, Kotnis, Ambedkar, Phule, Patkar, Sakpal, Bhosale or other greats. 

To conclude, I can only thank the legacy of many better versions of MAHARASHTRA(s), which I have luckily been able to discover and learn about. As for what ANANDI GOPAL could have stood to hear of or tear off from the loud abusive MAHARASHTRA(s) of recent times? Just cannot be imagine.

So, till the time when all the abusive MAHARASHTRA(s) learn to behave, I shall look forward to those MAHARASHTRA(s), which gave birth to real stories of Jijabai, Muktabai, Savitribai, Ramabai, Ahilyabai. Or to the story of that one man, who stood at the peak of Raigad and thought of Swarajya. At least I can stay safe from an abusive morning audience of the sick-tongued, depressing MAHARASHTRA(s) within the hearts of less known MAHARASHTRA(s).

- Virtuous Vociferous | August 19 | August 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

LIFE DIVIDED

Keep your voice down dear. 
Even if they hear us, they will start barking. 
I hope they haven’t smelt us. 
Bloody bastards.

Mumbai rains are partly poetic, partly poignant. Hiding our heads beneath jumbo, large, medium, small sized umbrellas; we never raise our heads, to witness the stories which are struggling to survive around us. Calling it a selfish virtue would be wrong. But tagging it ignorant won’t go against being not so right. 

So here is that story, which made me feel again; lives stand divided irrespective of caste, creed, status or season. 

Two girls had just stepped out of a banquet hall. Carrying the leftovers from a plush dinner party of last night, these two girls in their worn out attire, kept walking barefooted towards a slum. The rains had grown thicker. The girls didn’t have an umbrella to protect themselves. Neither did they try covering them with the plastic sheets, which they had wrapped their waists around with. As I walked a little closer to them, I realized their clothes were torn. Thus they had peeled off the plastic sheet from the top of an unattended cart, which could have belonged to a vegetable vendor. They must have then tore it into two pieces of same size and tried covering their torn parts of the dress. 

Looking at their faces, I realized they were not much older than ten or twelve years. Yet to hit their teens, they kept walking towards a slum, which stood at the end of a narrow road. Plush housing societies lined this narrow road, which led to their slums. I too was walking into one of the corporate structures of the same locality. Before I could enter the gate, I saw these girls taking an unannounced pause. 

One of them remarked, ‘Wait. They are out for their first feed of the day.’

The other agreed, ‘Oh Yes. This is the life they are lucky to live.’

The girl who spoke first seemed to be slightly elder than the other one.

Thus the elder one spoke again, ‘Do you think, the food they are served is specially cooked for them?’

The younger one said, ‘Looking at the regularity and the time they are served by, I guess the food is cooked every morning.’

The elder one then cautioned the younger one, ‘Hide. Before they see us, just hide.’

Huddling besides each other, they sought cover behind a parked car. It took me some time to realize; not too far from where I stood and the girls sought cover at; around five to six dogs were being fed by few women. Every dog had its mouth deeply sunk in plastic boxes, which looked similar to each other in size; only differentiated by the women they were attended by. Every time, the box seemed to be running out of stock, the women standing alongside would reload them. 

The younger one said, ‘Look how spoiled they are. What’s the difference between them and us? Those dogs live on the same road as us. But they are being fed every day.’

The elder one said, ‘I know. My sister was saying that they are well fed indeed; three times a day.’

The younger one replied amusingly, ‘Three times a day! These rich bastards, living in their plush homes, can throw food out to those dogs. But when we go begging for it during days and nights of our hunger, the building security shoos us off. On many occasions, they have kicked you and me both.’

The elder one then remarked, ‘Keep your voice down dear. These dogs are so sharp. Even if they hear us, they will start barking. Whatever we are holding dear to us, we may have to throw that too to these tailed bastards.’

The younger one spoke up, ‘I hope they haven’t smelt us like they did the last week. One of them barked furiously and almost caught me by my feet. Such sharp are their tooth and claws.’

The elder one then added, ‘With the kind of food they are feeding upon, do you think, they are ever going to grow frail!’

Both concluded their conversation by remarking unanimously, ‘Bloody bastards.’

By the time, the conversation between those two girls ended, the feeding-of-dogs ritual was over too. The women feeding the dogs walked into the gates, they stepped out from. They seemed to me like housemaids who were assigned this task every morning. Perhaps the food fed to dogs were also leftovers of last night. Or if the girls are to be believed, it could be freshly cooked. 

Through this story, I am not trying to make any point. Neither am I targeting dog lovers and their feeders. But I am trying to understand my vision and seek attention to the fact that ours is indeed a life divided. 

The dogs, the two poor girls, the housemaids, the rich people of those plush housing societies are a part of the same civilization. Yet, the way, the treatment differs between humans and dogs, the rich and the poor, the homeless and the settled, the successful and the unsuccessful. 

Life definitely is divided. But this divide is not just limited to this story. This divide could be felt within our offices (this will need an altogether separate story), within social hubs, within communities, within families, within friends. 

In this concluding portion of the post, I would like to add the conversation I had with the girls. 

I asked them both, ‘Aren’t you both scared? The dogs might still bark at you or come for you.’

Both replied with a chunk of laughter in their voices, ‘There’s no chance. Look at the way they have eaten up the whole stock. They don’t have the strength to move a step ahead. Leave biting alone, even barking is out of their capacity.’

I then asked, ‘How often do you take this road?’

Without batting an eyelid, both replied, ‘Almost every day. And every day we have to wait till those bastard dogs are done with their ritual of feeding upon.’

As I stepped into the corporate premise, I looked out for those girls. Carrying the stuff on their heads, they were walking merrily again beneath the heavy rains. Paying no attention to the dogs, which were still lurking by the roadside, they mustered the courage to tease each other and made their way home with their survival kit for the day. 

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 10 | July Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

  

THE CHOOSING CEREMONY

It is all about the time spent

In preparation to start reading

A new book. During ‘The Choosing

Ceremony’ I feel closer to the

authors and their splendid

imaginations.

I think, this interesting hobby of writing something at the tail end of a Sunday, is fast turning into a tradition. A kind of tradition, I would love to keep alive happily. But this is just not one of those traditions for me to feel happy about. There are many others too. Traditions adds value to life. So keeping up with the journey of keeping traditions alive, I’ve been spending some time in staying indulged with a new ceremony. I call this ceremony – The Choosing Ceremony.

‘The Choosing Ceremony’ was not born accidentally. A considerable amount of quality time has gone into the organic evolution of this ceremony. I would love to pass on the reigns of this ceremony to generations of future. It could be my own generation or to the generations, created by others.

This special ceremony, which I now call ‘The Choosing Ceremony’ is usually held over the weekends. I’ve been holding this ceremony ever since my mom and I designed this special library of books for us. So, what is this ceremony all about? Let me help and put some light on this so simple, yet unique ceremony of mine, which might also at times I feel, is too personal.

The Shooting Star is my pick
for this season of The Choosing Ceremony

‘The Choosing Ceremony’ has got lot to do with the books, I choose in succession to read over a week’s time or during upcoming vacations. Since I dabble with multiple genres of fiction, nonfiction, crime, autobiographies, travelogues; at times, the entire experience of choosing between books can get a little overwhelming. Therefore, after I am done reading a book, I don’t take up to reading almost immediately. I allow the experience of the last read book to sink in. I love the entire process of imbibing the mood of a book. The way a book is written also takes me a little closer to the author and the beautiful mind of her/his, which gave birth to mind-boggling imaginations.

To put it in a simple manner, ‘The Choosing Ceremony’ is all about the time, I spend to prepare myself, my mind and my interest levels to start reading a book. I hold the ceremony to choose a particular book; select a particular author; zero in on the genre; run through the prefaces; admire and appreciate the covers; read a few reviews or analyze the author’s overall journey and the book’s journey as well. And for this simple reason, I prefer holding ‘The Choosing Ceremony’ over a weekend; especially on a Sunday. During this ceremony, I sit facing my library; I love gently touching the books, which I arrange almost in a manner of uniformity. Over the years, this practice or this tradition has helped in bringing in discipline to my hobby of reading and to the hobby of buying new books.

‘The Choosing Ceremony’ is also based on my mood of the moment. But strangely on most occasions, when I maybe feeling low or high due to some reason, ‘The Choosing Ceremony’ brings me back to my senses. I pick up a book almost sacredly. I cover the book with a transparent plastic sheet to save it from getting soiled or crushed by other items of my sling bag. And I guess, this ceremony will continue till the time, books are alive in this world and my relationship with the hobby of reading continues unhindered.

Thus, till the next episode of ‘The Choosing Ceremony’ unfolds, I shall read happily and wish everyone Happy Reading.

- Virtuous Vociferous | June 24 | June Blog-3 | Never Settle | 2019

'UNDECIDED'

But before the train starts

to help us reach our desired

destinations, I hear an announcement –

Trains are running late by UNDECIDED hours.

Today being a Monday, Mom isn’t putting boiled eggs on my plate. Like all other Mondays, I am continuing with my vegetarian routine. Mom isn’t even asking me to peel off the skin of that extra mango, which she picked up from our neighbor's grove. I’ve just taken my bath. I step out of the bathroom with my hair still wet. I switch on the fan; I increase its speed. I comb my hair; offer my prayers; start dressing up and take my position at the dining table.

I stare out of the window; the overcast skies leave me thinking about a million more unplanned things. I break my bread. I dip it into the thick mixture of vegetables. I bite into it and keep chewing that little piece till it takes the form of a delicious paste within the mouth. Post which, I allow it to slowly travel down my throat, through the food pipe, straight into my hungry tummy. I am feeling better.

The wall clock makes for some happy viewing as well. It’s 7.45 AM and I know, I am not running late. My bag is ready. I am done with my breakfast. I pick up the lunchbox and shove it into my sling bag. It’s time, I need to leave. I know, moving out at 7.50 AM sharp is not going to leave me breathless. I am not going to walk in haste but, I shall walk at ease. The station road, at this hour is considerably empty.

Bidding mom good bye, I start walking towards the railway station. One step followed by the other; the other followed by another. I am feeling happy within. Today I am not in a haste at all. I shall be reaching the station within my estimated time of 7.5 minutes.

I skip a skidding bicycle. I take the left to avoid being knocked down by a speeding auto. I walk past the temporary food stalls, which spring up every weekday to sell everything; from breakfast of hot piping idlis to herbal juices. And here I am, finally on Platform Number 2 of the railway station.

The railways station, which I am talking about, is packed to the core. The indicator flashes 7.17 AM Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus bound train. Puzzled, I look at my wristwatch. The indicated train is already running 60 minutes behind its original schedule. My wristwatch tells me, it’s 8.10 AM and my regular train is not expected to come any soon.

Almost restless, I decide to board the now stationary 7.17 AM fast train from Platform Number 2. I am expecting it to be crowded. To my surprise, the train is empty. Most of the travelers seem to have already left by other trains. I get to grab a window seat. The train isn’t moving. The motorman isn’t even blowing the horn. After almost 15 minutes of wait, there’s a power cut within the train. The power resumes, the fans blare, the lights glow. The motorman blows the horn. But before the train starts to help us reach our desired destinations, I hear an announcement – Trains are running late by UNDECIDED hours.

As a result, I reach office late – Undecided.

As a result, I earn a late mark – Undecided.

As a result, this journey continues to get delayed by UNDECIDED hours.

#TrainSpotterUpdate #June17 #2019

- Virtuous Vociferous | June 17 | June Blog-2 | 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

MAA IS THE FIRST WORD

Maa and me - 1978

My eyes are moist. My heart is numb. 

My mind is rewinding every moment, which have held my mom and me together.

“I am going off to sleep”, she said.

“I will go off to sleep too”, I replied.

But I didn’t.

I quietly slipped into my bedroom.

I was too excited to write on two topics, which had just started trending in my mind:

• ·         Topic #1 – Excitement over exit polls (it’s a known fact that I am a huge fan of our country’s Prime Minister)
• ·         Topic #2 – In the cities that we live in (inspired from a debate over liking/disliking the cities we live in)

I switched on the laptop and before the screen could come alive, I was browsing through some news items on my mobile phone. Little did I know that I would discover an amazing tribute to the first word we utter, when we start speaking – MAA. The tribute that I am speaking about is this song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=28&v=Fia1gcooPlQ

Maa - Amitabh Bachchan & Yajat Garg | Anuj Garg | Puneet Sharma |
Shoojit Sircar and team

Yes. MAA is the first word. From the time, we are born, that’s the first word and the last word as well.

I begin my day with the first word every day – Maa. And yet, I feel, I haven’t said it enough or I haven’t felt it enough.

Maa. She has been through every pain of her own and mine as well. Yet, not a single complaint.

This April, Maa turned 65. She was in Kolkata during her birthday. And yet, on her birthday when I wished her, she asked me to take care of myself. Such is Maa.

As I continue writing this, the voices of Master Yajat Garg and Mister Amitabh Bachchan are still flowing into my ears. I am emotional. My eyes are moist. My heart is numb. My mind is rewinding every moment, which have held my mom and me together.

Since my birth till today and right now, I am my Maa’s first concern. Even before I am awake at 5 AM, she’s up and away for a walk. Her addictions are limited to gardening, tending to flowers, worship and cooking for me.

Every time, I question myself, if I’ve done enough for Maa. But it’s never too enough. She is Maa. I was born out of her. For the nine months that I kept growing in her womb; did she ever hold any expectations. Even today when I grow emotional, she’s the first one to know about the reasons behind my restlessness.

I thank Mister Shoojit Sircar and his team for changing my mind and inspiring me to write this down.

After all, Maa is the first word. Maa is the world, in which I still feel safer!

- Virtuous Vociferous | May 20 | May Blog-2 | Never Settle | 2019