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

A Different Form Of Life

 December 14-2020/ Blog #1

Life is at times absolute; 

at times obsolete too.

Life.

So far we know it just by one of its forms.

The form of life, which we are living now.

The one, we say is a Gift of God.

The one, which is given to us by our parents.

Life.

Have we ever thought of it differently?

Have we ever thought of imagining it differently?

No. We haven’t.

There is nor harm in doing that.

Maybe we can discover something which could be better than this form of life.

Life.

I wonder about it often.

Strange questions flood my mind.

Does this LIFE belong to us?

Or

Do we belong to this LIFE?

Life.

I love to imagine it differently.

I often think, life is like a train.

Always in motion.

Travelling from one destination to the other.

And that is where I feel there is a problem.

I wonder what happens to life as a train when it finally reaches a certain destination!

Does it come to a standstill?

Life.

If I say it is like a train; it can be considered an interesting form.

Now consider life being in motion.

A destination; a so-called station is almost round the corner.

Just then someone announces that the so-called station, the train was supposed to stop at doesn’t exist any more!

Or it might happen that someone suddenly reveals - the so-called station has suddenly disappeared!

What will happen to this form of LIFE then?

I meant, what would happen to life, I am imagining in a different form; as a train.

Will Life follow the same?

Life.

I believe it is a strange package of equally strange events and instances.

Life is at times absolute; at times obsolete too. 

Life.

No matter in what form you imagine it as. 

Even if we consider a different form of life.

It will still sound, smell, taste, feel and seem like this LIFE of ours.

Life is life. Nothing else.

-Virtuous Vociferous/ What If/ 2020

The Two Worlds

November 15-2020/ Blog #1

We coexist between 

two worlds. 

We might miss paying attention to one reality.

Or we are aware of it. But we don’t talk much about it.

The reality is, we coexist between two worlds.

Yes, you read it right.

Rather than saying we live in two worlds; I am trying to say - We coexist between two worlds.

Which are these two worlds?

The first world is the tangible world.

Besides being only tangible, this world also serves as home to us.

This home is beautiful.

We have built this home or bought this home with great hope.

We eat, we pray, we love in this home.

We share a warm coexistence with its residents (mostly family).

The other world is the intangible world. 

This is the most interesting one. 

It doesn’t have a shape, a form of its own. 

This world is found stuck between two drawers. 

This world is found trying to release itself from the dog-eared pages of a book.

This is that world, which is privy to everything we do; we don’t do; we try to hide from others.

This is that world, which allows a spider to crawl over it and leave a legacy of cobwebs behind.

This legacy then gets transferred to spiders of new generation, who waste no time to take this legacy to a new level. 

Do you know when our frequency of  visit to this intangible world increases?

Mostly during festive occasions or a special moment in the household. 

Because that is when we take a broom or a piece of cloth in our hand to get rid of the first layer of dust, which hides this intangible world.

Interestingly the tangible and the intangible worlds are never caught in a conflict. 

They know their space, their purpose in this universe. 

Remember, they are these two worlds. They exist. They have been existing. 

It is we who are coexisting between them.

-Virtuous Vociferous/ What If/ 2020

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

THE RAINY PREFACE

The first thought

10.45 PM – It is raining

10.45 AM – It was raining

I am seated in the farthest suburb of Mumbai, which according to residents of SoBo (South Bombay) can’t even stand eligible to be addressed as NoBo (North Bombay). I am seated in my very own corner, writing this piece; also thinking, how nothing has changed in a course of 12 hours. Not the people, not the conversations, not the conspiracies; nothing at all has changed. Neither do I expect them to change because it is me, who has to become the change.

Skipping work came naturally. I am happy I skipped making fool of myself as well. As the rains kept lashing, journalists of innumerable news channels turned into weather experts and kept reporting bullshit. But am I supposed to complain? Nah! Instead I kept staring at the rains, from the comfort of my dream home. Every drop of rain left me with these lines, which I call the rainy preface (also the title of this blog) –

TODAY IT RAINED

TODAY IT POURED

I STOOD DRENCHED

FOR A MOMENT, I FELT

ARE THESE RAINS CAPABLE ENOUGH

OF MELTING A MORTAL BEING LIKE ME?

ME… THE @#@*@#@*@#

The special characters form the name of my second book. For days, I’ve wanted to start working on my second book. I invested an entire year, thinking of it. I invested an entire year, trying to adjust to it. Interestingly, I invested two years extending my seva, my meva to a place, which in return has given me new lessons to learn from for a good life (this line is dedicated to the advisors, who will continue holding me wrong for all reasons and once again ask me to not get frustrated, stay diplomatic, decent).

The Final Thought

11.00 PM – It is raining

11.00 AM – It was raining

Away from the trappings of emotions, WhatsApp messages, birthday wishes, Facebook likes & dislikes; I lived through a peaceful day. This day was exactly the kind of day I wish to have a constant affair with. I drove in my car, walked below my umbrella and continued conversing with some intelligent minds. Some questions did come my way. I chose not to answer them. I am sure, some will come advising me again of being obsessed and being wrong. Having decided to follow what the heart prompts, I continued being myself and kept chanting a mantra for my well-wishers – My Foot, My Foot, Foot, Foot, Foot. They disappeared!

Concluding on a happy note by saying… Writing begins and continues every single day!

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 9 | July Blog-3 | Making of the beast | 2018

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-4 (THE CONCLUSION)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dedicated to every awesome soul on this trip.

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

Saying a Goodbye 

Visiting the temple

Temple run continues

Vijaydurg fort

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-3

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

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

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

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

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

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

To conclude in the next post…

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

On the quest for dolphins

Kissing the skies

Sindhudurg fort

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-2

In our concrete cities, everything is readymade; luckily in the wide expanses of Konkan, things are still natural, human. Take for instance, right here, in our cities; we walk into a restaurant and are sure of getting served on time. But when you are in Konkan or anywhere else, which is considered to be ‘the’ countryside, erase all your expectations, once and for all.

Therefore, taking ahead from where I had left last time - The destination ahead was already beautiful in the mind; I wish to now proceed a little further (and not at all faster).

Once we alighted at Kudal, our bellies were reeling through first & fresh pangs of hunger. Since we had hired a van, we could feel the urgency of our hunger. Similarly, our driver too knew, how to settle us down. So once we had huddled inside the van, he drove a little faster and stopped only when he knew, he had the right restaurant on his mind to host us.

Remember, when we are traveling out of our cities, the rules of eating out changes! Restaurants stop being flashy but, the food starts getting tasty. Restaurants grow a little clumsier but, the hospitality starts growing warmer. We had a similar experience. Not too far from Kudal station, we walked into a restaurant, which moderately advertised itself as Hotel Pankaj and had it written loud within a bracket – Only during afternoons. This meant, we shouldn’t expect the place to be open during other hours or the food to be readily available at any given point.

Hotel Pankaj was thin on manpower but high on taste. The place was packed. Families, lovers, friends, groups, locals, runaways; everyone seemed to be thronging that place. We were politely told that we might be made to sit separately (this also meant, we could be brushing shoulders with strangers…complete strangers). We were also told that the food will take long to come to us. But finally when the food arrived, we were left overjoyed. The fish thalis, the chicken thalis, the veg thalis, the fried Surmais, the fried Pomfrets; all of it tasted so divine that we were no more left hungry. But we were left feeling greedy. For a moment, I thought we could have been blessed with a better appetite to consume more.

We were done with the lunch. We were done with the chewing of a sweet delicacy too. By the time, we stepped out of Hotel Pankaj, other groups rushed in. Their hunger pangs seemed far higher than us. As we geared up to board our van again, we could hear a flurry of burps go up in the air. To conclude, all that is cooked well ends up being eaten well in Konkan.

To be continued....

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 10 | December Blog-2A | 2017

Hotel Pankaj, Kudal

The 'Only Afternoon' rule, the warm little hotel follows

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-1

When in Konkan, the sea never seems too far, the food is never too late, the extended hospitality is never an unpleasant experience. And Konkan is where we chose to be at, for a short span of three days; December 1-3, 2017.

The time spent might seem too little. But the experience will continue to be too special. During this short trip to Konkan, I realized why the natives long to come back to their hometowns.

Konkan kept me excited. Maybe next time when someone invites me home to Konkan; I am going to promptly accept the invitation and pack my bags up.

Kranti, our tour team leader had proposed this trip while we were on a tour of Kaas Pathar plateau in Satara district. Initially I showed no interest. I was not even in a mood to give this outing a thought. Simply because, I wanted to save the weekend from just another trip and the exhaustion that ensues. But nothing was going to stop Kranti from planning this trip for us.

The blueprint was ready. The time had come to simply execute it. Kranti got everyone onboard and there we were; at 5:15 AM, on platform number 5 of Thane railway station. The much awaited journey was to begin now. Our gang was a motley crowd of 9 individuals. All of us were excited because we were travelling by the Tejas Express. On arrival, we didn’t have to hurry. Our seats were reserved in advance. Once we stepped in, Tejas treated us well. The AC temperature within was perfect enough to ensure desired coolness. The breakfast was delicious. The destination ahead was already beautiful in the mind.

To be continued....

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 10 | December Blog-2 | 2017

The Tejas Express

At the core of the sea

The Pomfret Thali

Dual Surmai in one plate

Ready to Sail

DEAR MAA – 60 MILES AHEAD OF US

The train reached Nagpur. Summers were riding high. This was yet another school vacation. This was just another summer trip to Kolkata; our annual holiday. Our Milton water-container, which could easily carry 5 litres in it had started running dry. We kept praying for the train’s timely arrival in Nagpur. I am speaking from memories of a time when mineral water was a rarity, branded bottled water was out-of-sight/out-of-reach. The moment the train came to a halt, I saw her jump out of S5 (the coach we were reserved with), sprint towards an ice counter, fill the container to its brink and return with a victorious expression. She had done it again by acting on her immediate instinct.

Maa’s life has been a collage of many such fearless experiences. Being the eldest daughter of the eldest son of a joint family, Maa’s days of ‘Being Responsible’ had commenced from her days in cradle. Over the years through her decisive actions, she just didn’t silence her critics but went ahead to generate a fan following, very much similar to that of a filmy personality. She started her career with New English School in Kalwa as an Assistant Teacher on a meagre pay scale. Being a teacher, she treated every student equally. According to her every student is special and it is the teacher’s responsibility to make her or him a better citizen for the future.

I continue being a student of hers. Maa also happens to be the first superwoman I met from the time, she brought me into this world. After my birth, she chose to dream on an all new level. The challenges had grown tougher than ever. Following a non-cooperation movement, sparked by a political union leader of old times, textile mills started closing down; one after the other. My father’s mill was one of them. When his mill closed down, he was serving as a Production Supervisor but, over a week’s time everything changed. At this juncture, Maa had to shoulder the responsibilities. It was during this difficult phase that she had to also pursue further studies to secure a B.Ed degree. Determined and passionate about teaching, Maa continued achieving success in everything she chose to associate with.

Last month, she touched 60. She is now retired but continues to be an active teacher and is still referred to or addressed as Krishna teacher. She has mentored everybody, irrespective or their age, caste, creed or religion. Every time she is greeted, she returns the gesture with her same old simplistic warmth. On many occasions, I couldn’t hold my tears back because I found her to be too simple. But she is unstoppable. Chasing a dream, defying attitudes and countering opinions; even I tend to grow tired. But for Maa, every simple movement is a challenge in making.

To Maa that I shall always remain indebted to, I have learnt the following lessons from her:

• Be determined, be always responsible
• Counter every challenge with fire in your belly
• Let the world oppose, never fall prey to opinions
• Patience is the key to unlock unknown opportunities
• Giving up is the characteristic of cowards
• Hard work will definitely pay off in the long run
• Don’t demand respect; let your deeds bring that to you
• Teaching is not a profession to earn money but a passion to create better citizens

-Virtuous Vociferous 

A REVOLUTIONARY BEGINNING

Some hours are deliberately or nonchalantly spent in writing shit; in the name of being a professional and for the sake of a designation, which sticks to your ass like a long lasting ailment. You try your level best to get rid of it and yet it stays stuck there, to your ass, not wanting to be healed and treated. So what do you do then? Die of pain or churn a way out!

When there is nothing else to be passionate about; but writing, writing and more writing every second, every minute, every hour, every single day and every moment of our lives; we need to think of something that liberates us. We need to liberate ourselves from being repeatedly insulted by rotten mindsets and stinking demands by those who don’t have any inkling about writing.

I, for instance, having migrated to a new place to seek solace in the richness of writing had already started feeling stuck. The people, I’ve been communicating with on an everyday basis, for the last few months, were conspicuous in their approach towards ‘just another’ creative writer. One of them from the top management also had the audacity of asking me or rather warning me against throwing tantrums. After a decade old journey of writing, I haven’t come across myself as a tantrum throwing weirdo. Still, I gathered my thoughts and decided to mend some things around me. But I kept missing out on one thing and that was freedom of writing.

Rendered breathless and hopeless, I had stopped reading books, stopped observing things around me and had almost stopped giving up. Then a message arrived on the WhatsApp Messenger, which read, “I want to write, will you help me with how do I start?” Not in the best of my mood, initially I had decided to simply ignore it. But then there was something that was very interesting about this proposition. Here was a soul, a soul still not brazen by all the bullshit of an otherwise uncreative life, who was eagerly sharing a desire to want to write. I kept aside my iPhone and then revisited the message.

First and foremost, writing, especially independent or creative cannot be straightly taught to anyone. But yes, there is no harm in helping someone to improve upon his or her writing skills. Therefore I gave my consent and thus began the process. The first step itself was effortless, so effortless that all it needed were two mobile phones and a WhatsApp messenger to unify and initiate it. Neither did the need arise to meet in person and begin writing nor was there a language barrier to stop us from starting, what I now term as a writing revolution of sorts.

We zeroed in on a topic, which had two characters; a man in his mid thirties and a woman in her mid forties. Two stories were born in a short span of time; both written independently without letting out a word about the central theme. The stories were absolutely different in their treatment and in their telling. Secondly we followed no rules while writing them. None of us spoke about the grammar or how precise, we should be about the date, time and day of the events, which take place in the story. The only norm, we followed was to write it as a first person account.

The two stories, which emerged from this revolution of two minds, threw open a new avenue of not a mere collaboration but also the formation of an entity. An entity, we ‘now’ as partners in crime are in no mood to reveal. I know the word ‘crime’ doesn’t suit us. But still there is lot of crime involved because we are going to spill loads of ink.

Here am I raising a toast to the new beginning of writing unabridged.

-vociferous 

A CONCRETE STEP TOWARDS PASSION

Almost two months and it is indeed a long time to find the space, the breath and the voice to share something over the resolution for 2015. Strangely this year, there was an exception. Absolutely no one walked past the whole nine or twenty yards to pop the question, “What is your resolution for this year?”

I did have friends around me who echoed their opinions about the resolutions they had made. Some wanted to stay away from alcohol. Some wanted to experiment and grow closer to it. Someone expressed her anguish over failed relationships and wishes to settle down with a successful one. Someone expressed his happiness over having found the right person to get into a relationship and foresaw a happy life, resolving for more love, more sex, and of course kids. The odds, the evens. The prime, the faded. The heard, the unheard. All of them did resolve; only chose not to be overtly vocal.

Last year, I chose to keep my resolution wrapped. Beneath mountains, deep in a sea bed, suppressed to extremes; it remained a closely guarded secret. Revealed yet to no one and written somewhere, I shall go back to it some other day, other year. But this year, I chose to make an exception. Sometimes a change of perspective helps. And now arrives my resolution; not from the mind, but from my breathlessly pacing heart. A resolution that is not crafted or created. But a resolution, that can be called ‘quite evolved’.

I resolve to ‘take a concrete step towards something I am passionate about; the passion of storytelling’. My ‘now branded as a weekend venture’ goes by the name of EVERYDAY STORY MAKER. The passion of this storytelling is not limited to narrating stories, but extends to creating them, not one, but many of them, all original, inspired from reality around us, inspired by the Indian folklores of yore, global folklores of today and much more. Will I keep this limited only to storytelling? Only time and I shall tell.

This is not at all a late start to the year for sure, neither is it a delayed initiative. The concrete step that I’ve resolved to take to pursue my passion is well founded, deep rooted in my psyche to grow a lot more social, out of the web of social media but through original social presence; almost everywhere, every time.

Some did ask me about EVERYDAY STORY MAKER’s success rate and my plans for life. Some even asked if at all I’ve weighed my options of success or failures. Let me take this privilege of signing off by quoting someone I read from recently or maybe created from many of my facebook posts – “There is more to life rather than celebrating success and grieving over failures...”

-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