TRAUMATIC

Life is very short. One single incident or a series of unforeseen incidents can make it worse. So worse that it won’t give us even the time to blink an eye of ours. Never in my life, have I felt so helpless. But I was deeply moved when I moved into a Trauma ward of a famous hospital in Mumbai. The patient in question is a young lad not older than 25 years of age. Even though I don’t know him very closely or dearly, I felt it my responsibility to pay him a visit. I was a bit shaken on hearing that he was admitted in a government hospital and was operated, attended and cared for there.

I was prepared for the worst. I have never been abroad and neither do I see myself doing so in the next two years. But if I go, I really would like to understand how the governmental health institutions out there function. Are they in a plight of misfortune like that of our government run hospitals or they are far better than the one’s we manage to survive out here in India?

Focusing back to the patient admitted in one of the well known government run hospitals in Mumbai, I was in for a shock. The first thing that amused me was the lack of security issues. I entered the hospital from the exit or the wrong gate that too unchecked. It didn’t make any difference though because neither entry nor exit was written on the gate. On my shoulders, I was carrying a huge backpack which comprised my laptop, my portfolio and other important stuff that are required to keep me in motion. No one cared to even ask what I was carrying with me within. What was more surprising was to find a police van being parked in the premises and the cops taking no notice of me walking straight inside. This brings into light one heinous fact that Mumbai is still vulnerable to terrorist attacks. And yes, our security concerns are like toy stories.

On walking in, I headed for the trauma ward. The details provided on the board were hardly understandable. More than written, I would term it as scribbled. Names were spelt erroneously. Condition of the patient was beyond imagination to draw a conclusion. Not able to properly locate the patient’s name, I was looking for I headed a little deeper into the hospital. There was no one except some odd people waiting and squatting with their buddies or whoever that was. I found a small window open. As I peeked through it, I found a woman sitting with a magazine in her hand and headphones tucked deep into her ear listening to music played to her by her Nokia XpressMusic 5310. I politely called her as Madam. I did it twice. On understanding that either she was lost in music or just in a mood to ignore me, I banged on the wooden table placed in front of her. She leapt like she suddenly spotted a tiger. Irritated and frustrated before she could satisfy my query, she looked at her watch and only then made up her mind to present me with a reply. I politely asked her about if there was any other trauma ward apart from the one I had visited. Puzzled to the core, she first seemed to have suddenly gone blank. Finally she sprung back to life talking to me in a high tone and telling me that there was only one and why the hell was I bothering her? I apologised and cursing her from within, I went back to the trauma ward I was trying to locate the patient at. I failed once again. Finally I looked out of the door and saw his parents seated under a shade provided by some kind politician or industrialist for relatives and well wishers of those admitted inside.

The patient’s father led me to just the entrance of the ward. Being a highly sensitive ward, we were supposed to not enter it. Before I could react, the door opened and a dead body was pulled out like a fly is thrown out of a tea. The floor inside was red with blood. The moment the body reached the corridor, an elderly woman screamed out and I was deafened more by her pain rather than her voice of grief. I just caught a glimpse of the young patient who was now in a state of coma.

The patient’s parents gave me an account of what had led to the young lad’s admittance to this deathbed. It seems he is a fresh victim of flouting unmanned traffic rules. He was part of the three friend battalion riding on a bike at a speed of 70 km/hr on a rainy night. Rumours suggest they were drunk after a hard night of partying. Let me be specific, rumours suggest that they were drunk. Gossips suggest that they were just racing. Being a rainy night, the roads had turned slippery. After getting to a connecting bridge, the bike suddenly skidded off. All three of them fell of. The one who was driving got away with minor scratches. The third sitting on the rearmost position had to sacrifice with 2 of his left leg fingers and 1 of his right leg fingers. The second person who was sitting in the middle who happens to be our neighbour’s son and the patient in coma was badly hit. He fell while in motion and his head banged straight into the divider. Within seconds, the skull was left open. Blood oozed out and he slipped into a state of unconsciousness. In the dead of night, he was transported from the site of accident to this horrendous site of struggle.

From within, I was shaken about the patient’s war with life and death. And on the other hand I was very angry looking at the plight of the hospital. I felt even if little hope is left for a patient to survive, the deteriorating reputation of this hospital would definitely shatter every single ray of hope. I was seeing patients with saline needles on their forearms running behind doctors. I was seeing women with tears in their eyes running behind ward boys. And I was seeing one after the other patient brought in some strange, serious and most injuriously critical conditions. There were my patient’s parents who seemed to be equipped enough to make a choice between the dying and the dead. I consoled them and advised them to be strong. The patient’s father told me how everything within the hospital is connected. Nothing seems to function smoothly in here. Either palms are to be greased or tough contacts are to be used to make your case rolled ahead.

As I prepared to leave the premise, I saw some guys and girls maybe in their 20s jumping traffic in front of the hospital. The cops seem to be more interested in the revealing outfits of the strange girls rather than in performing their duties. I missed a heartbeat when I saw them cross the road and escape being hit by the running vehicles. One of the girls’s even dared to exclaim, “It went so closely, I thought it had almost touched me. But anything for a pizza date!” I was stunned but could do very less. Their fate hung between the raging road, the frightening footpath and the traumatic place called Government Hospital.

I left with a heavy heart, looking up to the sky and praying to God for a miracle. I wish the prayer gets answered. If not a miracle at least the plight of government hospitals get a little better to help people live a little better life. I have nothing against the doctors because to me they seemed like a group of astronauts who were warming up there to take a leap into the sector of private practicing.

Certainly traumatic but not laughable at all! The pain I felt most was of the bleeding hearts of the parents of the lad who was admitted in that rotten government run hospital!

- vociferous

A PROMISE WELL KEPT

Indescribable…
Rains couldn’t have got that worse like it did that day.
Roads were getting waterlogged.
Trains had started running late.
Almost every source of transport had started plying behind schedule.
But then there are those who are determined to fulfil promises.
I know a person who braved the odds.
Thunderstorms and thundering are specific reasons for that person to be scared of.
Rains are not that bad. But when it is about a promise and the rains threaten to dampen it; risks run higher.
Though it was decided to make it at 5.30 pm, some commitments led to 6.30 pm.
Mumbai by then was under the influence of heavy rains.
Drenched and completely clueless, the wait was going to be longer.
Pritish Nandy’s new book of poems ‘Again’ was the only option that made things lighter.
And finally the keeper of promise appeared.
I saw a soul drenched in rain and I saw a mind drenched in thoughts.
There was nothing less but a smile that lightened the moment.
To sum it up, I had no second thoughts that a promise was well kept.
Indebted for life… Trust me!

- vociferous

CASTE-OFF

The title of this blog is the title of the fifteenth chapter in Jeffrey Archer’s newly released book of short stories ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’.

There is a specific reason of me deciding to zero in on the title of this blog. And the intention is also particularly specific for me being Jeffrey Archer’s biggest fan.

I discovered Jeffrey Archer by accident for sure. It was I think seven years back. I was stuck in office due to rains. There was nothing particular to be done. It was drizzling out and from that office in suburban Mumbai; all I could see was tiny droplets of rain. The mood was extremely romantic. But at the very same time I was going through the roughest patch of my life. It was raining and the rain showed no signs of stopping. I thought of staying back a little long and accidentally my eyes fell on a book with an interesting title Sons of Fortune, which was released in 2003. This happened to be my first encounter with my all time favourite author.

I never could read a single page of it and then the time came when Jeffrey Archer released his book A Prisoner of Birth in 2008. I was at Kemps Corner waiting for a friend of mine. I had to kill some time and I thought of taking a look at the new arrivals in Crosswords Book Store. Everywhere I could see one book that was displayed proudly and that was A Prisoner of Birth. I grabbed a copy of it and sat at a corner flipping through the pages. By the time, I reached on page fifty; I decided to buy it. I was definitely carried away.

I came home and couldn’t separate myself from the book for the next four days. After I finished it, I knew I had found a writer I am going to call one of my favourite authors and a prolific storyteller. In a short span of time he released Paths of Glory in 2009. He visited India and I still regret having missed the opportunity of meeting my favourite writer.

Today I have a collection of most of his books. And I am waiting to own a copy of his all time hit Kane and Abel which was released way back in 1980 when I had been just two years old. A friend of mine has suggested waiting a little. He seems to be having the first original copy of it, which he feels, would be proud to gift me once he returns from New York. Even if he doesn’t I shall buy the latest edition which was launched a few months back.

Focusing on ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’ and the fifteenth & the last story of the book, which is based in India; I was deeply moved. Titled Caste-Off, it narrates the love story of Nisha and Jamwal. They meet up at a traffic signal in the every busy vehicle heavy road of Delhi. Both end up racing their cars. Jamwal follows Nisha into the hotel, she checks in. And Jamwal decides, Nisha is the girl he will make his life partner.
Jamwal is a Rajputana Prince with a fortune to die for. He is flamboyant and has affairs with the best of women. Nisha on the other hand is the daughter of Shyam Chaudhary and believes in living a life of content. When they meet up at a party they both are in love with their respective partners. One day, Nisha leaves for San Francisco and Jamwal follows her all the way till there. She is surprised and thinks, is he the man? Jamwal is a favourite with gossip columnists for his involvement with women. Nisha is but smitten. Finally both decide to get married. Nisha’s parents are more than happy to see their daughter being married off to a prince of a Rajput clan.

Jamwal returns home to Jaipur for his parents’ final consent. During his visit, his mom declares that they have found him a royal bridal match. Jamwal decides to defy his father, his mother and his entire family to begin life with Nisha. His father abolishes him from any claims to be made to their family assets. Jamwal and Nisha get married and fly off to Goa for a lovely honeymoon. Jamwal pursues Nisha to join him for a swim. Nisha disagrees. Jamwal still takes a plunge into the swimming pool and after some time, Nisha sees blood floating on the surface. The story seems to end there. But then enters Jeffrey’s mastery art of storytelling. Jeffrey himself makes an entry in the story of Jamwal and Nisha. He confesses that he shamelessly flirted with Nisha and found it strange that Jamwal was never discomforted. The party gets over. Every one leaves. Jamwal sits there only to be helped by Nisha on a wheelchair. The accident at the swimming pool left Jamwal paralysed for life. Childless but very much in love, Jamwal and Nisha continue to live a life of content.

I was moved by the story very deeply. Here are two people in love who know no boundaries. Jamwal’s handicap could have been a reason enough for Nisha’s departure from his life. But Nisha never forgot Jamwal’s sacrifice. I wish love in real life could have been that real. By the way Jeffrey tells us that this is a true story. If this is a real story, let me tell you – LOVE IS WONDERFUL. One should only have the courage to support the partner he or she is in love with.

Saluting Jeffrey Archer to make me believe in love again… I sign off saying Love is Beautiful so Life is Immensely Beautiful! (I hope you heard that… )

Jeffrey Archers book of short stories - ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’: Strongly Recommended!

- vociferous

MOTIVATE/INSPIRE SOME ONE

It doesn’t require a fortune to motivate/inspire some one. It certainly does require a little bit of effort. But the effort has to be genuine because some one relies on us. As human beings we are not born with negative thoughts in our minds. Circumstances, situations and many other factors inject negativity and therefore we end up thinking drastically different from how we should be thinking.

The world I feel is made up of two varieties of people. One variety is of those who are eager to think positive and do positive things. The other variety is of those who need a little bit of help to think positive and do positive things. At times, we fail to notice that even our closest friend might be in need of some motivation or inspiration to achieve feats, which he/she thinks are of impossible nature.

To begin with, the first and foremost thing one needs to do is sacrifice, surrender and submerge the little bit of attitude or arrogance to be of help to others. Yes it is necessary. Personally I have realised when I was driven or overpowered by my ego, things never worked out. Leave alone motivating or inspiring others, I was considered nothing less than a dread factor. But it is better to wake up before irreparable damage is done to your own self or to the people around you.

I suggest when any of us as human beings start our day, we should say to ourselves – LET’S MOTIVATE/INSPIRE SOME ONE TODAY. Simultaneously we should also pray to God to give us the courage, strength, determination and willingness to do so. If you endeavour to do it half heartedly, believe me you would neither motivate nor inspire. All that you will end up doing is making that some one feel more miserable.

Insecurities definitely surround us when we take the onus of going ahead with the task of motivating/inspiring some one. Does that mean you should remain indifferent? Certainly not! Genuine souls always make it a point to remember that motivation/inspiration till the end of their life. And even if they don’t, we should make ourselves understand and stay happy that whatever he/she is achieving, has achieved or will be achieving has been possible because of your presence. Not everyone is on the scene. I believe the real motivators/inspirers are those who toil behind the scene. Popularity, fame, wealth may not or never come their way for all the good work they do. But the biggest treasure being a motivator/inspirer you can earn is Trust. There is nothing precious than trust. Once you inculcate it and work towards nurturing it, a lot of difference can be made.

Yesterday I motivated and inspired some one. It was a great feeling of satisfaction and fulfilment. I was equally elated to know the accolades that followed. I am sure in the near future that person will never fall short of motivation/inspiration. All it required was a start. All it required was a trigger to inject the confidence. Facing an audience is no child’s play. Stage fright or the sudden fear of forgetting well rehearsed lines sometimes might make the confidence dip. But once you speak out valiantly even in front of a handful people, I say half of the job is done. Because by now you have earned confidence to face the odds and even it as per your will, desire and vision.

So, no need to shy away. Make it a point to motivate/inspire some one. If not with royal rewards, you will definitely be compensated with two things – Trust for Life and an Everlasting Smile of Confidence from your benefactor.

- vociferous

TIME TO THINK POSITIVE

It was once a choice of my real self, I had decided to retreat and coil in to a cocoon. But I failed miserably. I was surrounded by my well wishers through out my conquest for the real meaning of life. I had once decided to renounce everything and take the journey to the foothills of Himalayas. A friend rightly remarked – The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari effect. To some extent, it was! But then I was going through a phase when nothing seemed real. I had by then once decided to detach myself from the unrealities of universal nature.

I shut myself from the world. I made up my mind to never switch on my cell phone. I was enjoying my solitary confinement. I spoke very less and I sat quietly looking at people around me. People gazed at me in surprise when they saw me sitting on a railway platform spending time looking at the trains passing. I also mustered the courage to board the train to Kolkata and sheepishly alighted at Kasara. Something was holding me back. I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong.

Life had started acting strange. Similarly I too had started acting strange. Nothing interested or impressed me. I was shocked to realize how easily I had given up writing, listening to music, watching movies, meeting friends and expressing my views on love, life & luck. I then heard a voice of oneness from three of my best friends. They said, “Wake up; it is time to think positive”.

I said to myself it is time to think positive. The energy of thinking that I felt I had lost was back. One of my friends remarked, “The Bengal Tiger has started moving in the cage restlessly to prepare for a hunt”. I was never a tiger. I can never challenge nature’s other creations. But I could feel that how weak I had grown when I had started thinking negative. It was this particular phase I lost friends and I sacrificed some of the finest moments of happiness.

I still remember one of my old friends who saw me with beard on my face and screamed, “Eeks! Is that you?” I remained silent. I knew it was all about my own negativity. But once that phase got over, I was back on the aisle of what seemed like invincibility. My ascent had already started becoming a threat to the one’s who had taken control of things during my psychological absence in the real/unreal world. I announced that I was back to stay longer, fight longer and achieve bigger.

Destiny had something else on its mind. Jealousy, insecurity and incapability of others somehow tried to mar my reputation. I only followed one ideology – Think Positive. So much positive was I that when I met new people, made new friends, mobilized new conversations; I realized that I was taken notice of.

Today I am stuck in a moment that was once negative. But the time has come to again think positive. To protect certain relations, it is the need of the moment to think positive. The past really has passed away! It is all about the present and the future. I am not going to coil into a cocoon. I have vowed not to give up any more. It is my self assigned responsibility to make things the way they were or used to be during that once moment of negativity. If that means apologizing over a million numbers of times, I am ready to do so. If that means renouncing everything once again, I am ready to do so. The only desire is to put misunderstandings, misconceptions and miscommunications to rest. I have started doing that by reconnecting with those with whom I had once broken all my ties.

Time will stand witness to how much justice I do to my vision. But I am sure now that I have started thinking positive, things won’t be that complicated! One mighty force which remains with me is God himself. His miracles don’t create a sound, thunder or a visual impact. The Almighty is the most secretive operator, I have ever discovered. Had He not been around or within every human being, positive thinking would have become a thing of the past! He is invisible, he is untraceable, he is an entity with no specific structure. But he is around.

Paying my respect to God and offering my prayers to the Supreme Power above us, I once again say to myself – It is time to think positive. I know all that I had lost will come back to me. Be it friendship, success, love, power or whatever else. I am waiting because I know I am thinking positive and positivists never are known for giving up but are known for taking life to a new level of self actualization. The clock is ticking. And I am thinking positive. Join me to think, do, create and make possible a lot of positive things around us.

Love you the most; I might have hurt the most! I am extremely sorry!

- vociferous

I OWE A LOT

Life has been like a roller coaster ride. There have been happier, lovelier, sadder and lonelier moments. Thinking in the retrospective, I sometimes feel how much I have done justice to those moments.

These moments were not automatic. But these moments were and I still consider are a product of my deeds. In short, I owe a lot to those who made a difference to my life.

My life began say 29 years back when I really started knowing the things around me. The excitement of making friends was simply indescribable. Friendship kept growing till suddenly I never realized that even that is so short-lived. Still I would say school was the real midpoint to form bonds for life.

After school, it was college and the years just flew away. Luckily all that was left behind was a bond of true friendship. Some betrayed, some abandoned and some simply chose to ignore. Still I clung on to that hope of staying positive in life.

College was over. The time had come to explore myself and the skills I had honed to earn myself a livelihood. My dad was so right. The honeymoon period was over. This was the real world. The real world stood in front of me like a mirror. In this mirror I saw my face. I was myself not sure whether this face belonged to me or my body belonged to that face.

The journey of true life thus commenced. To begin with the first job I took over was like a laboratory. Here I met people of all sorts. From good to the best to the excellent and to the super excellent, they were all made of traits I had never known. Some made me smile, some made me feel nervous. But at the end of the day, it was life unlimited. One human being who still remains a part of my life is the memory of a certain Mr. Rao or I still respectfully address his Raosahab. This man taught me that take life the way it comes to you and never expect anything from anybody.

Even though I had ignored Raosahab and his courteous wife’s proposition to fly with them off to Dubai, I still couldn’t convey to them how much I owed them. Till date, Raosahab’s impact hasn’t found a substitute in my mind. He was invincible. He was terrific. At times, I used to secretly wish – God make me like him. Committed to his wife, to this son and to his family, Raosahab led me like an elder brother does to his younger brother. He gave me the name – Puru.

I owe a lot to him.

And then there are those who chose to first come to my life as friends and then made me realize even friends can wear masks. I wish I had self cautioned me. These were not friends but elements which resembled like friends. Luckily they left as faster as they had arrived. Once again only the true form of friendship was left and still remains with me. I met such friends yesterday. I realized the world is not that bitter as it seems to. I wish I had never lost out on the years of absence from their lives or their absence in my life. They are very close to me. I would never want to lose them. They are the one’s who make me feel the real me. When I get home, they put me a sms saying that it feels great to reunite and they sign off saying – let there be more such moments.

Friends, I owe a lot to you all. (I don’t wish to take names because they will understand I am talking about them. They are that dear to me.)

I have been equally responsible for causing pain to those who never deserved it. Some spoke out loud and some chose to whisk out quietly. One of them said that arrogance never suited me. That person also added that the little amount of arrogance made me ruin my own happiness. And I realize how my own arrogance had caused that human being the deepest pain. Today when I come face to face with that person, I ask myself what did I achieve or gain out of the way I behaved! The reply is simple – nothing. I know however hard I try that person will keep going back to that juncture of disbelief when I was so indifferent. My own deed is irreversible and the guilt is unfathomable.

I owe that person a lot. I owe that person a lot because that person hasn’t changed a bit from the time I had decided I shall never speak to that person.

I have changed. I imagine or speculate that I have changed. A little amount of arrogance might have held my mind hostage for some while. But I fought it out, buried it deep and moved ahead to be with the ones, I consider my own.

At the end, it’s my life. I owe it a lot. Though it has been gifted to me by my parents who brought me to this world, I feel I still owe it a lot. The sacrifices that my dad made when he was alive and the adjustments that my mother keeps making are simply indescribable.

Dad never was vocal. He was in complete control of his emotions, expressions and even expectations. Mom has always been a friend and continues to be so. At the end of the day however busy I am, I come back to her. She makes me feel great. Even though she gets stressed, worried when I am not around her; she manages to sport a smile and tells me – You are back my son.

I owe a lot to you Maa and to you Dad up there! My dad is up there listening to me. He is seeing his son. Some say, I have his face and I look like him. But I say, he was the one and only Dad I would love to have as my dad for every life and my mom the only mom for every life.

I do owe a lot to all…!

- vociferous

SOME THINGS IN LIFE REMAIN UNDONE

Seven years is a long time. So long is it that minds tend to fall short of memories. So long is it that relationships go through sea change. So long is it that we grow immune to our own surroundings.

Seven years just passed away like the fistful of sand, we tried our level best to hold but it just slipped away. One thing is for sure that time never stands still. It moves, it keeps moving and along with time, move us!

I remember only the train and the passenger who left with an unfulfilled aspirations and too much of pain in heart thinking how can a person’s attitude be so overpowering & mightier! The eyes had swelled with tears and the heart might have ached so much that she had remained speechless.

After seven years, the same passenger alighted from not a train but a taxi and had become a traveler. In the last seven years one thing that has not changed about her is the smile and the free flowing hair. From a distance, all one can see of her was a serene and composed personality who stood their waiting for somebody.

Time seemed to be coming to a standstill but there were so many questions to be asked and so many answers to be found out. Every question traveled back to that juncture of separation seven years back and every reply was centered on the present. The conversations might have begun with a Smiling Hi but the farewell didn’t signoff with a Smiling Bi.

To arrive at a conclusion all that can be said of those seven years that some things remained undone. Had time taken the two back to that juncture, maybe things would have been different. If the person bidding farewell from the platform could have boarded the same train and held her hands, seven years would have not just passed away in remembrances, in pains and in expectations.

Life might have moved on but the conscience within keeps reminding that some things still remain undone. Now that the wait is over, maybe the two of them can look ahead to more questions and more answers.

The smiles that had once faded were back on faces. Moments that had run out of magic had turned magical again. The sun was setting, the skies had turned cloudier and the birds were heading home too.

After an entire day of smiles, tears and a promise to see each other again, they departed.

But one of them still left with a heavy heart and went to the same platform; the train had left from seven years back. He spent two hours recollecting what had happened and once the mistake was realized, he moved on. And just then the mobile rang. The voice on the other end was smiling too…!

The above is just an account of two strangers who never were strangers but very much in love till destiny did them apart and brought them together AGAIN!

- vociferous

THE FIRST & SECOND CLASSED POPULOUS

The British seem to have introduced class divide in India. I have my doubts. Going by the way, we travel in Mumbai in cramped trains; I believe the greater divide rests here. The city just doesn’t fail to surprise me every time that I hop onto one of those trains. After I make my way in, I repent my decision of traveling in that certain class. The divide begins here and promises never to die or diminish.

Local trains, considered the lifeline of Mumbai are segregated into first, second and third class. While I am pretty comfortable with the first two, the third one stands for the luggage or the vendor coach. This is no different coach but a part of any of the coach we travel in. Entering into one of these is perfectly suicidal, if you plan taking a morning train down to suburbs from Mumbai CST. Because during this hour, not people but fishes of every big and small varieties travel in these compartments. They are preserved beneath thick layers of battered ice and stored in round bamboo baskets. They travel under tight security, provided by the accompanying fish selling women and the porters who will drag the baskets down the compartment once the train comes to a final halt. Being the third class, no one is generous enough to take a ride in it. In fact, these compartments emit a strange stink for the entire day. Sometimes, they stink of fish, sometimes sweat and sometimes beetle stains left behind by generous travelers.

Next in the category comes the second class. This class outdoes every other class in the train. In these coaches travel the hardworking populous. They aren’t strugglers but potential achievers. They speak the local lingo. They are crowded with secularists. There exist no distinctions on grounds of caste, creed or sex. Birthdays are celebrated by distributing potato stuffed and steamed samosas and thirsts quenched by extra bottles of water carried by fellow travelers. Ladies are offered seats on priority basis. Their cleavages are gaped at with special fervor. Seats are abandoned on a station to station interval basis. Abuses are hurled without any reservations, reluctance or rigidity. This is the class of complete equality. Like they say, “In Gods eyes every one stands equal”. The second class is available to both males and females. Every day millions cling out of the doors and also the windows of the second classes. Every single moment two trains pass each other. All one can hear of during those magical moments are cat calls from gents compartments piercing the atmosphere and entering straight into the ladies compartment of the opposite train. If lucky, one can also take the liberty of making lewd gestures. Then there are ‘Me also Tarzan’ moments. Desperados can be spotted jumping over roof. Records show that every day major accidents are caused when one of those jumping jacks fall off the train’s roof or get electrocuted. But who cares, this is Mumbai that never fails to celebrate the undying spirit of life.

First class is the only compartment, which pretends to stand out. The first classes have been in the recent times stripped of their privileged status. Day by day with the increasing pressure of population in Mumbai, people are highly in favor the first class rather than attempting to sweat it out in a clumsy second class compartment. The ladies first class compartments have still maintained their uniqueness. The men might have silenced their resistance but women in Mumbai are hell bent not to allow their privilege to be taken for granted. There is no scope left for second class travelers to even land up erroneously in one of these gifted compartments. And if they manage, the women travelers make it a point to yell at the peak of their voice exclaiming – Arey yeh first class hai, special dibba (this is the first class, a special compartment). Every morning, it is an adventurous moment to see the women pour into their a little bigger than a pigeon’s hole first class compartment. This is followed by a strange gesture of pointing finger guns at each other. These gestures are necessary to understand and gauge the time each lady passenger would need to occupy a seat. This practice is religiously followed in the second class ladies coaches too. Some women, even though dressed well prefer to sit down rather than wait endlessly for a cushion seat.

Men on the other hand in first class are the breed that God might have developed to represent the real class divide. Conversations are scarce. Expectations of occupying a favorable seat always remain unfulfilled. The movement is very rigid. Strange looks are exchanged if appeals are made to demand a seat. Sometimes laptops and most of the times a game of cards festoon the not so plush interiors of first class compartments. Most of the communication is done through eyes and expressions. Still travelers who travel in a group are ending up creating that little bit of never heard noise in the first class compartments. Unlike ladies first class, there are no finger guns pointed out here.

In Mumbai’s first class gents’ compartments, one thing that every one dies to be a part of is the video coaches. All second thoughts of getting to see video must be trashed without further consideration. These video coaches are those which are an open window partition between the male and female first class compartment. Millions of love stories have taken place over these single windows. And definitely the same windows have ended up being reasons of lust worthiness. Newspapers have carried out articles on wrong conduct and incessant teasing of women by white collared men. This doesn’t mean that the women are less generous. Sometimes gestures and expressions made by men meet with equal amount of good response from the fairer sex.

Today therefore Mumbai stands divided. This is a city, which might be categorized in many different classes. But when a bomb explodes or the motormen go on an indefinite strike, the class divide disappears. Differences are buried down and the city springs back to action. Crisis management techniques do come easy and a tough night of terrorist attack is also dealt with gutsy attitude. Maybe that is the reason, Mumbai goes to sleep terrified. The night grows darker and murkier. And then the sun wakes them up to live a new life. Once again, Mumbai gets ready to stand divided into First and the Second class. But the journey is a kaleidoscope of what is known to the entire world as Mumbai Magic!

Just another way to say, Mumbai is still the best city in this world and continues to stay at its prime 24x7.

- vociferous

THE OBNOXIOUS MR. AAYDAL

The biggest threat to a writer is Mr. Aaydal walking into his/her life. He has a weird face much worse than the most dreaded monsters described in old legends. Mr. Aaydal is an expert in adapting himself to the changing tides of time. He positions himself in every agency/corporate house/communication designers, where writers are found slogging it hard to make ends meet. His grim appearance sends shivers down the spines of writers. Be it in the brightness of a day or in the darkness of a night, Mr. Aaydal becomes the shadow of a writer.

People are always found talking or being very curious about how Mr. Aaydal finds his way into swanky offices. These offices are no less than digital fortresses that are protected by password complying doorways. Passwords can never shoo off Mr. Aaydal. He is ageless and has lived eternally through the times; civilisation started taking shape in this world. Mr. Aaydal has always been interested in the form of writing and has been on a mission to challenge the existence of writers.

Mr. Aaydal has found a mention in the writings of modern and ancient authors. He is strategic. He stages his inception in great style. Once he finds a place in the writer’s life, nothing of the writer is spared. Slowly, Mr. Aaydal starts manipulating the writer’s actions. He wrongs every right and imperfects the perfection. He has exterminated the mightiest and the weakest of writers. The weakest could not face the force; Mr. Aaydal has always subjected them to. The mightiest did try to resist but in the end gave up.

Writers who committed heinous crimes, attempted suicide, slaughtered their pens, immolated their manuscripts or suffered a paralysis attack always wished they would never had allowed Mr. Aaydal to gatecrash into their lives. They had no choice because Mr. Aaydal just entered their lives.

Mr. Aaydal has also from time to time helped employers or publishers to do away with writers. He has self appointed himself and vowed to make life miserable for numerous writers. Mr. Aaydal is an expert in self cloning too. He can be found all over the world at the same time, causing harm to writers. Some debate, Mr. Aaydal is a myth. But very few know he is a harsh reality and a dark truth. Experts protest that Mr. Aaydal doesn’t self invite but is welcomed by writers to shun the chores they are entrusted with. Mr. Aaydal conspires, Mr. Aaydal threatens and Mr. Aaydal devastates. Especially when it is appraisal time, Mr. Aaydal activates his venom filled lungs and spits on the many performance sheets of writers. This leads to two probabilities: 1) Dismissal and 2) Demotion. After a final decision of the writer’s fate is being conveyed to him, he gets a nausea attack. As the writer steps out of the cubicle to run towards the restroom, Mr. Aaydal prevents him from making it on time. The writer collapses on his knees and starts pleading to Mr. Aaydal that he wants to survive for his own self, for his family. But Mr. Aaydal doesn’t believe in mercy. He only believes in merciless tactics. Mr. Aaydal makes a roll of unattended papers then thrusts it into the mouth of the writer. The writer starts choking. His eyes start showing towards the sky and turn bloodshot. The writer starts experiencing insurmountable pain. His nerves and veins poised tend to burst out. His heart starts pounding ceaselessly. Suddenly he plunges into darkness and couldn’t let the vomit eject out of his mouth. Mr. Aaydal starts putting pressure on the writer’s throat, keeps pressing it and gains success in killing the writer.

After this ghastly act, Mr. Aaydal stands firm on his feet. He takes a few step then turns back to see if the writer is dead or alive. If he senses a movement, he waits and once again tries to strangulate the writer till he breathes his last. Mr. Aaydal then finally stands up, kicks the writer’s body to confirm that it is lifeless then smartly walks out of the office in search of his next target, the next writer, the next victim.

The above mentioned technique of murder is just one of the favourite techniques; Mr. Aaydal is very fond of to slay writers. His other techniques are far more heinous. The most affluent the writer, the most brutal is the death.

Mr. Aaydal refuses to leave this world because he too is under a spell to destroy writers. But he never repents his action. He was created to make writers understand that hard work is always not rewarded with precious rewards. Mr. Aaydal is not a friend, he is a foe. I being a writer myself feel too vulnerable to Mr. Aaydal. Though he is supposed to arrive unannounced, I can sense he is very much around. I am equally tense how brutal he would be, when it comes to me being a victim of his outrage and his mission to silence writers like us.

Let God be with the writers.

- vociferous

MUMBAI-YOURS OURS MINE HIS HERS OR WHOMSOEVERS

The spirit of Mumbai is omnipresent amongst all of us, who have made this lovely city a home to dwell in. Proudly we proclaim Aaamchi Mumbai. But ever since this fervour towards the city has started gaining political momentum, the threat of losing out in a city of dreams continually hovers on our heads.

Experts believe the change in name has stripped the city of its gothic character. But it is equally interesting to discover, in this city business continues as usual. A particular faction might be against interstate migrations but the authority to oppose seems to have automatically slipped into the hands of the less opportune! The less opportune are characters, which we bump into knowingly/unknowingly. Over 80% of these characters travel by Mumbai’s lifeline – The Local Train. Mumbai’s railway network which is divided into three zones namely the central, the western and the harbour lines cater to the gusty motion of local trains throughout the day.

I, vociferous am a regular traveller of the central railway network. Every morning the train I take from my place of residence to the place of my work, is sometimes pleasantly packed and occasionally over packed. The real problem is with the travellers who prefer to take a back journey from starting point even though the train takes a halt at their station just 4 minutes later. Luckily being loosely associated with the so called group/gang, I enjoy the privilege of occupying a comfortable corner to squeeze in and start reading a book. The conversations between the members of this group/gang range from the usual profanities to female gazing and to the right to be a Mumbaikar. It was one such day, the journey began. I was hooked on to Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City-Bombay Lost & Found. The doorway was blocked by the frail as air Mr. More, the dumb as blonde Sarkar (addressing him as Mr. is extremely suicidal), the notorious as Dennis Sardarji and the agitated as a street fighter Mr. Transport Agency Executive (He prefers to wear a watch that has the BSE logo on it).

The train came to a halt at the second station. As usual, travellers barged in like this was The Last Train to Pakistan. Some fell down, which in many ways has become a tradition now. Some stumbled. Bags got stuck. Neckties strangled their owners to death. The burden of laptops squeezed the marketing guys to a miniscule pie. The senior citizens sounded resistive for being ill treated time and again by those greedy to grab the window seat. The door blockers raised their voice by yelling, “Enough Pressure. Now No More”!

Sudden influx of passengers in bulk sparked a conversation over how Mumbai got so populated over a span of 24 hours. I was luckily engaged in my book. At the third station, some more displayed their expertise of holding a train hostage and endangering the lives of fellow passengers. The circus continued at the fourth and the fifth station too. I wonder why the British engineers who had designed this railway network never ever had considered the fact that they were creating a Frankenstein monster. As the train’s speed accelerated, a guy who has started joining us in this train for the past few weeks pulled out a bunch of papers from his backpack. On these papers were written codes, hardly of any significance to me. For the first time, I inquired with him, “What are these”? He gently replied, “Programme Instructions. We have designed a new database system that will be installed today and thereafter we have a presentation to make. So before reaching office, I chose to improvise so that I am self updated.” I wished him good luck and the train experienced a jerk. Due to this volatile jerk, the edge of the papers held by this computer guy collided against Mr. Transport Agency’s neck. Outraged and bereaved, he turned back and in his goon toned voice threatened this guy to take care. Trying his best to control a second collision, this computer guy once again couldn’t help holding his papers back which hurt Mr. Transport Agency’s (TA) neck. Turning his head, Mr. TA started abusing him. Mr. Nice Guy apologised. But Mr. TA was not in a mood to give up. He took the conversation to an entirely different level. His first object of hatred was me. Pointing at me, he told the fellow travellers that this arrogant bookworm is the trendsetter. Mr. TA then trained his guns on Mr. Nice Guy. The first word of abuse to find an exit from Mr. TA’s foully mouth was directed to a sister’s modesty. The second abuse was directed towards the parents who committed the mistake of giving Mr. Nice Guy his life. The third was a voice of concern over the pressure increasing on Mumbai. Mr. TA felt and also garnered support that Mr. Nice Guy is the main reason behind Mumbai’s swelling populous of frustrated non performers. Quite proficient in Hindi, Mr. TA said, “Pataa nahi saaley kaha sey aa jaatey hai Mumbai mein gandagi failaaney” (There is no clue about where these stupid people land up from in Mumbai and start spreading untidiness). To which, Mr. Nice Guy replied, “Boss! “Pehle apney aapp ke andar jhaanko phir bolo” (Boss! First self analyse yourself then talk out). The argument came to an end with Mr. TA threatening of bashing Mr. Nice Guy after both alight at the sixth station.

Some travellers eagerly awaited a major showdown while I almost knew what the conclusion would be. The train came to a halt. All of us, we jumped out of the train and Mr. TA caught hold of Mr. Nice Guy’s well ironed shirt’s collar. The conversation started with abuses to mother, father, sister and some more objectionable mentions. Mr. Nice Guy was calm but Mr. TA was all charged up to train his muscles, which have been lying idle over a period of time. Luckily a senior citizen intervened and brought the situation under control. Mr. TA departed with a threat to strike back while Mr. Nice Guy stood shaken. I preferred neither to console nor to empathise with the wrong doer or the right doer. Even though I am a part of this group/gang, I don’t make myself felt belonged to it. I sped towards the bridge, climbed the staircase, cut through the crowd and finally exited the bulging-to-explode railway station to attain solace in my otherwise hostile workplace.

From the entire circus like situation, I could not figure out how Mumbai formed the core of the argument. We are all travellers. Our journey of a little over thirty minutes is meant for livelihood. During the entire journey, we don’t discriminate on grounds of religion, race, caste or creed. But the commoditisation of this city of dreams has already started making us pay a princely price.

Mumbai as a city belongs to whom? Does it belong to the current breed of politicians who have preferred to milk all its resources and leave it lifeless? Does it belong to the fanatics who regularly make it a point to plant bombs at crowded places and endanger innocent lives? Does it belong to the local citizens who keep spitting on the walls painstakingly painted by frail framed labourers? Does it belong to the rich who get drunk at a rave party and prefer to drive on bodies lying lifelessly on pavements? Or does it belong to the creators of this city who are long dead and maybe twisting & turning in their graves faced with the irony of this situation?

To conclude, Mumbai belongs to somebody or nobody and is just a commercial hub to earn a livelihood!

- vociferous

MY MIND - THE CONSTANT WANDERER

A lack of a passport limits an individual’s journey across the globe. Luckily the human mind doesn’t require one, to traverse seven oceans. Like all other human beings, I too am human and like every one else, my behavioral system is controlled by my mind. But I am surprised to see the amount of wandering; it has been doing for the past few days, weeks and months.

Beginning with the advent of New Year on January 1, 2010 my mind remained motionless. It didn’t react to the excitement of innumerable champagne splashes that were made around the world. In stead, it kept wandering on how much sense it made to be slogging for more than nine hours when 97.65% of the employed world was busy taking a nap after a night of celebration on December 31, 2009.

Being an Indian mind, the reaction level has really hit an all time low. Ruchika was molested and forced to commit suicide many years back. Though the maligned cop Rathore is sure of being held responsible and put behind bars, he is smiling. But my mind is wandering over the confidence that he sports while facing the media. He doesn’t regret his actions. In stead he says, “The more it gets tough, the brighter I shall smile”.

The Kiwis hate us. But my mind keeps wandering as to how we allow them to extricate on our cricket pitches. Every fortnight one or the other television channel relays a news of an Indian being assaulted, thrashed or burnt alive by a group of Australians or a single goon. As Indians, we sit quite. We try to establish a dialogue with the country of attackers. On a fine day a higher Australian authority makes an announcement, “Indians are much safer in here rather than out there in their own country”. My mind wanders how our Indian authorities would react to that.

Kashmir burns and so does the hearts of us Indians. Terrorists keep playing the game of hide and seek. Under the pretext of a ceasefire, the defaced neighbors keep repeating the same mistakes. My mind wanders over the videos of Aman ki Asha. Celebrities smilingly reiterate the feelings of many white collared decision makers sitting on the peacock throne of our capital. They keep saying, “Love thou neighbor”. After having seen the stories narrated by victims of 26/11, my mind wanders how tolerant are we.

A calendar of tempting beauties is being shot miles away beneath the scorching temperatures of sun in an island country. Every Friday, I deliberately make it a point to miss the photo shoot. But my mind wanders as to how much money, is being spent to make possible the voyage of twelve beauty snaps easier to a database of just 5000 clientele. Slender bodies with super souls, they pout and my mind just can’t stop wandering about the kind of beauty management these hot properties have to adapt themselves to.

Opportunities come and opportunities go. Lucrative are those, which are grabbed on time and made the most of. My mind being the constant wanderer rewinds through the many such moments of loss. But I pull it back by making it understand that opportunity once lost is lost forever. Still, a kind soul manages to strike a chord with the other unknown side of me and injects the confidence to create my own opportunities. I therefore calm down and once again turn to my mind to ask the same question, “Hey Mind, What’s up”? It replies, “WANDERING”.

- vociferous

Back from a Sabbatical

At the onset of this post, I wish to extend my gratitude to three very important people. One of them, I am sure is definitely going to read this. The other being a Booker Prize Winner is busy ideating another piece of literary wonder. And the third person is the most read writer of India and now abroad too, I guess!

A big thank you to Satish alias Chattis! Had he not paid me a surprise visit at my office, I never would have sat down to punch in these words that form a fresh post for my blog. Every time we meet, one thing he never forgets to mention is my blog. He reads it. Seems to have made his brother Santosh read it too. Recently he once again sneaked into my office. Gentle as he is; asked an office boy to inform me that a friend of mine wishes to meet me at the reception. Reaching reception like a child I said ‘abbe tu’ (bloody you). We settled down to recollect memories of naughty school days. Finally he asked me as to what next I should be expected to post on my blog? I was silent. Oh gosh! I said to myself. It’s been long; I had visited my blog and written something to read easy. So thank you Satish for reminding me that I am an active blogger with more than 80 blog posts to my credit.

The other person is none other than a Booker Prize Winner Mr. Aravind Adiga. Yes! I know he seems to be quite an unnatural choice to extend my gratitude to. Why not? Don’t we both belong to the same clan of being writers? He; a prolific writer and me; a creative writer striving to evolve into a prolific writer! As I continue reading his penned THE WHITE TIGER, I simply can’t help growing a fan of his satirical writing style. Presenting India to the Chinese Premiere through the eyes of Balram Halwai is power packed writing. Thank you Sir, for serving an inspiration and helping me make up my mind to start blogging again.

The third person is Indian from heart, by heart and with a heart of a common India. Chetan Bhagat; why am I so fond of him? He narrates love stories which sound real. The struggles of his protagonists are so much like ours. At the end of the day, his writing emphasizes on a happy ending after putting in efforts of an unpredictable life. TWO STATES-THE STORY OF MY MARRIAGE provided the much needed impetus to start thinking of a dark book on my professional life.

Stepping out of a sabbatical, I feel liberated again. I take to blogging again. The blogs to follow will adapt to a different writing style and I shall see to it that I cover extensive topics. Smiling from within, I feel like an NRI who has stayed 30 years away from his motherland and is seeking sanctity at the feet of a spiritual power to live life willfully.

I am back. Thank you once again to – Satish, Aravind Adiga and of course Chetan Bhagat.

- vociferous

SHALL COME BACK

On a journey of knowledge. Shall make a come back, soon..... VERY SOON!!!!

DHAN-TE-NAN

The title itself was very unusual to be translated in a Bollywood commercial movie. I hate using the word commercial. It is an institution, which is going to inspire a completely new genre of film making in India. I only hope they don’t end up copying or creating multiple cheap versions of this movie. Secondly the actors who have been introduced in this movie shouldn’t be type caste. They have oodles of talent. Every actor ignites the screen. The movie only had two very commercially viable names – Shahid Kapur and Priyanka Chopra. Others included Amole Gupte who had ideated Taare Zameen Par as Bhope Bhaoo propagating the slogan – Jai Maharashtra! Outsiders not allowed. Inspector Lobo & Inspector Lele fitted to T in the role of corrupt cops. Taashi – The Great proved how great an actor he is. Zetan looked dangerous. Mikhail was simply addictive. Every big and small character was given a Lion’s share to put their acting skills to work. No one tried to outdo the other or tower amongst the others. Every one was perfect.

The most surprising element though was Shahid Kapur. He is both Charlie & Guddu. One stammers, the other lisps. One lives by the gun and the other is a brand ambassador of peace. Turning their world upside down are two things – A Guitar Case & Sweety (Priyanka Chopra). The Indian film industry is full of movies that had twin brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. But KAMINEY stands out.

Kaminey is definitely dark. As I mentioned above, the title itself is so unusual that thinking of it as a movie is itself incredible. Internationally only Quentin Tarantino can risk something so dark and yet come out unscathed. But Vishal Bharadwaj is our answer to Hollywood. With Kaminey he has unleashed a new brand of movies. I am much more biased because I love stories told in a dark light. I always like the other side of a personality which is tarnished, bruised and demands attention. Kaminey has all of that. Mine is not a review but an appreciation what I say. The movie had ample doses of Marathi and Bengali dialogues. They were not that tough so every one followed what the characters spoke and the entire auditorium echoed with laughter.

After a long period, I also thoroughly enjoyed the climax of the movie. It did complete justice to the dark humorous feel of the movie. My heart still went out to Mikhail. In him, I discovered a friend who can remain a friend till the last breath he takes. Mikhail loves Charlie like his brother. He doesn’t dread the gun that threatens to endanger his life. He only knows that he hates seeing Charlie in trouble. He shares Charlie’s aspirations and he is an important link in the movie. The way he sings in the rains, the way he teases his elder brothers and the way he snorts coke; simply phenomenal. Chandan Roy Chaudhary who plays Mikhail is a discovery by Vishal Bharadwaj after Deepak Dobriyal. Kaminey had no known faces from Maqbool or Omkara but the introduction of new characters complemented its freshness.

Kaminey focuses on the meaner side of our lives. Even a kid can’t help being getting mean when he is tempted to something he likes most. Brothers, cops, partners, politicians, sweetheart and every one else is mean, meaner and meanest. Kaminey is all about that. And if you think, so much of meanness isn’t enough; wait for Ishqiya to come your way. Trust me, Love can’t get meaner than this.

So let’s welcome the new Dhan-Te-Nan.

- vociferous

UNDERLYING UNREST

Life is such an illusion that most of the times we end up believing in the most incredible. Take for instance a time frame that seems to be so picture perfect. Every thing appears as we want them to appear to us. Leisure that remained inexperienced transforms into a reality. Botheration seems to be at the least. The ambience seems illuminated thrillingly. Desires of touching the skies start getting so real that we take a giant leap only to fall into a pit, which is being dug quietly. After biting the dust, we realise the magnitude of the underlying unrest. Just like a lump of lava in the core of Mother Earth, there is immense amount of unrest that keeps signalling an outburst. Very rarely do we take notice of the circumstances around us. Foolishly we give into the excitement that is so short lived. The smiles that greet us hint conspiracy in it. The sudden influx of inactivity tries to overshadow the active achievements of the time bygone. All this only because we are selfish, self centred and blinded by the sparkle of a hypothetical reality. Shamelessly we also give into their charming tactics who are busy inflicting unaccountable damage to your presence and to your future. With an open mouth and great enthusiasm we sit there feeling entertained. In the due course, we become so prone to the illusion that we feel this is the best time of our lives. We travel that extra mile to criticise those who warn us against such wrong doings. This underlying unrest is far more dangerous than nuclear weapons, which when put to use kill instantly. But silenced trouble keeps killing silently. It enters through the mind, hijacks the heart and kills the conscience within. From humans we become animals and start hunting for that one last moment of activeness. Very few are capable enough to feel the vibrations of the underlying unrest. So very successfully they disappear at an opportune time. Then there are those, who knowingly want to be an integral part of an unfortunate end. It just arrives unannounced. It doesn’t surprise but brutally enslaves you. No super human force can fight the trauma of being victimised by underlying unrest. Some of us prefer to stay neutral by neither bothering nor shunning the thought of being soft targets of the reality, which at the moment is being kept as a top secret. Thousands of minds are functioning at the same time to keep it alive. Gaining is what they perceive and losing is what the uninformed deserve. It is like that sleep of a long night, which is never followed by a bright & fresh morning. All that follows is malaise in abundance. It doesn’t have a smell, it doesn’t have a shape. But all it has is an impact that lasts for years and one can never recover from. So before it gets too late, it is necessary to look around and wake up to realise that unknowingly perhaps we are not being victimised by the creators of this underlying unrest. Not a weapon but only the mind can cut through the thickness of this doomed thought and maybe put to rest the underlying unrest.

-vociferous

UNKNOWN REALITIES

Suburban lives survive in unison with only one network that keeps them connected – The Train. On a regular basis, we see innumerable faces. We know nothing about them and still try to draw a character sketch about them. Gradually we do get familiar with some of them during our regular course of journey. And then one day, when we discover about their unknown realities, we end up feeling so incomplete.

Bobby

He is dark. Always drunk and confused, he takes great pleasure in giving the trains a miss. His bloodshot eyes are unwatchable and his verbal abuses cross the permissible limits of indecency. Dark skinned, well built and dressed averagely; he is a hardcore hooch addict. He always travels by a first class compartment, which signifies the fact that he has a decent job and is an employee very much in demand. His telephonic conversations are often punctuated with irrelevant references to unimaginable events. Sometimes due to over consumption of alcohol, he salivates incessantly. I never even knew that he has got a name. Until one day, he boarded the train. Then jumped out of it and waived to his friends. They yelled, “Bobby, Don’t be lazy”.

Who and what is Bobby? A character, an alcoholic, a loser or a bad man? Like other human beings, he is made of blood and flesh. His lifestyle is different from us. He never takes the jokes cracked on him, seriously. I have been his observant for almost two years now. Disobeying his friends, cracking ugly jokes and verbal abuses seem to have become a routine of his. He continues missing the trains and he continues over consuming alcohol. One day he seemed to be in control and sat quietly, said nothing. For a single day he seemed to be out of his usual character. I was stunned. His regular group of friends barged in and cracked jokes as usual. Bobby stood up, grabbed his bag, stuffed his mouth with a packet of tobacco and stepped out of the train. I couldn’t hold back my curiosity and inquired with a friend of his who also happens to be my friend. I tried to probe into the psyche of this person called Bobby. The revelation made by this friend of his was startling, tragic and painful. The things he said contradicted the sketch I had drawn of Bobby in my mind. He was never the drunkard that he is now.

So once again I was eager to discover Bobby. I still don’t know to which caste or religion he belongs to. His lingo signifies his identity of being a native. His friend started talking and by the time he concluded, I turned blank.

He started, “We have known Bobby for over 6 years. He was never like this. He had a lovely wife and possibly has a daughter or son. Bobby loved his wife very much. Then one day, she fell ill. Visits to doctors, specialists, hospitals and health care centres did no good to her health. One day she succumbed to an unknown illness. The day she breathed her last, Bobby was by her side and saw her die in pain. He shook her dead body and pleaded her to open her eyes. He even asked her to talk to him. But dead bodies never speak. He stood up, called us to inform that his wife was no more. We gathered at his residence. He was still sitting there by her side with his head bent deep in his knees. After all the preparations were done to take her to the crematorium, Bobby didn’t want to let us take her body out of the home. We couldn’t believe what next he planned to do. Painstakingly we made him believe that she was dead and she was being taken away for the last rites to be performed. After the cremation, Bobby returned home speechless. In a week he turned into a sort of a recluse. And in the next ten days, he drowned himself in alcohol (hooch in particular). From then till now, he is yet to recover from that shock. On every new day, we are seeing Bobby mutilate his own self.”

I couldn’t believe what was just told to me. The train moved and by the sudden jerk, my thoughts were shaken up. I had always looked down on Bobby. I always considered him to be a drunkard who had by now mastered the art of travelling by first class. Though he is surrounded by friends, he knows no one is his well wisher. He is happy being the alcoholic he is. As the train moved, once again I saw Bobby jump out of the train. Once again his friends yelled, “Bobby, Don’t be lazy.” Only this time, I heard him reply in a loud and clear voice, “My wife just called on my cell. She is missing me, so I dropped the idea of going to office and am going to be with her”!

I stood their surprised again and stunned by the fact that his wife was long dead. His friend smiled at me and said, “He is not going back to his wife but he is going to the local bar to drain down his daily dose of hooch”. This image of Bobby contradicted the image of his, I held in my mind. It shattered the impression of him as a drunkard. Today when I look at him, I curse myself of being so foolishly unaware of the reality. This side of Bobby’s life would have always remained unknown to me, had I not taken keen interest in discovering who he was. Sometimes realities are left unknown and it works so negatively against one individual in particular.

Kshirsagar

Average built, six feet one inch tall, dressed formally, bespectacled; Mr. Kshirsagar always had this habit of hopping on to the train before it came to a halt. Though he always contemplated taking the window seat; luck didn’t favour him. Still he satisfied himself with the third seat position on the opposite side of the train’s momentum. Even though he worked as a Space Selling Executive with an afternoon tabloid, he dipped his head deep into a copy of a famous regional daily. The only time he raised his head was when we cracked jokes, spoke about creativity and discussed ads. I particularly tried to avoid him because of his repeated requests to meet the creative honcho of my ex agency, which was next to impossible. Though he claimed to have met him in the past, only I knew his version wasn’t completely true in form or in imagination. He still kept requesting for just one meeting. His wish remained unfulfilled and so did my never made promise.

Gradually, I left travelling by the same train. And after having discontinued with my regular schedule, I did make a come back. As lucky as I was, I occupied the same seat that I used to be a permanent member of. Once again I saw him sitting at his usual position. He was slightly puzzled. My revamp of image had left him confused to decide whether it was me or a look alike of mine. I still didn’t pay much attention. He found it even more difficult when I was greeted by the same set of friends I used to travel with. His only concern was why I was trying to ignore him in particular. I simply couldn’t blatantly ignore him any more. Some one also informed me that he was still finding it difficult to keep up with the pace of modern media selling practice. Without uttering a word, I disappeared in the crowd.

Almost three months passed away without the wink of an eyelid. I once again was back in the same train with the same group of friends/fellow travellers. I found it strange to see Kshirsagar gone missing. I jokingly inquired about the space seller. One of my close friends informed, “Kshirsagar passed away three months back following a massive heart attack. The day he passed away, he was with us. On the previous day of his demise he had finalised a deal with an FMCG company who in turn had agreed to advertise in the English daily, he was associated with. On the day of his demise, he was cordially dressed to attend the final round of meeting with the FMCG client. For the first ever time, lady luck had smiled on him that day by making available to him the window seat in the travelling direction. He was happy very happy. To celebrate the day of his achievement, he availed a half day. He was pleased to be home with his wife by 4 p.m. At around 4.55 p.m., I received a call from his wife. I was at my office. She informed Kshirsagar was no more.”

After my friend had finished narrating the reason behind Kshirsagar’s disappearance our eyes swelled with tears. An old friend of Kshirsagar told us how he had always remained a recluse in his professional arena. He also told us that Kshirsagar was never greedy for any thing. But he was too fond of people and the window seat in the train. Only that day I kept looking at the window seat, which remained vacant at least for three consecutive stations, the train passed. For a moment I thought, Kshirsagar would appear in no time. But he never came. All of us reached our destination. I couldn’t control my emotional thoughts of his. I was heartbroken. From within, I cursed myself for being so tight-fisted towards a man who just like me always remained a struggler in his life till the time he bid adieu to his life. Today I rarely take the train but whenever I travel by it, all that comes back to me are the unknown realities that I never knew about Kshirsagar. We and in particular me will miss him till the time we continue travelling by the same train.

- vociferous

BEING ALONE, BEING SINGLE & THE FREEDOM I ENJOY

Day by day my addiction to singleton is getting intense. Not that I am impressed by celebrity singles or am under the influence of some saint but because it allows me the space and the unconfined freedom, I desire. Having crossed the quintessential mark of 30, it is but obvious to expect my well wishers to inquire about my marital status. And over the years, I have only mastered the skill of satisfying their queries innovatively. Thankfully my friends understand my psyche and have stood by me; Rock Solid.

Right from my childhood being the only child, staying alone has never been challenging. In fact it has been a blessing in disguise. I have always been privy to confessions of sibling rivalries confided by some well known, some unknown; I desire to keep unnamed. So, I respect my childhood that I spent without any immediate blood relationship that could have earned itself a status of being a brother/sister. After a long gap of seven years, cousins did start arriving making me feel like the supreme sovereign but they were too young to acquaint themselves with the revolutionary within me. Gradually from adolescents, they stepped into the teenage years and now some of them have become adults while the others are grown up enough to not consider me some one supreme but some one who is elder to them. And at times tries, pretends and succeeds in towering over them. Over a period of time, I know this little bit of adulation that I have earned from them will fade away unannounced.

Sometimes a silly question like, “How do you feel staying single?” irritates me to bits. It is like asking water, how it feels to be like being wet. I don’t blame any body in particular but as Indians however influenced by foreign culture we are; one thing that still remains a mystery to most is the issue of ‘singleton’. Aunties in neighbourhood spend sleepless nights thinking why this guy has chosen to stay single. While some have this weird doubt in their mind over the sexual preferences of a single guy! At the first place, being a personal person, I hate such kind of irrelevant invasions. And secondly, every household with their own set of problems should concentrate less in complicating the lives of others.

Marriage as an institution is most precious. But an incident in 2003 made me lose my faith in it. Subsequently a series of unexplainable events went on taking me away from marriage. The fact that marriage unites two people of different genders and two families of different mindsets simply stood being misunderstood. I witnessed marriages collapse like a house of cards. Friends were filing for divorce. Foes were fleeing with their ex-flames. Closest of relationships were getting fragile and all that was visible were the ugly corridors of court. At this interesting place, which we refer to as court; I discovered brokers in black suits. Some of them championed the cause of staying stuck in a bad marriage, some advised an out-of-the-court settlement, some mispronounced alimony as ‘all money’ and some simply winked about burying the hatchet beneath a hefty bundle of notes.

Amidst all this, I discovered the gradual evolution of a breed, class apart! This breed is that of men and women, who hardly value the importance of permanent relationships. They have no inhibitions in discovering vital statistics in a bartered fashion. They follow the code of ‘I facilitate you, you facilitate me’. Speed dating is their mantra and hyper mating is their technique to drain their frustrations out in a world full of this breed. I could have never found a better reason to ignore all the proposals that had found their way in my inbox, mailbox and letterbox. More hilarious was a situation when I was meeting a potential bride and at that very moment I recollecting her moment of intimacy with her heartthrob in a first class compartment of a late night train. I can understand love demands intimacy supported by privacy. Train is the last best option to display being passionately in love with each other. Renowned writers call this practice as PDA (Public Display of Affection). So when I am informed of a proposal, my mind sinks in thoughts of encountering a thing of the past.

My mother is one of those who want to see her son settled with a bride of her or my choice. She has never argued over love or arranged marriages. Neither does she stay in a glass house. She is a normal mother who expects to be a mother-in-law. She is definitely eager to also be crowned as the grand mother of one/two tiny tots. But as a son, I don’t have the courage to tell her that I have simply enslaved myself to my newly found freedom of being ‘single’.

Singleton means freedom! No one can question your choice of television programmes. Sop operas involving a tough tussle between a bride and her in-laws never figure in my routine of channel surfing. I decide the colour of my own shirt and I am the one to take a call on the trouser to look good with it. Till now, I have only allowed my mother to give a second opinion because she knows what makes me look good. I have accustomed myself so much to the presence of just the two of us in our household that the advent of a third person in our personal lives would seem like a forced intrusion. Sometimes people are very entertaining in extending proposals. They have this habit of tagging me with the words ‘handsome’, ‘good looking’, ‘knowledgeable’ and ‘jovial’ at regular intervals to see to it that my mother blindly accepts one of the many proposals.

On a serious note, some are gravely concerned about the biological need. In the conservative society that we live in, talking about a subject that is considered taboo is an issue of high risk. People who burn all the midnight oil in developing such queries are themselves the sole practitioners of this tabooed concept. It is their insecurity that prompts them to double check, if they have been found caught in the act. And it is better for others to maintain calm on the preferences side. Section 377 only makes it simple for ideas to flourish untiringly in idle minds. I empathise with this current issue but don’t figure in this slightly different but respectable category, which means I am normal.

To put it simply, I am happy living a life with no strings attached to it. I see a movie of my choice, I converse with people I like to be in company of and I eat the food that tastes good without making me aware of my diet unconsciousness. I love my mother and am fine with her treating me like a little one. But I can never tolerate some one talking a thing against the womb I belong to. Having come to this world 32 years ago, I still feel I haven’t yet achieved my goals, objectives and dreams. If some one is still bothered about I being single, there are millions of innovative reasons to keep thinking about. Once again I am thankful to all my friends and my well wishers and my admirers who have stood by me and continue to do so. I am sure never in any other life of mine will I get these gifts of goodness, niceness and happiness.

So, here I am the free bird of a free nation. Spreading my wings, I chart the blue skies that seem like an umbrella. When I get stuck in the white clouds and am lost in the blackest of them, I ask for help and I realise, I am alone. But I am happy being single and am free to allow life take its own course.

- vociferous

A GEM OF A BENGALI MOVIE - DUI PRITHIBI (Two Worlds)

Sometime released in the year 1980, roughly two years after I was born Dui Prithibi meaning Two Worlds is a gem of a Bengali movie; I discovered recently. My mom hadn’t watched it and neither had she heard about its popularity. The storyline of the movie is contemporary and projects an image of the world we are living in today. The theme of the movie revolves around two main characters Mrinal Dutta (Uttam Kumar) and Kunal Dutta (Victor Banerjee).

Mrinal Dutta being the elder son of the family is the sole earning member of the family. He works as a reporter and strives hard to make the twain meet. On his shoulder; rest the responsibilities of a marriageable sister and aged parents. He spends most of his time in his office. His sister is a gifted singer and is in love with her music teacher Shukanta (Ranjit Mallick). Every thing seems to be picture perfect in Mrinal’s world. But every thing changes when his younger brother Kunal Dutta walks in. Victor Banerjee’s English man like looks ignites the screen and he stands staring quietly staring at his elder brother who is all engrossed in his work. He questions, “Chinte Parcho?” (Do you recognise me?). Mrinal slowly raises his head and takes some time to gather his memories together. Excitedly he embraces this young man saying, “Tuie Kunal Naa!” (Aren’t you Kunal?) Mrinal takes Kunal to his home located in a crammed locality. Suited Kunal is frustrated and irritated to walk through the by lanes and exclaims, “What place is this that you stay at?” Mrinal replies, “Limited resources can only ensure the bare minimum.” Answering the knock on the door their younger sister Toony opens the door. She too gets excited to see Kunal come back home. Mrinal’s parents too are visually appalled to see their estranged son come back to them. In a flashback scene, the reason of Kunal abandoning the family justifies his long time absence. While every one is seated, Kunal pulls out a cigarette excusing of unable to survive without it. Mrinal doesn’t like this and he easily traces the signs of sudden change in his family. His father doesn’t object Kunal’s smoking and the mother & sister duo are seen ignoring Mrinal completely.

The other Kunal takes his parents out for shopping. He also goes house hunting. Mrinal keeps waiting with an empty stomach for his family members to come back. He is surprised to see how phenomenally Kunal has taken over the reins of the family. Kunal announces that they will soon be shifting to a new home. Mrinal agrees to move along but reluctantly. He is still clueless about Kunal’s flamboyant lifestyle. Kunal objects to everything and anything that is related to Mrinal. When Toony watches her music teacher struggling to board a bus, Kunal warns her to ignore him as he thinks Shukanta is a misfit for the Dutta family. To separate Toony from Shukanata, Kunal hurriedly gets her enrolled in a modern music school. Time starts changing at a faster pace. Kunal goes on making money and is on a spending spree. On the other hand, Mrinal’s status of a sprawling investigative journalist gets stronger. He is invited by the Chief Minister of Bengal himself to head an undercover team to bust corruption and misdeeds of the chosen few. Slowly Mrinal also begins to get wind of Kunal’s sources of unaccountable wealth. The problem gets severe when Kunal brings home a woman and declares her his newly wedded wife. She is coincidentally the daughter of a famous freedom fighter. Mrinal therefore sympathises with her and goes to meet his estranged lover. On reaching her home, he informs her brother about Kunal’s high handedness and the arrival of his new wife. On hearing her father’s name, Mrinal’s friend jumps out of his chair to narrate a tale of his bravery. Mrinal comes back smiling and is pleased to appreciate his brother’s choice. As time passes, Kunal starts getting richer and rude. He starts abusing his wife. At times, he even compels her to accompany him to parties and to entertain his guests. His wife resists such advances saying that she is not a sex toy to be preyed upon. Kunal outrageously tells her that she was about to be sold out by her brothers but he saved her by immediately marrying her. Kunal starts coming home drunk every night. His abuses go from bad to worse. One night he again comes home drunk and physically assaults a servant. Mrinal gets very angry and asks his parents to keep a watch on their younger son.

Things start getting out of control. Seeing his elder brother’s probing nature, Kunal hatches a plan to send Mrinal off to a foreign locale as a guest journalist. His plan goes out well enough with Mrinal’s editor boss agreeing to send him off to America. In the meanwhile, Kunal’s wife discovers a grave secret of him being a smuggler. Police authorities begin their investigations and also procure a consignment of rare gems at a local post office that Kunal frequents. The police start hunting for Kunal and his whereabouts. Mrinal too discovers how his brother is in trouble. He declines the offer of an international tour, which is secretly sponsored by Kunal. Their sister Toony who deceives Shukanta for her modern music school teacher runs into trouble when she is fooled and impregnated. This is where the movie scores. It shows how the two different worlds of these brothers collide. Mrinal doesn’t forgive Kunal when he accuses him of having an affair with his wife. Mrinal walks out of Kunal’s home and settles down in his old home. The police finally zero in on Kunal and chase him like wild dogs. Finding no immediate rescue, Kunal ends up at Mrinal’s home begging for mercy. Mrinal in a very composed way declines Kunal’s requests. He asks him to leave his home and surrender. Kunal runs out of the home and is held at gunpoint by two senior policemen. Investigations also reveal Kunal’s ownership of unaccountable gold and rare gems.

Finally it is Mrinal who emerges the winner. Disheartened by their younger son’s plight, his parents return back to him. Shukanta, his sister’s estranged lover agrees to take responsibility of her impregnated situation. In spite of Kunal’s wife’s request of bailing him out, Mrinal holds his fort and silently witnesses his brother being sentenced to four years of rigorous imprisonment. He is heartbroken but he tells Kunal’s wife that this is payback time. He also assures her not to lose hope.

Dui Prithibi explores the finer nuances of Bengali cinema. Uttam Kumar towers over the others with his astounding performance. Every time he has appeared on the silver screen he has captured it with his unparalleled performance. Victor Banerjee’s anti hero image is top notch and he does justice to his role. Supriya as Uttam Kumar’s love of the past is a silent treat and downplays herself to the core. The movie belongs to the main protagonists Mrinal and Kunal. It depicts the triumph of good over evil and chronicles the stories of lives that are preciously two dimensional. The movie has no subtitles so Non Bengalis might have to rely on a trusted translator. The movie in itself is the finest to come my way. It has the potential for a prequel and a sequel to it. Somewhere down the line I felt that this tale of two brothers has so many things common with the ongoing corporate rivalry between the Ambani brothers. The only difference being, it is reel life inspired by real life.

MOVIE SOURCE: www.seventymm.com
- vociferous

I, APOLOGISE

Writing is not an easy task. Ever since I’ve been doing it, there has been no dearth of uneasiness and inconvenience. And very recently like speed dating, I have accustomed myself to speed blogging. I make it a point to write about every thing. From movies to madness, from robustness to romance, from tantrums to thrillers and from food to future. The only thing that I’ve experienced and regret is me getting prone to committing spelling errors. I agree it’s a wonderful thing to blog but not in a way that invites criticism. I am not a perfect writer and neither am I an imperfect one. But unknowingly I am finding myself stuck between perfections and imperfections. So whoever and every one had been reading my blogs and not taking kindly to the errors committed by me, I, apologise. From now on, I would take every little care to see to it that my blogs are free of errors and worth reading. Till then happy thinking and keep blogging.

- vociferous

DUDS AND DIAMONDS FROM HOLLYWOOD

I was under a very false impression that bad movies are only being mad in India. But I was totally wronged by the Angelina Jolie and Morgan Freeman starrer Wanted. I cursed every moment of watching it. Even Hollywood makes duds! Movies are supposed to entertain us not irritate us. This is one of those which not only irritates but makes you think why it was made at the first place. First and foremost it lacks a well defined storyline. The action sequences seemed to have drawn loads of inspiration from movies made in southern India. Even they are tolerable. But Wanted not only wastes your time but compels you to bang your head. Angelina Jolie looks very bad. She doesn’t act just goes bang, bang and bang. Morgan Freeman, one of the finest actors Hollywood has ever produced does very less of talking and acts zero. I didn’t understand a bit what Wanted actually attempted at. An experience I wish not to repeat.

If Wanted broke my heart, two other movies simply strengthened it. Gran Torino and Taken transported me to a world of the mightiest.

Gran Torino is about Clint Eastwood the good old man. A retired army man he finds solace in leading a lonely life after his wife’s death. Both of his sons abandon him while he is literally stalked by the priest of the local church. The town that he is put up at is high on racial tensions cropping up at the drop of a hut. Adding on to Clint’s irritation are his Asian neighbours. He doesn’t like them. He swears and keeps spitting. As Clint continues living his lonely life one night he is wakened by sounds coming out of his garage. This is the plan where his Gran Torino is parked. He runs into darkness with a loaded gun to only find his neighbour trying to cause harm to it. After scaring the hell out of his neighbour Clint returns back to his home with lot of anger filled within. From here begins the story that Eastwood carries brilliantly on his frail looking strong shoulders. Emoting painstakingly and speaking stylishly in a voice that is harsh Clint Eastwood performs phenomenally. It’s fantastic to see how Clint connects with his neighbours and is amused by their warmth. The troublemakers have a tough time matching up to his wit and courage. He gives the assaulters a run for their life. The climax of the movie was a shocker. You wish it would have been otherwise. But Clint Eastwood is a master story teller. His movies end differently. Remember the scene from Million Dollar Baby! He keeps it up with the climax of Gran Torino. I am yet to see his Letters from Iwo Jima and Changeling. Hats off to a precious diamond created in Hollywood.

The second movie is Taken. Thrilling from the beginning till the end. It has a very simple story line. This revolves around an ex spy. Liam Neeson gives out a power packed performance. He had also acted in the highly acclaimed Schindler’s List directed by Steven Spielberg. Liam is divorced from his lovely wife who is now married to a billionaire. Liam and his wife have a daughter who is turning seventeen. As a father he reaches to meet his daughter with a surprise gift on her birthday at a plush villa. The place is flooded with gifts. Liam does meet his daughter though he is warned by his wife not to do so. He presents her with the gift but she simply ignores it when she sees her stepfather walks in with a black stallion horse. She jumps in excitement. Liam stands there watching. Ignored he leaves. In his free time he helps his friends escort celebrities as a security executive. He also saves the life of a prominent singer. She thanks him with a promise to be of help whenever needed. Life continues as usual for Liam.

One fine day his daughter who just turned seventeen expresses her desire to visit Paris. Liam doesn’t take kindly to this wish of hers. Criticised by his now divorced wife, he doesn’t break his daughter’s heart and grants her the permission. But he does warn her to call him up every night from the mobile phone he gifts her. At the airport while she is about to board the flight, Liam realises that his daughter has big plans. The markings made on a travel map leave him tad worried. He argues with his wife but is left frowning. His daughter escorted by her friend reaches Paris. After landing they are impressed by a guy who helps them with a taxi and even travels along to their place of stay. The girls are very happy. The friend of Liam’s daughter also expresses her desire to sleep with the same guy who escorts them. In the mean time, Liam keeps calling on his daughter’s cell phone. Finally when she answers Liam tells her how concerned he is for her. While she is speaking to him over the phone she sees her friend being brutally kidnapped. After 5 minutes she too is kidnapped. From this point the movie paces and Liam surprises you in every scene. He reaches Paris and the way he tracks down the fugitives is fantabulous. The movie also exposes the ugly side of Paris. Single females are shown being kidnapped, drugged and pushed to prostitution. The way he tracks his daughter and turns the tables on his enemy is something thrillers are truly made of. Taken makes you sit on edge, bite your nails and get excited. It ends strongly and you wish there had been more.

Though Wanted was a dud, Gran Torino and Taken are pure diamonds produced from Hollywood!

- vociferous