POSTCARD FROM WASSEYPUR

“Goli nahi marenge saaley ko, kehke lenge uski” - The intellectuals might point a finger to this single dialogue and term it too explicit. Frankly speaking while watching the movie, the same dialogue hits you like a thunderbolt. I stand undivided with my admiration towards GANGS OF WASSEYPUR (GOW). And I am shamelessly biased towards the movie too. Since West Bengal is my native land, stories of coal mines situated around Asansol, Dhanbad and many other places formed the crux of summer vacations spent there. I have myself heard about handmade bombs hurled over minor issues of idol immersions during festivals. So how could I not enjoy GOW?

I have been a huge fan of Anurag Kashyap from the days of him being credited with Saurabh Shukla as the writer of Satya. He continued with his journey and brought us Kaun, Shool and Darna Mana Hai. Later on his partnership with Ram Gopal Varma came to an end. It was like a blow but nonetheless necessary. Anurag Kashyap did not disappear. He stuck around and painted the portrait of a BLACK FRIDAY on the single screen. Just like other truthful movies, this one too met with protests, allegations, sabotage and unreasonable ire. Major newspapers reported about the 1993 blasts accused filing a writ petition against the producers Mid Day and Anurag Kashyap for tampering with evidence. They also managed to stay the release of the movie. But truth be told, BLACK FRIDAY released in the most daredevil way. Once again I was awed by the personas of every character that were detailed, determined and delivered more than the book had on offer. Being one of the maverick torchbearers of meaningful cinema in India, Anurag Kashyap took the liberty of writing and directing NO SMOKING. No one liked it. People blamed him of being self indulgent and too sarcastic. But little did they know that he was just igniting the much needed spark of change.

NO SMOKING flopped badly. It was accepted internationally with immense fervor. But back home, the Indian film industry had grown nastier. As if all of them had vowed to oust Anurag Kashyap from the premise of filmmaking. This was the darkest phase. I remember seeing an interview wherein Anurag had shared how he had literally begged to be given a chance as a scriptwriter. But no one was listening. Being a creative writer myself, and continuing to remain exposed to threats of abolishment; I was extremely moved by the plight of such a talented writer and director. But God is great. Or maybe luck had a better role to play. Situations overturned and Anurag Kashyap came roaring back with GULAAL on his face. Strangely his unapologetic PAANCH remains tanked. But when I watched it on youtube, I was astounded as to what was so drastic about the movie? Was it too much graphical? Was it too erotic than the Poonam Pandeys and Sunny Leones of recent times? Or was it that, a director with a non filmy background had emerged a threat with PAANCH to his credit. The film industry lay low. But Anurag held his head high and gave us DEV D, co-produced UDAAN, directed THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW BOOTS, produced SHAITAN and finally settled down to enthrall us with GOW.

Based on the many articles I read in the media over GOW, I gathered a lot of things about Anurag Kashyap. He is a worshipper of ideas. He reads everything that interests him. This also includes endless editions of Manohar Kahaniyan available at economical rates on every book stall at major railway stations. He champions the cause of fresh talent be given an opportunity to showcase their skills. And he never shies away from being associated with unconventional cinema. The story idea of GOW was presented to Anurag by an aspiring actor Zeishan Quadri, himself a native of Wasseypur (yes..The real place exists in Jharkhand). Zeishan handed over to Anurag an eight page concept note while he was seated at the Prithvi theatres in Juhu. Anurag read the script, took a close look at Zeishan and said to him – I AM GOING TO MAKE THIS FILM. But Zeishan put a condition to his script that he be given a role in the movie. Anurag agreed and countered the condition with another by asking Zeishan to audition for the role he demanded. Zeishan auditioned, bagged the role and will be seen soon in the second part of the movie as a character named ‘Definite’. But it would be ideal to discuss more on that later. At this point it is GOW Part 1.

The opening sequence is extremely engrossing. Who could have imagined that only bullets could have diverted the attention that this nation assigned to the sob opera – Kyunki Saas Bhee Kabhi Bahu Thee? Anurag imagined it and fired the first bullet so powerfully that a winning script was emerging loud and clear on the silver screen. The next 30 minutes after a mansion being showered with bullets engrossed me further as a viewer. It made me and the other audiences travel to the history behind Wasseypur. The reference to Sultana Daku arrived thereafter. Those who are unaware of this legendary dacoit should immediately read Sujit Saraf’s book CONFESSIONS OF SULTANA DAKU, which was released in 2009. At the end of this book, it was beautifully described how Sultana Daku disappeared in thin mist. People got over his presence by saying he was long dead. A British officer remembered him escape. And the popular belief that took shape was – Sultana Daku’s presence was just a myth. Therefore Sultana Daku’s conspicuous absence produced unsung replicas of him. In the British ruled Wasseypur, Sultana was kept alive by two clans – the Qureshis and the Pathans. Trains were looted and a war broke out over who the real Sultana Daku was and if both Sultanas had to operate, one has to part with his booty. A true Pathan could never tolerate such an atrocity. Abolished from his native town, he is forced to take refuge as a coal miner under the supervision of Ramadhir Singh. On a rainy night, the Pathan’s wife delivers a baby boy and dies. The Pathan with little help from his timid brother brings his son up. Ramadhir appoints the Pathan as his personal Pehalwan and one day bumps him off dramatically because he smells a conspiracy.

Before the Pehalwan is taken out of this world, Anurag constructs a well written plan which clearly shows how some people don’t choose to change with changing times. The Pathan’s son Sardar Khan grows up with a shaved head. Sardar Khan is the real story of the hero. But Anurag makes him much more vindictive. Sardar gets married and uses his wife to satisfy every manly urge. Power corrupts his mind. But Anurag keeps Sardar reminded of his primary mission – Kehke loonga. Sardar’s fondness for women is not veiled. He visits brothels but never makes lewd remarks. He eyes a Bengali woman Durga and wins her heart magically. Anurag once again spins the wheel by making Sardar say – Islam humein chaar nikaah karneki ijaazat kyon detaa hai. Arey chaar ghar ka bhala jo hota hai. Aur pataa nahi log kyu iss baat ko lekar itna bawal machaate hai.

A master of narrating a story with great conviction, Anurag makes Sardar juggle between his legally married wife and his illegitimate mistress. Both the women are themselves not naïve enough. Durga holds a certain grunt against Sardar and sets her scores right at the right moment. And Sardar’s real wife is not shy of dropping her guard while sharing a night of passion with his own uncle. Anurag twists the story and makes Sardar father four sons. On the other end Ramadhir keeps playing dirty games. He speaks of seeing ghosts in dreams. He slaps the man, who had once told him that after bumping Sardar’s father he had cut him into pieces and buried him deep. Tighmanshu Dhulia (director of Haasil, Charas, Shagird, Paan Singh Tomar and Saheb Biwi aur Gangster) essays the role of Ramadhir Singh. He competes with the character of Sardar Khan performed with panache by Manoj Bajpayee. Both shine like real diamonds. Ramadhir Singh’s brutality is best explored in the scene where he beats up his own son Jai Prakash Singh and calls him an idiot in front of all. Later on he goes ahead and insults his own son further by asking him to help his mother arrange the table for guests.

Anurag Kashyap puts his fearless self to good work as a director of GOW. He makes Faisal Khan (Nawazuddin Siddiquie) get addicted to the weed. His addiction is the result of being witness to the night of passion Sardar’s wife spends with his uncle. While his elder brother Daanish (actor’s name not known) starts supporting his father’s gang lordship. Faisal is a diehard fan of Amitabh Bachan and Anurag makes him act comically when he suddenly decides to hold the hand of his girlfriend.

Since vengeance is inherited, Anurag introduces more characters. One of them is Sultan Qureshi. A butcher by profession, he strongly resists his sister’s marriage to Sardar Khan’s elder son. In a gem-of-a-dialogue, he warns a copy saying, “This is Wasseypur. In here a pigeon tries to fly with one wing and shields its honor by the other”. He develops an undying distaste for Sardar Khan and vows to finish him.

GOW is not an easy film. It is real. The characters are infectiously believable. In a well written scene, the wife of Sardar Khan is shown busy serving food to the men of the family. She tells them to eat well before they can make out with women somewhere outside so that the honor of being true men is not lost. Anurag cleverly unleashes the sexual undercurrent within the women. The intimate encounters are enjoyable and the female leads do well with their own roles confidently while gracing the bed with their sexual prowess.

There are no lip synched songs to deter the pace of this story. Thankfully Yashpal Sharma plays the best item girl ever of Hindi cinema in this movie. The movie proceeds to a climax of utter bloodbath between the fighting groups. It truly does justice to the proverb – Kehke loonga. The movie ends at the note of an intense shootout at a petrol pump; a caption appears ‘Kahaani abhi baaki hai’ and the credits roll up. After some while the trailer of GOW2 starts playing. Faisal Khan replaces his father Sardar Khan in this part. He is seen wooing his girlfriend. And three new characters wait to be introduced and thoroughly enjoyed in the second part. Have you ever heard of character names of people like DEFINITE, TANGENT AND PERPENDICULAR. Action rolls over even more intensely in the second part. There is more sex in it than there was seduction in the first part.

I travelled back home astounded by the magnanimity assigned to GOW by Anurag Kashyap. This man is an extraordinary thinker. He is to be respected and worshipped. I am thankful to him for having made this movie, which is so fearless right from its onset. I don’t care if the Indian audiences or critics want to pan it. One of my own office colleagues remarked teasingly that Anurag has delivered a dud. I didn’t even feel the need to reply because this colleague of mine is not a writer but an average employee who is just found typing words on his PC. If passion is what needs to be seen in Indian cinema, watch Gangs of Wasseypur (meant strictly for adults). And yes, liking it or not liking it is a matter of choice. At least don’t come out insulting Anurag Kashyap. Remember he has taken great pain to make us travel to Wasseypur and promises to make it even merrier in the second part.

Go watch it and listen to all the songs in full volume.

Bowing my head to Anurag Kashyap, I sign off.

-vociferous

OFFICE IDOL (Idle) – NOT BY CHOICE BUT BY FORCE

No one ever comes to office to sit idle.
No one cultivates passion for work to get accustomed to rework.
No one dresses well to look badly dressed by the end of the day.
No one takes up a job to be threatened by possibilities of rendered jobless suddenly.

Recruitment ads of recent times are extremely misleading. They paint a picture of an environment, which is more of fantasy and less of reality. On the day of the interview a prototype of a happy workplace is presented to an interviewee. Once you are in, you are trapped. All the talks about following the diktat of ‘WE NEVER WORK LATE’ fizzle out. The hope shown in you as the most prospective recruit erode away. And the little that one gets to do possibly is whine to others.

In this case, who is to be blamed? Most definitely the job seeker is to be held by his/her neck. Background check in case of taking up a new job is a tradition; we have made a practice to evade. We are driven by money, location, position and rewards. We are always unaware of the witty politics that goes around in name of professionalism, precision and perfection.

In the recent past, I stood witness to a dangerous situation to the plight of a fellow writer friend. The Project Manager at his office had announced of having bagged a prestigious project, a client now considered the czar of Indian corporate houses. The assignment revolved around creating communication material for a grave issue of recent times. As a general routine, whenever creative work arrives on the desk, the first thing to pop up in the mind is a brief or a concept note. In this case, both were either absent or invisible. The client had given a briefing three months back. But the concerned team of seniors had paid no attention to put in their efforts to create a framework for the work that was expected to be delivered. Hara-kiri was already in making. Fresh recruitments made the situation even worse. In a fit of sudden excitement, these seniors ferried all of these new recruits to the client’s office. They were equipped with some creative communication. The moment, the meeting started, everyone was in for a bumper surprise. The client screamed at the peak of her voice – THIS IS NOT WHAT I HAD EXPECTED YOU TO COME UP WITH. Everyone left the served tea unattended. The biscuits on the table lost their charm. The entire team hurried down the staircase, instead of using the lift. Panting heavily the entire team drove back to office and started recounting the course of events that had left them feeling astounded.

The next meeting was arranged without consulting the team again as to how much time they might require to develop the communication. This time over the client chose to don the role of a ringmaster and asked the entire team to revisit the office. The client knew the team was still unprepared. Therefore she strategized more intelligently. First she expressed her desire to conduct the meeting at 4 pm. After some while, it was postponed to 5.30 pm. By the time, the team had finished their lunch; the client called again at around 1.30 pm. She wanted the entire team to be present in her office by 2 pm. Like toddlers on their first trip to a picnic spot, the team hurried along to the client’s office. Once again, tea, coffee, biscuits and water were served. The laptop sprung to life and images started getting projected on a white screen. On display were posters, logos and website templates. The client neither batted an eyelid nor did she utter a word. After the presentation of 5 and ½ slides came to an end, the client rose from her throne, circled the entire team of starry eyed creative team and yelled – WHAT ARE YOU GUYS UP TO? HAVE YOU MADE UP YOUR MIND TO SCREW ME? She caught hold of the Project Manager of the creative team and asked the trembling soul to list down as to how the team was briefed. For a person whose heart had already sunk in boots, jotting down snippets from an actual brief was nothing less than committing suicide publicly. The truth was that the Project Manager knew nothing about the core concept.

An ultimatum was issued by the client this time over – YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO PROVE YOU ARE HUMAN BEINGS EQUIPPED WITH A MIND TO THINK, HANDS TO WRITE, ONE PAIR OF EYES TO SEE AND AN INTERNET CONNECTION TO DO INTELLIGENT GOOGLING. What followed thereafter was nothing less than setting out on a Charlie Chaplin kind of an adventure. The entire team without having consumed any of the refreshments served during the meeting drove back to the office. The decision taken this time over was to spend a night in the office to create an award winning communication. Till 12.30 am and having consumed four pizzas in a row, the creative team decided it is advisable to leave and come back to office early in the morning. The new sun of the next day brought everyone back to office not before 11 am because everyone was dead tired. One of the so called Senior Managers took the lead of writing the first few lines. Coincidentally the assigned creative writer to this campaign had already triggered the campaign with a line. But that was ignored. Thousands of words were typed. Millions of ideas were bounced. And by the end of the day, the so called campaign was in place. The entire campaign was mailed to the client. And finally, the client reverted with 10% satisfactory feedback. The other 90% of satisfaction had been left seriously molested on the chair that she still occupies in her dangerously air conditioned office.

Everyone was confident, the ordeal was over. But the real game was to begin now. The creative writer was held responsible for not being supportive. The Senior Manager claimed to have churned out everything that he thought was as-perfect-as-picture. The Project Manager held the creative writer responsible for not being cooperative. The Senior Designer held the creative writer responsible for not being creative.

All the other facts revolving around the discrepancy of being unable to deliver well took a back seat. No one raised a question as to why the Senior Manager chose to fall ill suddenly? No one raised an eyebrow as to why the Senior Designer left for home by 5 pm, the other day after having consumed 4 pizzas in a row? No one raised a doubt over the Project Manager’s sudden outstation trip? But the noose was tightened around the Creative Writer’s neck. The very little that I know of him now and the conversation I had with him two weeks back, he mentioned that he has been sitting idle in his office. I asked him about what happened of being the most prospective employee of the organization? With a hint of irony in his voice, he clearly mentioned that the prospects were flushed out after one week when a client shamelessly blamed him of not being a desired professional. The truth is that the client had never checked the corrected content, this creative writer had mailed across.

As a result, the Creative Writer is left with no option in his hand but to sit idle. If he takes a newspaper out of his bag to kill the idleness that he is caught up with, a gun is held on his forehead and a bullet of man hours is brutally drilled into it.

The moral of the story is simple. Never trust those who paint a picture of what LIES in stock in the form of being a most desirable workplace. But trust those who try to build excitement around the work that you are supposed to do. And if someone says you are the next big Office Idol. Try to do a background check as to how they spell idol – IDOL or IDLE???

-vociferous

BACK ON/OFF THE TRACK

I am not a parasite. At the same time, I refuse to be counted amongst the socialites. My identity, my interests, my hobbies and my hesitations belong to me. There is nothing particular or peculiar about me except the fact that I am a creative writer. A writer, who is passionate about life, loves to dream, eat, laugh and travel extensively. And I haven’t yet developed distaste for what I do as a job, as a commitment, as a responsibility and as a breadwinner.

At this moment, what really matters is my presence after a long hiatus. Some might mask the reality by claiming to be bouncing out of hibernation. But I can’t pretend and neither can I lie. Either I myself or my body language shall give out the nude truth – up, loud and volatile. I was on leave for a good span of three weeks. How far it was relaxing is my lookout. How far it was enjoyable is what the world seems to be curious about. The reason definitely was super personal. People are still complaining for not having received invitations. Frankly speaking, I remain unaffected.

The state of mind that I am in, is nonetheless closer to the plight of the protagonist Chuck Noland (beautifully brought alive on screen by Tom Hanks) in Cast Away (released in 2000). All the impending work seems to have been completed. There is no trace of stress in the office. Ugly jokes are being cracked. Some unthinkable categorizations and segregations are fatally visible. Some laughable rules have been implemented. And some unthinkable stringencies promise to be making life of a creative writer even more difficult. It is worth mentioning that facebook also has been blocked to increase productivity, deliverance and of course results. Surrounded by vibrant walls and colorful colleagues, it is worth thinking if taking a leave is lethal or legal!

The level of being lethal or legal stands undefined. In India right from the day you request a leave on basis of a wedding, birth, death, health, work etc; the perceptions towards you stand unaffected. It is the phase after you are back from leave that you realize the world has suddenly changed. The first to hit you straight on your face are your immediate colleagues. They will make you realize time and again as to how during your absence, it was their presence which saved the world from drowning deep in a shithole. Thereafter come the subordinates, the human resource ambassadors and of course the so called superior you report to. The superior is the most interesting character. He or She makes an appearance once in a day. He or She peeps in like a squirrel into the cubicle that we think is our own private world. A smirk on their otherwise avoidable face makes you realize how big of a criminal you are for being on leave. And then arrives a long phase of silence.

The phase of silence is most loved. No work arrives on your desk. To kill time most commit the mistake of checking through the many emails one might have missed checking during the absence. This heinous error should seriously be avoided. In the many emails that one might have missed checking, at least five to seven of them will be forwards of what the clients might have sent for not having met the deadlines. No matter how hard you bang your head on the wall, it won’t break. It is necessary to be remembered that these walls are not just made of bricks, concrete and steel. On the contrary these walls stand strengthened by layers and layers of misunderstandings, gossips, rumors and of course taller than ‘Eiffel tower of Paris’ egos.

At the end of the day, with no work coming your way and staring blankly at the Adam aged desktop monitor most wonder – what made you come back from the leave? Some have the tendency of rushing towards and asking how was the first day after a long leave? Is everything really fine? How does it feel to be bombarded by deadlines? Has anyone informed of a fellow colleague having put down the papers and is life getting back on track? It is only a case with Creative Writers that they wish, they could have explained – LIFE IS NOT BACK ON TRACK BUT THROWN OFF THE TRACK.

-vociferous

Statutory Warning: The produced piece is a work of fiction and is not inspired or influenced by real events. It is neither written out of frustration nor depicted in an irritated tone. It is just a state-of-mind, which needed a wordy justice and I seriously think I haven’t failed in carrying it out to a readable extent.

A STORY OF A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

November 26, 2008 could have ended as just another day of my life, had I not read the headlines flashed at the bottom of every news channel. I clearly remember having come home a little late, settling down for dinner with my mother and making a comment, “I believe the underworld has struck again. The outrage is on road for certain”

My mother was startled and agreed with me on the same. But after thirty minutes we were forced to rethink. Something that seemed to be normal had the connotations of being insanely abnormal. All of a sudden, we felt as if the news channels were expressing their concerns over some miscreants at large. I once again felt that the top gang lords might have decided to strike their rivals from different parts of the city. But what surprised me was their preference of locations. It was reported that two assailants had opened fire at the Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus. Reports of firings at Leopold Café, The Oberoi Trident, Taj Mahal Palace & Tower, Nariman House and Cama Hospital started pouring in. I couldn’t bring myself to believe what seemed to me like rumors. But as the clock kept ticking, I found it difficult to remain aloof. I murmured, “Our city is under attack. The nation is under direct threat”

I couldn’t move. I lost interest in continuing with my dinner. The mention of Taj reminded me of something. One of my friends was associated with the Taj and so were his father and younger brother. I fished out his number but failed to establish any connection. After two hours of constant trials, I finally could reach his younger brother’s mobile. He left me in a state of shock by declaring that my friend was stuck inside the hotel. I couldn’t believe my ears and started praying. Later I felt pacified to know that he was alive but a bit shaken. The commandos had managed to bring him out of the hotel.

In the meanwhile, the news about Mumbai being under terror attack had already spread like wild fire in a jungle of dry woods. Three of the most renowned police officers were dead. I just couldn’t tolerate the insignificant treatment being administered to the situation. My mom asked me to sleep as it was too late. She rightly said that maybe it would be all over by the next day. I couldn’t agree more with her. But I definitely knew that it was not going to be a day to be easily forgotten. I either smsed or called up my friends to affirm their locations because they were all supposed to be at the terrorist attacked places.

I wanted to desperately start writing about the day in my diary. The terrifying face of a gun brandishing terrorist at the Chatraptati Shivaji Terminus, a video grab of dead bodies being brought out of the Taj and the breaking news of Hemant Karkare, Vijay Salaskar and Ashok Kamte’s death simply made me feel restless. I shunned everything around me and sat staring at my television. The screen looked so stark. I wanted to reach out to the many victims of the brutal assaults. I decided to stay awake all night. Extremely pained by the situation, I called up some of my closest of friends and relatives to know what they were doing at that moment. Every voice on the other end of the phone sounded aggrieved. I was angry. I just kept moving corner to corner in my drawing room. The television was getting starker and the news darker. I knew I had to attend office the other day. But it was my city, my birth place and my motherland that was under attack.

I stood at my gallery and looked at the sky above. Nothing seemed to be normal. The eerie silence of the night failed to impress me. Time and again, I kept looking at the television to just see devastation all around. The color of human blood, the chaos of inhuman tendencies and the chutzpah of fanatics had started taking its toll on me. At that moment, I was not in a position to make any opinion against any particular person, nation, religion or community. My concern was about the safety of mankind. Being a trotter across the city, every place that was mentioned of being attacked by terrorists left me feeling shattered. Even though my mom was asleep, she woke up too. At around 12.18 am, we both positioned ourselves in front of the television and never left the place. We were not watching a movie. We were not seeking entertainment. We were not being indifferent. But we had tears in our eyes. One question that kept bothering us was – WHY MUMBAI?

The question that kept bothering us had no definitive reply. Just like other onlookers and viewers, the restless duo of mother and son was also dealing with its own share of confusion. Every time I entered the kitchen to quench my thirst with water, my mother kept telling me of something new that might have popped up as a part of the ‘MUMBAI UNDER SEIGE’ reportage.

The experience couldn’t be forgotten so easily. Even today when I recollect that night, I realize how tremendously bitter I had felt from within. Not for a second had I batted an eyelid and neither had I expected a good beginning of the next day. All I can say at this moment is that I had for the first ever time experienced the most violently sleepless night of my lifetime. God bless the many souls, which didn’t deserve such a gruesomely unforeseen end. I truly love Mumbai, which has over the years helped me earn my bread and butter. I wish not to hate anybody but always sit praying that there is never a repeat run of November 26, 2008.

-vociferous

THOSE WHO MATTER/ THOSE WHO DON’T

Today at around 8:30 pm, on my super smart phone flashed a message – ONCE WE WERE FRIENDS, NOW TELL ME WHO I AM? Over the last few years, I have fallen prey to the addiction of changing my mobile handsets a bit too often. I am not a tech savvy person. But gadgets entice me. If the price suits me, I invest. If it doesn’t, I ignore. In case of mobile phones, whenever I have opted for a new one; I have randomly ended up deleting somewhat vital and somewhat ignorable numbers. This has resulted in two big problems: THE IGNORED BECAME IMPORTANT, THE IMPORTANT GOT IGNORED. Therefore I have somewhat started hating this ritual of shopping for brand new mobile phones. But the question remains – Who matters? Who Doesn't?

Such messages make me press the panic button. Do I ever know it might be a friend who needs me? Do I ever know it might be a foe who hates me? Some of them are intelligent enough to play mind games. I know of a certain breed, which begins by saying – LONG AGO WE USED TO CHAT SO OFTEN, I AM SURPRISED YOU DON’T REMEMBER ME ANY MORE. First and foremost the biggest confusion that arises is of the gender. I can never make out whether the sender is a male, female or a super power. Thereafter follows a vague memory – YOU WORE A WHITE SHIRT AND WERE FROWNING OVER A STAIN LEFT BY THE SAUCE I ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED OVER IT. I STILL FEEL SORRY. I am rendered speechless yet get no clue to who it is.

Sometimes I think if they really matter. Sometimes I think they do matter. I remember during many such exchanges, happiness has arrived from unknown quarters. I had expected them to be just a short lived moment, but they transformed into a lifelong beauty. I remember a similar incident taking place at around 3 am, deep in the dead of night and an eager morning on the brink. My mobile flashed two words – KNOCK, KNOCK. The sender of this message had perhaps forgotten to mention its name. When I enquired about the identity, a second message arrived and leaving me pleasantly surprised. But till date those two words have remained very important for me – KNOCK, KNOCK. These two words marked the beginning of a friendship that will never ever die. These two words marked the beginning of my reinstatement of faith, belief and trust in destiny. The sender was not just a human being but turned out to be a strong inspiration, a determined motivator and a generator of positive vibes.

It is moments as such when I again don the Thinking Cap and analyze – WHO MATTER? WHO DON’T? Another instance involved a man from down south India. The first message he had sent was of I LOVE YOU. Show me one man on this earth who won’t get thrilled unless it is a case of gender confusion and physical dissatisfaction! Excited, thrilled and curious, I dialed the number to know who this big fan of me was. Nothing could have been as heartbreaking as the information that poured in. When I dialed, the phone was answered on the last ring. I could clearly hear a hefty voice speaking in a heavy accent – KYA JEE, TUM KYA BOLA, NO HINDI, and ONLY KANNADA PLEASE. I probed further to be only informed that the mobile number belonged to a lowest graded police constable attached to a remote village based in Bangalore. He further clarified in broken Hindi and overcomplicated English that it was his brother-in-law who had decided to stay the night over with his family. To be believed/disbelieved, this sample piece pressed some keys which seemed to be preset defaults for customized sms’. As a result of which, three different people had been at the receiving end of – I LOVE YOUs. But what I still haven’t figured out, how did my number get chosen?

I could have easily freaked out but then couldn’t blame the police constable, who went to the extent of saying he was a very poorly paid man. On one hand, I was irritated and on the other hand, I was feeling a bit too sad about an honest constable thriving on limited resources. But my biggest turn off were those three words – I LOVE YOU. Did they really matter to me at the end of it? No! For the simple reason being, it was an accident.

Ten years have slipped away and I have so far repeatedly changed my mobile handsets. But at the end of it, the only issue that continues to linger – I ATTEND AND ADDRESS ONLY THOSE WHO MATTER. I IGNORE THOSE WHO DON’T.

-vociferous

A TRIBUTE TO THIRTEEN YEARS OF MY OVERREACTIONS

Till date I chose to maintain it as my best kept secret. I had discussed this idea with a select few and was waiting for the right time to finally begin. I resorted to soft skills of doing some PR activity for the same. I also spent a good amount of personal indulgence in creating the prelude. I continued procrastinating. I still console myself and might continue to do so in the forthcoming days talking to myself, “Maybe the moment has not arrived.”

But the moment has arrived to help me evolve. I am still not in a position to put a date or time to it; I am but excited to begin with it. The long cherished dream needs to come true. Thirteen years of my colorful experiences need to find a voice. I therefore have decided to finally put all my research together and start writing my first ever book. The title is very much in my mind. It is as selfish as me. It is as self-centered as my thoughts are. It is as arrogant as my appearance. It is as rude as my regular routines.

I don’t deem it an impulsive declaration. Neither do I want to big promises. But millions of reasons have compelled me to pay heed to the unattended diaries, which have been accumulating dust over the years. In these diaries are archived some of my bitter, better and brilliant PROFESSIONAL experiences. They have stood a witness to my professional journey, which I commenced on a rainy day in June 1998. The journey continues. Over the years, I have been both a mute and active participant in the eventualities of my professional life. On September 6, 2011 I still feel like a fresher and a learner who is out on the field with dreams in his eyes to make it big. I have no regrets on my wrong decisions and failed endeavors. I have also realized one vital truth about being a professional - NO MATTER HOW BIG YOUR EXPERIENCE IS, YOU WILL HAVE TO BRAVELY FIELD QUESTIONS THAT ARE HURLED FROM ALL THE INEXPERIENCED QUARTERS.

I am fine with it. But over the years, I have been seeing a major increase in this sector of absolute inexperience. Sometimes helplessly and most of the times deliberately, I have allowed myself to remain victimized by innocent but equally stupid observations of the inexperienced. Therefore I wish to make this new beginning.

I don’t intend to hurt sentiments. Neither am I going to reveal any deep secrets from the darkest chambers of my heart and mind. But what I intend to write in the form of my first ever book is a roller coaster ride. Every single day has been special in these last thirteen years. Be it the shortening of my seven lettered name to a four lettered nickname. Be it my first experience with office politics. Or be it the fiasco I got others involved into while mismanaging a celebrity event.

I am not an author by any chance. But I am definitely a creative writer or to be more precise – A Copywriter. Through this book of mine that I intend to write, I want to bring out the finest nuances of what it takes to survive in a competitive world. Over the years, I have seen the world change and also witnessed the paradigm changes the advertising industry has gone through. From reconstructing days of being on payroll to have continued as a consultant and from having freelanced to being a free bird, I wish to make this book a reading delight for my select audience that I might end up drawing.

Being my own book, I haven’t set a deadline for myself to begin writing it or finishing it. But I will see to it that I won’t waste much time in starting to bring this imagination of an idea to life. Though biographical, I have made a decision to present a fictional account of actual events, places, incidents and individuals. The characters are real. The mood of the book is going to be a mix of all – dark, humorous, shocking and sometimes a test of patience. Do I intend to make it a best seller? I am clueless. But I definitely want to get the book published and get some people to read it. I have a promotional plan in place to do so. Do I have the funds, if at all I need to publish it on my own? I believe in my conviction and wish to work hard to make this very dear dream of mine come alive.

This book, I wish to write is born out of a purpose.

This book, I wish to publish is born out of my inner angst.

This book, I wish to make the world read is born out of countless experiences.

My immense desire is to get two very special people to write the foreword to it, who initially were my clients and then became good friends. They have still not cut their links with me. I shall dedicate the book to my mother who is my inspiration, to my childhood friend & his wife and also to my other most vital core of courage.

I don’t want to give up, which might be an insult to the promises I have made.

I don’t want to disown or discontinue, which might be a betrayal to the faith of the dearest ones who have continuously coaxed me to just not imagine, talk or fantasize but write and fight for my own creative right.

I wish to sign off at this point and not wanting to talk too much about my own book. Otherwise the world or even my closest friends would think – The Self Boasting Idiot is at his usual best again. If I am an idiot, I am proud to be an idiot. But don’t we say, “Being an idiot is in vogue and the intelligent goes grazing on hay?”

-vociferous

MY MOM'S SPEECH

MY MOM, THE TEACHER
I, HER SON, HER DISCIPLE, HER FOLLOWER, HER STUDENT, HER DEVOTEE
JUST WANTED TO MAKE THIS TEACHERS DAY OF HER SPECIAL
IT TOOK ME JUST 20 ODD MINUTES
THE BEST I COULD DO WAS
WRITE A SPEECH FOR HER
SHE SPOKE AT HER SCHOOL
WHEN I CAME BACK IN THE EVENING AND ASKED HER, "MOM HOW WAS THE SPEECH?"
SHE SMILED AND REPLIED, "EVERYBODY LIKED IT"
I COULDN'T THINK OF A BETTER GIFT THAN HER SMILE AND MY TRUE DAKSHINA TO HER

The happiness of appreciation stands shared with three of my very best friends: Rohini Nair | Shankari Nandi | Malvika Sengupta

My friend, Malvika commented - (i have read the speech, and i think it would get featured in "the bestest teacher's day speech ever delivered" in your mom's school's annual mag!!!)


THE SPEECH:


"Instead of celebrating my birthday, it would be my proud privilege if 5 September is observed as Teachers’ Day."

A humble request or a desire conveyed to everyone who knew him as Dr. Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan. I therefore consider it my privilege to be given the opportunity of sharing my thoughts on such a precious day of this great human being whose thoughts will remain immortal.

Born on September 5, 1888 to a poor Telugu family that resided at Thiruttani and who lived a life of 86 years that was marked by knowledge, discipline, philosophy, interpretations and acclaims. When he breathed his last on April 17, 1975; our nation suffered an irreversible loss.

“Spiritual life is the genius of India”, he had said once. Being an educationist himself, he was endlessly inspired by this Indian prowess. He therefore went ahead to publish his works, with titles like: The Hindu View of Life | An Idealist View of Life | Eastern Religions and Western Thought | Religion and Society | The Dhammapada | The Principal Upanishads | Recovery of Faith | A Source Book in Indian Philosophy

It was Dr. Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan, who had once expressed - A life of joy and happiness is possible only on the basis of knowledge and science.

Knowledge that we impart through our teaching and knowledge imbibed from books we introduce our students to. In the great visionary’s own words, “Reading a book gives us the habit of solitary reflection and true enjoyment.”

The changes of times are also getting reflected in the Guru-Sheeshya relationship. Today teachers and students have become partners in the journey of knowledge. The new generation is spending more time on the Internet and is aspiring to self-learn everything even before he begins a morning in a school. But does that make us teachers less significant? It is not a question but a thought that finds its true calling in Dr. Radhakrishnan’s discourse “Knowledge gives us power, love gives us fullness”. Other tools of communication might be an add-on to the process of acquiring knowledge. But the love that we shower on our students makes them remember us forever.

So let us come together on this Teacher’s Day to gift our students and ourselves a future of better education, genuine thoughts and honest conduct. Let us dream a tomorrow to be treasured for centuries because we are a democratic nation, so beautifully described by Dr. Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan – “Democracy is a faith in the spiritual possibilities of not a privileged few but of every human being.”

Let us adopt a Human Approach again to educate, to inculcate and to inspire the future of us.

Thank You.

-vociferous

A CONVERSATION

I believe in the philosophy of clear conversations
clear and precise conversations help in defying boundaries.
they help us explore our inner self.
therefore i chose to converse today.
for days i was witnessing the poetry that those eyes were creating.
and the universe that smile was creating.
Finally i chose a language of smile to express what i had perceived.
finally i let my inner self to do all the talking.
i am happy i continued with my mission of making someome smile effortlessly.
hoping that the conversations imbibe some magnificent dimensions.
i sign off today being vociferous again.
i look forward to the emergence of a new phase of smiling conversations.
-vociferous

UNMASKED FACES

In life if I've hated something the most, it has to be pretensions of people who assure to be by your side and are a perfect moron behind the back. They keep stabbing you with a smile and continue being in your good books. The stupid self trusts such people so dearly, it is hard to reveal their true identity. Thankfully through social networking sites, I've unmasked such hypocrites and have remained silent. Not only that, these same bunch of idiots have gone to others and called me a hypocrite. I've just laughed at them but not vociferously. In their complaints, I have discovered loads of insecurity, fear of competition and lack of merit. They have boldly told me that my outer appearance is that of an arrogant, heartless and merciless introvert. Once again, I am not an introvert and I don't have to be outspoken about me being 'The Extrovert'. Not that I've never ever lied in my life. But atleast I've not claimed to be a purist or a saint. When I look around, I find these hypocrites crawling like earthworms. Some claim to be dedicated to their ideals in life. But where are the ideals, I ask? And they reply with a poker face - Well, I am very uncertain about! So, it is time for such jugheads, half-headed idiots to shut their mouth and talk straight to me. There comes a time in life, when we have to say by hook or by crook that I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! But I am still being patient (which is very unlikely of me). Because I know, one day the time shall arrive for that perfect PAYBACK.

- vociferous

DISCLAIMER: My language might be bitter, harsh and extremely offending. But when the mind gets sick of those masked, civilised morons; S#!T happens and I vent out my frustration through my writing.

In life and in DEATH

My Dear Beloved Dead,

So far this has been the most seductive affair. I’ve never found someone so committed, dedicated and addicted to me. Moreover, I believe it has lasted so long because you had started so early with me! It is said, the first time is a moment etched deep in our memory cells. This is a very special moment which can never be erased, forgotten and disagreed upon.

I am really thankful to your friend, who coaxed you hard in making me your own. I still remember it was his fifteenth birthday, a good three months later than you. He started by teasing you that you are not man enough. You were clueless, whether this is really a man thing. Torn apart between ideals instilled in you by your parents and ideals you were getting introduced to in the company of your so called progressive friends. Your mind was at war with your soul.

It was not just your friend alone but also the others present at the party who insisted you need to experiment once. You were immensely shy and reluctant about how to and where to start from, you demanded to be left in solitude. You were therefore pushed into a room, the door locked and in complete darkness you were both excited and exasperated to lose what you had held so precious.

You drew me closer. From top to bottom, your eyes preyed on me. The movement of your tongue was something; I could still not get off my mind. I’ve been a muse to many. But you were the best of all. You held me against you like one of those Hollywood stars who don’t waste a moment to turn romantic at the sight of a revealing fairer sex. I realised the indulgence had begun. Finally I was touched by the warmth of your red as cherry lips. You were no more untouched. Your friends had finally succeeded in making you do the man thing. You put your machismo in full display. Driven by the attitude of having achieved something that was so far forbidden, you threw open the door. You stepped out in style, looked at your friends and brushed your lips against me. I still can’t tell you the sensation that ran through within me. You had made me yours. Whatever happened inside was far more interesting than what you were planning to do outside. Everyone in the party could smell the experience; you have had in that locked room and in solitude, only with me around.

I was enjoying this inseparability. I appreciate the time, you gave me and to be with me. I still remember when your parents had gone out for a wedding somewhere out of the town. They had informed you of their two day stay there. You dialled up your friends and called them over for a night of passion, patriarchy and pleasure. Slowly in the middle of night, you threw open the window and pulled me so close that for a moment, I thought you will gulp me off. Caressed by the blowing breeze and pampered by the cool moonlight, you romanced me incessantly. Not once but you chose to have a good time at least thrice in one night. Your friends were red with envy. It was they, who had introduced me to you and now I had become an integral part of everything you did.

You put me first every time you had to make a decision. Your life had changed. The romance was in full bloom. Your academic performance kept deteriorating and you were completely smitten by me. You had no issues having anyone else in life because you were proud of my presence in your life. For every date that you made so special for me, you even mustered the courage to steal money from your dad’s lockers. But I grew your biggest fan and my love for you grew, when you blatantly lied to your mother while helping me sneak into your bathroom. You had always cherished the memory of having me in your bathroom. Finally that day, you did the unthinkable in the presence of your parents. You were unstoppable. The door was closed. I knew nothing could deter you from staying mine. I did hear the bang on the door. It was your dad. But you were lost in me. You didn’t really care about who was on the door or what the purpose of that bang was.

In your final year of college, the academic reports were not at all impressive. The principal called up your parents to tell them how miserably you had failed in three subjects. It was your principal, whom I still consider my biggest enemy. He never spoke about my presence in your life, while you were in his chamber. That bald headed gentle thwarter only spoke about you and me, when you stepped out of his chamber. I knew something was just not right. Whatever we had between us, seemed to end soon.

On our way back home, when you helped me hide quite intelligently in the car; I heard your father say something like, “I am ashamed of you being my son, my only child, my only pride. I gave you everything that you demanded or desired. And in return, you gave us disgrace. How could you do something so bloody frustrating? Not only have you performed below expectancy but you have ruined your future. You have to bid goodbye or you will have to face dire consequences.” More disheartening was your mother’s comment who said, “You are not the son I had given birth to.”

I was so shaken by these comments; I committed the mistake of making an opinion against you. My views started changing about you. At a time when I should have supported you by being cooperative; I started hatching a revenge plan. Those beautiful moments of togetherness in the past had started pricking me hard. I decided to make a rebel out of you. I am extremely proud of that moment, when some relatives had come to your place. Your father informed you that he is trying to find you a suitable match. From your bedroom, I could see how beautiful this prospective bride of yours was. Your eyes ignited. I started sulking. But I knew you so well by now that I was sure you will do something, which will jeopardise the situation. After shamelessly smiling at your so called fiancée, you rushed back to your bedroom and brought me out. Your father was stunned by my presence. Your mother closed her eyes. And the so called relatives were miffed to see you with me. I loved to break the girl’s heart with stars in her eyes. I was not ready to part you with her. And neither were you able to arrive at terms to sacrifice me for someone else. But that girl had something in her. You started seeing her quite often and left me sulking and craving for you. My feelings of avenging your ignorance of me started getting intense. One night, you arrived late. You were feeling proud that you had joined your father’s business and had a lovely girl by your side to be your wife. You looked at me and maybe for once you might have revived every moment you spent with me.

I am thankful to you that you didn’t abandon me completely. Every alternate night, you were the usual passionate self and performed the best with me. I was enjoying this ambiguity. You were still dedicated to me.

Finally my day of triumph arrived. Without letting me know, how sharply you got your engagement planned and organised. I was amused to see the same group of friends who had made us come together, now congratulating you on your so called animosity against me. Little did they know that I was going to play a major role in your downfall. Rings were exchanged, cake was cut, pleasantries exchanged and near & dear one’s hugged. I couldn’t have imagined a better moment to strike hard than this one. After dinner you bid adieu to your fiancée and her family. How romantic it was to see you murmur in her ears and promise her of making a call in the midnight. After they were gone, you turned to your friends and decided that you will take advantage of me for one last time. This time, it was not going to be in solitude but in public and in their presence. I waited patiently with deep breath. This was the last time; I was going to be with you. This was the last time; I will see you smile. The future that you were envisioning was going to transform into something so dark, it would only make me proud. You took me out of your bedroom and like a beast; bit my back by your sharp teeth. You seemed to be in no mood to have mercy on me. Rather than being gentle, you were harsh, heartless and horrible in pulling me close to you. Once again your lips touched me and before you could feel me pleasantly, I retaliated.

I triumphed by getting to see you fall breathlessly. You were feeling choked. I could hear the eerie noise of a cough that ejected out of your mouth. I was watching with pride the way you were trembling. Your eyeballs rolled and you cried for help. You kept screaming about a severe pain in your throat. You were gasping for breath. You were clueless and so were your friends. You couldn’t speak. You kept coughing. Your phone rang. It was your bloody fiancée. One of your friends answered the call and informed her that you have to be immediately rushed to a hospital. You were in pain. A pain that gave me joy! I wanted to see you die. I silently said to you, “How does it feel you idiot to shatter my dreams of a life of togetherness with you?” You didn’t even have the time to give me an angry stare. At the reception itself, I think the doctor must have made out what the problem was. As you were taken inside, I looked at you; how helplessly you were staring at me. Because this time, I was not with you but with a close friend of yours.

After a turbulent night, the doctor allowed your parents to enter your room. Luckily it was your friend, with whom I managed an entry into your hospital room. In one night, you had turned into my most helpless victim. When you saw me with your friend, you wanted to scream against what I had done to you. But did you even have the voice to do so? It was not me, who wanted to be in your life, but it was you who made me come to your life. I was kicked to see you lose your voice. You will no more be able to talk to that beautiful girl. And after what you have done to me, I will see to it that I keep you alive no more. I was thrilled to hear your doctor say, “He has developed throat cancer and his hope of staying alive is extremely next to impossible.”

Oh yes! Before I depart, let me tell you, “You are not my first victim. Millions of people around the world are my victims. And they will continue to be so, till the time they take a stand against me. But don’t worry; I’ve a strong lobby that will never let me die. So happy dying you bloody smoker!”

With lots of love and sweet betrayal,
Yours forever in life and definitely in death,
Cigarette

On account of NO TOBACCO DAY, I dedicate this blog post to the many victims who fall prey to the ill-habit of smoking cigarettes. Nothing to gain from this habit, cancer is something that is the only definitive cure in helping them get rid of this habit.

-vociferous
(Inspired by a an experimental piece of writing, which I had co-written with my creative buddy)

(S)tumbling back ;)

My last post on my own blog was on January 10, 2011 at 2.10 am in the morning with a title very close to my heart - LOVE (Part 2: A feeling that leaves you incomplete). Today it is May 25, 2011 and it is sharp 1.10 am that I’ve started writing my new post. Four months is long time enough, to make the followers of my blog; believe or rather grow convinced about a ‘not-so-burning’ reality that I might be lethargic or disinterested in reactivating my most passionate habit/hobby of blogging.

The wait has not been easier. I was on pursuit of the right kind of inspiration. I just did not want to start writing all over again without a specific purpose or subject in consideration. In between the two posts, a lot has happened!

I traveled twice to my home town. I met with an accident that rendered me immobile for one whole month. I visited two most beautiful coastal towns of India. I watched movies – some insensible and some definitely sensible. I drove long miles on my bike. I reconnected with friends. I disconnected with my unknown self. I revived my passion of writing my favorite diary every night (no matter, how tired I am). Discontinuation of long hand writing has made me realize that I take a little more time to write with an ink pen in my hand. I made new friends. I danced all night with someone I met for the first time. I sung. I jumped. I drank. I swam. I dreamt. I read. I did everything that was good enough to act as a trigger to make me write again for my personal blog.

I would still say this momentary interval is far more less than the one I had taken between March 2008 and October 2008. Till date, I am unaware what had gone wrong with me? Thanks to my mom and my friends and definitely followers of my blog, who shook me up and made me reboot my mind. There I was writing again. But this recent gap of four months was a bit self imposed one and also a bit helpless one. A lot was happening around me. I also developed a new kind of addiction for facebook. Ever since I’ve subscribed to sms updates for uploading my status on facebook, it has been a joyride of sorts for me. One of my Delhi based friend rightly commented on my facebook wall – “one of the most avid facebookers that i've known”! I too realized how much I had grown an addict of the social networking phenomenon. Not only did this comment set the pace for my thinking process but it also made me wake up to the fact that its been long I had given up blogging or rather sacrificed blogging for facebooking.

I had also stopped visiting twitter. Some of my friends once again inquired – Where are the tweety days? To which, I had no reply. Thereafter began my pursuit for inspiration. The biggest bank of inspiration has been the Indian Railways. Traveling by the train has been my most enjoyable experience ever since my childhood days. But those were the dreamy days of traveling well-protected with my mother or father. Having attended adulthood and to earn my livelihood when I started traveling alone, my perceptions shattered. The travelers no more seemed friendly. It was painful to revive good old memories of being called by an uncle to be on the window. Now the window seat or a vacant space near the window had suddenly become a reason of everyday wars/battles/conflicts. A reason to board the train while in motion. A reason to badmouth a newcomer. A reason to wake up early and rush… It is almost thirteen years of continuous travel and evolving experiences. The latest threat I issued to an irritating passenger was - "Itna berehami se todunga tujhe ke tere purzo ka judna bhee mushkil ho jayega...” In the past 13 years, I have also turned into a keen observer of my fellow passengers. That keenness came handy recently when I needed inspiration to start rewriting posts for my blog. I have fifteen odd stories that are real and evolved during train journeys. The characters are real and extremely interesting to be known. I did overhear some conversations a bit to add realism to my writing. I am simply dying to present the bouquet of (now) 15 stories. So far the count is restricted to 15. Maybe the number might increase but not decrease.

Coming back to blogging seems like homecoming from a distant destination after a long time. I also am looking forward to reactivate my sleeper blogs on travel, story telling and creativity. They have been lying unattended to such an extent that at times even I forget to have created them for personal creative satisfaction.

Reading too has helped to a major extent. Daily editions of Hindustan Times, monthly subscription copies of OPEN Magazine, Sunday MidDay and E-Books have enriched my mind, my soul and my vision to restart blogging. And also a big thank you to the Internet for being my bed partner. I was missing blogging so much that I even wrote a status - Don't ask me who I am... Maybe I've become someone else. Someone who seems to be a complete stranger, even to me! Comments to which were simply interesting!

I know even though my desire is to end up writing at least one post for my blog every day. It is close to being impossible. Other than blogging, I’ve to travel to office every day to again get my mind indulged in the art of thinking, writing and creating.

The tentative topics that I shall be soon readying for release online are as follows:

TRAINSPOTTING – 15 (or more) human stories of train travelers

TO MY MOTHER… Not on Mother’s Day! But every day.

A TALE OF TWO SISTERS – A professor and an ad executive

THE DRAWER OF SUBDUED MEMORIES – Personal something’s

AN OLD HABITAT REVISITED – Neighbors who always cared for

TWO LIVES – Kool Kappy & Avatar

Finally…
Sitting by the banks of River Ganges in Kolkata
Walking alone on the Marine Drive in Mumbai
Visiting the Jehangir Art Gallery with a very special friend
Driving through the Bandra-Worli sea link
Silence of a creative buddy

Has paid off well. I am back to the bloody old good habit of BLOGGING.

See you soon...

- vociferous

LOVE (Part 2: A feeling that leaves you incomplete)

Ever since Mac had known Flavia, he had found her to be ambitious, vivacious and positive. Mac never could forget the moment when he had proposed Flavia. She was just another girl in the fashion school with stars in her eyes that had entered NIFT, to make it big some day as a fashion designer. It was on one of the many monthly party’s that Flavia had confided in him. She had expressed to him that she would rather wear some glamorous dresses designed for her in stead of spending hours thinking and designing them for some one else. From that day and thereafter Mac and Flavia kept getting closer. On a Christmas Eve in Goa, Mac proposed to Flavia with his friends in full attendance. On the very next day that is on December 25, 2006 they got married. For the first beautiful night they spent by the beach, Mac and Flavia conversed endlessly and became one beneath the silent skies.

May 12, 2008 Mac eagerly waited for the Cathay Pacific flight to touch base. He was carrying a special gift for Flavia. She had by now become an international sensation. Her very first movie had won 12 Golden Globes. In the Oscars, they ruled. Every newspaper screamed that Flavia’s debut was a success and the movie had put India in the centre of a global debate for being represented as the hotbed of experimental films in future. Mac was enjoying every moment of it. The Indian paparazzi though not strong kept their cameras ready to capture the first glimpse of Flavia. Mac thought to himself, “She was always a star. And I am now a star husband. Wow”. Lost in his thoughts, Mac suddenly got pushed away. The flight had landed. The media broke all barricades. There was a chaos like situation. The gift that Mac carried had disappeared. Before he could go in search of it, he looked at the TV screen which was flashing live images of Flavia and her co-star who was 4 years younger to her. The reporter said, “First they were rumored to be a couple. But this kiss out here depicts the seriousness of the bond they share”. Mac was shattered.

Next day morning, every newspaper carried the same story – Flavia & British born Indian actor Jack Mehta make their relationship official. Mac read through them. One of India’s most prominent news daily carried a full page photograph of Flavia proclaiming in bold letters – I WAS NEVER MARRIED, I AM SINGLE AND HAPPY TO BE WITH JACK. The story emerged like a bubble, the media raised it like a storm, Mac gave up the hope, Flavia signed some more Hollywood films and Jack Mehta went public with his relationship with Flavia, their intimate photographs & secret videos. Three months later, Mac’s body was found hanging from the same hotel room; he had once spent the night together with Flavia in Goa on their wedding day. The filmy scandal seemed to have died a silent death. But Pritish never could get out of his mind.

Pritish Ganguli was going through a rough patch. Mac’s story brought back memories of a past, he had never wanted to imagine about. He was amused by the similarities or rather the situations. He said nothing. He clutched the paper declaring Mac’s death and stared at the four page story for hours. July 15, 1998; Pritish was in a party with his friends. The party was a modest one at one of the finest Udipi restaurants close to Matunga station. A select few of his college friends were with him. Nakul was his closest and best friend. Along with Nakul were Satish, Rageshwari, Adhyuman and Vidula. Almost everyone knew Pritish had feelings for Vidula. Both had never denied or defended any rumors about them. Vidula always was a bit more confident. Her father was associated as an active member with a very famous political party. She was immensely beautiful and a stern believer in Maharasthrian culture. Pritish thought this was just the right moment. After every one left, Pritish request Vidula to wait for some while to give him company for a dessert. Nakul along with Satish waited outside the restaurant. Pritish slowly held Vidula’s hand and popped the question, “Will you marry me?”

Stunned, surprised and speechless; Vidula had tears in her eyes and she just left the restaurant in a jiffy. Seeing her coming out in tears, Nakul was worried and Satish a bit outraged. For days, Vidula and Pritish didn’t speak to each other. One evening, Vidula called up Pritish to meet up. “My father would never agree to this”, said Vidula. She cited reasons of a culture divide. She felt Pritish being a Bengali; she might never be able to adjust. And her father would never agree, who was known to be a bit of a disciplinarian. Finding no way out, Pritish called up Nakul. Satish was a witness to the conversation Pritish had with Nakul and stepped ahead to lend a helping hand. Like a true friend, he called up Vidula and asked her to meet up at the same restaurant, Pritish had proposed her. As planned, Pritish and Nakul joined later. For more than two hours, possibilities, probabilities and plans were discussed. Pritish went home satisfied that Vidula seemed to be at ease. Thereafter Nakul, Satish, Pritish and Vidula started bonding thick. Pritish being employed started getting busier by the day and restless by evening. Nakul got busy with his studies for banking exams. Satish set out on a search for job too. Vidula started helping her father’s political endeavors.

Three months passed away, Pritish and Vidula had kept in touch over phone. But whenever Pritish requested Vidula to meet up, she turned it down. As the time for election of the party president’s post started drawing closer, Vidula continued getting more untraceable. In the midst of all this, Satish had made his way to the good books of Vidula’s father. One day as Pritish waited to grab a smoke by a cigarette shop, he saw a rally passing. Vidula’s father was waiving his hand at people around. Vidula was sitting beside her. In front of the car were dancing two figures – Satish and Vidula’s brother Vishesh. He was stumped by the development. Vidula didn’t answer any of Pritish’s calls. Satish didn’t have a phone. Vidula’s brother Vishesh hated Pritish for being in continuous pursuit of fame. Pritish continued getting restless. Till one day, he stood outside a Cineplex to catch up a smoke. There was too much rush around him. The 3 pm show was over. People had started walking out of the Cineplex. He watched every one around. As he stood their staring, Pritish was stunned to find Vidula boarding a rickshaw. Before he could call out her name, he saw Satish running behind her and quickly jumping into the rickshaw. As he moved back, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Vidula’s brother stood behind him and remarked, “They are in love, and you better make your way mister Bengal Tiger”.

Outraged, Pritish called up Nakul. By a silent lakeside Nakul and Pritish sat speechless for two hours. Nakul finally mustered some courage and told Pritish, “Vidula and Satish want to get married”. Nakul told him how while Satish tried brokering peace between Vidula and Pritish had fallen for her. Vidula’s parents had already accepted Satish as their prospective son-in-law. And Vishesh was too fond of him. Pritish was shattered because he got to know all of this from Nakul. Satish was Nakul’s childhood friend.

“I shall quench my thirst with his blood”, yelled Pritish. After a while, Satish emerged from behind Nakul and told Pritish, “I will die but I will not allow you to ever get Vidula’s love”. In the next three months, Pritish learnt how Satish’s assurances of brokering peace was nothing was just a ploy to win over Vidula. He had fallen in love with her the first day; he had seen her at Pritish’s party. In 2001, Vidula and Satish got married. On Nakul’s insistence, Pritish attended the wedding. On climbing the dais to congratulate the couple, Pritish and Satish came face to face. Pritish said nothing to both. As he climbed down, he heard Vishesh saying, “You know that is Pritish. He really tried hard but failed miserably. I shouldn’t be saying this but I think, I would have liked Vidula to get married to some one like him. I feel so sad for him”.

Pritish abandoned the thought of love while Nakul moved ahead with life. He bagged a prestigious job in a reputed bank. After his parents were certain that their only child was earning well, they found a perfect match for him in Aruna Keny. An engineer by profession, she was ready to accept Nakul as her husband. Nakul never had a scandalous reputation. Clean, composed and in control; Nakul was a happy man. Pritish stood by his friend’s side. Nakul left for his honeymoon after three days. He was very happy about his trip to Shimla. Aruna looked stunning. After two days since Nakul left, Pritish sat smoking and writing about how Nakul’s wedding was a beautiful union. As he kept smoking, he didn’t realize night had ended and a new day had begun. He switched on his mobile phone and received the first call from Satish. He was outraged again. He didn’t want to answer the call but somehow he said, “Hello”.

“Aruna is no more”, screamed Satish over the phone.
“Shut up, you b@#$%”, replied Pritish.

After 24 hours of the phone call, Nakul walked out of the airport and broke down in Pritish’s arms. Aruna had suffered a brain hemorrhage and had succumbed instantly while they were out on a site visit. Pritish cried like a child along with Nakul. Within a span of six months, Nakul’s parents got him married to Kalpana against his wish. Kalpana worked with a finance solutions company. In six months, she turned Nakul’s life into hell. Both filed for a divorce while Pritish stood witness to the hara-kiri.

Stella Roy was the first every Bengali Catholic girl, Pritish had ever met. Pritish was going through divorce and depression. Nakul was going through a divorce. Nakul never went out looking for love. Pritish had found love in Stella. Both started courting each other. But Stella had a past. She was nursing a broken heart and a failed relationship. Nothing mattered, Pritish just wanted to get married to Stella. One night as he was leaving office, Pritish’s mobile rang. The voice on the other end introduced him of being Stella’s jilted lover. He declared of having consumed poison and Pritish heard Stella screaming on the background how she still loved her jilted lover. After two days, Pritish met Stella and bid good bye to her. She boarded the train. She was in tears. Pritish never looked back.

Six years later, Pritish and Nakul found themselves in Goa vacationing together. Both were single, fighting divorce, drinking, smoking and driving. Pritish held up the cigarette, buried it in the sand and declared – THIS IS MY LAST. Nakul never smoked, drunk or flirted with woman.

Pritish arrived home back to his mother. He stumbled across an old telephone diary and fished for Stella’s number. He dialed her residence number. Her mother informed that she was no more staying with them but was now married to Rakesh Lohar, had converted to Hindu and had a mobile number. Pritish called her up to wish her on her birthday. Stella was surprised to hear Pritish speak to her six years later. Pritish never called her up again. Till one day, Pritish sent out a group sms thanking everyone for being a friend and one of the sms got delivered to Stella. She couldn’t control her urge, called up Pritish and both decided to meet up. At Café Coffee Day, Stella sat sobbing over Pritish’s shoulder narrating him the story how Rakesh had turned her life into hell. Both departed on a note of coming together. Pritish found Stella a good lawyer to take up her case. Pritish then took her to the church, where Stella promised to be with him forever. Four months passed by, Stella never spoke to her lawyer and one thing that got Pritish amused about her was Dilip. He was her office colleague. She never had lunch without him and they both exchanged gifts. On being questioned, Stella lost her cool. Pritish chose to remain silent over the issue. Stella’s lawyer called up Pritish and told her how Stella had ignored her phone calls and was not ready to allow a certain Dilip to be cross examined for her divorce proceedings. Frequent fights kept taking place between Pritish and Stella. One fine day, Pritish decided to end it once and for all. A few more months went by. Stella and Pritish got together once again to rekindle the relationship. But Pritish realized how Dilip had gained control of Stella’s mind and life. Rakesh, her husband had long lost the battle against her obsession for Dilip.

Nakul decided to stay single. Pritish seconded his opinion till he came to know about Ishika. He came to know her through a common friend. Ishika had a painful past quite similar to that of Pritish. Very few knew why Pritish’s wedding had failed. The girl he had married had turned out to be a schizophrenic. Ishika and Pritish started chatting regularly. And one day Ishika expressed her desire to take the friendship ahead. Pritish wanted to keep his side clean. He ended up telling Ishika the story of his life. He was deep into a legal tangle over his divorce. Ishika was already over with her divorce. She realized that Pritish being a rigid individual, the possibilities of a divorce didn’t appear soon. Sophisticatedly she started ignoring Pritish and one fine day sent him an sms saying – WE HAVE NO FUTURE TOGETHER.

Flavia was sent behind bars for having posed objectionably for a fantasy magazine meant for men. Nakul’s case was drawing closer to an abrupt conclusion. Stella had finally found true love in Dilip. Pritish had joined an MNC. Ishika climbed to the position of a Vice President in Corporate Relations. Satish and Vidula welcomed a baby boy.

Pritish envisioned freedom. He joined the MNC and was happy till one day he received a call from an NGO. The voice on the other end introduced herself as Shona. On inquiring, she confirmed to Pritish that was her name. Pritish liked her voice and the confidence in it. He ended up not just conversing but promising a certain amount towards the NGO. Somewhere deep in his heart, Pritish wanted to know Shona. He eagerly waited for her call to come. But that never came. So he sent a sms to the number, he had received the call from. Finally she replied. Both became friends. Shona was a dreamer. She was in love, she was in pain and she wanted to get single again. Her childhood love was taking her nowhere and Pritish wanted to just fall in love with her. Finally one day, Pritish expressed himself. Shona being mature lent an ear to him and quietly smiled. They both found each other on one of the world’s busiest social networking sites. And then Pritish came to know about Shona’s sister Prema. Like Shona, she was a dreamer, a lover, a sister and a doting daughter. Pritish kept repeating his request to Shona. But Shona had some other dreams. The age difference between Shona and Pritish just acted as the reason to mark the beginning of a never ending friendship.

Today Shona and Pritish are best of friends. Prema is looking forward to get her book of love letters published, which she has written generously for her boyfriend. Pritish only prays that this friendship never ends. Nakul continues to be single and so does Pritish.

Flavia is now a big name in Hollywood. Jack Mehta is no more dating her. Pritish is sitting on a bench, clutching a newspaper with a headline printed in bold – LOVE IS LABOR LOST. He folds it, puts it in his bag and smiles at the kid sitting by his side. He asks the kid, her name. She replies, “My parents call me Love. What do you wish to call me?”

Pritish looks around and somehow guesses the kids parents. As he nears them, he hears the lady saying, “After three years of love, five years of marriage and a child like Love, you mean to say you love me no more! And now that you have decided to end this, let me tell you I am in love too.”

Pritish realizes – I am single and love did come my way but after listening to this how it just left me feel incomplete.

- vociferous

LOVE (Part 1: As an emotion, an experience and an enigma)

It needs no prefix, no suffix.
It needs no introduction, no description.
It needs no reason, no aim.
It needs no time, no notion.

All it needs is a HEART…

To write about,
To think about,
To spread about,
To paint about,
To discover about,
To imagine about,
To create about,
To converse about,

LOVE is…

The purest emotion in universe,
The unchallenged truth in ages,
The most treasured relationship of centuries,
The only emotion that possibly has no substitute!

And if you haven’t felt/realised the power of love,
Try this out…

Just when the world mutes its chaos and goes silent,
Place your hand on your heart.
The pounding that you sense,
Is not just the heartbeat…!
But the humming of a tune only you can listen.
The tune is that of love and longing.

Keep listening to your heart, it hums often.
No one in this world has remained ungifted by this hum.

Not a single legendary poet, writer or the greatest and the unheard of personalities have remained untouched by the magic of Love.

The only difference is they interpreted it differently.

Shakespeare infused the ingredients of crime in it. Tagore blended it with jealousy. Sarat Chandra enriched it with loss. Ghalib sung it in his ghazals. Khusroo described it in his nazams. Rumi wrote it often. Sufis spread it as a message to bring about peace, unity and integrity.

Described in most beautiful words, depicted in most beautiful situations and often demonstrated with purity; LOVE certainly is beautiful.

Love arrives unannounced. It makes no sound. It just happens. Just when you think, there is no one to look up to; it is always advisable to look around. Perhaps an unpredictable smile, perhaps a harmless whisper, perhaps a surprising wink, perhaps a request… kicks starts the chemistry.

Love is certainly chemistry with no formulas. Written in many languages, understood through many signs and symbols; it means one and the only thing - Love. Nothing changes around Love. But Love changes a lot around you. You start liking what you never liked. And you do what you always wanted to.

It is an experience; every one goes through in life. And some go through it several times. But Love is felt only when it comes straight from the heart. Pretensions never help. Love doesn’t demand promises. Understanding is what it demands. Faith is what it craves for. Trust is what it prophesises.

Love is not easy; love definitely is difficult but not impossible. Like the wise men say, “Falling in love is very easy but shouldering its responsibility is tough”. Not every one is able to triumph over the odds. Some hearts break even before their heartbeats become one. Some desires die even before they start aspiring.

Love is a journey to be fulfilled and not left half way. Some board a train and disappear forever. Some wait at the platform to see the train come back. The train keeps coming back, but true love never takes a ‘U’ turn. But true love does take the effort to come back one day and smile straight on your face. It does happen. Bitterness doesn’t come in Love without a specific reason. There are lot of things, which keep acting against love to make it bitter.

Some make fun of love. Some claim it to be farce. Some blame it to be a waste of time. But love in itself is like life. It breathes, it survives, it jumps, it collides, it slips and it balances.

Love is to be respected and not to be regretted. The mind has to stay open to embrace Love. The heart has to be spotless to feel the magic of love. God created it, humans borrowed it. Some turned it into gold. Some transformed it into a palace of grief.

Over the years, the dimensions of love have changed. With time, love has become cup of coffee which is over poured. It is sad that some have made love an excuse to climb ladders of gains.

Love isn’t a game and it is not about gains for sure. It is sometimes enigmatic. It also becomes difficult to make out whether it is true love or at times just infatuation. When a heart breaks, humans alone don’t shed tears. Love sits by the side and cries equally. Love has no roof over its head. It lives in hearts. And when hearts break, it wanders homeless.

So if love comes your way, don’t shut the doors of your heart, don’t bolt the windows of your mind, don’t pull the shutter of your ears and don’t deceive yourself… Just let it happen. Because over a period of time, you will realise LOVE IS SHEER MAGIC, WHICH TRANSFORMS LIFE INTO SOMETHING WORTH LIVING FOR…!

Love is special, it never goes away…
It walks beside us every day, every moment…
Unseen, unheard,
Still near, still special…
Still missed and still very dear,
Love craves for a roof over its head…
Don’t abandon it, don’t turn it away.
Embrace it, pamper it and make it your own…

Because LOVE IS BEAUTIFUL, WHICH MAKES LIFE BEAUTIFUL…
If you love somebody, say I LOVE YOU.
And even if your love is met with denial, go ahead and say I STILL LOVE YOU.
Something which might not happen instantly might happen someday…

So… Live, Love and Long for more Love to come your way…

- vociferous

MY 100TH POST

Before I start, I would like to quote Gulzarsaab.
Reproduced below are the translated lines of his most renowned song from the movie ‘Parichay’. Sung by the eternal Kishoreda and composed by the immortal Panchamda. I can relate a lot to this song. Because this is how, I arrived to my blogging hobby too.

The song goes…

“Musafir hoon yaaron… na ghar hai naa thikana
Mujhe chalte jaana hai; buss chalte jaana”

The translation is equally sweet… which now a part of my profile posted on facebook is given below:

I am but a wanderer, my friends
No home, no address
Wandering is all I am here to do

Where one road stops
Another joins
When I turn
The road too
Curves along with me

I nestle
On the wings of the wind
I am but a wanderer

The day takes my hand
Brings me here
The night beckons me
And calls me there

The dusk and the dawn
I have as my friends
I am but a wanderer

I too am a wanderer.
This wandering of mine began in the year with the first blog entry I posted.

Today is November 18, 2010.
It was September 19, 2005 when I had posted my first blog entry.
Blogging was a whole new world to me.
In bits and pieces, in scribbles and doodles, in cartoon strips and pullouts, in emails and smses; somewhere I read something about blogging.
The entire world was talking about how blogging was turning out to be the next big phenomenon.
Some were doing it for a social cause.
Some were posting entries for a strong purpose.
Some were revealing their fantasies.
Some were unveiling secrets, the media would use to fill tabloids or flood the television screens.
Unknown truths were being revealed.
Revolutions were being fuelled.
Speeches were made available.
To sum it up, the Indian Superstar Mr. Amitabh Bachchan too got bit by this bug.
Then followed, Aamir Khan.
Facebook, Orkut, Twitter… From macro to micro; blogs were happening.
But I was already on it.
The first entry of mine was a reproduction of an article that had got published in a Bengali bulletin, Pratibimba (The Reflection); which is still available on demand. A bald headed gentleman, supported by his very loving wife still continues to publish it. His labour of love, his wife’s dream of a mouthpiece pulled out the writer in me. They both made me write for their magazine. I charged them nil. But thanks to their love and support. Thanks to every effort they made to make me write for them.

But I wanted to stop writing for them. I was not for charity.

The reason or rather reasons were simple… I was restless, I was unabashed, I was stubborn, I was unstoppable, I was impatient and I was faceless. All I wanted to do was to start writing in a way that made me feel good about. Every word that I brought together with other words to form a sentence intrigued me to keep going ahead and produce paragraphs that I would enjoy reading, others would enjoy reading.

At the same time, there was anger in me… Immense anger. My anger has yet not died down.

This anger was rooted in my own deeds, own mistakes and decisions (the wrong ones); I made on my own. I was missing somebody who had relied on me but I never did justice to that faith & hope. It took me seven long years to find that person again but sadly I haven’t met with forgiveness. Because I have failed again.

And I was and am still in hatred of the person who changed the course of my life forever. If that person happens to read this blog, I have no qualms in declaring that betrayal, deception and backstabbing still doesn’t go down very well with me. I might be a changed person today but am still outraged and if provoked, would avenge. I can’t forgive and forget. I can’t hate and smile. I can’t do and deny. I can’t hide and run. I can’t react and repent.

There were lot of things, thoughts, tribulations, torments & tarnished talks, which pushed me to the edge. I was feeling choked, suffocated and breathless. I felt someone was tightening the noose around my neck. Someone was not too happy to see me happy. My successes had started meeting with massive failures. My ascent was poised to meet with a steep descent. And finally I jumped off the cliff, got stuck in between and screamed – HELP! An unknown, unseen entity emerged from nowhere and prompted, “If you are so angry, express it. If you are so aggrieved, cry out. If you are so bruised, salt them. If you are so determined, be firm. Be a Vociferous. Shake yourself up. Shake others up. YELL OFF”
Thus was born my alter ego, my new identity – VOCIFEROUS.
And Vociferous made up his mind to create http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com
I was born and brought up in Mumbai. I grew as a Mumbaikar. And I still am a Mumbaikar.
Political correctness or incorrectness doesn’t bother me. What bother me are faces, minds, mouths and ears with rotten attitude dripping from them.
I named it bengalsurprise, because life is surprising. I am a surprised Bengali. So bengalsurprise means, a surprised look at the world because the world, the universe and everything else leaves the Bengali in me surprised.

Writing this 100th blog was not that easy. Inspiration is what I had waited for long. Finally it arrived few days back. A very special friend, a very special person in my life kept telling me, asking me in fact pushing me – Write or I will never read your blog. Whenever my friend kept going on the blog, my missing 100th entry proved to be a dampener. Yes, very right… I hadn’t posted anything for the past few months. The last entry was somewhere in the month of July and that too when it had started raining in Mumbai. And even two days back, in this month of November rains have taken control of Mumbai.

Tears of happiness roll out of my eyes.
Thrill of writing such a long piece leaves me wanting to write more.

A logo was definitely what I had thought of and I designed it. It is not a serious kind of a logo but a celebrating kind of a logo, a light hearted one and again a ‘feel good’ kind of a logo.

The process of ideating my 100th blog entry was very different.
I first thought of choosing all the alphabets and comparing it with what made me become a blogger. The mind just wasn’t too happy with this idea. So finally over the last three days, endless telephonic conversations, long hours of reading, endless musical moments and a determination to fulfil a promise finally brought the ‘Eureka’ moment. I said to myself, I shall write randomly in a nonlinear format. I shall write what comes to my heart first, then gets transferred to my mind and finally gets transported on my laptop.

My fingers are running faster. My mind is thinking faster. And in the next few hours, I am going to write something meant for twelve long months, 365 days and 8760 hours. In the next few days, I will also complete writing the first chapter of my book, the title of which is known to whom I trust the most, love the most and have faith in the most.

It was never my idea to sensationalise my blog. I just wanted to write what came to my mind. I consider http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com, my most independent blog. It mirrors my thoughts, my vision and whatever goes on in my mind. Apart from this blog, I have the following blogs:

On the account of posting my 100th blog entry, I have created this new blog:

http://safarisurprise.blogspot.com/

The above is a travelogue. The first write-up, I am going to post on it is the half day Lonavala trip I took along with my friend of now 15 years on his state-of-the-art TVS Bike. In fact, I owe him a lot too. Our friendship is one of those, which is apt for a partnership. Maybe very soon, we would take a trip on bike and replicate the ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ experience.

This blog will comprise snaps, my travel experiences and much more… But I am definitely going to limit it to only travelling and everything related to travelling. If someone calls it a weird style of writing about travel, so be it.

Focusing on http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com, I am very content with the style of writing, I have adapted so far. I have on/off reviewed movies. I have commented on society. I have made judgements against specific political movements. This is not just a blog for me. It is a kind of revolution. This blog is also the force, which pulled me out of my phase of depression which lasted from March 31, 2009 to October 1, 2009. It was a painful period. I had packed my bags to leave for the Himalayas. I had attempted what every human being attempts, when he/she is broke. Thanks to my mother, my friends, my family and my blog which got me back on my feet. Or else, I would have never lived to tell this tale.

I know this is the lengthiest, I have ever written and I am not finished yet. I want to take this revolution to a new level. From just being a mere blog, I want to transform it to a full fledged website and an extremely interactive one. I have seen lot of injustice. And I am not that big to comment that I have seen lot in this life. I have walked through the corridors of courts and I have run through the verandas of offices controlled by khaki clad personnel. Now neither the black suit baffles me and neither those pair of brown shoes matter to me. I am not perplexed any more by blank calls or the letter of threats that come knocking every now and then.

I have a face; I have a voice. I have a dream; I have a pair of eyes. I want just not to walk but to fly high, higher and highest.

I dedicate this 100th blog to my mother who continues tolerating me through every year I grow older and she getting older and older. She has her concerns. I understand them. And I am sure, at an apt time; I shall address them. She is a woman who has inspired me the most, supported me the most and taught me the most. Yet I remain indebted to her. Nothing can substitute her presence in my life. And I know how incomplete I am without her. I know we being human beings shall remain for each other eternally. But till the time we are together, I shall remain indebted to my mother.

This 100th blog is dedicated to all my friends.

This 100th blog is dedicated to you, my inspiration.

This 100th blog is dedicated to the reason that still pricks me from within.

This 100th entry is a symbol of my triumph over me. This 100th entry is a reply to the many questions, I keep asking myself.

I will continue on this journey of writing.
I will continue on this madness of posting.
I will continue on this eagerness of reading.
I will continue on this kick of procrastinating.

I was born a very normal guy. I pursued very normal education.

Few dreams remained unfulfilled:

Couldn’t pursue a degree in English Literature
Couldn’t complete my degree in Classical Singing
Couldn’t pursue an MA in English Literature
Couldn’t chase my dream of being a part of Prithvi Theatres

But I feel:

Dreams, never die
Desires, never diminish
Destiny, never deceives
Determination, never defers

I want to dream again.
I want to write again.
I want to triumph again.
I want to LIVE again.

I might not be there forever.
Life is very uncertain.
Today I am alive; Tomorrow I might not be alive.
What shall remain behind will be my remains, my exploits, my writings and my blog.

A labour of love, a result of anguish and an intercourse of ideas; I salute you my http://www.bengalsursprise.blogspot.com

From inception to incredibility, I remain……………………………………………..

VOCIFEROUS

PS: I hope YOU and everyone along with YOU in this world, in this universe takes note that I have finally completed my 100th entry for my blog

This 100th entry comprises: 5 pages, over 2000 words, over 9000 characters with no spaces, over 11000 characters with spaces, 102 paragraphs and 246 lines!!!!!!!!!!!!!