A CONCRETE STEP TOWARDS PASSION

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous

FADE OUT FADE IN

The script seems ready for a brand new arrival. Isn’t it? Is it then not the time to look back at the almost yellowed pages of a year, some of which were turned, bookmarked, folded on corners, ignored at times, re-read on different occasions, shed tears upon, a secret message hidden in, highlighted and sometimes forgotten, torn? Yes it is definitely the time to witness the fading out of 2014.

Eventful, exciting, enigmatic, euphoric, euthanizing; 2014 was a mixed package of sorts. A common man was chosen to lead the country; we braved the sun, we dared the storms to bring him to power. The moment he pledged to serve the country, cynics instantly jumped in to strip him of the goodness he deserved. All he wished and still continues to is to give this nation a stable government. After a corruption prone decade of prejudice, these greed driven cynics still want to eat into our nation.

When we are not shedding political sweat, we were taking keen interest in social causes. We were running marathons to save the girl child. At the same time and at the same speed that we were running, the girl child was vanishing from the confines of her own home. They were either found dead in the bush or slaughtered in a worse manner than beasts. We were shouting slogans against atrocities committed against women. But from behind those pure white banners, we were also training our impure, lust filled eyes on women. We were performing the most important duty of shielding women against crimes. The next moment we were locking the doors of a cab and taking turns to rape her.

Our generosity extended across various spheres of genders. We chose to be free but were in no mood to allow others to be what they are. We broke into their homes, we vandalised their underground parties, and we ignored those three digits, which could have brought some hope to them. They seek nothing more than their own share of rainbow colours. If at all granted they might have their own families, own voice, own life.

Till yesterday we thought chits were an insignificant piece of informational dope, we tried to smuggle in during our toughest exams. But adulthood taught us to generate funds out of these chits and the fun that we imbibed by getting embroiled in the greatest ever financial scandal of our times.

Someone chose to question the existence of God. Ramkrishna Paramhans had once let go all his clothes to embrace the Almighty in its purest form. What we did was, we came across this poster of an actor standing with an audio system in his hand, trying to hide his private parts and we yelled of how obscene the supposed art was. But we loved swaying to the obscene moves of item songs, performed by porn stars of yesteryear.

But then we have to let go many things that we keep doing every year. The old man has to be burnt. There is no country for old men. Setting the hay-stacked, already dead dull doll will liberate us of all our vices. We will be new again. All the time that this old man will continue to burn, we will see the now bygone year fade out and once again allow the New Year to come fading in, ready to rule the roost for the next 365 days.

So here we are sitting eagerly, for the next five minutes to disappear and the new set of infinite hours to appear.

-vociferous

THIS TEACHER’S DAY

When does a teacher walk into our lives?

Please accept my apologies, being a student and a teacher myself; I have started on a wrong note. Let me put it the other way round.

When do we walk to a teacher?

This question was born in my mind, when I decided to create a post for this blog of mine; to simply pay tribute to all my teachers on Teacher’s Day. The question was inspired from what Annu Kapoor shared on his radio show ‘Suhana Safar’, relayed everyday on Big 92.7 FM (do tune in, whenever time is on your side). On account of Teacher’s Day he was anchoring a special episode as a part of the ‘Suhana Safar’ series. During his conversation with awe-eared listeners like us, he listed examples of some amazing Teacher-Student relationships. Three stories stayed with me, and left me motivated to write this piece. At this moment, three minutes into writing; I’ve not yet thought of a title. But this is definitely my tribute to Teacher’s Day. I am unaware about the length of this post. But I might take the liberty of keeping it lengthy by making the same excuse that I am going to release this on my own personal blog.

The three stories, he shared about were of Lord Ram and his brother, Mirabai and her cobbler guru, Amir Khusro and his master Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. As I write this piece, I remain fixated to the story of Lord Ram and his younger brother Laxman. Emperor Dashrath sent his two sons to the ashram of Vashishthamuni to seek education and knowledge. Both brothers quietly landed in the ashram. They found the door closed. Lord Ram took the first step and knocked. From within Vashishthamuni’s voice resonated, “Who is it?”

Lord Ram replied, “That is what, we are here for teacher. Please let us in to help us know, who we are”. Pleased by their reply, Vashishthamuni welcomed them into his ashram and the rest as they say is ‘mythology’. 

Going back to the question I asked, when do we walk to a teacher? The reply is – before we start walking, the teacher could have possibly arrived in our lives. 

Settled and well positioned in front of my laptop, I wish to recollect every soul; whom I regard as my teacher apart from the teachers I met in my academic institutions and of course in this life.

Part 1 – My Parents, My Teachers

I remember my father had a flat tummy and his six packs intact, till he breathed his last. He hit me only twice in my lifetime. His eyes and his silence were two lethal weapons to make me put all my mischievous intent to rest. He taught me discipline. Right from my kindergarten days, I lived by his rules and till date am unable to tolerate indiscipline. There were no lessons in discipline. But simple steps to keep our own selves uplifted. I don’t remember a single day that I might have walked back home from school, college, workplace and thrown my things away carelessly. The bag went back to its place. The clothes were deposited in a bucket. The books were in the shelf. The utensils were washed after meals. The electrical appliances were switched off, when not needed. Guests were to be respected. Speaking in loud voice (this is the only case, where I’ve grown into a serious offender of sorts) was never entertained. Intervening or interrupting adult discussions always remained classified behavior. I was not scared of him, for being strict. I was scare of him, out of the fear that what if I end up breaking any of those rules. These rules suffocated me. But somewhere they also shaped my mind. My mother on the other hand, kept growing friendlier. I didn’t realize when this mother-child relationship transformed into friendship. Being a teacher herself, my mother could have easily turned me into a guinea pig of sorts. Till date, I don’t remember her telling me to do anything. But I only remember her of telling me to do anything that I wish was right for my growth and development. The hardships, from which my parents had liberated from, remained shrouded till I started earning on my own. I remember my parents never shying away from meeting any of my demands. From them I learnt life had to be managed on all terms. This Teacher’s Day I thank them.

Part 2 – My Grannies, My Teachers

I was always amused by her energy levels, which today stands in dark contrast of her having grown so immobile. My maternal grandmother, we still don’t know her actual birth date, which she still calculates and recollects as per proceedings of Bengali/Hindu calendar. She might have not gone to a conventional school. She might have never sought luxuries. She might have never gone on a shopping spree. All she did was to love us and bring us up. She asked us to follow only one adage in our life – Pora Shona Kore Je, Gaari Ghora Chore Shey (The one who studies, enjoys all the joyrides of life). The best of my academic years were spent in her pampering company. The year, I truly regret not getting to spend much time with her, was my graduation year. I had to suffice with a second class. But since I studied, I definitely am enjoying the joyrides of my life. My paternal grandmother supposedly succumbed to skin cancer. I couldn’t be by her side, when she was counting the last hours of her struggle to survive. I have fond memories of her taking me to the banks of Mother Ganges and telling me, “The one who swims through her tides, may someday rise from her banks being immortal”. From both my grandmothers, I learnt life has its own challenges and we shouldn’t shy away. This Teacher’s Day I thank them.

Part 3 – My Schoolteachers, My Teachers

I was not at the luxury of trying my hands generously at any kind of mischief. Before I could shield my wrongdoings, my mother had already known a lot of me. My schoolteachers kept a keen eye on me, to not only report every big/small action of mine to my mother. But they also continued to groom my skills. The best teachers of my life have been my mother, Shaila teacher, Shikta teacher, Sachidevi teacher, Majali teacher, Chari teacher and more. After my academic association with my school came to an end, it was time to be in the company of lecturers. All of them were wonderful. My teacher from my computer class, Mrs Anjali Gangal spoilt me with her motherly treatment. But she always made it sure that I never compromised on discipline. This Teacher’s Day I thank every teacher of mine from my school, college and computer education institutes. 

Part 4 – My Colleagues, My Teachers

The monsoons of 1998 brought across big news – I got a job, I graduated. But before I would graduate, broke the news of I having bagged a job. I still remember the interview. At the very entrance of my so called first office, stood a huge bulldozer clawing red mud away from a piece of land that was to give way to one of architectural splendors in Thane. A hugely built Parsi gentleman Shahrukh interviewed me and instantly rejected me. A week later, I was recalled to meet my first boss P. Laxman Rao. He looked at my CV and asked me, “Can you tolerate me?” I don’t recollect as to what was my reply. But I joined him as his Office Assistant. He taught me all. From maintaining files in cupboards to folders in PC; Raosaab (as I fondly called him) became more of an elder brother to me and less of a boss. He used to yell at me by calling me a ‘Pucca Idiot’. The next moment, he would calm down and tell me that he only wished for my success. He was the one who made me realize that I belonged to advertising. Otherwise which boss would willingly send you to an interview and bear the cost of your travel? He left for Kuwait. Before leaving, he left behind a note, which said – I am asking you for the last time. If you are willing to accompany, I will be more than happy to have you as my partner, my brother. But I declined and today I am not in touch with him anymore. The only successor to Raosaab could have been Sunil Gwalani. Had he not been provoked against me, today we could have possibly been business partners. I still hold nothing against him for the simple fact that he was misled and misguided to start hating me. He taught me two vital things in professional life – Believe and Achieve. His idea was simple, if you believe in something; there is hardly any obstacle that might stop you from achieving it. Many years faded away. But my respect for him remains intact. Yashraj Vakil is the third boss I admired and simply loved to respect. Before the agency could sell itself to an ordinary agency and bring down its fragile shutters; Yash had given me a clear indication that my future needs to be mapped or I will be left with no choice at all. Of course I followed his advice and I still have no regrets except the fact that we are not working together any more. Speaking of other colleagues, I would like to mention names as per the order they arrived in my life. Sanjay Mukherjee made me realize that in any kind of business, ‘charm’ works. Akshadha Rasal made me understand the nuances of being sweet and subtle. Trupti redefined my perception towards artists. Ulka changed my life forever. Then came Swarnali Dutta. However unusual it may sound, but she chose to make me her Guru.  On the contrary I learnt an important lesson from her – Never stop being a rebel. Today she prefers to be called Sheeshya and I am her Gurudev. But I am equally a Sheeshya to her for the way she made a name for herself. I would like to specially mention Wiless Dmello, my fellow writer in one of my recent agencies. He conferred on me the esteemed honor of 'Chief'. I got to learn about 'Energetic Thinking' from you. Apart from them I would also like to thank Vaijayanti Karande and Aditi Bakshi for being my amazing guiders. And how could I forget Kavita who titled me ‘Poo’ that she made me learn the power of being a free soul from her! This Teacher’s Day I thank them all. 

Part 5 – My Friends, My Teachers

The list might exhaust this document altogether or make it immensely heavy. All of them have been remarkable teachers. But I wish to mention two names – Prashant and Nikhil. The former being my chaddi buddy and the later being my college partner. Prashant and I share a friendship of now more than three decades. I don’t remember a single day of my school, not having him as my bench buddy. From him I learnt to be a good human being and overcoming a situation with sufficient amount of calm. Nikhil and I started off being staunch enemies, yet silent admirers of each other. We were infatuated with the same girl; we were sure of never winning over. And then after she left the college for good, Nikhil and I became the best of friends. So best of friends that even today if we don’t speak to each other for two weeks in a row, either of us will call the other to discuss life. From Nikhil I learnt to be an honest person with an honest perception of life. Nikhil and I are big-time fans of Rhonda Byrne’s THE SECRET. Our lives bear an uncanny resemblance too. Maybe I will write a book someday on these two friends of mine! Also worth mentioning about are Rohini, Shankari and Mansha who made me look at a life in a much more different way. Mansha asked me to go bindaast. Shankari taught me to be dedicated to relationships. And anything that I wish to share about Rohini, will always fall short of her prominence of having taught me many values of our lives together as friends and mentors of each other. This Teacher’s Day I thank them both.

Part 6 – My Love, My Teacher

The day I met her, I had no idea of getting to share the sunshine side of my life with her. My rebellious mind had resigned from the desire to marry. My bitter heart had chosen to walk on the path of fire. My ambitions had grown fierce. As she arrived in my life with greater patience on her side, I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with her. Before meeting her and even after having met her, marrying her; I still continue to be a difficult person. But to the love of my life, on this Teacher’s Day I thank my better half for choosing me over all odds and teach me to believe in the idea of being dedicated to the art of ‘Being Patient’. 

Part 7 – My Uncle, My Teacher

Mathematics and I were never on good terms. It was my younger maternal uncle, who took the onus on his shoulders to help me sail through shallow waters of examinations. Young at heart and always keeping me motivated to never fail once in mathematics, he became my guru. On this Teacher’s Day I thank him for being such a lovely guru of my life.

Apart from the above, I wish to thank every soul, from whom I learnt and continue to learn. Because the day I stop learning, I will be left in great pain of not being an honest follower of the Teacher’s Day celebrations. 

-vociferous

IN PREPARATION

So far so good, the first nineteen days of 2014 kept me hooked at the pace of a Sidney Sheldon novel. When the heart felt a bit burdened, I flipped through some works of Jeffrey Archer, Haruki Murakami, Salman Rushdie and Jhumpa Lahiri. My thoughts were also interrupted by Amitav Kumar, Vikram Chandra and Shashi Tharoor. Sometimes social and sometimes detached, I chose to continue in preparation of making 2014; my mentor, my guide, my knowledge partner, my fellow traveler, my colleague and my confidant.

First thing first, I am presently staring at my passport. The undisturbed pages of my freshly issued passport seem to be bouncing some questions at me. I am unsure if I am in a position to reply them all. The freshly purchased sky bags, suitcases, backpacks and hand bags seem to be eager to know about my plans of packing or dumping something deep into them. The bookmarked travel sites, the liked pages on social media of exotic destinations around the globe, the referred articles in popular news dailies, old & new copies of Lonely Planet, unsubscribed editions of Outlook Traveler, a bit of National Geographic and a forgotten link on StumbleUpon; still many questions answered for me, being in preparation.

Some read books and most of them unread, a few highlighted paragraphs in them, bracketed sentences, comparisons and references; all for the sake of gathering inspiration and words. I wonder if at all the books start taking human forms and start questioning me over the insane motives I associate with my habit of reading. Will I be able to explain to them that I am busy being in preparation to make a dream come true! Or will I choose to ignore that moment by terming it as a fake fantasy, born in an insane mind.

As I continue being in preparation, I think I am happy to meet some people who understand their jobs pretty well. They aren’t arrogant of the knowledge they possess and neither did they make me feel alienated. Some are helpful in nature, courteous in their demeanor and foresighted in their mission. In the company of such people, I too am somewhere enjoying the opportunity of discovering myself.

Discovery of ideas, discovery of imaginations, discovery of incredibility and a less travelled road; yet no clear signs of a beginning. Therefore the need of carrying out a research, by wanting to be in a particular state of mind. This research might take me back to those first years of being a confused wanderer.  Or it might pin me to the confines of my home. When in preparation, researches seem to possess a never discovered secret, which might help us in imagining new roads, imagining new journeys and taking up new projects.

There is restlessness and hope, while being in preparation of a pleasant tomorrow. There is thirst and hunger, while being in preparation of fame. There are approvals and disapprovals, while being in preparation of a new morning. Little did I realize that being in preparation is all about being in competition with me and also about creating a new identity in the next 345 days!

-vociferous

357 DAYS MORE TO DO A LOT MORE

Some days ago while writing about the first five days of 2014, I decided to turn this into a habit. The habit that helps me to remain indulged with my everyday life. Thus arrived next three days of 2014; as expected they were unpredictable. From meeting new people to new conversations and from imagining a deal to be finalized to seeing it go bust. Everything within a span of three days (72 hours). But the grit to do a lot more doesn’t cease. My body language says that I am restless. That is for the world to make an opinion about. I believe I am just a curious seeker of creative solace. Even though I laugh about the many oddities of what half of the uncreative populous talk about, I am not authorized to insult or criticize them. They have done their bit of climbing ladders; honestly or dishonestly.

All these three days have been very important with context to the yarn of personal growth. The mind that was held captive by cobwebs of unfair thinking, finds itself a bit enlightened now. The excess baggage of not wanting to go against heart seems to have lightened a bit. All that remains with me are conversations. These conversations comprised words like – Tell me something about yourself, how good are you at doing xyz, what is your opinion about its future, would you like to know anything more about us, we will keep in touch, there is lots happening around us and we might have skipped that. It was left to my imagination to either believe or disbelieve them. On most occasions, I disbelieved them but didn’t express what was on my mind.

But such encounters are necessary for the process of life to continue smoothly. Disruptions challenge the way our minds might want to think. Or else our minds tend to grow lazy. Our minds start feeling petrified by the prospect of facing a potential challenge lurking around us. The last three days have been filled with disruptions. These disruptions ranged from an erratic internet connection to an unplanned discussion. From a missed call to attended calls of the unwanted and one such call was from the so called Customer Service Centre of Hypercity.

The female on the other side of the phone opened the conversation with a courteous question – Excuse me sir, I would first like to seek your permission to ask, if this is the right time to talk to you? She added more by extending it with another sentence – Sir, will you be willing to share your marital status and the number of kids you have? I was impressed. She spoke very well. Her voice was controlled. Seemed to be in her early twenties and didn’t come across as a threat to my mind, while being in the middle of heavy duty thinking. After having shared all the details, she asked me as to why I wasn’t shopping too often at Hypercity? She wanted to know if I was unhappy with their services. Did the staff not cooperate with me? Or did I want to see a change that Hypercity could introduce with respect to my feedback? Voila. I was bowled over. I conveyed to her my satisfying replies. Her gratitude seemed like an announcement in an airplane. Thank you so much sir for having spared your precious time to answer our questions. We assure you of better services and a pleasant shopping experience during your next visit to Hypercity.

But such communication is very rare. The executive I spoke to was well trained and respected the significance of time, the communication, the seriousness and possibly the temperament of a rigid customer like me. The next moment was that of shock. I was coordinating with a disorganized courier service agent. For a second, I thought they had misplaced the cheque that I was expecting from someone. As I started tracing the courier and talking to the guys involved, I encountered disruptions and thereby lay the challenge. These disruptions where in the form of humans, with whom I hate to communicate on an everyday basis. But luck was in my favor and the shenanigans ended with the courier company sending across a person to personally deliver my documents aka cheque.

In all these three days, I think somewhere there was less of effort involved and the perception to do more was missing. I sat across a table staring at the calendar and felt there was still an unfinished task to be accomplished. Excusing myself for a half day from the task in hand, I landed up at one of the offices of a Government of India undertaken Insurance Company. Somehow I followed my intuition of they haven’t acknowledged a document, sent across by my mom to adjust a claim. Initially I was shocked by the tactical location of this office. The office was located in a State Transport Bus owned complex. I took an over abused staircase that helped me arrive at the first floor of the office. The walls were plastered with spit (definitely a byproduct of endless gutka gossips). The security guard sitting at the entrance preferred to busy himself with his personal dose of powdered tobacco than wanting to attend my query. I still mustered the courage to be vociferous.

Who will help me solve this problem? Open the door, go straight, turn to your left and he might be of some help to you. Followed by an ignorant round of laughter, I was directed towards the official who held the fate of my mother’s insurance claim. A discussion between him and me, made me realize how easily he had not even bothered to read through the details; we had couriered across centuries ago. It was upsetting to realize that my mother and I had invested a total of Rs.15 in simplifying the task-on-hand of these unkind species. But looking at my outraged form, this gentleman somewhere between his mid 40s sprung into action. Kalji karu naka, hey don mintacha kaam aahey, fukatcha dag dag karoon gheoo naka (No need to worry, this task will take just two minutes to be taken care of and please don’t stress yourself). The result of this proactive action will be released only after ten days. That is when I will come to know if I have fared well in my effort. For no reason, I think that our Government offices are a symbol of colossal chaos. The number of pillars in these offices stands outnumbered. Or else, how will they do justice to the phrase of ‘made to run from pillar to pillar’!

Last but not the least, I wish to speak about a lady who expressed her desire to have a prolonged conversation with me regarding some prospects of future. But the conversation got scattered between her paying more attention to her laptop than me. The conversation got scattered between two gentlemen who were sitting around her paying more attention to her continuous exit and entry into the room than the points, I was stressing upon. To be frank, I don’t care about the outcome of this flawed discussion.

From all the above actions that I spoke about, I think the fault was mine to have limited myself somewhere from not wanting to do more. That means in the last eight days; I haven’t done much to achieve the ‘more’ that I perceive from 2014. But great men said ‘better late than never’ and as agreed, I am looking ahead to the next 357 days of the year. If I am good at calculations that stands for next eleven months of the year and I can’t care a damn less about the prospect of getting to do so much more in these coming days.

No matter where I am. No matter what I might be planning of doing next. The objective is clear – think and write more for 357 more days to do a lot more.

-vociferous 

THE FIRST HIGH FIVE DAYS OF 2014

Writing never ages. Even if it seems to be ageing, it seems to get better like well seasoned wine. The layers of experiences or the series of events, keep adding on to the passion or rather habit of writing. It was with the first fresh sunrise of January 1, 2014 that I decided to start writing for myself. But that should not be confused of being my resolution for the year 2014. As announced publicly, my resolution for 2014 will continue to remain a secret till the time I realize it. Writing pumps undefeatable confidence in my faith in life and dreams. Writing either adds wings to my desires or takes them to an all new high. And thereby began 2014.

On the first day of 2014, I woke up at ease. No matter how hard I had tried to get a new pair of sports shoes to go jogging from the first ever morning of the New Year, my luck had different plans for me.  A brand new pair of sports shoes did catch my attention at a local Bata outlet. The single sexy shade of grey gave out a very silvery feel to my determination to slip my feet into them at the soonest. Belonging to the POWER clan of sports shoes, neither did it cost princely nor did it end up setting my pocket ablaze. Alongside mom, I walked out with a broad smile on my face. The next day was going to be amazing. But before the next day arrived, I had different plans to begin with 2014.

I was lucky to have booked three tickets to Chander Pahar (The Mountain of Moon) in advance. This was also my first visit to yet another mall (Phoenix Market City) in an otherwise not so likable suburb (Kurla). As a first impression, the mall engulfed my mediocre imaginations about it. The opinions I held about it stood banished. My apprehensions vanished. Here we were facing the mall; a monster of a mall. We walked towards the seven screens multiplex. After collecting the tickets we treated ourselves to donuts at M.O.D and then spent a good amount of time at Hamleys. Stepping inside we were on a joyride. Mom pointed towards the section that comprised almost all the toy cars, one can think of. At the same time, Mrs.Right busied herself with a flurry of soft toys. And then arrived the time to set out on a cinematic adventure. Chander Pahar turned out to be a Bengali movie with Hollywood finesse. Combining all the elements of edge-of-the-seat adventure tales, Chander Pahar pulled us in. Reviewing it would seem very average. The greatest of greats in Bengali cinema and the best of all the bests from Indian cinema have lauded the formula defying effort. It was nothing less than a Spielberg experience in Indian context. Two hours thirty minutes seeped away. The first ever African Safari, filmed in Bengali carried us to a tough terrain and then rapidly flung us back to the strange experience of being in the maddening surrounds of Mumbai. The first day of the New Year ended with an applauding round of dinner – home cooked Misal Pav (a Maharashtrian delicacy that is still best-served at Mamledar, Thane).

The alarm went off at sharp 6 am on the second day of 2014. The new pair of sports shoes seemed to be waiting anxiously to meet their first ever owner. Slipping my feet into them, I jogged, I skipped, I jumped and I walked. The overall experience was extremely sporty. It was that lovely feeling of having achieved something. What did I achieve? My sports shoes know it better. Work wise everything remained calm. The stage seemed set to welcome the third day.

We forgot attending a wedding of a family friend. But I remembered to get my android phone back. This was for the longest time that it had rested at the forgettable LG Service Center, located at a disinteresting location in one of the oldest alleys of Dadar. The little amount of charge that was left in the battery made the mobile spring back to life. The engineers had done something amazing to it. My LG P970 Optimus Black was breathing again. The software had been upgraded. The internal circuit went through a revamp. Right now I am celebrating the fact that I didn’t have to spend a bomb on acquiring another smartphone. But thanks to the Micromax phone that kept me connected to the world. Happiness made a comeback.

Then arrived the fourth day of 2014. It was not the day but the evening that made it much more special. I met my best friend Nikhil. The 40 km bike ride made us turn into bachelors again. Nikhil is still a bachelor. The crazy bike ride without helmets protecting our heads ended at a lakeside restaurant in Thane. Nikhil and I realized that this was our 20^th year of being friends. To celebrate the moment, we ordered for delicious food. And then began a long round of conversation. From the first day of our college to present day complications and simplicities, we spoke all. And then Nikhil commented – From 1998 I have been waiting for my friend to start writing the book that he had always been talking about. I suggest you start now. Nikhil ignited the long lazy desire to pursue personal writing. He shook the heart that had somewhere mildly stopped responding to the calls of my pen and paper. He made me think again. Before him Mrs.Right has been urging me to make a start. Before her many other friends and well-wishers have been advising me to do so. Maybe the journey of writing has to begin now! But I have been travelling for long. Maybe it is time to stop procrastinating.  

The fifth day being a Sunday could have turned out to be yet another lazy day. But I am still reeling with excitement. I finally succeeded in defying routine. I read, I imagined. I laughed, I smiled. Above all, I opened the long closed gates of my mind to accept and welcome the change that has been trying to keep me inspired and motivated. At the turning point of life, looking ahead to the rest of 360 days of 2014!

-vociferous 

GOOD BYE – LAST MONDAY OF 2013

I find it a bit strange to write about a recent past in the present tense or sense. But then something needs to be written about the most important day of our lives. The day might have retired but the experience hasn’t. The moment might have retired but the relationship hasn’t. The Monday might have paved way for Tuesday but there is still something, yet to be shared about. 

Besides being the last Monday that it was, it was also the 364th day of 2013. I must confess even though it was a Monday, there was no frustration to be left feeling outraged. It seemed like that Monday itself had decided to spare us whatever it brought across as an excess baggage of impossibilities for us. I am unsure about others. But that stood true for me this Monday. For once, I didn’t hate the last Monday of 2013. Even though I’ve time and again shared a sweet & sour relationship with many Mondays of my life, today there was a different kind of warmth that existed between us. For once, the last Monday of this year and I were not at war. Today’s Monday seemed a bit meditative, a lot more speculative and at the same time very native. 

I feel strange at times as to how I’ve never been left awestruck by Monday! To be honest, I was myself born on a Monday. My mother fondly remembers the day 30th January (Monday). At the hospital, every second child born at that hour was a girl child. My parents never had a fixed expectation of whether God was parceling a girl child or a boy child. Throughout my life till my father was alive, I think he was keener to have a daughter rather than a rebellious son. My mother though has always been supportive of me being a rebel and but kept me reminded that being a son does not bring with it a universe of privileges. But the only problem, I survived with (despite being born on a Monday) was my bipolar relationship with Mondays.

The Mondays that I am talking about have been carriers of either grief or uncertainty. The Mondays I am talking about, always followed a well lived Sunday. During childhood, Mondays made my mom leave for her school and I was left to feel separated from her. During college days, Mondays always had an extra lecture of some unlovable professor. And then came that phase of life of being recognized as a professional. I think it was more because of peer pressure that I pursued the habit of abominating Mondays. Everyone around me took great pride in thwarting all the vibes generated by a Monday. Whatever little was left of feeling slightly better on a Monday met with disagreement from fellow colleagues. Some hated it while releasing a smoky puff from their mouths while some criticized it by drowning in an ocean of intoxication.

I am also a great fan of the irony that Mondays stand associated with. To be put across politely and on a spiritual note, The Lord of All Lords – Shiva is worshipped on Mondays. Devotees bee lining in temples across the world, place the customary Bel Patra on Shivlings. The tri-foliate form of leaves symbolize the trident that Shiva holds in his right hand (this line is sourced from good old friend Wikipedia). Time and again whenever Lord Shiva seemed to have lost his temper, Goddess Parvati or His ardent devotees have placed the leaf on his head. It had an instant calming effect and the universe, which seemed to be on a verge of collapse due to his anger; returned to a sane form. Therefore Monday is a special day. A day when The Lord of All Lords – Shiva is worshiped and sang hymns about! But why then has Monday earned itself a status of being detested unanimously? I think it might take another hundred years for some great mind to embark on a voyage of research to unlock the mysteries of hatred associated with Mondays.

As observed, Mondays being the first week of the day seemed to always hold special powers. On every Monday, deadlines turn severe, bosses are in a bad mood, clients slip into a threatening avatar, colleagues are caught discussing the Sunday they abused with a bottle of whisky in their hands or got stoned, WIP reports seeming nasty and a lot more. As opined above, chaos and complication have been inseparable from the many Mondays you and me have so far survived.

But the Monday which departed last night at 12 AM was also the last Monday and the 364th day of a fading 2013. I think we should observe it a day of learning. Even though we will continue committing the same mistake of hating it every new week in the New Year too! Somewhere we need to sensitize ourselves and try to respect these Mondays a little. Maybe we should perceive it in a different way! These are my personal opinions. Maybe we should crown Mondays to be the beginners of an energized week. Maybe we should observe Mondays to be professionally reborn. Maybe we should celebrate Mondays for helping us turn sane again. Because if we continue to hate Mondays further, there will be no sweetness left in a day which suffers the fate of being the first day of a week. I think I personally might have gone a bit overboard with my insensible hatred for Mondays. I don’t think everyone else has been that unkind. 

Come 2014 and a new package of 52 Mondays will get auto delivered in our lives. I might be sounding philosophical now but I might again end up hating it 52 times, except the time when I might be vacationing or spending it with my loved ones. But then let us pray to the God of Days to make Monday, a blessing for us. Let not select sections of the society derive special powers from these Mondays but let us also enjoy the privileges of these Mondays. 

Dear 2014, please bring along with you 52 momentous Mondays that are high on happiness, love and bonding.

-vociferous 

THE LAST SUNDAY OF 2013

Another day, another Sunday; but also the 363^rd day of 2013! Two more days shall collide between each other and the year shall end. No matter how hard December 30 will try its luck to overshadow December 29 and make an attempt at diluting the impact of December 31; like every year the last day, the 365^th day shall stand the undisputed winner. After three days, another Sunday will arrive. But till then, it somehow seems important to write in honor of the last Sunday of 2013.

In 2013 there were 51 Sundays (I hope my mathematics to have matured through all those trying years). Most of these Sundays have been more of a routine. I’ve followed the routine of waking up almost on time, freshening up, offering prayers to Almighty, getting the newspapers, eating my breakfast, drinking my coffee/tea, household chores, other chores and a lot many etc’s. At the same time there were some Sundays when I betrayed the routine or the routine itself got betrayed automatically. There were Sundays when I followed my heart. There were Sundays when I pursued my passion (of reading, writing, driving and photographing). Out of the 51 Sundays, I can count very few Sundays on my fingertips that I did something that my real self might have prompted me to do.

I am in possession of fresh calendars. But I haven’t counted the Sundays that I will be celebrating or detesting in 2014. In my lifetime, I don’t remember having hated Sundays. Except for those Sundays, when I might have received a bad news. Except for those Sundays, when I fought with a loved one. Except for those Sundays, when I was left feeling lonely, ignored and defeated. But on this last Sunday, I am thinking of reimagining the definition of upcoming Sundays. Today I might be at the liberty of enjoying long weekends that is an amalgamation of a nonworking Saturday and an obvious holiday on Sunday. But going ahead that might change. I might have to go to office on Saturdays or slog till the early hours of Sunday. I am unaware what future does my Sundays hold in 2014 or the years to follow.

One corner of my heart says, “Leave the routine you follow on Sundays”. A much unvisited corner of my heart says, “The world over, many follow a Sunday routine, why are you trying to run away?” Who is running away? I, me, myself! Am I really running away or am I trying my level best to come back home to a different Sunday? I hate this situation to be caught in juxtaposition. Yet I still am being in some position at the least. So whatever I made of all the 51 Sundays of 2013 or the many other Sundays ever since I grew aware of one such day in a week, I have been less active or not proactive at all. It was just on 362^nd day that was the last Saturday of this year, I realized the game is about to get over. The dates might remain the same. But the days, the years, the moments and the experiences will change.

I must confess I did a lot less than what I could have done to the Sundays of 2013. I could have gone on longer drives, better events, written more, photographed unstoppably, read untiringly, shopped relentlessly, conversed endlessly and so much more. But I was in no mood to make the Sundays of 2013 stand out. I didn’t visit a museum. I didn’t make my way to any of the art galleries. I didn’t give the time, my loved ones expected of me on Sundays. I was absolutely unromantic when Sundays were full of warmth. I switched my gears in between being rude and being selfish. But not for once did I think of growing generous on a Sunday. Almost on every Sunday of 2013, I cocooned myself from the changes that were occurring in the world and changes that were occuring within the family too. Maybe that is one of the reasons; I was left hell shocked when a third generation representative insulted someone from the second generation of my own family. Maybe that is one of the reasons; I decided then and there for no Sunday to be wasted in doing nothing. But have I seriously done something great on any of the Sundays in 2013? Sounding like a lecturer or an orator on the 363^rd day or the last Sunday of 2013, might just seem impressive. But it fails to build a really unforgettable impression. It miserably misleads the motive that I’ve been living with for every Sunday of my life.

It is only on Sundays that writers, poets, philosophers, photographers, storytellers and many other souls from the creative walks of life; gather beneath a tree or maybe meet up at lovely places to talk about the many creative things of life. But I rejoiced feeling marooned on all Sundays of 2013. Many friends met, disguised their inner hatred with the mask of reunion parties and celebrated fake achievements on Sundays. But I remained away from all the high decibel fun (fake fun). I am responsible for having turned many Sundays into sheer waste. I accept the blame to have strangulated the fun in many Sundays.

On this last Sunday of 2013, I might do nothing but read the papers, do the usual household chores, grab a nap in the afternoon, drive the car in the evening, watch and laugh at Kapil Sharma’s jokes in the night and my relationship with yet another Sunday shall come to an end. Once again a Monday would arrive (this time it will be the last Monday of 2013 and 364^th day of the fading year). On Monday, I am usually found fuming over unnecessary issues. On Mondays, if someone is lucky; they will find me cursing the bygone Sunday to be too short. But Sundays are never short. They are normal. If I don’t make good use of a Sunday, how can I hold the following Monday responsible for having killed the fun unnecessarily?

I think I have a rigid personality or my mind might have been assembled in a different manner. On this last Sunday of 2013, I am feeling a lot guiltier than I have been on any of the last Sundays of the previous years. To be honest, I wish to stop being dishonest to the coming Sundays of my life. I am sure of one Sunday that will be interesting in January 2014 itself. I will be in Kolkata with my camera, my diary and my commitments. But why should I allow the excitement to stay limited? And there will be other interesting Sundays for reasons known to me.

Therefore I wish to ask for forgiveness from all the 51 Sundays of 2013 on the last Sunday of this year. I want to promise myself and the most loved ones around me that no Sunday of 2014 shall end up being a waste. But how do I promise? The future is unpredictable. All I can do is wish that I see myself either unpacking my suitcase or pursuing my passion of reading and writing on Sundays. I can no more afford my Sundays to go unused or less enjoyed. God has made only one Sunday for every week. Let me give my total self to the good cause of living up to the many other upcoming Sundays of my life, our lives. You never know when life might fall short of too many Sundays anytime, anywhere!

-vociferous

BACK TO THE RUINS OF APATHY, ANARCHY AND ANXIETY

A junior designer who became a Copywriter.

A Copywriter who became Manager of Corporate Communication.

A Manager who stepped down and stepped up to become a Senior Copywriter.

A Senior Copywriter who became a Senior Manager of Content.

A Senior Manager of Content who became a Creative Lead.

The Creative Lead who was pushed back to become a mere Copywriter.

A Copywriter who will defy nonsense henceforth because he deserves to continue as a Creative Lead.

I am slightly or maybe completely inspired by the legendary quote from the forever favourite flick – GLADIATOR. Also on very few occasions, I’ve been this vocal about my feelings and opinions about situations that I am surrounded with.

To make a beginning, Diwali holidays are over. I am not ashamed to reveal that I was very much pleased to remain detached from work, for the whole of four days. No phone calls. No ugly smses. No negative competition. Absolutely at peace with loved ones. The same loved ones, who wait for hours to see me return from the workplace. But I don’t return. How do I return because there are some blind people around me, who only open their eyes to see me depart and never see me enter! They don’t have a life of their own because they remain immersed in fake show-offs.  

Therefore there is a specific reason why I started with the first few lines, which are (honestly speaking) heavily inspired from Gladiator. Time and again, I watch that movie whenever it is telecast on satellite channels. Or I browse through YouTube to hunt for specific moments from within the movie, which make me feel of being in a virtual coliseum; fighting to sustain my identity. I won’t say my identity is under direct threat. But I would say, it is being challenged from wrong quarters of uncreative mind-sets. On an everyday basis, I’ve to deal with the constant insult of making some jugheads understand that creativity is not a fly-by-night process.

The story began somewhere around four months back. Seated in a glass cabin, facing the reception and cross examined by two men; it was the same me replying positively. After a brief moment, they demanded that I make a presentation and show it to them to decide; if I was worth it. After ten years of being in the creative sphere, such things don’t deter me anymore. I spent a good sum of one hour or a little more than that to put together a presentation. One of the men from the odd strongbox of two or three man team sat across the table and explained how the presentation has to be upmarket to be presented to the CEO. I complied and made it look more presentable, more appealing and more promising.

The remark ‘Good Job’ was the first trump card to pull me in. I was guided to a CEO’s cabin. The darkness within should have been a clear indication of a nasty path ahead. But I paid no attention. Speaking to the CEO should have been a pleasant experience. But there was something he said in Hindi – Humein achey logon ki zaroorat nahi hai. Achcha bankar kya karoge, HELAAOGE? (We are not in need of nice people. By being nice, are you going to shake it?) For a moment, I was amused as to who was I speaking to! Is this how a CEO speaks to a prospective Creative Lead? Is this how you get introduced to a person of higher repute on your first meet? I still paid no attention. Many temptations, fake promises and high hope later; I gave in to what they showcased. Having set their second trap, they succeeded in pulling me into the game.

The game was well planned but with evident loopholes. My introduction was colder than North Pole. A negative image of a hardworking team was painted. For the first three months, I didn’t know that there was a fresh thinking and hardworking copywriter in our team. Fake stories were seeded in as to how history was created. To be honest, at a place with wrong geographical thinking; even the immortals can’t create history. The incessant tale of wanting to change some old habits continued to do the rounds. I continued respecting everything that came my way. But there was more to come. I soon realized that I had stepped into a wax museum of illusions. For all the so called creative work that came our way, there were no proper briefs ever shared. At a point of time wherein we were talking of Social Media, we were talking of media that we didn’t understand or bother to evolve with. We were making commitments to clients that were not even considered for a slide in the PowerPoint presentations, we made.  Time started seeping away. Luckily I established a connection with the same team that was painted as criminal minded. The more I started working with them, the more I realized about the body of lies that was roaming around me; nude and ferociously. Every time this body broke for a smoke, I felt relieved.

The epidemic of late nights came striking hastily. Every single task was tagged urgent or crucial to sustain the business. Work suddenly swelled without a reason. Our minds started turning obese with bad ideas. The clients we started dealing with had their own set of ideas in place. We agreed to start executing them. Never was the team once consulted about it and neither me, the Creative Lead was consulted ever. The story continued at a bitter pace. New characters started jumping in. The walk-ins of new characters fuelled the already derailed structure of work. We welcomed those who knew nothing about creative process. This was a new breed. This new breed screamed on whatsapp, faked on facebook, lied on twitter and ran away with all the credit of good work. They decorated their eyes with fake tears during moments of our personal triumph. They patted our backs with filth in their hands. The murk continued. Briefs stopped coming in. We were called by the clients to be insulted. One man took the onus to put up a show, which held promises of being a gala flop. This man is the recent mismanaged man on mission. Every time he held a meeting, his opening line for that moment would be – I CAN’T TRUST MY TEAM. If he somehow managed to be in a good mood, he would vomit saying – YOU AS A TEAM HAVE YET NOT CONVINCED ME TO WIN MY TRUST. If this is how you are supposed to talk during meetings and boost the confidence, then I think this man never had worked with a team or known the word – LEADERSHIP. More murk continued. Till a day arrived when everyone gave up and took the issue to people, whom they thought will do justice and liberate them from tough times.

Along with others, I too chose to speak in high decibel. From within, a voice prompted – YOU WILL BE FRAMED AND THE TEAM TOO WILL STAND TO SUFFER. But then bad habits never die soon. The mutiny continued. I didn’t speak as a torn individual soul. We spoke as a team and as one soul of many torn souls brought together. We waited for hope until despair knocked on our doors.

A new story is in the making. The grey characters are having fun with all the vibrancy around them. Evil has taken over the good. And as opined by the CEO - Achcha bankar, we are or maybe I am heelaofying (We or I in particular are shaking it by being nice). But like all bad times, the good times of Diwali arrived. All the negative moments seemed temporarily erased. But then Diwali is not celebrated for 365 days. It’s celebrated for just four precious days. The other 361 days are yet to be lived, survived and fought out.

To announce an ending, Diwali holidays are over. It is high time to go back to the ruins of apathy, anarchy and anxiety. In the ruins where evil awaits to insult credibility of being what we are – truthful. In the ruins the evil awaits to avenge an insult, we had inflicted on it.

As a sign off, I wish to say this is not something to be called as frustration. But I’ve spoken the truth not considering the future prospects of it. Many might not like it. Many might not understand it. But personally, I feel satisfied to have written something that I think, I should have written long back. I simply hope the avalanche of fake hope stops here and now. And for once, stop hiring people to insult them or their expertise at a fixed monthly wage of peanuts.

-vociferous

PS: Don’t make creative minds commit uncreative crimes to get your torn egos massaged

IN QUEST OF THE WRITER/WRITERS WITHIN & AROUND

Barring the long serpentine title above, I wish to confess this post of mine comes after a long overhaul of experiences. At the same time, it might seem like a chronicle of confessions. My blog has been suffering of late because of two reasons: 1) Procrastination and 2) Pessimism. I had made myself as well as my blog grow susceptible to both. Until the thought came striking within me; what is it that I am in quest of?

The quest is about the long suppressed writer within me and the omnipresent breed of budding writers around me. To be honest, I am not a skilled writer but I enjoy the skill of writing spontaneously. At the same time, the cumbersome breed of budding writers makes me realize about the serious lack of passion that we all are suffering from. The passion has gone missing for long. I myself have lost a count of times, I felt like giving up my profession and looking ahead to an alternative career. A great soul had long back advised me, the vocation of writing is susceptible to saturation. I wished not to heed the advice. I ignored and I implored myself to not give up. Today during my almost a decade-old journey of creative writing, at times I feel let down. I feel let down not by others but by me, myself. I question myself as to why I limited myself from acquiring more knowledge.

A self confessed daydreamer, I’ve been cooking stories from my college days about how I wish to become a writer. To this date, I’ve seen those daydreams culminate into bitter nightmares. Simultaneously I’ve been challenged by the new breed of me-too-want-to-become breed of writers. They talk to me in the language of Stephenie Meyer and they argue with me with the temperament of E. L. James. I still enjoy my passionate affair with the morning newspapers. They ignore this old world charm of reading by using F.O-with-old-habits expression. Am I jealous of them? To be honest, I don’t have the right to be. Do I feel humiliated? No! All I feel is that the passion is dead. Most of them are writing with their minds in place and not the hearts in place. They are resistant to the idea of rewriting. They are reluctant to the idea of rethinking. 

Am I any different? I will slap myself, if I say I am different. I will be dishonest, if I say I haven’t turned technical. I have become very methodical with my writing. I have grown more dependent on briefs. For years, I haven’t seen a proper brief come my way and have still been held responsible for the debacle of a campaign. But for a writer, what is the significance of a brief? For a copywriter like me, the brief’s significance and importance will never lose its steam. Even though, the seamless writer in me doesn’t desire to bow down to the demands of the outer world; I bow down shamelessly. Creative writing makes me earn my bread and butter. Seamless writing helps me earn only accolades, appreciation, applause and audience.

Friends ask me, “What happened to the book that you had started writing?”

To be honest, I had started with many books, many ideas but have completed none. My stories have revolved around the dark alleys of Mumbai, travelled into the grey sheds of prostitution dens, delved into the shallow world of complicated relationships, dug the truth out of partly exposed skeletons, stood a mute witness to the most passionate physical affairs of a seedy hotel room, got interested in the mind games of child widows and ran naked on a street of fully clothed bystanders. The writer in me, never really took off or maybe I held it back from taking off.

Does that make me sound like a loser? I haven’t given it a thought. Am I frustrated with the world of creative writing for advertising? To a certain extent, I am. I wish to ask a question – Why are we writers not allowed to write passionately about brands? Why we are not allowed to weave a lovely story around the brand? Why we are asked to follow guidelines? And why there is so less time allowed to explore the many possibilities of writing?

The new breed of writers might be in love with the term ‘turnaround time’. I am neither awed nor wowed by that word. It makes me feel sick of being a writer. The little bit of passion left in me as a writer, starts fading away. ‘Turnaround Time’ is a term established by the dispassionate world of BPOs and KPOs. Trying to sound not that offensive, these places lack the sanity for writers to survive. For heaven’s sake when someone comes to me asking for ‘Effort Estimate’ of a task that requires me to be on board as a writer, I squirm! The writer within me dies a million deaths while filling the many green, yellow, red and violet columns of an Excel worksheet.

As a writer, I’ve fielded many questions and misconceptions. One of them has been the most clichéd – Even though you are a writer, you don’t look like a writer. Only to be followed by another clichéd – You don’t look like a corporate, but seem more of a creative person. The world has problems with the old as well as new breed of writers. Why should we be answerable to misconceptions? Why are we not left alone at peace with our passion to write? 

I never started writing with a ‘me-too-wants-to-be-a-writer’ attitude. I always was a great fan of the story sessions; my Didu (maternal grandmother) enthralled me with. Her stories were always about positive people. She spoke more about victorious kings, dedicated queens and kingdoms of happiness. Stepping into adulthood, I started reading more about conspiring kings, deceiving queens and doomed kingdoms. Did that change my perception towards my granny’s passion of storytelling? Certainly not! It was her passion of telling stories in a positive light. In today’s world, it is my passion of narrating stories in a negative light. But barriers are being raised that is seriously hampering the growth of my passion. The new breed might sound speaking passionately about writing. But it is only money that is pulling them towards this profession. They are interested more in the lucrative side of writing. They are ignorant about the irrational side of writing.

Even though I have been writing in different forms for the last one decade and a little more but I am yet to deliver my best. The quest is incessant. At times, I am on quest of a creative habitat that helps me do justice to my passion of writing. I have been a nomad in travelling to various destinations just to be at peace with myself and writing. But many a restless souls have not allowed the writer in me to be in full elements. At the same time, I think it is extremely untoward and unexpected of me to raise my shameless head and hold others responsible for discounting my presence as a writer! I have been equally dishonest and brutal to the writer within me.

Thirteen years back when I had embarked on this journey of writing, very few opportunities were presented to me to flex my writing skills. In today’s age, I willingly extend an olive branch to the new breed of curious writers. But they upset me when they burn the passion within and try to move ahead on the wrong path. I never stop them. But they start growing over smart. Ignoring the passion for writing, they start growing passionate about the many other social maladies. I am not insensible to their desires. But I am insensitive to their pathetic attitude towards the joy of writing.

Nearing the pinnacle of this blog post, I still see myself being on a quest for the suppressed writer within me. And I still find myself abandoned by the dispassionate writers around me. Lack of creative freedom, presence of wrong mindsets and some untoward terms like ‘turnaround time’, ‘effort estimate’ and ‘timesheets’ are driving the yet to be discovered side of us writers  crazy. Even if I try to pretend to be sane, I am not sane. Even though I try to deliver the best, I am delivering crap. For the simple reason being, the quest of the writer within and the writers around is unquenchable. And the struggle continues to demand more creative freedom, more creative space to grow and become a desirable writer some day before we meet with our easy or painful ends!

-vociferous