END OF A RELATIONSHIP – Hindustan Times and I are no more on reading terms

When it debuted in Mumbai, on a monsoon-pregnant day of 2005, I wanted to grab the first copy and retain it as a symbol of my fascination. Prior to that I had to heavily rely on those who traveled between Mumbai and Delhi regularly; requesting them to carry along a copy of it and make it available to me for a mouthful of reading. Thereafter during my innumerable trips to Delhi, I never missed the chance of carrying a copy back home.

The arrival of Hindustan Times (HT) in Mumbai seemed like a fresh breath of journalistic air in the clutter endorsed culture of The Times of India and DNA. Every edition of HT came well packaged with its own set of cliché defying reportage. What was more striking was the absence of advertisement deluge in the newspaper. Being from an advertising background, I do understand the value, every media house attaches with ad releases. But then the noise was too less, with regards to HT. It appeared like a newspaper, which I definitely wanted to wake up to read every day.

Since reading HT was full of pleasure, I opted for a marathon subscription of almost five or seven years in a row, which finally ended on March 17, 2015. But I am relieved by the breakup. HT’s personality had changed, ever since I renewed the subscription, two years back. It was an unwilling move on my behalf; had it not been for the humble sales guy who came pleading at my doorstep, I had made up my mind to strangulate the relationship.

The ties had started weakening from the time HT decided to discontinue supplying THE BRUNCH (a special supplement with Sunday edition), beyond the city limits of Thane. Was it then our fault to be residents of a destination, roughly 36 kilometers away from the central suburb of Mumbai! Then too my friend Prashant and I continued revering the internet edition. In fact I have still retained some of its old printed versions, which carries my name in the letters section. The issues of THE BRUNCH were fresh, awe inspiring and indulging.

But good times don’t last for long. I won’t say I am, in particular, angry with HT alone. But I am definitely annoyed by the repetitive style of reporting issues of all newspapers, which disturb our mornings, spoil our afternoons and leave us feeling anxious during nights. Incidents definitely are to be reported. But the language is strictly uncourteous. Secondly the heinous typo errors in the print as well as e-version kept putting my mind off. Sometimes names, places, events and personalities were misrepresented or misprinted. Finally when the subscription manager of our area called to ask, if I am ready to upgrade my renewal further, I straight away put down the request. This time I was in no mood to heed to their humility or honesty. I knew I had lost interest in HT.

This might seem like an end of the road for my experience of newspaper reading. Well not exactly. I am already hooked to HT Mint Lounge series, published on every Saturday. And I am gradually mending my mind to adapt to the journalistic mannerisms of THE INDIAN EXPRESS. Secondly I have for a long time stayed away from magazine reading. Maybe I will catch up with a couple of them. Apart from everything else, there is always the good company of books I enjoy.

I am not trying to build a negative opinion against HT, which still continues to be one of my favorites. But I clearly remember the day, I chose to not continue being its fan for a long time. On the third or fifth page of the edition, I came across a filthy ad. This advertisement was of someone wishing birthday to a wealthy chap. I believe that was the last nail, to pierce the abyss of the coffin.

Today HT and I are no more on reading terms. The only link between us is the HT Mint Lounge, which comes my way, every Saturday. I am not repenting over this disassociation. Instead, I am moving ahead to a better world of reading the ones, I haven’t tried till now. Maybe it is high time that my collection starts comprising TIME, The New Yorker and The Economist for a change.

The end of a relationship is actually the beginning of a brand new relationship. It also marks the commencement of happy reading, twice upon a time with reloaded energy.

-vociferous 

WOMEN #MakeItHappen ALWAYS

For the uninitiated #MakeItHappen was the chosen theme for 2015; I got to know about it on http://www.internationalwomensday.com/theme.asp#.VP1jF3yUdQ8, a day later. I should be ashamed of it. But I am not. I know women, in particular don’t require a single day to be recognized for their efforts, their contribution and the various roles they play in rehabilitating this society. There is a specific reason, why I chose to use the word ‘rehabilitation’ in context with women and their commitment towards a better future.

When someone utters the term ‘women’, the first thing to cross my mind is colors. I find women very colorful. Women were created by the Super Creator, driven by an objective to make them extremely versatile. Almighty knew that this creation is going to be the significant-most evolution of all times. Womanhood is definitely not easy. Being a man, we might repeatedly fail to do justice to what women really want. I am not trying to criticize the universal breed of men. But in general, women exude multiple shades. Look at the women around us, the multiple roles they slip into, adapt themselves to; without batting an eyelid, never once pestering, just being on their own. These multiple shades are that of motherhood, sisterhood, companion, partner, friend, colleague, mentor, guide, teacher, motivator, acquaintance. 

I was nonetheless keen enough to write and publish this post on March 8. But I avoided doing so, on a day, when the world was busy doing that. The interest never paled out. I think it was a vinyl print that got me intrigued enough to start writing this post a bit differently. This vinyl, targeted towards women, comprised four scary men shouting out of the print and to the left was a softly touched photograph of a young lady. It was not difficult for me to figure out of her being the wife of one of those scary men. In bold letters five of them were wishing HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY to the women of today. Are they trying to say, “There is no country for old women”? Such grammatical confusion can spell disaster; if probed and analyzed on linguistic terms! Luckily no one made a note of it, knowing that all of the well-wishers had been and still continue being eve teasers and mild sex offenders. When such great men come together to wish Happy Women’s Day, I definitely think, it should be left across to women to seek justice and definitely #MakeItHappen.

Women do #MakeItHappen. In my lifetime, I’ve come across an extraordinary pedigree of such women. Starting from my maternal and paternal grandmothers to my own mother, sisters, my beloved and the many others. Every woman left her impression, not just on my mind, but in the entire course of my life. I haven’t forgotten the smallest of things that these women did, to pacify me during extreme outrage, to embrace me during grief, to extend care during adversities, to make me feel at ease while taking up challenges. I think even though I do all the greatest of things, I would never be able to express my gratitude to each one of them, for their resplendent presence in my life.

Sometimes relationships fail. Some of us curl into a cocoon of our own and never wish to come out of it. Women have a tough time dealing with such failures. For them, it is not about just being with somebody, but about someone being there for them. But they never give up. I am sharing this out of sheer experience. I’ve myself been witness to their triumphs. They take it all in their stride, spare a tear or two, seek the skies and then tell themselves, “I can #MakeItHappen”.

Today women are independent than ever before. They are still ill-treated and exploited (every newspaper reports an average of 10 rapes committed across the nation). Equally concerning is the rise of another kind of mentality of brutalizing 2 year olds and 5 year olds. But I am sure that won’t weaken women. Because women are extremely powerful. They are blessed with the special power of creating another life. For the nine months that they treasure this life; the most powerful thing, only women can take the whole credit for.

To sum it up, let me say that women are courage-embodied. In every women there is Goddess Shakti, a Maa Durga. Rightly put forward by Amitabh Bachchan, in the climax of the Vidya Balan starrer masterpiece KAHAANI, he expresses, “Sometime even Gods go wrong. It is said the Gods created the Asura and when the Asura went out of their control and wanted to destroy the universe… the Gods created Maa Durga. All Gods put their powers together and created her for destroying evil. They say the strength of all the mothers was used to create Maa Durga. Every year Maa comes. She vanquishes evil... And she goes back after… making sure all her children are safe.

As a practice, Women’s Day will be back next year, and let me leave it at that by saying they will continue doing their best, they will #MakeItHappen.

-vociferous 

MY FANBOY MOMENT WITH SIR JEFFREY ARCHER – PART 1

I reached the Kemps Corner outlet of CROSSWORDS at 6.40 pm. A mini gathering of people stood blocking the entrance of the bookshop. One of them was holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands; continuously adjusting his grip and also adjusting his neck, sometimes to the left and to the right. At around 6.45 pm, a white colored AUDI pulled in. Seated inside was Sir Jeffrey Archer, the master storyteller; he had arrived much ahead of the official event time of 7 pm. An executive opened the door for him. Sir Jeffrey Archer slowly stepped out, waived at all greeting him and graciously accepted the bouquet.

At a distance, I was busy pacing. The security personnel politely asked me to stir clear of the way so that they can ensure a safe passage for Sir Jeffrey Archer. I didn’t protest. I wanted to be a part of this first-hand experience. I moved to the left. In less than 20 seconds, the bestselling author walked in. Even though I had expected him to show up in a suit, he seemed at ease wearing a light colored shirt and a dark hued trouser. The legendary lines on his forehead didn’t seem harrowed by the adulation, he found himself surrounded with (he has never been a stranger to all of this). I pulled out my mobile and captured every single second of his short walk from the doorway to the cafeteria located on the mezzanine floor of the bookshop.

The crowd that emerged at CROSSWORDS were all genuine fans of Sir Jeffrey Archer. They were all waiting with baited breath. I wasted no time to grab the copy of his newest launch MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD. Every attendee tightened their grip over the new book and his other offerings. He has been writing the CLIFTON CHRONICLES for long. Honestly speaking, this book, which is supposed to be the fifth in row, is my first ever possession of the globally popular series. I know, I am not going to start reading it, before laying my hands over the previous four (not very far from doing that either).

Sir Jeffrey Archer emerged from the cafeteria, this time escorted by another Mumbai based crime writer, Piyush Jha. He made his way to the dais, stood there for a while, absorbing the loud round of applause that filled the event space now. A mike was handed over to him. He raised his left hand, established an eye-to-eye connection with the crowd and broke into a speech by making an honest confession about the cricketing team of England, the country he hails from. He said, “I think England is going to win the World Cup of 2015”. His declaration attracted a vocal retaliation (in a friendly tone) from the crowd, which claimed it was India again that will retain the title. Sir Jeffrey Archer grabbed this opportunity to put his amazing sense of humor to good work. Even though he called the Indian cricketers lazy, he quickly added that the team was very serious about such a sporting event of global demeanor. He expressed as to how he continues to remain pleasantly surprised by the energy of these cricketers, who understand the game better and take it very seriously to compete with a vengeance.

Being a storyteller, Sir Jeffrey Archer left everyone awestruck with a short anecdote, which was based on his personal observation of the booksellers at traffic signals. His enactment of the bookseller (who was coincidentally a kid), walking with a pile of books was so perfect, I could relate to it instantly. As his car came to a halt at one of the traffic signals, he heard a knock on his window. He rolled down the window glass. The child bookseller pushed his new book in and asked, “Would you like to buy the new Jeffrey Archer book on offer?” Sir Jeffrey Archer looked deep into his eyes and replied, “I am this same Jeffrey Archer who writes these books”. The little child looked somewhat unimpressed. The crowd couldn’t hold back its laughter.

(to be continued in… Part 2) 

-vociferous

MY FANBOY MOMENT WITH SIR JEFFREY ARCHER – PART 2

(continued from Part 1)

Amidst all his other fans, I stood there, emotionally touched by the author’s honest voice; redeeming my personal fanboy moment. As he spoke, my mind pondered over those numerous years of struggle, when I wanted to see him, meet him in person. But I couldn’t. Every year, from the year he started coming to India and visited Mumbai, I nearly missed out on these opportunities, for reasons that I don’t wish to mention, count or recollect. The seed of eagerness to see him, was sown in me by his book A PRISONER OF BIRTH, only to be followed by many of his other books, purchased at a feverish pace of my own. I busied myself absorbing all the passion he showed in describing his books, inspiration for characters, the plots, the handwritten drafts, the corrected versions, his respect for R. K. Narayan, his admiration of R. K. Laxman and the upcoming editions of his old books. Shining bright at 74, he made no bones about his age. What I found interesting about this man, was his love for life and his love for the lives he writes so believably in his books. I was glued to every single word, he let his fans to feast upon. So focused I was. Nothing mattered to me. My mobile phone did ring, an sms did arrive, from none other than my beloved. But she cooperated, knowing very well that this moment was precious than anything else; by anything, I mean to say our wedding anniversary (but more on that later). 

I could sense nothing but the author himself. Standing afar, I was thrilled infinitely. Pushed to the side, sometimes pressed from behind, and holding my copy high; all that I cared for was Sir Jeffrey Archer. I was carrying with me a printed copy of my review of one of his stories CASTE-OFF that I had published on my blog www.urbansurprise.blogspot.in (http://urbansurprise.blogspot.in/2010/06/caste-off.html). It was a precious advice from my wife, who apprised, “What if you do get the chance to speak to him and can quickly share your writing with him?” Heeding her paid off well (not in the expected way, but definitely in a way, I hadn’t anticipated).

So carried away I was by his conversation, which he didn’t prolong a minute more than those 45 minutes of his memorable presence; I didn’t realize that the crowd was now gearing up to seek Sir Jeffrey Archer’s elite autograph. A senior lady murmured in my ear, “Son, if you don’t mind, could you please shift a little to your right?” She added, “If you do so, we will be able to stand parallel to the queue that has started making its way to the dais.” The suggestion was viable. I thanked her for the same, my thoughts about the author remained undisturbed. Even though our queue didn’t move an inch, my determination had long stepped on the dais, got a selfie clicked and walked away smiling. But reality bites. For a second I felt, I have to return empty handed, with a book that didn’t bear my favorite author’s signature. The finale to my dream was just 7 souls away. Finally I stood there, waiting for my turn. My book was laid on the table, he gently raised his hand, the pen’s tip touched the second page, and it moved smoothly. Sir Jeffrey Archer had penned down his signature. I requested, if I could share some space to click a photograph of us both. To which he politely responded, “Son, if I honor your request, it would be tiresome and time consuming to pose with this entire ocean of my fans. Anyways thank you for asking”.

I couldn’t have asked for more. As I started walking away from the dais, I knew how strong my determination had grown. The experience has not yet paled out. The aura that Sir Jeffrey Archer exuded was unforgettable. I kept looking back, if I could once again find the space, to squeeze in and slip across to him, the printed piece of my review of his short story CASTE-OFF. But the day March 2, 2015 didn’t just belong to me, it belonged to his numerous other fans too, who were waiting in the queue, now outnumbered, flowing out of the CROSSWORDS bookstore of Kemps Corner. As I started leaving, my eyes fell on Ms Nisha Jamvwal, the main inspiration and also the central character of Sir Jeffrey Archer’s short story CASTE-OFF. This was the best ever thing to come my way on this special day. I found her standing at a counter, speaking to someone. I approached her, reminding her of the blog that she had also left her comment on, almost five years back. Not only did she recollect the blog, but also shared some vital information, which she requested if I can add and either rewrite the post or present it in a different shade of hope! I agreed. She didn’t refuse to sign a copy of the published blog and said, “I will be looking forward to your email.”

The crowd had started spilling out on the road. I glanced at my watch. It was 8 pm. I hailed for a taxi. The driver was amused and asked me, “Why this place is so crowded Sir, is someone from the filmy world visiting?”

I replied, “No not at all. But the guest is bigger than anyone else, an author from England. Sir Jeffrey Archer.”

I am sure, he knew no one by that name and ferried me across to Mumbai CST from where I embarked yet again on a journey of memories, imaginations and more.

-vociferous 

MUCH AHEAD OF THE MOVIES

Hours before I leave to watch a movie, an army of expectations keeps parading between my thoughts. I won’t label it paranoia. But I would agree upon the word - ‘excitement’. Punctuated by restlessness and driven by the haste to be at the movie theater, marking my attendance from the first frame till the last; about everything in general, keeps me at the peak of my curiosity.

I've time and again tried to decode this premonition and failed repeatedly. In between, having watched a movie and while gearing up for the next, I've tried to practice mediation, to calm myself down. The habit seems to show no positive signs of ceasing easily.

I think, I slip too deep in the skin of an avid movie watcher’s real character. This edginess is deep rooted in the frequency with which, I continue watching the movie trailers. Before deciding to watch the movie, I get into a questioning mode – Will they delete a certain scene? Will the movie get banned? Will some activists stall the movie screening? Will the promo song play in the beginning or is set to act as climax? Will there be a cameo by a secret actor? Will it prove the critics wrong? Will it leave me feeling fully entertained and sufficiently satisfied?

In this modern era, movies are just not limited to single screen theatres, multiplexes or video parlors. They have started intruding the comforts of our palms and grown instantly watchable at our thumb’s touch. The advent of iPad, tablets, phablets and other gadgets has a dual impact on hyperactive people like me. Take for instance, I come across a recently released movie, which is watched either by a colleague in the office or by a fellow traveler in the train. An imaginary bulb of analytical nature starts flickering in my mind. I start concentrating on a particular scene, thinking, is this the beginning of the movie, is this the scene on the other side of interval or is this the end? Just then, the original watcher, the owner of the motion picture (definitely a pirated version) decides to act like a ring master. He sharpens his index finger, places it on the screen and moves it vigorously (forward, backward). The entire movie either gets rewound or is pushed many scenes ahead; leaving me (the secret watcher) harrowed. Once again all hopes are pinned on the next day, next show or last day, last show. And thus, once again, I grow restless.

This composition of exhilaration is not just limited to the upcoming experience of planning to watch the movie, but it also extends to the time I shall spend to arrive at the movie screening. Almost on all occasions, to avoid getting stuck in a traffic jam or to escape standing last in a queue to procure my tickets booed online, I have found myself reaching almost 60 minutes in advance of the actual screening time. When I am alone, I am not bothered. But when accompanied by my calm mannered spouse, equally calm mother and other family members, I am the most preferred subject to be regarded as an irritant. For what I declare as punctuality, I am conferred the title of being ‘a little too much’ of a manipulator.

I am planning to watch another movie this evening, once again at a multiplex nearby. This movie that has been earning rave reviews ever since it released has been playing itself within the confines of my mind. Since it is a dark thriller, drenched thick in the hues of revenge; how can I control myself? And yet I find myself in control. I think my real test would be during the final hours of departure from my workplace and the actual time of arrival at the multiplex. It is then, I shall get to know, if the army decides to parade again! Till then, it is only the trailer, the reviews of critics and the promo song playing back-to-back, like blockbuster hits in my imaginary trails of the storyline. As insane as I should be getting, I guess!

-vociferous 

A CONCRETE STEP TOWARDS PASSION

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous

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