ISN’T MOTIVATION THE KEY?

I remember being very young when my father walked in during a midsummer afternoon and declared, “Wake up, you got to learn cycling from today.” He held my hand and I followed him to a local bicycle mechanic’s shop. I remember the mechanic only by his first name – Abdul. His physical features were uncanny with a hairstyle that could inspire many hilarious characters for a comic strip. His jawline was peculiar, seemed a little misaligned and he broke into a smile every now and then. My father chose a bicycle for me, a maroon colored mini cycle of Atlas make; strong and sturdy, inviting. We made our way to the adjacent playground. My father gave me some basic instructions about how to pedal, maintain balance, take control of the handle bar and switch between looking upward, downward. As I sat on the bicycle, I told myself, “This looks pretty easy.” My father released a gentle smile and I started pedaling. I might have gone a little ahead when I lost balance, hugged the ground and smeared with red mud. The children playing nearby rushed to my rescue but, my father discouraged them and walked closer to where I was lying helplessly; now staring at the rude blue sky.

My father asked, “What happened? Why aren’t you getting up?”

I defended, “I can’t. This is not my cup of tea. Look at me, I am all so dirty.”

My father, now having raised his volume slightly warned, “You learn it this way or never.” 

Seeing my adamant behaviour, my father didn’t press me further and let me tread on my own. For more than a week and less than a month, I didn’t ever head to Abdul’s shop to hire a bicycle to start learning bicycling. I was mocked by my friends. Some of them showed their compassion while others simply decided to give me a miss. My mom stood by me; she opened the door, pushed a note of Rs 5 deep in my palm and warned, “You are not returning today without learning. Make the world stop laughing at you or I will make sure that you learn it my way.” Shuddering and breathing heavily beneath the threat, I rushed to Abdul’s shop, grabbed the same bicycle and was back on the playground. This time, Abdul had a little mercy on me; he accompanied me to the playground and promised to not let me lose my balance. Abdul’s assurance made me feel confident and I started pedaling. I pedaled for quite some time, turned my head to see that Abdul was long gone. My heart sank and I hit the ground instantly. I was so outraged that I felt like pelting a stone at Abdul, breaking his misaligned jawline and make him suffer for life. Before I could set my thoughts into action, Abdul came rushing; he helped me gain my posture back and said, “Good job. Next time, you should pedal more, fall without worrying and start cycling again.”

Abdul’s words kept echoing in my ears. I returned home valorously. The story that I built around my learning experience seemed to have no end. I kept repeating the same to my mom and she kept smiling. After some while, my father debuted right in the middle of the story and doubted everything that I padded up to support the core of it. Next morning, he promised to accompany me to Abdul’s shop and verify my claims.

As the sun rose, my heart cursed the morning; on a nasty front, I also prayed for an earthquake and a heavy downpour to thwart my Bicycle Training Programme. But God seemed to be on leave too. Abdul happily let the bicycle go; he accepted my father’s bet that if I don’t fall, he will not charge us a penny. The pressure was mounting. As I took control of the bicycle, my mother’s words echoed again, “You are not returning today without learning. Make the world stop laughing at you or I will make sure that you learn it my way.” I looked into my father’s eyes and he seemed to be communicating silently to me, “Son, don’t make me say what I said that day. Prove me wrong. Don’t let me should at you, pushing you to learn it this way or never.” After a while, he yelled, “Pedal. Whom are you waiting for? Go ride. If you fall, get your ass up and ride again. Or else, I am never going to pay for your bicycle practice.”

Some of his words might have been negative but they had a positive connotation. Being a father, he didn’t want his son to fail. My mother didn’t want her child to fail. On the tad end I saw Abdul, being an entrepreneur, he too was betting his luck on me and somehow I felt, he wanted to lose out on that small bet of Rs. 5; he longed to see me succeed.

I started pedaling, I temporarily lost the balance and then regained my composure. In a matter of 45 minutes, I had completed taking five rounds of the playground that had treated me like a loser. In the sixth round, I fell off the bicycle. But my father ran to my rescue. His single word for that moment, “Finally.” Abdul let out a sigh of relief and when we returned home, my father had a story to narrate. I was the listener this time. My father told it the way the events took place. He didn’t pad up a single thing. Abdul found a momentary mention too. My mother stared deep into my eyes, drew me closer, hugged me tightly and said, “Didn’t I tell you I will make you learn my way?”

Emanuel James "Jim" Rohn was an American entrepreneur, author and motivational speaker had once remarked rightly – Motivation is what gets you started. Habit is what keeps you going.

My only regret is; people around the world have suddenly stopped motivating and have started taking keen interesting in conspiring. Thankfully I will hold on to my ground to continue being a motivator for those who need my help and my timely advice.

-Virtuous Vociferous

PS: My father was a person of few words but he had the strength to bend a mind. I am unaware about Abdul’s whereabouts but, I am sure he meant everything he said. My mother still continues to be my source of constant inspiration. 

AS WE DROVE OUT ONE MIDSUMMER MORNING

As you might realise, the title of the blog is inspired from the 1969 Laurie Lee memoir As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. But this post and the book don’t resemble each other on any account. To be precise, this could be just another anecdote.  

View from Lenyadri caves

The recently concluded weekend could have been another ordinary day of our lives; had we not instantly decided to travel to a destination, which helped us grow rich with its vibrant memories. At around 9:30 AM, we started for Titwala in our white coloured Zen Estilo (Meter Reading: 50206). The first destination being decided, we deliberately chose to remain clueless as to where, we would be heading after offering our prayers at the temple. But we were in for a stunning surprise. Following a disturbance caused by some over-drunk antisocial elements, the entire area around the temple town remained closed. The shops had downed their shutters, restaurants had shut business, cops were on the vigil and visitors like us were left a bit dissatisfied. Luckily the doors of the main temple were kept open to not let down the expectations of devotees (like us), who throng in over weekends.

Monkeying Around

We were back on the Murbad-Kalyan road, hunger making our taste buds run dry. Dajiba, a midsized restaurant jumped to our rescue with two plates of hot Misal Pav being served alongside two cups of hot tea. Our hunger pangs being taken care of, we chose to explore some traveling options; these included mountains and beaches. We chose to travel straight to Malshej Ghat and if time permitted, a few kms ahead of it to Junnar. Lady luck agreed to travel alongside. The car’s speed didn’t hit an ounce below 100 kms/hour; the only exception being the presence of relentless speed breakers near Murbad bus depot. We were in no mood to negotiate. The first sight of Malshej Ghat’s towering peak gave us an adrenaline rush. Driving through one of the openings of Malshej Ghat, which also serves as a tunnel; we brought our car to a halt near Maharashtra Dhaba at Mhad-Pargaon (Meter Reading: 50317, Time: 13:30 hrs). We treated ourselves to a sumptuous spread of Jowari Bhakri, Aloo Mutter and Baked Papad. At this moment, we were informed of being just 45 minutes away from Lenyadri Caves in Junnar. To the uninitiated, Lenyadri is one of the 8 spots of pilgrimage that offers darshan of Lord Ganesha’s Shakti Peeths in and around Pune (also known as the Ashtavinayaka Yatra).

Lenyadri Caves

Our hearts, now overdosed with excitement, couldn’t resist beating faster. There stood the Lenyadri Caves, at a height of 100 feet (30 m) above the plains. Going by Wikipedia, Lenyadri is the only Ashtavinayaka temple on a mountain and within the precincts of Buddhist caves (Meter Reading: 50343, Time: 14:20 hrs). We decided to park our car in the private parking zone. We were then presented with the challenge of having to climb 350 stairs to reach Lord Ganpati temple inside the caves. At around 14:30 hrs, the sun was at its scorching best. But where there is faith there is always devotion. And where there is Lord Ganesha, we are Blessed Humesha. Since the climb was steep, it was decided between us that one of us would take up the challenge. Endurance had to be put to its ultimate test. Loaded with a bottle of cold water, a camera, a Western hat and eye gears; I started on my own. I exhaled more, inhaled less and drank less water. The idea was to not take any break while climbing. High on devotion helped me to succeed with flying colours. After having reached the entrance, I called back to have conquered the summit. On entering the cave, the exhaustion faded out. The natural form of Lord Ganesha, smeared in vermillion was a sight of sheer bliss. Peering out of the cave weaved a scenic tale, which cannot be narrated through a single write up. 

The Pagoda

After stepping out, the visit to the pagoda in one of the many caves was another delight, which I shall timelessly savour. As I started descending, I was left amused by the sight of monkeys seated by the rock-cut stairs. Expectation of food was quiet evident in their eyes. Since I had nothing to share, I was spared of their wrath, which usually emerges from infighting.

By 15:25 hrs, I had touched base. We then teamed up again to shop for some raisins, which are sold at throwaway prices; in large, small quantities. At sharp 15:30 hrs, we started back for home. Since we were to travel by the same road and through the Malshej Ghat, we stopped by to photograph the surrounds and of course enrich our souls with selfies. After having crossed the tunnel, we came across the ghastly sight of a dead body being pulled out of the valley. We decided to leave the suspense of this story unattended. During a pleasant journey, we were in no mood to carry home bitter memories. At this point, it is worth mentioning the efforts taken by government authorities to beautify the ravines. Since monsoons are expected soon, the edges have been barricaded and seating arrangements facilitated to make visits much more pleasurable. Driving through these places, we made sure to buy wild sweet berries, even though raw mangoes were on sale too; all of them at cheap bargain friendly prices.

The Challenging Staircase

We ended the trip with a quick visit to our neighborhood. During the time, we finally parked the car, the meter read 50467. Till the next time, we embark on another road trip… we wish you Happy Driving, Happy Exploring.

-Virtuous Vociferous

PS: The next time, I write a post related to travel, it will bear a new voice and a new style of writing (absolutely different from what it looks, sounds and reads now). 

DEAR MAA – 60 MILES AHEAD OF US

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Virtuous Vociferous 

THE ENTRAPMENTS OF DOMESTIC LIFE

All this while, the tasteless mind has been plagued by questions. These sharp-edged questions keep protruding out like active ulcers on passive skin. Causing anguish, demeaning desires, these questions compel us to probe deep into a proverb, which reads: PURPOSE FUELS PASSION. In a life as domestic as ours, the ‘purpose’ seems to have gone missing.

The sun is yet to come to life. The alarm goes off at 5 AM sharp. Switching off the AC, crawling out of the bed, contracting and expanding the eyes, inhaling the remains of last night and exhaling the so called depravity of sleep; we tell ourselves, “Wake up, time to go”. The door leads to the bathroom, the bathroom gives way to the washbasin, the washbasin sports a hefty tap, which we turn on and push a toothbrush deep inside to help us sport a million dollar smile, cavity free jawline, fresh breath (in case, smooching tops the agenda). After the residues of the previous night’s half-digested food finds a way down the flush, we are equally free to declare ourselves ‘Fresh’.

Postponing the bath, we sprint towards the kitchen; boil a glassful of water, slice a lemon into two, undo the lid of Baba Ramdev’s Patanjali honey and consume it to make a statement, “We are health conscious”. It is 5:40 AM by now, we decide to embark on an excursion of a home that belongs to us, exploring deep corners, which hide in them a dead cockroach, a group of paralyzed mosquitoes, a nano crew of marching ants and a spider busy spreading a web to trap them all. Sorry we are in no mood to give these pests a free hand; we pull out the broom, rescue them from the circle of life and death and release them dead or alive straight into the dustbin. Thereafter we continue with the broom, trying not to fly on it but sweeping the floors and other surfaces. By 6 AM, we are out. Huffing, puffing and sweating heavily. This part is globally known as ‘Physical Workout’. By 6:45 AM, we are back to wake up the other members of the home. The God, the wife, the mother, the washing machine, the gas oven and the milk over it, the refrigerator and of course the music system.

The wife and the mother have got their own agendas to chase. If wife and mother are both professionals, boarding the 8:45 AM Mumbai Fast tops the list. Prior to that the moral responsibility of cooking a storm keeps them engaged. Oh shit, it is 8:15 AM. If we don’t leave now, the train (even though starting from where we stay) might get crowded. We run down all the staircase, blow the horn to signal our concern over a supposed delay in making. The wife follows in 50:50 makeup; the rest of it will be taken care of in the train. While we are busy finding a parking space, the wife is already running for the train. We run, board the train and curse those who opt for a return journey from the station prior to ours. The train comes to a halt, the wife alights somewhere else. After we alight, we take a look at the watch and release a sigh of relief. This part is officially known as ‘the train is running on time’.

Humping and thumping we reach our offices, welcomed by the security guard at the reception, we sign in and traverse smoothly through the biometric passage. We settle down and start fondling with the PC, Laptop, Tablet and IPad that serves as our connection to the outside world. This part is universally called ‘being in office’. Till lunch hour, we try to figure out what are we supposed to do. We make phone calls to our loved ones to know their statuses; has the wife reached her office safely? Did mother have her breakfast? What is the bank balance for today? Boss comes in, doesn’t smile, doesn’t react, doesn’t interact and then we scream out ‘communication gap’. Post the lunch hour, we associate ourselves with some menial tasks, which fail to make us feel proud; we gape, we ape, we yawn, we curl and by the time our mind starts concentrating on the tasks at hand, it is it time to leave. Leaving office on time is considered sin in an advertising agency (or perhaps the advertising industry). The moment, we decide to pack up, the client servicing team members come hunting for us. We step out, our phones ring, we are requested to come back to the office and there we are fondling with computer again. Time doesn’t stand still, decisions are postponed, feedback never shared; frustrated and irritated, we call it a day. This part is called ‘finally out of office’.

Once again we are at the station, waiting impatiently for the train to arrive. Even though the indicator predicts an arrival within three minutes, many a times, the train seems to have disappeared. The train arrives, we barge in; finding a seat is a rare opportunity if at all we board the train from another destination rather than the point of its origin. We get back to the destination, we started from in the morning. And once again, we are back home. We bathe, we refresh and we settle down for dinner. We switch on the television, make an attempt to stay up late to catch a movie, we had long heard about but never thought of watching. The eyes start trembling, beg for sleep and naturally we are back to the bed again. The AC is switched on and there we are, indulged in sleep, lost in nightmares and getting lost somewhere, before the alarm rings again.

Days and nights fade, we follow the same routine. Then comes a day when we ask, “What is the purpose we are pursuing in our lives?”

A long silence ensues.

Purpose lost, purpose gained; only this time, it is not the one…we had been thinking about!

-Virtuous Vociferous 

Nous Sommes Prêts

Till yesterday we followed an orthodox ritual of traveling. We would wait for months to first think and then travel. Our hopes stuck to the availability of tickets; we never made a choice that contested our fascination about train journeys. Though this fascination was an imposed one, over the years, we ended up gingerly falling in love with it. This love spanned between the geographical limits of Mumbai and Kolkata. Summers after summers, we relied on a solo vacation; a vacation that comprised learning English and Bengali grammar too.

Over a period of time, this fascination took a beating; other destinations started casting their spell. We did try to make an exception. Long back the three letter word ‘Goa’ resounded. A travel agent was approached; the yellow colored cubical type office was tucked somewhere between a barber’s shop and a general store, somewhere near a badly smelling fish market. Somehow the plan didn’t materialize the way, we had wanted it to. In fact we never traveled to Goa. We had saved enough for this trip. Our hearts were left broken by the immense agony of cancellation. There were two ways to vent it out, scream wildly or calm down. We calmed down, purchased a Videocon washing machine with the saved amount and never ever spoke about it. On certain occasions, it seemed like we had taken a pledge to never reveal what happened to our plans of a so called different vacation in Goa.

Years faded, desires matured, faith soared and the feet developed an itch; this itch carried the sensation of tramping across destinations. From trains, we made an upwardly move; this time we chose to fly. This wasn’t a fascination but a better option to travel. A perfect time saver; journeys by flights attracted both; raised eyebrows and swollen egos. Even though Kolkata topped the priority list (yes I mean it; the priority list) of vacations, we discovered other destinations such as Gokarna, Chennai, Puducherry, Shimla, Manali, Chandigarh, Pune, Kolhapur, Dharamshala, Silvassa and of course Goa (we visited on multiple occasions). We didn’t limit ourselves to national boundaries, we traversed partly across the globe, to another Asian destination. This time we found ourselves in Thailand; we went exploring through Pattaya and then Bangkok. We shot photographs with tigers, prayed in Buddhist temples, walked through the nights and enjoyed eyeing Dolphins, Orangutans at their comical best. Even though it was our first international trip, our passports bearing the first international stamp; the experiences were quietly brushed beneath a carpet of hushed anguish. Some complained of not being informed; we wondered if they would have towed along! Some complained of the trip being an ego trip; we regret that the ego they spoke about never showed up. Once again we took another pledge to lock our Bangkok memories with an unbreakable password. The 3500 odd photographs remain copied to one of the four or perhaps five external hard disks that we share between us. 

Throughout the years, we realized that breaking away from an orthodox ritual attracts antipathy from all quarters. The society reacts in strange manners. Ties of blood weaken. Promises of friendship are forgotten; it’s really funny how one international trip ends up being a controversy. Will we not take another international trip ever? Why shouldn’t we? Our passports are not meant to rot between their date of issue and renewal. We will travel of course, we will break a norm again; if not in the near future, definitely maybe immediately.

Having lived for long in memories of bygone years, the mind continues demanding freshness. Social media continues to tell us about the restless journeys, our friends, our family and our extended families embark upon. We used to stare at them, on our computer screens, till one day we decided; break the rules, hit the road, take the first left turn, move a little ahead, then turn to the right and continue going straight; without once, thinking of taking a U Turn.

Therefore to many journeys ahead, we wish to say, “Nous Sommes Prêts”.

-Virtuous Vociferous 

REOPENING THIS SEASON

No more tall claims. No more long waits. No more thinking through darkness. No more remorse over wasted weekends. This list of ‘no mores’ carries the burden of running longer. This list also poses the threat to end up ruining my future course of writing… Let me add an extra no more to that or should I save it for some other time!

So where was I between these unblogged months?

Migration: Between 2008 and 2010, Pune was my most favoured destination to stake my claim for being a second home. The weather, the people, the food and the possibilities looked highly defined. The trips I made back then to Pune were a blend of personal and professional inclinations. Never did I foresee a migration. Between May 2015 and December 2015, I migrated to Pune; holed up in a terrace flat. Peaceful locality, closer to my place of work, pleasant weather; everything seemed picture perfect. Except that I had started missing Mumbai immensely from the day I unlocked the door of my apartment. During my course of stay in Pune, I did nothing great about my passion but, kept imagining about it, talking about it and slept by setting myself on a paid vacation mode.

Books: Reading gives me indefinable joy. My greed to read increased; I read books after books after books after books. Crime fictions, suspense thrillers, nonfiction, biographies, journeys, deaths, births, revolutions, destruction and evolution; I read them all. I felt like I was possessed by a hungry reader’s soul. This soul replaced my original part, auto installed itself and I continued to read. Traces of that reader’s soul can still be found in me, I am still reading and going by my instinct, I am not letting go the habit. 

Cinema: There are two types of cinema; the ones you want to watch and the ones you are suggested to watch. I fell in love with the later. In the long list of suggestions, I watched THE SHIP OF THESEUS, FIGHT CLUB, ZERO DARK THIRTY, THE SHINING; it’s a tiresome list of choices I made. But cinema gave me a lot. Thankful to two specific guys from my Pune office, who introduced me to the kind of cinema, which I knew existed but, didn’t endeavour to secure an access.

Weekends: Posted on domestic duty. I went shopping for vegetables, clothes, perfumes, shoes, accessories, snacks and a lot more. I promised to write something on Saturday, postponed it to Sunday and by Monday, the less it’s written about, the better. I combed through weekends, I flipped through them and when I counted down the wasted ones, I cursed.

Lethargy: It is not in my nature but, I did extend to it my olive branch of friendship. Even though for years, I treated it like an alien, its commitment towards me was unquestionable. There was no specific reason behind this partnership but, of course my desire to try it once. Thank you for being there and now having disappeared.

All said, all written, I now cut the ribbon; a satin red one with regards to REOPENING THIS SEASON.

-Virtuous Vociferous 

WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?

I could have come up with 100 odd lies to tell a half-baked truth about my next subject/object of interest to start writing about. Believe me but I am still faking too much. At the same time, there is some truth to it. By truth, I mean the one, I haven’t told you yet. The truth simply being, I wanted to begin writing this post with an introductory paragraph that was supposed to be completely different from what I have ended up writing in here. It could have been much better; once again a less spoken truth, which stalks/haunts me forever.

 

Since journeys interest me, I probably would have weaved a story around some expedition of mine. But there are these sometimes rude, sometimes soft characters, which keep visiting my thought process. Some are real, some fake, some are fictionalized and some don’t even exist in this world. Due to sheer lack of passion, I excused myself from writing again, once again thinking what am I writing next?

The name Bukani resonates. Who is she? A village girl! Do I know her personally? Yes I do. She used to be my childhood friend, who lived in the front row home of our village lane. I remember her till the 16 or 18 years of my age. She had stopped coming to our home. Someone told me, she has been married off. Her name remained with me. I saw her young but never found her turn into an adult. She was much matured and senior to us (me and my cousin brother), yet she would spoil her clothes to partner  our mud slung roughness, close the doors behind us to chase cats and lizards, call out to us to show us what she had discovered underneath the dirty, stinking staircases. What am I writing next then? Bukani! Why Bukani when I know Yamini (once again a fictional character) personally!

In this jungle of a fictional inner world in a factual outer world, I am not lost but angry, hungry and thirsty for passion. This passion that I am talking about arrives/evolves straight from the womb of an idea to write about.

Who is Yamini? A woman with a past, present and future like that of none other. I met Yamini in crowded trains, in loud weddings, in cosy corners, in dirty lodges, in five star hotels, in business forums and sometimes calling out to me from her lusty wilderness.  She sat across legs crossed, short hair, without make up, extorting heartbeat, exchanging provocative looks and yet she always remained unwritten. So am I not writing about her? No I am not because there is this guy nameless, without an identity and ignored in hell or heaven; forgotten by me, his wife, his part time lovers, his crimes, his philosophies.

He sold our ideas to every client. He would strike a conversation with the receptionist, take them to premium restaurants for exotic dinners, carry them home in hired taxis, rented cars, auto rickshaws or ask them to ride pillion on his bike. He would slip into a group discussion, make his eyes dance, woo the sister-in-law of a company’s founder, fly to Mauritius for the most erotic vacation of lifetime and come back to settle with his love of life. After a long, long time I would meet his wife, completely drunk, clinging to the shoulders of one of her drunken colleagues, turning towards me and telling me about the debacle of their marriage. But then I am not writing about him or her too. What am I writing next then?

I think I am not going to write anything next till I relocate the core of my inspiration. On many occasions, I turned on the laptop, clicked on Microsoft Word and abandoned millions of thoughts, which could have transformed into stories, poetry, monologues or plays. I think I am not going to write the next best thing from my temporary territory of existence. But I will definitely write once I board the same train where I made new friends and heard their stories; our group was called Zatang Group.

I am waiting for that day when I pack my bags to head back home and begin a new conversation with the Arabian Sea. I will begin to write then. But what am I writing next? I think many things.

-vociferous

 

A REVOLUTIONARY BEGINNING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous 

EVER SAY, ALWAYS AGAIN

My mother has very recently taken to reading. She also expressed, how happy she is; after I introduced her to this hobby. We have our in-house library, comprising books; purchased from book fairs, from bookshops, airports, roadside, seconds shops, gifted, stolen, borrowed, smuggled, imported and also pirated versions. She somehow never fancied reading any of them. When I handed over to her a copy of Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts; she had asked, “Is this a book or a mythological epic, which you might never end reading?” Luckily I read the same and also narrated to her in not less than thirty minutes flat, a summary of what I thought was the most powerful piece of writing.

Coming back to my mother’s recent stint with reading, she is now booked, devotedly and dedicatedly with Pratham Alo (First Light), written by Sunil Gangopadhyay.  Respected for his style of writing, remembered for the characters created by him (my favorite though is Hathat Nirar Janya) and the favorite author of controversies, Sunil Gangopadhyay has weaved a tale that chronicles the lives of West Bengal’s ‘Renaissance Era’. As she continued reading, she brought to my notice an instance, wherein the author is describing Kabiguru Rabindranath Tagore’s penchant for writing. It seems, when the great author used to settle down to write a story, he had this habit of allowing his mind to drift. He would create multiple stories from a single theme or multiple themes from a single story. His style of writing was so inspirational that many were not only left surprised by his caliber but also the gems he bestowed on us, the benevolent Bengalis.

This instance takes me back to the memory of the play ‘Colour Blind’, directed by Manav Kaul that attempts to rediscover Rabindranath Tagore. Swanand Kirkire, one of India’s best lyricist, plays the role of death in this play. He is shown visiting Rabindranath Tagore during his last days. Dressed in black, he calls upon the author and informs, “Your time is over. Let’s go now.” To which, Rabindranath Tagore replies in an engaged tone, “No not now. I’ve many things pending to be written down.” This irritates death and he remarks pointing Rabindranath Tagore to the audience, “What kind of human being is he? Every time I have come to his home, I’ve found him drowned in writing. The day his mother died, he was writing. The day his wife passed away, I saw him writing. The day his first child breathed last, he was writing. How can this man be so addicted to writing?”

Writing, I believe is an act of pure passion. But looking at the silence that I had allowed this blog to slip into; I think writing has also got to do a lot with the circumstances around us. If I call myself a blogger, I have definitely not been a regular at it. My last blog post was on March 24, 2015. Post which, I’m writing today (one month later) and may or may not post this piece on my blog, in a short while or a long while. Where have I been all these days?

All these days, I had been writing but not on a piece of paper, not in a word document and neither in my regular diary; but my writing has been happening imaginably in my mind. Apart from that I’ve been carrying a few small diaries in my bag, during outdoor trips; in these diaries I’ve been making quick notes. Then there is my iPhone, which has an inbuilt Notes App to help me punch in, whatever I observe, listen and experience. At the same time, my facebook wall bears testimony to a lot of my writings. But the real writing regularity that I wish to remain associated with, suffers from occasional bouts of procrastination. On my birthday this year, I had started writing a (so called) novel; a love story between two people. I chose to term it or rather categorize it as an unethical story. I’ve no issues with the controversies and criticism, this debut book of mine might attract. But from the inception point of writing this novel, I’ve decided to remain unfazed by anything. The funny thing though is that I’ve written and discarded all the four drafts, of the very first chapter that I had written of the book. At this moment, most of this book of mine is a part of my daydreaming. Even though I don’t want to divulge much about the theme and the characters, two things play an important role in this book of mine – Mumbai Monsoons and the Arabian Sea. I think most of the inspiration for the parts, I wish to write about Mumbai Monsoons arrives from the 1979 song ‘Rimjhim Gire Saawan’ from the classic Amitabh Bachchan and Moushumi Chatterjee starrer Manzil. The song is so well shot; it is difficult to make out as to when the onscreen lovers are getting wet in the real or unreal rains. Definitely a masterpiece of yesteryear, the song brings alive in me emotions that are real and inspiring. Only in my story, the monsoon slips into different roles of playing the cupid, the betrayer and also at times – the storyteller.

Speaking about writing, I’m not being completely passive. An eBook publishing company has already readied my first poetry book of fifty poems. It is only me, who has delayed authorizing the version and am yet to allow it, to be made available for download. The book ran into some serious technical errors. Designed laboriously by my wife (to whom I shall remain indebted infinitely), my first book of fifty poems looks warm, romantic and desirable. The eBook publishers failed to understand that emotion and had messed up with the final copy of compilations. Outraged and upset, I curse myself for not having gone the Amazon way of making it available on KINDLE. But now that the crooked patches have been ironed out and post my authorization, the book is good to go.

In the coming days, I might be in many moods – happy, sad, lazy, active! I might choose to travel extensively or prefer staying locked in a room or watch back-to-back movies. Therefore I am again apprehensive; my writing might hibernate. The only way to continue being in writing, is to try and write more, read more and of course keep writing more.

Till the next time I write, I shall ever say, always again.

-vociferous 

IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN OF OUR PROHIBITION SHUNNING CULTURE

Have you noticed the space below any of the signboards, which read – DO NOT SPIT HERE? To your utter dismay you will find large patches, which resemble blood stains, symbolic of years of spit deposition, sponsored by the easy availability of raw tobacco, mawa or the recently banned gutka.

Rising close to the challenge are the signboards, installed near railway stations – DO NOT CROSS THE RAILWAY TRACKS. Such messages, I guess, generate high dose of kinetic energy and provoke to risk all. Therefore instead of using the foot over bridges, the railway authorities take years to build, many prefer crossing over the tracks, putting their lives in danger and cursing; if at all they miss out on the biggest thrill of breaking yet another rule.

Equally pitiable are the signboards, which loudly announce – DO NOT URINATE HERE. This space is largely used by those, who don’t prefer standing in a queue. But they have no qualms in performing with their fly open in public view.

These are just a few instances of old and recent times, which make our nation seem like a circus of oddities. The latest to join the row are the recently installed escalators in railway platforms and metro stations. I cannot understand why some people prefer running over them, even though they are meant to transport us to upper or lower levels at a friendly speed! This urgency is to be found in both cases, during ascending and descending.

Speaking about escalators, I have been busy discovering a new breed from the last few days. This new breed prefers using the escalators in a reverse manner. In short, if the escalators are gliding down, they will try to pace upwards, defying the onward motion. And if the escalators are moving upwards, they will try to run down, once again defying the onward motion.

Such examples paint a picture of a banana republic. Are we not educated enough? Or are we being too bold to represent ourselves as born rebels. I am not bothered about what the world thinks of us as a nation and us as a nationality. But I am deeply concerned about the falling standards of complying with prohibitions.

In the first place, why are such prohibitions imposed on us? Definitely after years of lampooning, somewhere we need to be coming across as well cultured living beings. But animals are faring well and we humans are repetitively failing in keeping up with them.

Just last week, while I was busy withdrawing cash from an ATM counter, a man just walked in, not even bothering to read the board, which informed – ONE PERSON AT A TIME. Being a one machine counter, he should have waited for his turn. I overheard the conversation he had with the guard manning the ATM. The guard did mention to him that two people are not allowed at the same time. To which, this man replied, “Don’t teach me your rotten rules and regulations. I am in a hurry. It is that guy who needs to quickly get done with his bloody business.” He entered while I was still withdrawing my cash. Under the influence of alcohol, he stunk badly. I ignored the situation, not without wondering about his intentions.

Even at cinema theaters, during the movie screening, and having been requested in advance across the screen to either SWITCH OFF YOUR MOBILE PHONES or PLEASE PUT YOUR MOBILE PHONES ON SILENT MODE, there are those who prefer speaking aloud over the phone. Just try to reprimand them and pat comes the reply - “It was an urgent call and I had to attend it.”

The point I am trying to make is, it doesn't take much to follow certain rules. Being a rebel helps when we are leading a revolution. Such unnecessary actions yield nothing. I am saddened over the fact that such actions are contradicting the efforts of innumerable volunteers, who champion such causes. Is it then advisable to bring shame to their good work, which they are doing to better our society? Or are we happy being inhabitants in the public domain of our prohibition shunning culture?

Think, Understand and then Act.

-vociferous

  

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