GOOD BYE – LAST MONDAY OF 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous 

THE LAST SUNDAY OF 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous

BACK TO THE RUINS OF APATHY, ANARCHY AND ANXIETY

A junior designer who became a Copywriter.

A Copywriter who became Manager of Corporate Communication.

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

A Senior Copywriter who became a Senior Manager of Content.

A Senior Manager of Content who became a Creative Lead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous

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

IN QUEST OF THE WRITER/WRITERS WITHIN & AROUND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous 

A DAY WELL LIVED

January 30 has been special in many ways.

So many years that this date has been observed in the many ways. Two things have stood coincidentally constant – 1) Gandhiji’s Death Anniversary and 2) My Birth Anniversary.

One is observed and the other is celebrated.

There has been no twist in the story so far.

But initially I had lived with the juxtaposition of sharing a connection with the Mahatma who breathed his last by chanting ‘Hey Ram’.

Thirty years later after the Mahatma was assassinated, arrived me on the same day.

My early days of being ‘A very different me’ proved that I was not an incarnation of the great soul who had taken extreme steps to make us taste salt, inspire us to embrace satyagraha and denounce a non-cooperation movement launched by his own self. I was the extreme opposite - violently rebellious, selfishly adamant and fatally vocal. But still there was a common element that existed between the departed and the arrived. In love with India, was him. And in love with India still, I am.

Like a fleet of flamingos traversing across continents, the years of my life kept flying away. And finally arrived today – Five years added to three decades of being vociferous. Surrounded by so much that I am yet to come to terms with the surprises that came my way.

But I wish to dedicate this day to my maa, my both mamas, my both mami maas, my siblings, my better half, my in-laws and to my universe of loving friends. Everybody made it a point to wish me in their own ways. Gifts do come the way of a Birthday Guy. But the big difference is brought by three important elements – 1) Blessings of elders, 2) Love of beloved, 3) Wishes of world.

I am the same ‘me’ who had once self-turned life into an accident. And I am the same ‘me’ who is poised to take a new turn. I desire to consider nothing as ordinary but tag everything and everyone around me as EXTRAORDINARY. To be honest, I am a little selfishly proud of my memory. Though I am in no mood to boast about my own self. But I want to assure that I forget nothing in life. From the day, I started understanding things; everything has just remained unchangeably with me – Friends, Hobbies, Mischief, Crushes, Crashes, Journeys, Destinations, Dreams, Desires, Imaginations… Nothing have I forgotten. At times, I might not call someone for months, years and ages. But that human being and every moment spent with remains etched in my memory.

Innocent I am not. I too have my own faults. And I will never want to keep them veiled. Being as human as others, I have been at my level best to misunderstand, hurt, criticize and ignore many a souls. At the same time, being human I wish to apologize to everyone in every way possible for being so indifferent.

My biggest disadvantages have been my bitterness, selfishness and my habit of holding on to the past. But having come so far, I wish to learn some new lessons. Because as human beings, the day we stop learning; knowledge dies harshly. Being a writer at heart and passionate by deeds, the death of knowledge will leave me thirsty forever.

Therefore in the midst of all the invisible battles that I have been fighting against time and so much more, I decided to take a pause… look back and say, “Hey why not live well for once”.

And thus arrived January 30. And so did the coincidence recur of a nation observing the loss of a great soul and an entire universe of family & friends conveying their wish to me. The day that started on a note of worldly surprises, I shed my inhibitions to see to it that I live this day to the fullest. With everyone I smiled. And to every phone call, I replied. So that on this day that is today (January 30), I make a new beginning of being more responsible towards every action and reaction of mine.

My apologies to those whom I have hurt and still keep hurting. And my love to all who have made me believe in the power of love… I just wish to say ‘A BIG THANK YOU’. So beautiful was the experience of this day that I grew a younger more, to call it – A DAY WELL LIVED!

-vociferous

THE REAL STORY

On a new note of re-beginning and retelling, many might want to know if at all I believed in the prophecies of the world ceasing to exist on December 21, 2012. To be precise, I didn’t! Not before, I had reposted on my blog. Did I miss updating it? I did. Did I manage to get rightfully inspired? I did. So much has happened over these last five months. Rise, fall, debacle, devastations, evolution, diminution and so much more to make me feel at unease with life. For a moment, I had sacrificed the thoughts of continuing to blog. Three things that kept me going strongly were – reading, writing and being loved. But two thoughts kept me thinking vividly – frustration and facilitation. Silently yet vociferously, I survived. I kept the grit alive to come back to write – THE REAL STORY.

It was on September 22, 2005 at exactly 22:45 hours that I filed my first post under my personal blog - http://bengalsurprise.blogspot.in/; I never knew the kind of relationship that I was getting into. Irresistible was my lust for seamless writing. Between many professional heartbreaks and personal displeasures, it was a decision to hop on to the then called bandwagon of starting to blog. Right from its inception, I wanted to set a dark context for my blog. I was never bothered about opinions. I was only driven by the preying quality of this epidemic to start my very own blog. Being a sinner myself, I could have never thought of preaching. Being insane myself, I could have never agreed with my brutal conscience to write sanely. Not a saint and so much more of a shaitan, I had to make a head start somewhere, someday!

THE REAL STORY is not a piece of ode to my salt sprinkled journey of life. Neither is it a sugar coated monologue of my many misadventures. THE REAL STORY is the other side of the real side that I am privy to. THE REAL STORY begins from that point of life when I refused to walk into an office of monotonous schedules. THE REAL STORY begins from the 10^th floor of Maker Chambers 4 where a hair-greased-with-oil Depot Manager turned my life upside down by kicking my ass off to a gallows like destination – Bhiwandi. It was a premium price; I had paid for being honest. THE REAL STORTY is a recap from the first day of being on my first job and reporting to a wrongly-believed-to-be-an-inebriated boss, whom I still consider to be my best boss. I learnt from him, one basic truth of life – LIFE MEY NA BHENC@#@ KABHI KISISE DARNA MAT. I saw him passionately running to an abandoned spot, to capture a moment of rapid action on his camera. That rapid action was of two cobras trying to tangle each other. He walked back valiantly, looked at me and proclaimed – AGAR AISA KUCH MISS KAREGA TOH DUNIYA TUJHE CHUT@#@ BANATI RAHEGI AUR TU CHUT@#@ BANTA RAHEGA. Did I ever look back to him after that incident? Yes, I did till the day he took off to Kuwait; abusing me for not holding a valid Indian passport. His last words to me were – TERE JAISA BARA BEWAQOOF MAINE NAHI DEKHA. His only desire was to take me along to the Middle East. When I asked him why? He had specifically replied – PURU IS THE ONLY ONE WHOM I HAVE EVER KNOWN TO HAVE RUBBED HIS ASS AGAINST ALL ODDS JUST LIKE ME, ALMOST LIKE A REAL BROTHER OF MINE.

I moved on. The illicit affair with Nariman Point continued. During late evenings, I watched many a young things age in the confines of cars parked motionlessly by the footpaths. During the dead of nights, I realized someone follow me and solicit my attention. The affair only ended when I got whisked away by another destination – Worli. THE REAL STORY’s twist which had waited to arrive finally arrived. I stepped into the big, ad world of limitless desires. Much to the dismay of my father, who had predicted my downfall from the following instances – 1) I was never able to fix a TV antenna, 2) I chose earning a Bachelor of Arts degree over my friends pursuing engineering and science, 3) I showed keen interest in music, movies, moodiness, 4) I kept pushing myself to a corner of my room and taking notes, and 5) I gaped at the TV Commercials, maintained cutouts of print ads and spoke animatedly about advertisement. My heart broke when I earned my first ever appointment with real triumph in advertising and my father left for his heavenly abode. I still remember the day December 1, 2001; he had for the first time spoken something, I can never forget – I TELL EVERYONE ABOUT MY SON BEING IN THIS CRAZY THING CALLED ADVERSITING. HE BUYS BOOKS WORTH THOUSANDS OF RUPEES. AND I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT HE DOES. I rushed back early in the evening, from my diploma classes in Churchgate, packing all the props and materials required to be presented in the biggest ever viva, which was supposed to earn me the best job in one of the best agencies in India. I arrived home. Beneath my building, I saw an ocean of people waiting for me, not to greet me. But to break an untoward news! As I started ascending on the staircase confused and concerned, a neighbor held me tight and screamed – Be Strong. By the time, I reached my home on the third floor; I felt cheated by destiny and by God. Lying on a clean sheet of cloth was my father; calm and composed. My strong as iron mom, hiding her face behind unknown faces. Whatever I was carrying in my hand, slipped off. I just yelled – Baba. My childhood friend Prashant, my college buddy Nikhil & his family and my whole family stood by me. Eleven years is a long time and yet that feeling of being cheated hasn’t healed. His demise was just the beginning of a series of calamities that followed. Broken, challenged, erased; I embarked on a quest for THE REAL STORY that I wanted to be a part of. Maybe it was his death that helped me unmask the ugly side of Indian politics. A prominent political personality didn’t shy away from issuing a direct threat to me – BAAP MAR GAYA TOH SAMAJH PAISA BHEE GAYA; ZYADA UDEGA TOH TU BHEE JAAYEGA.

Angry, frustrated, heartbroken and derailed; I continued looking for inspiration to fuel THE REAL STORY. The Indian film industry was so far, an alien element. The only source to quench my thirst for creative inspirations, the film industry had its own pros and cons. Work was good, money was bad. Temptations were fierce, after effects were formidable. Never wanting to bid adieu to the illusion of being associated with an industry where I met lyricists, musicians, producers, directors, writers, junior artists, aspirants and the unsuccessful(s); I had to take a tough stand and knock on doors to ask for money. This was just the beginning of my begging days. Sometimes shooed away by a dog and sometimes a door slammed by a familiar personality from the world of television on my face, I ran away looking for answers in the Arabian Sea. I sat on the Marine Drive and continued sitting through late hours. I looked around me, how the world changed. From happy couples to client soliciting professionals, I discovered human stories. For the first time, I saw a woman lift her veil and press a cigarette between her lips. I astoundingly saw her take puffs after puffs. After crushing the butt beneath her feet, she took a few steps towards me then turned back and landed a tight slap on the face of the man who had accompanied her. She hailed for a taxi and disappeared. The man looked back at me, looked around and drove away in his car; only leaving me with an inspiration to culminate into a love story, I wish to go back to and complete writing about two characters – Nayantara and Neelanjan on http://nayantaraandneelanjan.blogspot.in/.

THE REAL STORY is still not what it seems like. It is as lethal and as acidic like that sensation of seeing your heart being set ablaze with a truth, you had never wanted to encounter. Deceived by a person you were once madly in love with. A close friend being chosen over you and to be shattered into pieces by an invitation to the most hated wedding of a lifetime! Once again an inspiration to evolve into something as heart wrenching as the letters, I would love to invoke on http://esotericletters.blogspot.in/.

But THE REAL STORY is far more elusive than just being an illusive replica of the ‘Real Me’ and categorically vociferous. Because it brought me closer to the man, I considered my guru in advertising – Prasoon Joshi. I remember, I had met him once and told him – I AM READY TO SWEEP THE FLOORS OF YOUR OFFICE, PROVIDED YOU GIVE ME ONE OPPORTUNITY. Who can forget the year 2010, when that dream translated into reality and I walked home with not one but two awards and a precious reward! The award was the biggest to come by in the healthcare segment. The idea was the most gigantic to keep up with benchmarks set by other stalwarts in healthcare advertising. The imagination was the most eccentric when approved by one extremely passionate Ryan Menezes. The journey towards success, powered by the video created by someone as talented as Monisha Rana Raj. And someone as talented as Ulka, who believed in my idea, my madness and more over in me to make my dream come true. Not only did she inspire a new episode of THE REAL STORY. But she went ahead in winning over rudeness, indifference, impatience and harshness of someone as intolerable as me.

Having consumed many a combined packages of success and failures later garnished with uncreative endeavors, once again the mind is breathing. Inhaling the aroma of creative freedom once again, I am all set to reemphasize that my passion for writing continues to be alive. I am still as unchained as I used to be when I started my creative journey twelve years back. Inspired by the will power of one important human being in my life, my mother… I never abandoned what I took over. My mother is my friend, my mentor, my motivator and everything to me. So is my better half, imagining and ideating with me incessantly.

THE REAL STORY has no ending. And THE REAL STORY would not have been a story at all, had it not been the presence of friends like Prashant, Swati, Nikhil, Satish (for always pushing me to write more), Rohini (for believing & trusting), Shankari (for motivating) and many others. A separate blog post is required to present the untiring list of friends, who pulled me out of depressing moments.

To (un)conclude, THE REAL STORY re-begins from today. My apologies to those, whom I have either tried deliberately or unknowingly to hurt! My sincere gratitude to my four siblings – Antara, Arpita, Udayan and Nibedita for making me feel sane and more.

On an ending note, but with a fresh breath of re-beginning; all I wish to say – THE REAL STORY is not yet the same; as written and read. THE REAL STORY in reality is a never ending saga of being a virtuous vociferous - UNABASHED AND UNDEFEATED.

-vociferous 

MONSTER OF A MONDAY

I don’t care if ire comes my way.

I don’t care if abuses come my way.

I don’t care if stones come my way.

I really don’t care, if someone really makes a big issue out of what I plan to write in the next few paragraphs. The issues are practical. The complication is of general interest. And if someone begs to differ, I am not going to resist it. Because I am going to dare and bare my feelings about a Monday that I wish should have never followed a Sunday.

It is not a general belief for me but a reality that on Monday mornings, I either tend to get late or get late by default. Obviously being the first day of a working week, I am in a mood to be a part of the rat race and impress all the concerned in office about my punctuality. Frankly speaking, it is a myth. I want to make it to office on time to leave on time and console myself that I finally lived through the Monday.

From Saturday evening, I begin to struggle against the fact that Sunday is round the corner and it will come to an end like a bursting bubble. Therefore I avoid sleeping early on a Sunday night. I refuse the temptation of relaxation. I rebel against the Kingdom of Sleep. I resist the imagination of dreams. Frankly speaking, Monday mornings begin with nightmares. The trains are flooded (and not crowded). People are sweat-bathed and not bathed. There is a stench of pretentious dedication in the first class compartment that I travel in. And the much audible laughter of fellow travelers is just a cover-up of primal fears they hold within for a Monday.

Come Monday and you rush through the office door. A biometric machine eagerly awaits your thumb to touch it. On many occasions, I have tried to tease it with my middle finger. After settling down and having switched on the computer, a military of emails start descending in the inbox. As a note of immense dissatisfaction, I would frankly say that they give out nothing but paint a sad picture of how bleak your morning is and how idiotically you had fared in the last week.

Monday… A colleague says, “I die to come back to office on a Monday”. Possibly because there was nothing interesting left in this world for him to do. Or he has been abandoned by his love interest. Or his parents think, he is good for nothing. Another one comes up with that usual query of – Hey dude, how was your weekend? What did you do on your weekend? Brutal but true, I find these questions extremely stupid. If at all, I have to mention a movie that I liked immensely. The reply will be instant – What a bore movie man, how could you sit through those two hours of agony? To be truthful, he too might have seen the movie and sat through the same two hours, understanding nothing and considering himself an esteemed film critic had decided to write off the maker of the movie.

Monday… Expect the taxi driver to be generous and promise a smooth ride to your office. I am sorry to say, their asses harden up. Their egos are inflated. And it is only on Mondays that they refuse to use a flyover and fantasize getting stuck in a traffic jam to drill a hole into the traveler’s bruised pocket.

Monday… You will find the most unexpected colleague to be present in office on time, who might have never made it on time in the last one week. He will wink at you. He will sport a broad smile; take a sip from his ugly cup of sugarless coffee/tea/urine and ask you the first question you might have dreaded for centuries and deliberately in Hinglish – What boss… weekend bahut dhamaal spend kiya kya? Such idiots should be hanged till death from an electric pole.

Monday… Trains will take you on a teary ride. Be it monsoons or no monsoons, they will run late. The announcer will assure you of a 15 minute delay. But most of us have never been surprised when the train must have arrived exactly 25 minutes late. The crowds will swell. Indiscrimination on grounds of groups, age, sex, caste, creed, color, religion, faith and beliefs will be rampant when the question of offering a seat shall arise. By chance, if you happen to occupy a window seat and kill the prospects of a regular occupant, they will kill you with their words, highly vocal abuses in-directed towards you. At a point of time, you will feel like committing immediate suicide. And the train will take its own sweet time to see to it that you are marked late on arrival in your office.

Monday… You will dress well. But a tobacco chewing Romeo will spit and your attire will resemble a canvas of modern art. You will feel like a loser and vow to never dress well on any other Monday or be it any other day.

Monday… The boss will not cease to take potshots at you. He or She will begin with a curtain raiser to the torment – Remember that day on Friday, you left early and the work got stuck… He or She will remind you of a holiday that you might have availed on a Friday eons ago. He or She will then train their guns on some useless P’s of recent professional jargons – productivity, perfection, precision and practice. He or She will give out a speech on Time Management, Brand Development, Relationships with Client, Pleasing the Seniors and Business Development. And by the time, they end you will find yourself sweating restlessly in the rest room, trying helplessly to deal with a urinary tract infection cause due to the delay caused by His or Her confusingly boring conversation.

Monday… You will miss the whole point.

Monday… The office looks like a graveyard. Actually most of the offices that we travel to are makeshift arrangement. In these makeshift arrangements, the egoists are busy weaving cobwebs of supreme complications. We end up being trapped like a bacterium spreading fly or a paint licking cockroach. These offices are not clean on Mondays because the housekeeping staff might not have arrived on time or they might have been abducted by aliens. The dustbins are unclean and the leftovers of a freaky Friday look up to you and demand – Clean us, Liberate us, Discard us and please Hate us. Secondly the already dull ambience will appear at its dullest best. The mood will be grim or grumpy.

Monday… A meeting will be conducted in the conference room. Some minds will speak. Most minds will mute their rebellion. And some idiots like me will yawn or fantasize about a holiday in Singapore. In the meeting ugly charts will be put up. Another presentation will be made on the scope of work or an ugly head will mess up with some connection and suddenly put up a WIP chart (Work in Progress chart). A serious face will glance at even more serious faces. And a funny face like me will look at no one and doze off in the chair that is offered to me by my immediate colleague.

Mondays… I believe have lost their charm. Ever since timesheets have come into existence and a hire-fire policy have been put up in place, all the Mondays sunk in the deep ocean of sadness. I have myself lost faith in every arriving Monday because none of them have been cheerful. In the last three years, every single time that I have signed the muster, placed the finger on the biometric machine or swiped my card… one dream has died, an imagination has been sacrificed, an idea has disappeared, a passion has escaped.

Can we not go back to the valley of beautiful Mondays? Can we not go back sailing in the stream of balanced schedules? Can we not go back to the village of appreciations? Can we not dream of a better Monday? Can we not fuel the beginning of better Mondays?

But for all that to happen… we need motivations on Monday, magnificence on Monday, melody on Monday. And we don’t want people who will kill the Monday mood by quoting something stupid…

It is hard to believe how Monday has become a monster of recent times. If not anything, I wish to end this blog post by saying – Let’s add a little fun to this Monday and put the bossy remarks behind.

If a Monday is lived well, the rest of the week grows smooth as well.

Wishing you all courage, I invite you to another MONDAY. Survive well.

-vociferous

POSTCARD FROM WASSEYPUR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bowing my head to Anurag Kashyap, I sign off.

-vociferous