RAINS ETCETERA

1.55 AM of June 26, 2017 is possibly the same time, the previous day (June 25), the rains debuted. The drizzles of Friday evening, the onslaught of Thursday or the suddenness of Wednesday stood nowhere closer to what ensued last night; continued to surprise till today afternoon. Rains, we thought are here. But by 1.55 AM of June 26, 2017 the show put up by the rains lack the ferocity, velocity and audacity of last night.

Did the earth hatch a conspiracy to attract rains? Is this then the annual moment of romance? Speaking of romance, I can only think of Raveena Tandon causing Yellow Fever in Tip tip barsaa paani (Akshay Kumar literally rolling and drooling around her).

Thankfully no political party has claimed responsibility for the instant burst of happiness insured by these rains.  Thankfully no terrorist groups have threatened of being in secret possession of weapons, which can trigger massive rains at the drop of a hat.

At this interesting juncture, I think rains come with their own package of etcetera (etc.).

As the rains swell, the pulse rate of Mumbai’s local train network drops. Even though the spirits of travellers and train spotter updaters like me fly high, the trains prefer to take it easy. This being one part of the package, we aren’t downplaying the possibilities of traffic snarls. Many of us blame it on the rains. But these snarls are necessary during monsoons. Or else air and noise pollution won’t breed. Would we really like to see them fail at producing their usual off springs of anguish, irritability and disasters?    

Trees are the permanent subscribers of rains package of etcetera. They keep on putting weight all year long. Just when they expect the municipal authorities to help them tone their body a little, their trust is left betrayed. So when the rains descend they activate the package and start falling on cars, humans, electricity cables, telephone wires and at times on themselves.

When rains dwindle, I am reminded of the seminars on climate change. I love the venues, the speakers, their sessions and the hosts who keep pouting at television cameras. If the talks held in these seminars are real, do they also work towards decreasing the impact of etcetera?

Thirty minutes into writing this and the rains have retracted. But mind you, the package of etcetera hasn’t.

I heard the dogs bark and see them running in pursuit of a hefty catch? I only hope they don’t spare its life. Because if they do, the rains might make it rot and the package of etcetera might grow hefty. We may have to pay an extra premium of tolerating the strange stench. Dogs are illiterate. They only understand the language of love and the unconditional freedom to poop.

The rains will recuperate; we can hope at least. The package of etcetera though requires rethinking.

Till it rains again, I am thinking of ordering etcetera online (much before GST slaps in).

-Virtuous Vociferous

WHERE DO THE STORIES BEGIN FROM?

It’s the mid of June.

The monsoons should have been here by now.

As my skin bears the brunt of the sun, I gasp for breath.

On certain occasions, I’ve tried experimenting during nights.

I tried keeping the windows of my bedroom open to the skies.

All the experiments seem to have failed miserably.

I haven’t given up yet. I am planning to experiment again.

This time, I am going to extract the umbrella from my bag and deliberately leave it unattended at home.

I am sure when the skies see me walk boisterously without the umbrella in tow; they will open up and release the fluid energy of monsoons to set me free, my city free and its citizens free. I hope the skies will open up for the entire nation and for every Indian. 

Are the monsoons also capable of assuring peace? Or can they postpone the insurgencies, we are faced with recently?

Darjeeling is burning. Kashmir is mourning. Our hearts are bleeding.

We are in need of an experiment again. Will monsoon be that experiment? If it turns out to be successful, we will have our own Ooh la la moment. If the experiment fails, we will still celebrate because that is where I sense the beginning of a story.

Thus the title, which is also a question - WHERE DO THE STORIES BEGIN FROM?

Each one of us has a story. We are humans, we are stories. When we set out to trace the beginning of our stories, we are confronted with a mother’s womb. It’s in there, our mothers proclaim. They add, “It is in here, in the womb, where the stories begin from?”

To disagree on this account is definitely human.

Just last week, I had least expected an angle from where my story began.

Take for instance the title - Biryani is an emotion.

I was blown over by the title. As I kept appreciating the line and its beautiful layout, I could also sense the beginning of stories.

The line, the title of Biryani is an emotion is bravely finds a mention in a cute little diary which was gifted over to me by my Cyan Buddy.

She was a little reluctant to gift me the diary. She mentioned, it was supposed to be my farewell gift (now that’s a different story to begin with). But somehow, the delivery got delayed. She had to reverse the decision and present it to me as my welcome gift (this would be the sequel to the different story, which I might begin with later).

A mere gift, a short pocket diary that it is could have evolved into nothing new until I decided to turn the diary into a chronicler. This diary will hold stories of my food expeditions. Every time, I end up loving a certain cuisine or am simply left speechless by a moment, which involves food, I will write about it in the diary. In the same diary, which carries that lovely title of – Biryani is an emotion.

I think I have found a story to begin with. The beginning would materialize when I start flaunting the diary and the little pieces of delicious surprises; I wish to write within!

But this is one part of the many stories, which begin from nowhere and find their way somewhere.

Imaginations form the other part about these stories, which also fuel their evolution. The choice rests with the storyteller; either to narrate them in a fictional format or try to fit them in that long beaten genre of nonfiction.

How do these imaginations start taking the shape of a story? I don’t think there would be a definitive reply to that.

For me, my imaginations could run wild and keep fluctuating between the mole, the nose ring and a tattoo somewhere. But how much time will they take to translate into stories! Only time will tell. At least I can rest assured that my story can be expected of having a beginning.

As I grow a word closer to conclude this blog post, I can hear that distinct sound of raindrops.

Seated by the partly open window, I can see the earth relish the momentary magic of rains.

Only I wish, the showers could have lasted longer. But nature has some other plans.

Till the time those plans materialize, I am happy to realize – my story has found a beginning. If your stories haven’t found one yet, ask yourself the same question, “Where do the stories begin from?”

-Virtuous Vociferous

IN THE SORRY STATE OF AMAZON.COM

Book lovers aren’t fools!

I being a book lover am not a fool for sure.

For years that I’ve been addicted to reading and writing as well, books have been a way of life.

So far so good, life was dreamlike in the company of good books, great authors and gigantic publishers until the Amazon.Com mishap occurred. I was indeed left feeling like a fool!

Since I was ordering Rishi Kapoor’s Autobiography, an option showed up mentioning that customers were also interested in buying Karan Johar’s Autobiography. To me, this seemed like a great combination. Even though Karan Johar’s book was announced to be a paperback, I had very little to grow concerned about. I sealed the deal and eagerly awaited the arrival of both books.

Both books arrived as per the conveyed schedule. But the big surprise was yet to be opened. On unsealing the package, which held Karan Johar’s Autobiography, I was left miffed. Even though it was a paperback, it wasn’t an original copy. The book looked as bad as one of those counterfeits, which are sold across innumerable traffic signals.

The compressed photograph on the top

The elements, which accompanied the book, were not trustworthy.

A handwritten note - Have a Good Read!! J , stamped by the dealer who had sent me across the book. His massive signature provided the much unrequited tease.

The handwritten note by the sender

Talking about the book, the cover looked dull. The author or the subject matter’s photographs were stretched, compressed and badly edited. The colors looked dull. The edges revealed the fact that the book might have been used by someone, badly manhandled and exchanged or sold thereafter. One of the inner pages carried the dealer’s stamp again. They were arranged in the wrong manner. The cut marks were visible (seems like someone Xeroxed the book before it went for final publishing). Pages were missing. Most of the pages repeated or disorganized. The photographs printed within were of poor quality. Print on some pages already looked faded.

The bad quality of photographs inside

The missing pages

The stamp on one of the inner pages

The tattered cover

Bad quality

The visible cut marks 

In short, Amazon.Com took me on a joyride (which was unexpected). On being displeased by the delivery, I had initiated a chat on Amazon.Com and demanded a replacement. But I was told, the book itself is out of stock. I still decided to go against my wish and retain the copy to continue reading. But when I discovered that many pages were missing, I couldn’t resist requesting them to help me return it. Right now, I am waiting for the refund to take place (of which, I am very less hopeful about).

Having said that, I also wish to know, is this a negative propaganda against Amazon.Com? Are some sellers queuing up to tarnish the image of Amazon.Com? It would be interesting to know the inner story or a discreet scandal in making.

I haven’t heard about a name like Nani-Intaya Consultant and Associates. But they being located in Delhi made my head turn otherwise. After the fiasco, these guys also had the audacity to send across an email to me:

Dear Buyer

This is to inform you that yours valuable money have been initiated back to yours account as a refund.

"We're sorry to hear about your experience with the purchase. We aim to offer quality satisfaction for all of our customer and will do whatever it takes to take care of you. Please feel free to contact us on +91-9910365748. Replacement of the purchase is always there for you. Thank for the opportunity to make this right. We've made changes to the way we operate to ensure this doesn't happen again. Your are our top priority."

It will be very kind of you if you receive yours refund back kindly notify us also and Hope you will not mind to give us some good feedback for our generous customer service via Amazon.in

Hoping to see You again :)

Thanking you.

Regards,

Nani-Intaya Consultant And Associates

New Delhi

PS: The language of this letter is questionable too.

I am disturbed that Amazon.Com is yet to drop this seller from its list of dealers on marketplace. I am equally disturbed to see how these guys are communicating with me.

If Amazon.Com can do something so hideous, I have no trust left in placing online orders for books. At the same time, it concerns me about the state of the author, the publisher. Do the author, the publisher, the printer, the editor know that counterfeit copies of an original book are sold on Amazon.Com?

If this is the state of what online shopping of books is all about then I regret to say, “We are in the sorry state of Amazon.Com”.

-Virtuous Vociferous

I RUN

It has taken greater amount of persuasion to stake my claim to the title of this post – I Run.

I find the title collective and cohesive. Some might find it coy and coercive. Yet I would stick to it; irrespective of the opinions someone might develop about me.

Coming back to the title and the activity that I associate with, I run. But I don’t run to fulfill a need or a condition, I run to address the stubbornness of immobility, I’ve had developed a habit of occasionally succumbing to. I had a fair idea that I will have to let go that habit someday. Having said that, I knew it was not going to be that easy like it seemed to be as the first and last impression. If I am asked about the last best memory of running, it would be the span of three months between October and December of 2014.

Between October and December 2014, I woke up every day to the enthusiastic idea of I RUN EVERY DAY. The idea was infectious. The idea kept my mind and muscles constantly sterilized. The idea was so strong in its form and practice, I heeded to the alarm clock at 5:30 AM every morning, irrespective of the time I might have made it to the bed. But 2015 left the idea weakened. The fitness schedule I had been boasting about and the physique I had developed fueled the erratic imagination of brashness in me. Few months down the line, I migrated to a city and the first ever habit I happened to meet with was BEING LAZY. Habits changed, hobbies changed; thoughts overlapped and somewhere in between I lost the interest in running.

Battle lines were drawn, swords were pulled out but I refused to run. There was no horsepower left in my feet to run. Days passed, months diminished and I rolled back to the city I have called home. Perceptions around me had changed. I had become arrogant but, the paunch had exceeded every limit of being a spoilt brat, which kept feeding on the fact that someday I might run. This someday overpowered every imagination, bullied my enthusiasm and I became a slave of lethargy.

But procrastination is a short lived hobby. The absence of passion in this hobby finally made it wear out. My progress continued being slow. Another year passed and I allowed myself to continue being snobbish. The first sunrise of 2017 had me looking at myself in the mirror. Day in, day out, I was sure of not being me. A pair of sports shoes, a pair of jogging t-shirts, color matched socks and shorts; everything seemed insignificant and at the same time seemed to be in waiting for me to begin. By the mid of January 2017, I knew I had to make it sure that I RUN.

February 2017 made its debut. I sought advice from a friend, who was already passionate about running. I knew there was no more time to waste and I had to wake up the next morning to ensure that I RUN. Besides running, I adapted myself to a diet plan (much unheard of me, but still). This diet plan was my introduction to a new kind of stubbornness. I had to wake up to the idea of growing fit again. And thus came the cold morning of a fading urban winter. I was on the ground, standing right in the middle; stretching my muscles and flexing my feet to put myself to test again and to write a post with a title as apt as I RUN.

To be continued…

-Virtuous Vociferous  

UNTAMED

In 2011, I posted my first TRAIN SPOTTER UPDATE on facebook and I thought I had done the most brilliant thing in this world. Late one night in the same year that is 2011, Saroo Brierley located Burhanpur railway station with the help of satellite images put together by Google Maps. He kept following those satellite images and located the town of Khandwa. Finally he was ready to head back to his real home and to his real mother. Six years down the line when I sit down to write this post for my blog, I am unable to relate to everything, I thought was brilliant about my first Train Spotter Update on facebook in 2011. I don’t wish to demean my action but, I can’t separate myself from the story of Saroo Brierley who made my eyes well up.  

The movie LION had that kind of an impact on my mind.

Honestly speaking, I don’t recollect memories of having come across any book in 2013, which had a very foreign title A LONG WAY HOME. I don’t recollect coming across a cover, which described this journey as a boy’s incredible journey from India to Australia and back again. Back then, I am sure to have missed spotting this book in a book stall, missed reading a review of this book, missed reading about the author Saroo Brierley who was telling his story to the world and of course missed the mention ‘soon to be a motion picture’. Thankfully I didn’t miss watching the book transform into a movie with a title as unusual as LION.

I remember watching the trailer of this movie and compare it immediately to Slumdog Millionaire for the commonalities it shared. The trailer showed a train, two brothers onboard, one of them getting lost and ending up being adopted. But the voice of that kid who plays young Saroo in the movie kept lingering in my mind. One of the scenes from the trailer is that of the kid standing surrounded by some kind of flying insects, remained with me. I turned to my colleague in office and I said, “I am going to watch this movie”.

Call it my gut feel or my instinct; I started following the conversations that had started taking place around this movie. I watched the interviews of actors, the makers, the producers and the man behind the movie Saroo. My expectations were at peak and once the news of LION being Oscar worthy started making the rounds; I knew I am going to watch it. I wanted to watch this movie with my mother. As planned, I did so finally. My mother and I left together for our movie date.

From the time, the movie started narrating the real life story of Saroo Brierley on the big screen, we were both left stunned. I could sense the story that its director Garth Davis had imagined narrating to me and my mother; his audience. The camera kept moving between the trails of little Saroo and his elder brother Guddu. The soundtrack placed me right there where the story was getting its voice from. But one of the most incredible things that LION as a movie did to me was to pull me into that train, which ferried little Saroo to Howrah Junction. The well-crafted screenplay made me sense the fear that little Saroo could have felt while travelling stuck in a locked compartment of a fiercely moving train.

The movie took us to Kolkata. The movie also took us to the Howrah Bridge. But it showed to us the other side of a city which comes alive only in the dead of the night. The movie revealed to us the faces, which look simple and yet they are rich with stories. The movie never stopped to make us stay connected to the real story and the challenges faced by Saroo.

LION took us to Tasmania. LION made us find our own way to good life. LION rendered me speechless.

I was seated beside my mother and recollected memories of the times, I had spent staying away from her. Yes, I had spent almost a year staying away from her. Saroo stayed away from his real mother for a long span of 25 years.

Having said that I would put it this way – LION is an amazing movie. Personally speaking, I loved it.

For God sake, don’t leave the Cineplex without watching the little piece of surprise, so beautifully weaved into the movie. And this LION roars, the echoes of that roar are absolutely EXTRAORDINARY.

-Virtuous Vociferous

THIS ONE DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE

For a crude mind, which thinks about keeping this blog alive, this one doesn’t have a title.

I wonder why we stopped kissing the papers and dating the pens.

I wonder why we stopped embarking on impromptu picnics and teasing the trees.

For all the reasons not known to you, me and everybody this one doesn’t have a title.

Of the million things left undone, are the unread weekend newspapers. Personally speaking, I consider them a matter of a lost privilege. Or the million things left undone, are the sealed packs of fine, imported coffee, which are yet to be inaugurated, brewed and served.

I must confess I have been collecting movies from all over the available hard disks and backup drives. Some of them are stored in the laptop and some are stored in external hard drives. And I am yet to make time to watch them, one after the other. Do they comprise porn? I don’t think they are significant any more.

As we wrapped up 2016 through a chilling December, I wrote a short story and titled it ‘THE TINY TRAIN TO NOWHERE’. The story met with good response. I don’t repent the pressure techniques I used to extract genuine feedback from my friends and some foes too. And I still feel, there was no pressure on any of them.

I wish I could have set out on a trek alone. A trek to the womb of my inspiration, Matheran. For ages, I haven’t been there. I haven’t heard the neighing of the horses. I haven’t sunk my nose in the stench of the dung they leave behind, mixed in the red sands of a hill station, which never ceases to surprise me. The while might still take some while to materialize and therefore, this doesn’t have a title.

January 30 marks the completion of a month into the New Year.  January 30 also marks a few birthdays; my car, my bran new bicycle and some friends too. Did I forget to mention, it is someone else’s birthday too! Only if the world could have cared or as if I care!

The trip was just an experience. Just a year back, it was a trip. The experience could have lingered. But my greed overturned it into a culture of constant hatred and a discontinued story. 

Before I could alight, the train had set in motion. The crowd was thick with envy against my ownership of the window seat. I could have spared it for the needy. But greed overtook my conscience. This one therefore doesn’t have a title.

Project 365+1 never took off. Project Escapation is not yet shelved. And yet that feeling of restlessness never leaves my side. That means, the stubbornness to put my word forward is still alive.

The darkness was absolutely misleading. The handshake was great. I paid in cash to the entertainer and rolled out swaying to my right and left. The best that I could do at that point was to make sure, THIS ONE DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE.

-Virtuous Vociferous

CHAOS AND I ARE DOING FINE

Chaos!

When I first came across this word in my life, I chose the conventional path of referring a dictionary and religiously dug out the meaning.

The dictionary left me feeling miffed with two conflicting viewpoints on chaos.

It described chaos as:

#1 - The infinity of space or formless matter supposed to have preceded the existence of the ordered universe

#2 - A state of utter confusion or disorder; a total lack of organization or order

Believe me when I tell you, I got simply carried away by the first interpretation. 

I ended up reciting the word chaos repetitively in my self-talks, introduced it to some of my friends and started adding it to every sentence of mine (when I got irreparably frustrated and irritated).

The word enslaved me. Speaking aloud and while endeavoring to write faster, I made sure that chaos continues to be a regular attendant in my worries, stress and hypertension. 

Chaos didn't bother me much till I saw it grow arrogant and start backbiting. The sudden change in its characterization made me take a stance against chaos; I started rethinking it; as an identity, an insignia, an impossibility and also an irritant. 

Times change. So, I am in a new timezone. This time, a new obsession has taken over. This obsession was actually born out of my reconstructed approach towards chaos. 

The reconstructed approach involves treating chaos as a condition without form. I envision chaos as malice, which takes the shape, size and form of the situation we are in. Post which, it continues to grow, starts taking control of the sensory organs, tightens its grip and holds the mind captive. 

Chaos, I believe has polluted my blood; infiltrated into my DNA. I am aware of the crisis, this uneasy feeling that chaos continues to expose me to. The frequency of this feeling was massive when I was living alone in a city, not too far from Mumbai. After I returned, I was lucky to find chaos sporting a leaner look. The change in personality is a welcome change and has opened new avenues for chaos to overrule.

I am not in a mood to keep fighting against chaos; I would rather allow it to stay closer to me. Therefore chaos and I are doing absolutely fine. Maybe someday I too would say something similar in the manner, Dushka Zapata, the author has tried to put it - Creating order out of chaos is not something I’d ever consider a chore. It clears my head. I do it for fun. Doing laundry is instant gratification. Taking something rumpled, stained and smelly and turning it into something fresh, fluffy and neatly stacked is my idea of heaven.

Happy to repeat and conclude - Chaos and I are doing absolutely fine.

- Virtuous Vociferous

AT THE STROKE OF RANDOM THOUGHTS

I believe life is a journey of random thoughts.

Thoughts that last for a second and the ones that last for a lifetime.

It is only at the stroke of some random thoughts that I chose to share mine from today and few from the days, not many calendar years ago.

Random Thought #1

An hour back, the dogs got grumbling again; not one of the rare patterns that I am not well acquainted with. But this event keeps repeating itself. Unusually these fights break out during this specific hour of a crossover, from a Sunday to the Blues-day (Monday). These conflicts break through the silence of the night. I appoint the lamp in my bedroom the official spokesperson to anchor the unspoken hours, of an otherwise noisy night. One random thought after the other, is this how this night plans to reveal yet another day? Bow, vow, woof, hoof; there go the dogs again. Either hungry or horny, they are going to stop at none.

Random Thought #2

If I am asked what my favourite colour is, I will be heard announcing yellow as my first choice, only to be followed by red, maroon, brick red and neon red. At times, I spend hours explaining my fondness for black and white. Therefore you will not be left with a doubt to see me drive a white car. It’s a cosy little, spacious car. It goes by the name of Zen Estilo and sports a tattoo too – Mom’s Pride, Our Honour.  My car is not just my car; it’s also our family’s first car. Fresh from a new scratch and slapped by the failing veins of its AC, it drove us through the highway, saved us from the potholes, left us feeling rich with the experience of moody monsoons. As the winds blew, the downpour grew fiercer and the muddy waters flowed thicker, the car chose to run tougher. Either angry or ambitious, our car is just another story in making.

Random Thought #3

I remember seeing her in the hospital. I have known her mother for years now. We have been colleagues first and then friends. My mother had accompanied me to the hospital. The nurses had wrapped this bundle of joy in the softest clothes. Her mother, my friend held her tenderly and gently placed her in my arms. For three minutes that I held her, I was overcome by countless emotions. As she kept growing, her mother shared her stories. We attended her first birthday, skipped her second and maybe forgot her third. But she kept growing. Today she is in the second grade. Initially she ran shy of me, locked herself in the kitchen and didn’t reveal herself till the time I had left their apartment. Today as I flashed my smartphone and told her, “This is an apple.” The same shy girl came closer and replied, “Uncle, if this is an apple, shouldn’t you be eating it instead of confusing it as a phone?” I am yet to recover from this innocent question of hers. I think I will never have a reply to this question of hers because every object of our desire makes us its ardent slave. Ira, I salute you.

Random Thought #4

In the year 2008, Nikhil and I were in Goa. For the five days that we stayed there, we explored every corner of Goa that made us imagine a million things about it. We went on a river cruise, we drove on Hero Honda Splendour, we observed the mannerisms of foreigners and secretly saw some Indians ape the American tanning ways. On the second last day, we were told that we can spot dolphins, if we delve deep. The boat might have taken us to the spot where dolphins supposedly take a plunge or two; we saw none. Years later, while attending a seminar, I heard someone whisper, “Did you see those dolphins?” I was at my wit’s end. I was attending a scholarly talk and I had heard someone talk dolphins. Before I could react pretending to be irritated by the small talk, I saw her walk in and she carried those two dolphins with utter grace. I don’t remember the year and neither do I remember seeing the woman again. But I am sure the tattoo of those two dolphins on her arms might still be busy making her look more beautiful than ever. My first encounter with tattoos and the spell they cast.

Random Thought #5

If migration makes you famous then I too had migrated a year back to a new city. Three hours away from Mumbai, I had made Pune my home. But my migration didn’t make me a celebrity like other cities could have possibly managed to. My migration was always pregnant with the sensation of feeling detached. On weekends, I would rush home like a child rushes back from a boarding school. For the five days that I would stay in Pune, I hated being a stranger to some realities. There were very few honest faces, which surrounded me and my thoughts; they still are a part of my life. But the city failed to make me a celebrity. I wish I had shifted to some other place, as they say Bengaluru is much happening. There's always that city away from the city we live in, which feels a little lonely and sometimes a lot more homely. But my home will be Mumbai and the only other city that I can survive in happily is Kolkata. Of the two, which one is my favourite? Oh don’t compel me to make a choice between my two mother cities.

Random Thought #6

He was fond of smoking. Tea kept him energetic. He was smarter than me. In his 50s, he was handsome and still desirable. Today he would have turned 69. But he chose to leave handsome rather than live through the oddities of time. No matter, how against I was to his many thoughts, he will continue being the hero. Even today, he is famous as Hitler in our hometown. He would have continued being famous as Hitler in future too. Such was his temperament and such was his obsession with a disciplined life. Happy Birthday to you Baba; I will keep missing you on every July 10.

It’s 1 AM. Before I could sense it, Monday had barged into my mobile phone reminding me that sleep offers no discounts. And in this journey of random thoughts, I wish to wander more, learn more; see the dolphins bounce again, doesn’t matter in which form – either real or in the form of a tattoo again.

-Virtuous Vociferous

INDUCT FIRST, INSTRUCT NEXT

Two weeks back, in one of the farthest suburbs of Mumbai, in the conference room of an otherwise pretentious but swanky office, I was asked a question by a stranger – How good are you with your interpersonal skills?

I hadn’t ever met this person before in my life. I hadn’t heard about him or read about him. I might have read about his agency’s name in the list of instantly mushrooming so called ‘digital’ agencies but, I never seriously considered meeting him in person.

The necessity to reply him didn’t seem of vital importance to me. In this scenario, I was neither a desperate seeker nor a desperate browser; I was just meeting up for some other purpose. His question left me miffed. In the past few years, I’ve been asked many such questions and I’ve also been party to people doubting my capability, my capacity and my calibre. So be it! But I need to ask one question – Why aren’t any of the recent organizations (in my knowledge) conducting induction programmes? I am not asking this question independently but this is a unanimous concern, which needs to be addressed by the so called thinking community of today’s changing advertising, digital or any tom-dick-harry culture in India. So I ask again, “Why aren’t any of the recent organizations (in my knowledge) conducting induction programmes?”

Every time, I’ve asked this question, I’ve met with failure or a long lull (almost mute). To be honest, none of the organizations are encouraging induction. The hiring culture has grown worse than ever. This is how the entire process takes place; this is with regards to the hiring marathon, appointment thereafter in most of the recent advertising and digital agencies:

An HR Manager calls up after reading the first few lines of your profile. In most cases, keywords like #CreativeBackground #Copywriter #Scripting #Experience #CampaignDevelopment seem to be enough for the HR girl or guy (I am saying girl and guy because serious individuals have left this space and jumped into the valley of invisibility) to dial your number and invite you for an interview.

• The first round of the interview is necessarily with the HR Manager. In some cases, the HR Managers are well read about the background, a candidate hails from. But, at times, I’ve been personally saddened to come across some hiring executives, who don’t know a thing about advertising or even the age of digital communication in India. I’ve met someone who thought Facebook is 20 years old in India. Shit, why wasn’t I on Facebook then? What a shame for me!
  
  
• The second round is usually conducted by someone who is loosely or tightly associated with the job profile that you might get appointed to. Now this girl or guy comes with his/her own excess baggage. The deadpan look on their faces tells you that they have been forced to conduct this interview. Secondly they are very upset about the candidate they had met last week and had eagerly desired to be appointed to the position, now under negotiation. Since the deciding committee hadn’t selected his/her desired candidate, this interview will be considered an additional burden. Your resume will be not scanned or read in this second round. You will be asked silly questions about yourself, your best campaign, your knowledge of a brand and some more extra queries (about which you might not have any inkling).
  
  
• The third round of your interview will be a rapid fire round with a person, who usually hangs around three departments; the Managing Director’s Cabin, The HR Manager’s Cabin and the Cabin of the Second Round Interviewer. This person might be a relative or a good friend of someone already working in the office and will come to you either with a sheet of paper or loads of attitude around him. The certain task in his or her hand – Ah, here is this product, create a campaign around it.
  
  
• The fourth round will be a negotiation round, which necessarily focuses on underestimating your talent. No matter, the years of experience you possess, you will still be made to realize that you are nowhere. 

Having cleared all the rounds, you are in the Bingo Zone. You are happily handed over an offer letter, an appointment letter, a bunch documents comprising illogical rules and regulations and yes you are told, “Our incoming times are fixed 9:30 AM but, we are very weak at outgoings.”

On the first day (in the event of you deciding to join on a demotivating, lazy Monday), you are hurriedly pushed into a conference room, which smells of neither a room freshener nor food but rather stinks with the pesticide sprayed over the weekend. The HR Manager from the first round makes a Godly appearance and promises to introduce you to everyone in the office. On your first day, you are made many promises and none of them are true. On the second day itself, you are put on task by the two people from the second and third rounds. They start acting like a boss to you. When you gather the courage to ask for some time to think over it, pat comes the reply, “Time is what, we are running against my friend. You better pull up your socks.”

The moral of the story – On the first day when a candidate is misled into an organization, the chances are thin for him/her to continue even for the first six months.

Therefore whey is induction necessary?

• A newly appointed candidate might come from the same sector that your organization operates in but the functioning might be different.
  
  
• Your organization might be following the theory of chaos to win accounts, lose accounts, adjust accounts or sustain accounts; the newly appointed candidate might like to do things in an organized manner.
  
  
• Some people in your organization might not be aware (either deliberately or unknowingly) about the appointment of a new candidate; wouldn’t it be nice to organize a 10 minute get together to help the new candidate break the ice?
  
  
• The hierarchies might be different in your organization; what if a junior talks to a senior like a boss or what if the candidate is dragged into some important pitch presentation, about which he has no knowledge at all.
  
  
• Every organization, every agency has a certain DNA of operating; are you sure the newly appointed candidate will come to know of it on the first day of his/her joining?
  
  
• Hold back your set of instructions before gauging if the candidate has found a proper place to sit in our office. If he/her hasn’t yet been shown the place to settle down, you seriously need a reality check. 

Hoping that I haven’t kicked off a controversy, I would sign off saying - INDUCT FIRST, INSTRUCT NEXT.

-Virtuous Vociferous 

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).