July’s rain-less beginning

Photography by Purnesh Bhattacharya

July 02-2020/ Blog #1

It is not my nature

to complain against

Mother Nature.

Turning a new leaf of the calendar; stepping into the new month; breathing in a new aroma; it is time to embark on a new journey. No, if you think, I am going to step out; it isn’t practically possible or advisable at this moment. We have to practice patience for the good times to make a comeback. The agents of change are working towards it. Let’s have some faith. Let’s strengthen our belief.

July’s advent at this moment seems a bit odd though. If you’re in Mumbai right now, you should be knowing that July is one of those months when the clouds are in good mood. But this time, the clouds seem to have proceeded on an undeclared holiday. The skies are clean. This morning, we did see some clouds hovering around. But like a misled fleet of birds, they left almost immediately. The atmosphere somehow continued being fragrant. This fragrance seemed to have traveled our way from a distant place.

At this juncture, I would like to say, I had really wanted to begin writing this piece by seeking your attention and mentioning Greetings of July. We can still wish the same to each other; isn’t it? Greetings of July. Why should we leave the month feeling discriminated just because the first signs of a healthy monsoon are fading out fast! Let’s leave it to Mother Nature. She might have her own plans to organize the entry and exit of clouds. I hope when the clouds come next, they take a pause for some while. They can simply spend quality time with the skies, which spread over our city.

Our city comes alive in rains; I have been witnessing this phenomenon for the last four decades. Wouldn’t you like to see it come alive yet again? In fact, few days back when a storm had developed on the western coast, I had pulled out an umbrella. I had also sought the assistance of a friend to cover certain parts of our home’s exteriors with the blue colored plastic sheets. Our only goal was to protect those certain parts from leaking.

Speaking about leakage, mom and I sat discussing those days of our lives, we spent in heavily leaking homes. We would not dread the monsoons; but, we would certainly dread the repercussions of rains. You may also laugh at me, while I confess that I still see those homes in my dreams. Even in dreams, I see them leak, a lot more profusely. The leakage was rampant during this particular month of heavy downpours; the month of July. Now, here’s this July. We are waking up to sunshine every morning; bright and happy sunshine. Am I complaining against the sunshine? No, it is not my nature to complain against Mother Nature. I am just wondering, if we are missing the rains or the rains have given our city a miss. This prolonged phase of cloudless skies and rain-less surroundings leaves the heart wrenched. Since we are still inside our homes; just imagine staring out of the window to catch a glimpse of the rains and its unmistakable melody.

The month of July as we have known it throughout our lives has always packed a surprise. Maybe the July of 2020 too has some surprises in store for us. So, as I reach the last part of this post, I am staring out of the window. Our gallery is looking brighter; not because of the sunshine alone! The picturesque bloom of fresh marigolds has changed the otherwise somber mood. Just like the marigolds keep coming back to make us smile; this month of July shall also return to its full bloom. The clouds would return; so would the rains. Till then, let’s celebrate July and be happy about turning another leaf of our lives.

- Virtuous Vociferous | What If | 2020

The last six months and the next six months

Picture courtesy: Google

It is time to start writing

the story of the

next six months.

It is 1 A.M when I start writing this. By the time I finish writing this, the time might have changed.

But does time really change? Or we use it as a metaphor to talk about the changes, which keep taking place in our life and in the lives of others. Just think about it.

By the time you start thinking, you will realize that there’s a change in the date and in the day.

It is June 30^th. The last day of this month, which also marks the completion of the last six months or the first six months of 2020.

You might now say, ‘Time flies’. Should I then ask, ‘Does time really fly?’

Please don’t mind my questions. I am not questioning you alone. I question myself too. In the last six months, I’ve questioned myself more than I’ve questioned anyone else ever. Did I find answers to my questions? I haven’t; at least not in the last six months. Now, if you ask me about the next six months. I may just remain quiet. Or I may speak plenty. You might then ask me to simply Shut up. I won’t mind being reprimanded.

Would you mind, if I tell you, January 1^st arrived in style. It was a good beginning, isn’t it? Yes, it was. At least I ushered in the New Year in style; hugging, singing, celebrating and of course with a glass of fine wine. The food was cooked with so much love; the memory of its delectable taste hasn’t faded. Going by my fondness for food, I am not going to let it fade either.

Then came February and that quick trip to Kolkata. Accompanied by most loved friends, the joy of being at the Book Fair grew manifold. We went sightseeing, shopping, tram hopping, bus hopping, train hopping. In March, the road trip to Aurangabad again turned out to be exceptional. So much happiness in the first three months; all of which, if transliterated would earn the status of being magnificent.

Unaware of a fast approaching crisis; still footloose and free; in a mood to explore, we were on one-of-its-kind of a joyride. By mid of March, everything changed. The change continues. Some of my friends, family members and loved ones said, ‘Times have changed’. I asked them that question again, ‘Does time really change?’

Of course, they said. They went on to say, ‘Time has changed for us. Time has changed for the world. Time will change for you.’ But, I as ask again, ‘Is time changing or is it us changing?’

This debate won’t end so soon. This debate has been going on for the last six months. In the next six months, this debate might grow fatter with a new layer of interpretation. But I am interested in knowing, if I will ever stop being in question!

So, it is June 30^th. The pandemic hasn’t shown any signs of retreat. The lockdown rules have been reinstated; the vaccines are still being tested in labs; nothing seems to be at as much risk as our level of patience.

We are done with the story of last six months. It is time to start writing the story of the next six months. Some words have already come flying our way - #NewNormal, #StayHomeStaySafe, #LockdownDiaries, #BeSelfReliant, #TameTheDragon, #BeThereForSomeone. There will be newer words. There will be newer thoughts. And there will be a new time? I will be there, asking a new question – Is there anything of that sort called New Time?

So, till you start engineering a reply or orchestrating an answer; let me go ahead and publish this post. Because June 30 will be with us and we will be with it, only for a day. It will take another 365 days to meet the next June 30 (provided 2020 ends on a good note and 2021 promises Good Life).

- Virtuous Vociferous | June 30 | June Blog-2 | What If | 2020

What is the next new thing?

A perception of the outer world on my soft board.
The theme for this whole month is ... WHAT IS THE NEXT NEW THING?
Words: Michelle Obama, BECOMING documentary, Netflix
Art and Photography by: Purnesh Bhattacharya

2020 is a horror story

with surprises

beyond imagination.

-Camelia

When I posted this question on my Instagram update titled ‘NEXT NEW’ on my handle @instapuruinsta, my friend Camelia didn’t waste a second to reply somewhat this way:

The idea of what is in store for us this year is so terrible that I don’t want to know. 2020 is a horror story with surprises beyond imagination.

So true. There has been no dearth of surprises ever since we welcomed the New Year with the magical numbers of 2020. So does this year stand as the year we didn’t expect, imagine or foresee? Replies and interpretations will always stand mixed in their own sphere.

The question (WHAT IS THE NEXT NEW THING?), I pose in here is not of my own. I discovered this question in the 2020 documentary ‘BECOMING’ aired on Netflix this year. The documentary is an intimate journey of Michelle Obama's life, hopes and connection with others during her tours to promote her book of the same name ‘BECOMING’. The question arises and fades out in a flash. During one of the many interviews featured in the documentary, Michelle Obama is seeing musing over a question, which she modulates and repeats in her own signature voice – What is the next new thing? Since then, the thought within the question has stayed with me.

I kept asking myself the same question: WHAT IS THE NEXT NEW THING?

Consider the tough times we are surviving through and ask that question again: What is the next new thing?

Some words, some replies might automatically start floating in your mind.

•         A life, a little more mundane maybe
•         Lockdown after lockdown and some more days of lockdown
•         Louder debates and very less news
•         Bigger blames, shorter claims

I don’t think so anyone of us has a definitive reply to that question, which may also start sounding sickening at times: What is the next new thing?

The next new thing; we may have to think twice before hugging, embracing, kissing our beloved. The next new thing; smiles, expressions, emotions will continue staying hidden behind masks. The next new thing; travel will feature as the last item in the to-do lists of our things.

As restrictions are being eased, curfew hours are relaxed and the idea of freedom is renewed in twenty first century, we are found staring at a bleak portrait. Sometimes termed propaganda; sometimes hailed as achievement, this portrait is drenched in colors of discouragement. The sources of encouragement, inspiration and motivation also seems to have locked themselves behind doors, which have now started jamming.

Summers’ time is up. The new season of monsoon isn’t too far from knocking our doors. The umbrellas will be out and so will be new numbers of sufferers, new numbers of detected, new numbers of mortality and new numbers of recoveries.

As I conclude this blog post in here, I wish to ask myself this question again: WHAT IS THE NEXT NEW THING? I hope till the next time, I write again, we will be having a definitive reply, an encouraging answer to this question. Till then we have to take our health a little more seriously and may have to continue chanting - #StayHomeStaySafe.

- Virtuous Vociferous | June 08 | June Blog-1 | What If | 2020

A summer so different

Courtesy: Google

This summer

is definitely different

by all means.

It is tough to love summers! No matter how long you stay locked indoors, it is still tough to love summers. And no two summers are comparable. No two summers can be hotter or less hot than the other. No two summers can be more pleasant or less unpleasant than the other. Summers or in that case, every weather is unique by nature. But what about the SUMMER OF 2020. Well, what about it? Simply a memory maybe! Of having stayed indoors throughout the summer of 2020.

Summers; all of us will unanimously agree; no summer sounds as poetic as Bryan Adams had made it sound in his all-time hot song - SUMMER OF 69. He had sung and I quote:

Oh, when I look back now

That summer seemed to last forever

And if I had the choice

Yeah, I'd always wanna be there

Those were the best days of my life

How memorable that summer could have been to inspire an entire song of such intoxicating nature!

Maybe one year down the line, we would look back to this SUMMER OF 2020. By the same time, next year, we should hope that things would be fine; life would be great; travel would be colorful. And we might sing… That summer seemed to last forever; but those days were not the best days of our lives.

This summer is definitely different by all means. No news channel is reporting deaths due to sun stroke. But there are deaths being reported due to a pandemic. A pandemic which shattered a part of our winter, a major part of our spring and now has almost spoiled our entire summer. Airports are lying empty, railway platforms look lifeless, roads wear an abandoned look. Who knew that in the year of 2020; there will be no summer vacations; there will be no summer picnics; there will be no summer escapade to the hill stations; there will be no quick summer breaks by the seaside!

We didn’t dread any of the summers. We braved the odds. Many a times, our skins have turned red, infections have taken over, sweat has turned sticky and throats have run thirsty. Yet, we never wished to miss out on those summers as well. But we are left with no choice; it seems like we have to give this summer a miss.

Mangoes have gone live. Watermelons are trending. Bananas are being shared and mentioned. Yet the fun of eating them during this summer seems to have gone missing. We can only expect the fun to return next year. Hope is our only umbrella. Let us seek some shelter beneath it. Let us enjoy whatever is remaining of this summer; if not being outdoors, at least being indoors!

Maybe ten years down the line, when we would be seated in some corner of the world, we would look back to this summer and take a long breath. We will shut our eyes, think of the tough times and then get back to life to narrate that one story of a summer… A SUMMER SO DIFFERENT.

- Virtuous Vociferous | May 26 | May Blog-3 | What If | 2020

Maa Always

My Maa

Always more. Always stronger.

Here and everywhere.

‘Maa’

My first breath.

‘Maa’

My first dream.

‘Maa’

My first utterance.

‘Maa’

My first speech.

‘Maa’

My first known person in this world.

‘Maa’

My first partner in innocence.

‘Maa’

My first friend.

‘Maa’

My first listener.

‘Maa’

My first teacher.

‘Maa’

My first mentor.

‘Maa’

My first master chef.

‘Maa’

My first written word.

‘Maa’

My first sung hymn.

‘Maa’

My first, admirer and fan.

‘Maa’

My first leader.

‘Maa’

My first philosopher.

‘Maa’

My first Goddess.

‘Maa’

My first everything.

Maa. Nothing less; always more. Nothing weak; always stronger. Here; always here. And everywhere. It’s Maa Always.

- Virtuous Vociferous | May 10 | May Blog-2 | What If | 2020

The Missing Rainbow

Photo Courtesy: Google

Deaths are defeating lives.

Diseases are endangering survival.

Everything has changed around us.

Conversations muted. Movement limited. Socializing curtailed. Freedom denied.

The windows are open; the rays of sun are in; the birds are chirping; but human voices have gone missing.

The doors are open; the breeze is in; the dry leaves of plants and trees are flying in; but humans aren’t walking in.

The world seems to stand divided between – Inner and Outer world.

Everything has come to a standstill.

Happiness seems to have vanished.

Time has paused.

The car, which was left parked after a road trip hasn’t gone beyond the housing colony. The air pressure in the tyres is decreasing every day. The fuel tank is on the verge of running dry. The bike, which is in urgent need of servicing is stationary.

Vacations stand cancelled. Engagements and weddings stand postponed.

We have lost half of March, the whole of April and few parts of May.

Our financial scenario looks pale. Our emotional scenario appears scarred.

Queues are to be seen; outside wine shops, ration shops, police stations, offices of local political leaders. Some want to get drunk; some wish to continue staying overstocked; some are willing to go home; some are still eager to seek privileges.

Trains have stopped running. Flights have stopped taking off. Vehicles have stopped moving between cities, districts, states and countries. Ships are anchored at the shores; there are no immediate signs or symbols of them sailing anytime sooner.

Exams have been cancelled. Projects have been stalled. Employment opportunities have been thinning out. The processes of recruitment have been slowing down.

We made some noise. We lit some candles. We did every possible thing to keep the crisis away. But, strangely the crisis seems far from getting over. Every single day, the crisis keeps growing, multiplying.

Deaths are defeating lives. Diseases are endangering survival.

Hotels aren’t available to stay. Restaurants aren’t serving. Sea beaches are sealed. Resorts are shut.

Once upon a time, this life seemed like a colorful rainbow. The rainbow has gone missing.

Right now, desperately seeking The Missing Rainbow.

- Virtuous Vociferous | May 06 | May Blog-1 | What If | 2020

Didu can never be forgotten

Didu always

We still feel

her presence

among us, within us

She spoke the language of love because she knew only to love. Didu, Amma, Thamma as she was addressed by us; her battalion of five grandchildren, she was special, she will remain special. Even though I am the eldest among my siblings, I would often feel that her love was getting a little more shared between the other four. Well, that is how Didu was; ever loved, ever generous, and ever supportive of us. And all the five of us, loved her infinitely.

On many occasions, that we revisit our memories of her, we remember how she was our friend, our mentor, our guide and as my brother put it – our partner in crime. But what were these crimes, which we would commit and she would happily be a part of? Most of these crimes included purchase of few more candies from the shop, a piece more from the crispy French fries made by her or an extra serve of a piece or two of the mutton she cooked or a little extra cash. Beyond that she would sometimes also be supportive of deducting the extra hours, which our parents might demand us to contribute in studies. But Didu would do this only on one condition; she would make us promise that we should make up for the lost hours in our next session.

Didu was our gravity. She took over from where Dadu left. My two sisters and I were lucky to get pampered by Dadu as well as Didu. My brother and my little sister never got to see who Dadu was or the person, the human being that he was. But they got to see Didu. And Didu showered them with love and blessings. Before she breathed her last on April 20, 2018; it was my younger brother and youngest sister who served her and attended to every demand of hers. One of my sister was already married by then.

My relationship with Didu had been that of grandmother and grandchild. But she was my sister during Rakshabandhan; my mother during my mother’s absence while she was teaching in her school; my father during my father’s shift duties; my teacher while studying. During my college days, I stayed with Didu. I would stay awake till she was awake. And I would sleep when she would sleep.

Two years faded away. But even today, her memories remain fresh in our minds. Be it her own children or us; her grandchildren. At times, I remember those moments when I had fought with Didu. These fights were just like the fights, we break into with our friends and forget about them; as immediately as possible. She would never take offence. But yes, she would grow emotional. Still she was strong enough to make us stronger and make sure that we are prepared enough to take up all challenges of the future, she prayed for us.

The fondest memory, which I hold about Didu is the train journey between Mumbai and Kolkata of 1993. I had just appeared for my board exams. My parents took the landmark decision to send us both to Kolkata. This was my first ever solo journey sans my parents. Didu was traveling with me. During the journey, a mother and son were our fellow travelers. The son would demand anything and everything, which her son would demand. My Didu would buy it for him and I was left fuming. On many occasions, I tried stopping her from doing that; Didu didn’t budge. Finally, there was one such moment, when the mother happened to visit the bathroom and I got the opportunity to ask Didu some tough questions. But the compassionate soul that she was, Didu silenced me in two seconds. When I asked her, why was she spending so much for that kid? She replied, ‘His mother has been putting her hand in the wallet to fish out money. But do you know that she is penniless. Her husband made her board the train but didn’t give her any money to spend during travel. She will only have some access to money when this train reaches Howrah station and her brother comes to fetch her.’ I asked Didu, as to who shared this information with her. Didu replied, ‘When you were fuming and being angry at me for buying him that toy, she saw you. She broke down and told me her story.’ The journey ended. The woman and her son were attended by their relative. I looked at the woman and the child; they smiled and waved at us. I felt a lump in my throat.

So, as another year passes by after Didu’s absence from our lives, we still feel her presence among us, within us. Because for the kind and compassionate soul; Didu can never be forgotten.

- Virtuous Vociferous | April 22 | April Blog-2 | What If | 2020

The Death Of An Actor – RANJIT CHOWDHRY (aka CHOTTU)

Ranjit Chowdhry - 19.9.1955 to 15.4.2020

Ranjit Chowdhury

as the youngest brother

kept us together as family

His sister paid a fitting tribute by posting an old photograph of his; a black and white photograph on instagram. In a footnote, which she wrote on the bottom left of the photograph; Raell Padamsee wrote about her brother – 19.9.1955 to 15.4.2020; actor, writer, maverick; we will miss you. Below the photograph, she wrote a description; as simple as the actor looked or his personality was. She wrote and I quote – For all those who knew Ranjit, the funeral will be held tomorrow and a gathering to celebrate his life and share his stories on May 5. With love, Raell.

I personally learnt about his death from one of the posts of my favorite author Bishwanath Ghosh’s post on facebook. He shared his fondness for the song – Uthe sabke kadam dekho rum pum pum from the movie Baaton Baaton Mein. He described Ranjit as that guy who played the violin in the song is no more. I was a bit taken aback. I googled about his sudden demise and learnt about his demise on April 15.

Ranjit to be specific was a star of the family movies, we grew up watching during the seventies. Thankfully these movies were relayed repeatedly on the Doordarshan and now they are doing the rounds of ‘retro watch’ on some OTT platforms. He was one of those rebellious guys in the movie, who would always step out to do the oddest thing in the movie. As Deepa Mehta put it in an interesting way in one of her interviews with Sanjay Jha, a film critic. Deepa Mehta described Ranjit fondly as eternally rebellious. She added, “His wicked sense of humour, his disdain for convention, his compassion and irascible nature will be hard to replace.”

The movies, I loved him watching were – Baaton Baaton Mein, Khatta Meetha, Khoobsurat, Kama Sutra, Fire. The first three movies were sugarcoated. Kama Sutra showed him in a different light. But it was his role in Fire, which still remains memorable for me. I remember, Fire being banned and people raising slogans against the movie focusing on a lesbian relationship. I cared for none. Two fine actresses were shown falling in love; Shabana Azmi and Nandita Das. They belonged to a dysfunctional family and were married off to the two men in the family; Kulbhushan Kharbanda and Javed Jaffrey. But the third man in the family; the servant played to aching detail by Ranjit Chowdhry was the kind of character, which lingered in my mind. Right in the drawing room, he would sit watching porn. The oldest woman of the house; the so called Daadi (granny) or Ammaji (if I am not getting it wrong) would be asleep and she would keep screaming. Ranjit would do the unthinkable and shower the choicest of abuses to silence her resistance. Post Fire and many years later, in short films on many OTT platforms and YouTube, I’ve come across many characters like him. The closest to his character was the servant form the Tisca Chopra short film Chutney. Yet, he couldn’t beat what Ranjit Chowdhry had shown to the world, which stood resistant to Fire.

In today’s era, when a certain star from Indian film industry makes his way to Hollywood cinema, it becomes news. Ranjit Chowdhry along with the likes of Om Puri, Roshan Seth, Saeed Jaffrey, Anupam Kher, Irrfan Khan had already made it to Hollywood long back. If you don’t believe my words, try watching Denzel Washington’s Mississippi Masala. You will realize, the kind of actor that Ranjit Chowdhry was.

On a concluding note, you might wonder, why am I writing about an actor; I am not even related to. Nope, I am definitely related to him through my love for cinema, which kept us together as family. Ranjit Chowdhry as the youngest brother or the littlest brother in these cinemas was the ever extended olive branch. His characters made us believe – Rebels have a world of their own.

In his memoirs, A Double Life: My Exciting Years in Theatre and Advertising, Alyque writes fondly of his foster son, “Ranjit . . . has always been a delightful spirit of a human being. An impish character, both in size and personality, he’s quick-witted and charming.”

- Virtuous Vociferous | April 18 | April Blog-1 | What If | 2020

#MusingsOfMarch – A NEW BELIEF SYSTEM

The next era of humanity 
is going to be 
the best era of our lives. 

No time is good or bad. Time by itself is unpredictable. That being the fact, no great astrologer could have ever predicted COVID-19 as a threat to humanity. Had such predictions been in place, the World Health Organization wouldn’t have declared it as a pandemic. 

India is not untouched. The global apathy threatens to cripple us. Thus, we need to have a new belief system in place. We need to stay calm and respect the restrictions. These restrictions are not limiting us. These restrictions have been imposed to protect us. 
Starting from March 25, 2020 we will be experiencing a national lock down of 21 days. Trust me, it could get extended to. Therefore, we need to stay calm. We need to seek a new purpose to live and to help live our loved ones. 

It is understandable, the four walls of our home could leave us feeling suffocated. So do the four walls of our offices. But this is not the question of which four walls sustain us well. 
For ages, we have quoted – The home is where our heart is. 

My personal belief says, when the head of our country, the Prime Minister; the head of our state, the Chief Minister; the head of all other countries are asking us to stay home. There seriously couldn’t be a safer place than home, home and only home. 

So, if the times are difficult, don’t curse it. Time is as innocent as we feel we are. And only time will be able to tell us in the coming days, where are we going to stand as a nation, during the difficult phase of corona outbreak. And only time will be able to tell us, where will the entire world be after having fought bravely against the pandemic.

So, 21 days of being immobile. No, don’t take it in a wrong sense. Try telling yourself #21DaysOfChange. Or motivate yourself by saying #21DaysOfAcceptance. Just read the title of this post again, it says – A New Belief System. It is not that devastating. In the year 2011, a freaky accident had left me crippled and I had no choice. A lunatic biker knocked me down. I was left with a hairline fracture on the left foot. When the orthopedic surgeon told me that I will have to stay indoors for the next one month, tears rolled down my eyes. I was to stay home for a month. Initially it was tough. Being a creative person, I couldn’t digest it. But then I put a new belief system in place; I started a blog -  https://immobilehours.blogspot.com

Some of my colleagues from those days laughed; they said, as a patient I was wanting to seek sympathy. I didn’t pay attention to it. After one month, when I walked free, they came forward and said – You might have been immobile, but we witnessed your life unfold through your blog. Thus, seeking an inspiration from those immobile hours of 2011, after almost a decade, I am going to start something today. The first blog-post was supposed to go live on March 25 itself. But I am happy to remain prone to some of the most amazing moments, which make me feel loved. So, even if there is a delay, you will still get to see a new way of life unfold on the new blog – https://residentcreatorofalockedparadise.blogspot.com

On this blog, I am going to document my personal journey for the next 21 days of national lock down. I am in no mood to share anything that is negative. Instead I am going to write about things, which are doable, can be done and what I ended up doing during these 21 days. Also, this blog is not just going to remain limited to my writings during the lock down of 21 days to fight the contagion of COVID-19. This blog will have its updates, even on days when I choose to remain locked at home or could be at a place, and choose to lock myself and write something.

This blog is my way of putting a new belief system in place. Don’t lose hope. Be hopeful. The next era of humanity is going to be the best era of our lives. And before we step out again, let’s stay committed and make ourselves available through our hearts and spirit to #UniteToFightCorona. 

- Virtuous Vociferous | March 26 | March Blog-2 | What If | 2020

#MusingsOfMarch - IN VIEW OF THE WORLD

Take care, treat life well. 

Love yourself. 

Survive, sustain. 

After December 2019, I hadn’t written anything. All this while, I have saving the best words; I have been segregating the best photographs; I have been trying to overcome certain uncertainties. But when I settled down to think of things, I could only imagine a revolving globe. The revolving globe appeared hollow.

Someone had put it so rightly – Fear kills faster.

At this moment, fear is on a rampage. Even the smallest of infection can spell panic. Governments are making announcements to shut down businesses. But, what about the multiple levels of confidence, which had started collapsing due to the outbreak!

The outbreak has a name. The name has its own share of fame too. But the fame is not enjoyable. The fame is not of that nature, which is celebrated.

Depression is setting in; anxiety is pulling in; apprehension is barging in. Should we wear a mask? Should we stay indoors? Should we save our neighborhood? Should we save the world? Questions, questions and only questions.

As is known to many of us, it is a virus. Logically speaking it is invisible. The virus is spreading. And, spreading violently.

Masks are on. Masks are off. Masks are in. Masks are running out of supply. Masks are to be seen everywhere. Masks, masks; more and more masks.

Initially summers were about vacation and socializing. The summers of 2020 are gearing up for evacuation and social isolation. We are arguing; we are contemplating; we are caught in a state of belief and disbelief (both).

Doubts. We are doubting everything. From a sneeze caused due to dust allergies to cough caused due to the food caught in the food pipe. We are doubting everything. The machinery of fear is working closely with our worst of all dreadful experiences.

Words like quarantine, isolation and prevention are growing frequent as vital mentions in our conversations. But I hear no conversations. We hear no conversations. All we hear, we suppress, and we confess is dread, dread and dread.

It could be too easy to call it a modern example of biological warfare. But we aren’t talking war here; we are talking life here. A life that belongs to us and needs to be prevented. Generations can’t get written off. Journeys can’t be discontinued. Love stories can’t remain incomplete.

This threat, this insecurity is endangering our dreams too. We are often heard saying – It’s impossible, not possible. Have we succumbed already? Or we are waiting for the time to consume us in its run against possibilities!

In a situation so challenging, we are also making space for some dark humor. But I guess, humor isn’t a part of this hara-kiri. Reality of time standing stark. Reality of moment seeming dubious. Television is sending out negative signals at us. Social media is sending out mixed signals at us. The truth remains veiled beneath layers of discrepancy.

But this is a phase; a crucial phase to initiate safety measures and to pray for those who couldn’t get the chance to remain safe.

Therefore, by the next time, I write again…my eyes don’t have to be moist; they should be curious again. Take care, treat life well. Love yourself. Survive, sustain. Be there to share your tale of overcoming the odds.  

  

- Virtuous Vociferous | March 16 | March Blog-1 | What If | 2020

DECEMBER DIARY PAGE 4 – Migration is an expression

I love the way, 
2019 shaped my life; 
in absolutely golden and 
immensely memorable ways. 

It was not an unusual message to be delivered on WhatsApp this morning. But I loved the composition. A white mug of freshly brewed coffee was placed in front of a laptop. The activity on the laptop screen was partly visible. An uncluttered view that it appeared to be; the message seemed like the right expression to wrap up 2019. The message read – Last coffee of 2019. 

So, it was the caption; ‘Last coffee of 2019’, which intrigued the mind. Struck by sudden realization, I said to myself - The year ends today. All those 365 days in our credit, will be debited today. And, as the year ends, I am left to wonder, if there is anything to look back to! On that account, I would like to quote Ginger Rogers, an American artist – Looking back at my life’s voyage, I can only say that it has been a golden trip. Seeking inspiration from the same quote, I would say – I love the way, life was in 2019; absolutely golden and immensely memorable. 

Thus, during lunch hour, I stepped out and I got to know about the various migratory plans. Yes, there is a migration that shall take place, right in the middle of the night. We shall flock together, hug strangers, kiss lovers, make love, raise a toast, smoke a cigar, drain champagne, scare people; only to say a goodbye to the year, which would gain the status of ‘past’. In this case, it would be 2019. Some of us will choose to go beyond extremes. 

We will build effigies; these effigies will be that of 2019. We will dress it up with a set of oldest pair of clothes. To give it a personality, we will put up a mask of Santa Claus on the round tip of the effigy. We will call this masked part, the face of the effigy. This will make the effigy look more human. We shall also source an old Christmas cap or maybe, we shall buy a new one and place it on the head of this effigy. We will stuff this effigy with hay, used newspapers, wasted papers and some other material. When the night grows a little sexier and wiser, during midnight, we will commence with our annual sporting event of burning these effigies. Trust me, year after year, this ghastly sight saddens me. The way we treat the year bygone is horrendous. We show no mercy. We treat it like an old man, whom we don’t wish to see again. Is a year’s time old enough to be treated so badly? Such is the behavior because we are fascinated with the violent art of burning effigies; the reason to do so, never matters. 

But this burning and this destruction is a part and parcel of the process called migration. The idea of migration is never a good idea. Most of us carry within us the frustration of perils, we faced; the failures, which broke us; the heartbreaks, we couldn’t handle. Thus, when we are ready to migrate to a New Year, we wish to put up a show. This show has been going on; year after year, consistently. And there has been no greater show than the extravagance of migration on the face of this earth. 

Ban Ki-Moon, a South Korean politician had put it in the most appropriate words. He had said and I quote – Migration is an expression of the human aspiration for dignity, safety and a better future. It is part of the social fabric, part of our very make-up as a human family. So, now it becomes easier for us to understand the euphoria behind this migration; from 2019 to 2020. We are happy. If we aren’t happy, we are SUPPOSED to be happy. 

Happiness also helps us bring out the stranger within us. Some of us aren’t satisfied with the simplistic structure of celebrating this migration. Years of observation have brought into focus, the art of some geniuses. These geniuses have been seen pouring alcohol on the effigies of an old man (the so called old or departing year); some have been caught urinating; the highest numbers have always rested with the one who has been spotted dragging an effigy from one corner of a city, to the farthest corner of a nation caught in a frenzy.

And, here we are; eight more hours for the migration to kick off. I hope you’ve got the stock ready to burn down 2019 and kick off 2020! So, before I say my personal goodbye to 2019, I wish to hug it; kiss it; applaud for it, for being the best year for me. If you wish to know WHY? Then we may need another migration or a new season of migration; 365 days down the line; from 2020-2021. Till then, it is a goodbye from Virtuous Vociferous. And I bid a goodbye with the words below.

Every year is a phenomenon
To celebrate their arrivals
Is a human experience 
Of intense nature.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 31 | December Blog-4 | Never Settle | 2019

DECEMBER DIARY PAGE 3 – On ground zero of resolutions

A resolution is a seed, 
we sow excitedly.
But we might end up 
burying it forever.

The table lamp is right here; it’s hiding behind its own darkness. The camera is right here; it’s hiding behind its own dysfunctionality. The diary is right here; it’s hiding behind its own blankness.

Blankness is like blindness. You have a pair of eyes; there is no vision in it. You have a mind; there is no thought in it.

In short, everything is blank; almost zero.

So, if we are on Ground Zero, we need to outgrow ourselves. Some outgrow themselves by getting into action and staying in action. And some go out, crossover to the other side, learn a new language; only to end up asking – What’s your New Year Resolution?

Resolution is the most underestimated noun of our times.

Max Lucado, an author had once written or said somewhere – Conflict is inevitable, but combat is optional.
The question – What’s your New Year Resolution – is the conflict.
The reply – Whether we should react or not react – is the combat.

My life hasn’t remained untouched by the conflict. Only I chose to put up a combat in somewhat this manner – A resolution is a seed, we sow excitedly; right in the beginning of the New Year, or by the end of the fading year. For 365 days, we keep talking about it relentlessly. But, we fail to realize; we might have buried that seed beneath our own war of egos, expectations and exigencies.

In simple words, if we can’t stick to our resolutions; why should we be loud about it?

Resolutions are personal. We don’t have to make it trend on social media or make it go viral on multiple platforms. Neither are we required to hold huge placards, assuring our support to the saga of making resolutions; following resolutions.

Long back, a friend had said, his resolution was to live a happily married life. Two years later, he resolved; he would never remarry. 

But, is the habit of making a resolution such a negative process? There might and there definitely will be better stories. It is only in my personal space; I make or create an opinion about something; but not somebody.

Do resolutions give our life, a new direction? Do resolutions shape our life in some way? Do resolutions take us ahead?

We will never have a reply to the above questions. And yet, when someone asks – What’s your New Year Resolution? I would simply reply – My resolution is to not make any resolution. 


- Virtuous Vociferous | December 09 | December Blog-3 | Never Settle | 2019

DECEMBER DIARY PAGE 2 – Until the ripples die away

Death after death 
is much more painful 
than death after life.

Terry Pratchett, the humorist had once said – No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away. Before, I could cause my own ripple, my body was thrown in the dungeon. The last sight of my toe was also my last ever connect with the real world. I was not put on pyre. Because no one is left with any time to lit a pyre. Trust me; until your eyes caught sight of my toe, I had still fell alive. Once inside the dungeon, I choked badly. It was death after death, which is much more painful than death after life.

Now that I am gone, you will be required to install a photograph of mine in the drawing room. Black and white photographs are not liked any more. So, please don’t make a mockery of yourself by putting up one. Visitors will queue outside. Some of them will be here for the first time; some of them will be those who had stopped visiting us suddenly; some of them will be the regulars, who kept coming during occasions of happiness and grief.

Please don’t remember or miss me anymore. Try forgetting me and erasing me, my signs from everywhere, which still bears the energies of my painful presence. I am no more alive. I am dead. I have become a ghost. The fire inside the dungeon burnt my skin; the fire was harsh on my hair; the fire turned my already frail body into an unusual lump of nothingness. My ordeal of diesel induced immolation didn’t take much time to get over. Going by the process of rituals, you will have to collect what is left of me in an aluminum tray. Those government employees were not too kind while pulling out my last remains from the dungeon. They left the aluminum tray out in the open. I felt vulnerable to the crows. They kept polishing their beaks to make away with their favorite parts of me. I guess, I had some good luck left with me; the crows missed me. Or they weren’t interested in the burnt remains of a diseased body.

The conversations will get boring now. Many would come, sit by your side, put up a sad face of yours; don’t be surprised to see some replicate your sad pose. Most of them will be curious to know the real reason of my death. Even though, half of them are aware of it, they would want you to repeat the reason. This is a strange habit, born out of binge watching back to back episodes of their favorite series on OTT platforms. Some are prone to repeat watches. So they won’t mind a repeat of the reason of my death, they might have already been aware of. 

Don’t pay any attention to those, who remark – We still can’t believe he is no more. Don’t they know, nothing is permanent in this world! This human body is perishable too. There will also be those, who will surprise you by saying – We felt, we just saw him. Absolutely fake.

Before anyone slips into the role of your mentor and asks you to grow strong, I am advising you in advance to grow strong. Nothing will remain the same. No matter, how much I ask you to not remember me or miss me; you will definitely succumb to the galloping impact of time. My memories will float in your mind; tears will automatically negotiate their release from your eyes. 

Your real work of being related to me, begins now. Since I haven’t left any trail of my possessions, you have to immediately get into fast action mode. You may also need to talk to the priest, choose an appropriate day, to offer your last prayers. Speak to our regular caterer. Ask him to cook my favorite food. Send out invitations to every relative of ours. Rituals of observing the death of a person are far more exhaustive and time consuming than the rituals of a marriage. 

Since we are related to each other, you might be required to shave your head. I leave it up to you. If you aren’t too comfortable moving around with a shaved head; simply avoid! Also; on certain occasions, you may see me in your dreams. Don’t panic. No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away. Who knows, I might still be eager to cause my own ripple!

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 09 | December Blog-2 | Never Settle | 2019