THE RAINY PREFACE

The first thought

10.45 PM – It is raining

10.45 AM – It was raining

I am seated in the farthest suburb of Mumbai, which according to residents of SoBo (South Bombay) can’t even stand eligible to be addressed as NoBo (North Bombay). I am seated in my very own corner, writing this piece; also thinking, how nothing has changed in a course of 12 hours. Not the people, not the conversations, not the conspiracies; nothing at all has changed. Neither do I expect them to change because it is me, who has to become the change.

Skipping work came naturally. I am happy I skipped making fool of myself as well. As the rains kept lashing, journalists of innumerable news channels turned into weather experts and kept reporting bullshit. But am I supposed to complain? Nah! Instead I kept staring at the rains, from the comfort of my dream home. Every drop of rain left me with these lines, which I call the rainy preface (also the title of this blog) –

TODAY IT RAINED

TODAY IT POURED

I STOOD DRENCHED

FOR A MOMENT, I FELT

ARE THESE RAINS CAPABLE ENOUGH

OF MELTING A MORTAL BEING LIKE ME?

ME… THE @#@*@#@*@#

The special characters form the name of my second book. For days, I’ve wanted to start working on my second book. I invested an entire year, thinking of it. I invested an entire year, trying to adjust to it. Interestingly, I invested two years extending my seva, my meva to a place, which in return has given me new lessons to learn from for a good life (this line is dedicated to the advisors, who will continue holding me wrong for all reasons and once again ask me to not get frustrated, stay diplomatic, decent).

The Final Thought

11.00 PM – It is raining

11.00 AM – It was raining

Away from the trappings of emotions, WhatsApp messages, birthday wishes, Facebook likes & dislikes; I lived through a peaceful day. This day was exactly the kind of day I wish to have a constant affair with. I drove in my car, walked below my umbrella and continued conversing with some intelligent minds. Some questions did come my way. I chose not to answer them. I am sure, some will come advising me again of being obsessed and being wrong. Having decided to follow what the heart prompts, I continued being myself and kept chanting a mantra for my well-wishers – My Foot, My Foot, Foot, Foot, Foot. They disappeared!

Concluding on a happy note by saying… Writing begins and continues every single day!

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 9 | July Blog-3 | Making of the beast | 2018

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

I think recollecting memories of an experience should be turned into a ‘must have’ hobby. Yes, it should be! At the same time, this hobby should not be confused with memory game. According to me, game is a moment and recollection is an experience. My intent behind this opinion is rooted in what I am going to write now. I am writing about the first trek of my life, which I embarked upon on July 9, 2017. I am recollecting memories of that trek, a week later and thoroughly enjoying writing about it. Now you know why recollecting memories of an experience should be turned into a ‘must have’ hobby!

The decision to trek was impulsive and not so impulsive as well. I was enjoying my sabbatical from Facebook. Over a period of time, I got bored of what I was posting, sharing and debating in that space. But someday, somehow a return was on the cards. When I returned, a post by Dark Green Adventures about a trek to Sunset Point in Matheran grabbed my attention. Matheran, it was; my womb of inspiration.

There I was and we were, as decided, at Panvel railway station by 7 am. Krishna, our trek instructor had created a group on WhatsApp. We coordinated through the same and without wasting a single minute, proceeded to Dhodani village (located at 20.4 kms from Panvel railway station). After a quick round of breakfast of Idlis, Tea and Krishna’s Knowledge Nuggets, Krishna sought our introductions in the courtyard of the local temple. The first few names I can recollect at this moment are Aranya or Ananya and Sharanya, Hitesh, Ravi, Deepak, Pranav, Rohan, etc etc.

As planned, we started trekking at around 10:30 am. We were supposed to scale 1200 ft. Krishna led us, so did our hearts and our determination. We kept taking stops. Our first encounter was with paddy crops. Moving ahead we lost our hearts to a tiny waterfall. Post this point, Rohan had to retract; dehydration (maybe) had claimed its first victim. The trek continued.  No one was in a mood to stop or take breaks. But when the opportunities came by, no one shied away from taking that stop and the much needed break to guzzle water, chew some handy snacks, catch up with some breath. Rains were nowhere to be seen. The sun kept getting mightier. Through thick vegetation, we could see two youthful females take the lead; Ananya and Sharanya. I was in the fourth position. Krishna was somewhere in between. Hitesh continued nonstop as well. Pranav was busy discovering the unknown corners. Ravi was to climb last.

From a distance, we could spot the edge of Sunset Point. Fellow trekkers motivated us by remarking, “You are almost there”. But the so called ‘almost there’ kept postponing itself by additional 15 minutes. Did we lose our mojo? No. Did we get it back? But we had never lost it. Once we climbed over, a thick layer of fog enveloped Sunset Point. The much needed rains were here and they came heavily upon us. We were hungry, thirsty but not angry. We knew we had stories to go back home with. The team stuck together. Trekkers as we were. First timers, pro, seasonal, regular; trekkers were rocking. We had done it!

Lunch was served in Osbourne House, a tiny home owned by a villager. Rains had turned thick by now. The little home seemed like a universe of hope for us hungry trekkers. When the food arrived, the first six of us simply jumped in. We finished like Formula One racers and set out to spend some time at Louisa Point. Some of us went missing but, we were tracked down by Krishna’s special searching prowess. Ten of us decided to descend. If the ascent filled us with thrills, the descent was going to be another spinning moment of our lives. Someone was to lead and someone was to finish last. But joy was on its way.

Don’t miss the conclusion - TREK #1 09072017 Stage 3

-Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 1

It goes somewhat like this and a lot less like that.

Much before July 9, 2017 came into my life; I had religiously followed the unreasonable urge in me to avoid embarking on a trek.

Trek in the language of a dictionary means ‘a journey or trip, especially one involving difficulty or hardship’.

Many eons ago, when I would get invited by a friend, colleague, well-wisher or a professional partner to be a part of a trek; I would shudder!

But from mid-2016 (once again, the month of July to be precise), things had started changing for me! Some of my colleagues had trekked their way to Matheran. They uploaded these pictures on the social media. Mist was their backdrop. The wet piece of marshy land beneath their feet was their landing pad. The smile on their faces was the reward of a trek well completed. Temptation had set in. I clearly remember telling this to them, “If you plan a trek next time, I shall join in”.

I realized, I needed some more time to make up my mind, muster courage, fortify my determination, configure my apprehensive organs and convince the ‘little negative me’ in me to embark on my first ever trek. Sadly and happily it took me a year to finally say YES against the many Nos which continued to defeat my decision. In short, I trekked! 

As I lifted my feet and began climbing over the immense offering of nature (also called a mountain), the unreasonable urge to avoid trekking diminished.

This is the story of that trek. It’s not based on a true story. But it’s the true story of my first ever trek. All the characters in this story are real. This is not a work of fiction or an effort at creating new metaphors. This is sheer originality at play. Let me tag this post and the following blog posts as distinct in mood, dramatic by nature, dashing in telling and dynamic at its core.

Starring first time trekkers, seasonal trekkers, pro trekkers, a trek instructor and his partner; this is truth about a trek well told.

This blog post/this story of my first trek contains no added flavor or colors. All of it is natural and any coincidence to the living, reincarnated, forgotten or remembered is purely coincidental or deliberate by nature.

To conclude, I would like to quote - Every action has a first. Every first is an action.

Coming Soon - TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

-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  

Nous Sommes Prêts

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Virtuous Vociferous 

REOPENING THIS SEASON

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

So where was I between these unblogged months?

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Virtuous Vociferous 

MUCH AHEAD OF THE MOVIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous 

THE LAST SUNDAY OF 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous