The 15 year BLOGVERSARY - September 19 | 2005-2020

 

September 22-2020/ Blog #1

This blog is my voice.  An extension of my personality. 

My blog www.virtuousvociferous.blogspot.com is just five years younger to my career span in the advertising industry. I owe its evolution to my learning from the advertising industry and the world. 

This blog is my voice. This blog is an extension of my personality. This blog takes its name from my crafted identity on Facebook. But when I started writing this blog, it had a very different identity. I commenced blogging with the title of Bengal Surprise. Eventually I chose to change it to Urban Surprise. Somehow, these names weren’t ringing a bell. I still don’t remember exactly as to what made me change its name to Virtuous Vociferous. But I am happy, I did so. As the name changed, so did my style of writing. I owe the change in my writing style to authors like Jhumpa Lahiri, Jeffrey Archer, Karl Ove Knausgaard, Bishwanath Ghosh, Mark Manson, Piyush Jha, Piyush Pandey, Prasoon Pandey and Manav Kaul. I’ve time and again referred to their writings; read their books; followed their interviews; watched their interviews; listened to their podcasts. This influence has been stupendous. 

I am also lucky to have some great friends around me. They read my blog. On many occasions, whenever I have shared a link of my newly published blog post, they make time to comment. Some also make sure to highlight the paragraphs, they liked the most. And when I tend to act lazy, these are those friends who call me, write to me and remind me - I NEED TO WRITE. I never mind them coaxing me. It is their love and faith which made me add the title of ‘WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?’ to my page. I am immensely thankful to them too. 

On September 19, 2020 the blog turned fifteen. I remember the night of September 19, 2005 when I had posted my first blog at around 10.30 pm. I was overcome by joy. I felt overwhelmed. From then, till today, my blog has served as a foundation for me to write and share my thoughts with the world. 

My blog has made me reach out to people. My blog has invited attention too. I would like to share a small incident regarding the same. One of the renowned Page Three socialites from Mumbai had not only commented on a blog post. But she made it a point to meet me at a book launch. In a very polite manner, she pointed out to me the aspects of that blog post. The parts, which she loved the most. The parts, which she felt should be deleted. The parts, which she felt were simply brilliant. She took keen interest in this blog post because I had based it on her life, which was again written about by Sir Jeffrey Archer. 

All these fifteen years have been interesting. All these fifteen years have enriched my experience. All these fifteen years of the blog has been a celebration of a journey through listening, observing and learning too. 

I invite you all to be a part of this celebration. Your participation will only motivate me to keep writing and keep this blog Virtuous Vociferous. 

-Virtuous Vociferous/ 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

DURGA PUJA (PUJO) IS ALMOST KNOCKING ON THE DOORS

Durga Puja is oxygen,

survival, a moment of awakening

for the red blooded Bengalis.

Devlina Ganguly happily wrote on September 30; just two days after Mahalaya - Calcutta during #DurgaPuja is a fairytale land. No matter the workload, the traffic or any other shit, the Pujo (Puja) feel is so contagious that the smile keeps coming back on your face. The heart brims over with happiness.

Durga Puja, Picture Courtesy: Lonely Planet, India

For a moment, the heart jumped with joy.

The heartbeats tried to synchronize with the rhythm of Dhak playing on Gaana.Com.

Unexpectedly, the mind gently slipped into the dark comfort of a cute little boat, which set sail from the Princep Ghat; now moving slowly towards the middle of the sacred river.

I know, all of it is just an imagination.

But, before that, it was my friend Satabdi Sarkar, who sent an urgent message on WhatsApp; the message carried the title of this blog post in bold – PUJO (PUJA) IS ALMOST KNOCKING ON THE DOORS. I just added Durga in the beginning to make it more obvious, clearer.

The door/ doors, mentioned by Satabdi Sarkar, is the heart of a Bengali or the hearts of innumerable Bengalis (including me, my immediate neighbor, my others); be it the Resident or the Probashi. Durga Puja is oxygen; Durga Puja is survival; Durga Puja in every sense is a moment of awakening for the red blooded Bengalis.

I must tell you, opinions stand divided too about the happy population of Bengalis.

Some onlookers, followers, critics, reviewers, fans of Bengali culture wish to know:

• What does Pujo do to Bengalis?
• Are Bengalis busy seeking love during Pujo?
• How can Bengalis have nonveg food during religious festivities?
• Is it true that Bengalis grow completely insane from Panchami to Dashami?

To me, the rising smoke from Dhunuchi is the first sign of Agomoni (the arrival); the first rhythm, the Dhaki sets the Dhak to is the second sign of a much awaited festival; the early morning of Mahalaya is the third sign. And once the Devipaksha begins; there is no looking back. It is all about the Pujo; not just ordinary Pujo but Durga Pujo (Puja).

Festivals are to be celebrated together. But, just when the Pujo is about to begin, what if someone breathes her or his last? The heart sinks; the mind numbs; the vision narrows; the words disappear; the euphoria calms. But does the Bengali soul in us sit down quietly? Perhaps not! Because by the time, I reach the end of this blog post, a Bengali from the other corner of the world will be wishing Shubha Panchami to a Bengali from just another corner of the world.

Yes. Durga Pujo (Puja) is almost not knocking on the doors any more. It has begun! Time to bring the hands together, blend into festivities of yet another amazing year. And, maybe wait for yet another love story to unfold. Oh did someone say, they will be serving Rosogolla after the Bhog? Dada, count me in. I will be right there. Come Maa. Let’s go!

- Virtuous Vociferous | October 02 | October Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

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

DRAWN IN FAVOR OF 40

I might have not felt it strongly on my first birthday. Maybe it was during my twenty fifth birthday in 2003, I knew that 15 years down the line, I will turn 40. Does that give rise to a thought that I might be preparing for it? Did turning 40 require any preparation? Honestly speaking, it didn’t! 40 arrived as smoothly as 25 could have. All I did was take a quantum leap of making an announcement to the world that I was feeling MIGHTY AT 40. Millions of thank you to one of my senior designer’s in office, who created a logo around the theme. Even though I am yet to thank him in my special way. But I am yet to live up to the promises, I had made to him. On being asked as to what I would do with the logo of MIGHTY AT 40, I had made him clear – I will make visiting cards, print envelopes, get a t-shirt printed. I did none of them. Not due to any particular reason but, due to lethargy.

Someone asked me, how do I feel being at 40? I replied with the zeal of #MightyAtForty. I compounded my reply with the same old cliché of ‘life begins at 40’. Someone brought in his own touch by adding – hey dude, being naughtily sexy at 40. Yes, I feel sexy. Thanks to the newly found freedom from many reasons, which kept me tied down to unnecessary responsibilities.  

Equally surprised I am at writing as much as any reader of my personal blog would be. Why am I writing so late about my experience of having turned 40? There’s no logic behind it. I am yet to share my splendid experience of having attended TedX Panchgani in the month of January. That was good old 18 days ago of my birthday. Now, almost after one month’s time, I am still waiting to write an account of it.

As I stepped in the 40^th year of my life, I stuck to the ritual again. This ritual is the one, I’ve been following for years. At exactly 8.05 am, I touch my mother’s feet; she blesses me and kisses me on my forehead. She recollects the stories that revolved around my birth at the hospital she was admitted in. I followed this ritual in 2018. I shall follow it in the near future too. Only this time, I was a bit forthcoming about my plans of celebrating my MIGHTY AT 40 moment in style and with friends.

Having turned 40, I am analyzing my stance in life. This age, this phase seems like a blank cheque drawn in favor of 40. I am not tense like others tend to. I think, I haven’t felt so excited ever. I feel now is the time to grow emotionally intelligent, physically alert, mentally sound and absolutely determined. I can sense the urge, to not wanting to stay stuck, with what I have or what I could work my ass off, to have or possess or achieve.

I am not the only one to have turned 40 this year. My closest friend Prashant and I turned 40 this year. Prior to us, a year back, my best friend Nikhil too turned 40. In a smiling manner that he took it in his stride. He might have complained about loneliness; but, he didn’t. He sounded so happy to have the run the race so willfully. I think Nikhil’s immense faith in himself made me rethink my 40. Replacing old thoughts with new ones, turned me into a research scientist. The journey of research, I’ve embarked upon, in the month of January, will continue for a few more months.

The research that I was speaking about is more human than being practical/engineering.

But what’s the agenda for this #MightyAtForty? Maybe a little mightier!

-Virtuous Vociferous | February 18 | February Blog-1 | 2018

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-4 (THE CONCLUSION)

Kevin Kelly had quoted – TRAVEL IS STILL THE MOST INTENSE MODE OF LEARNING. The three-day trip to Konkan was one such learning. I learnt how strangers become friends and eventually evolve into a family that travels together.

The day broke earlier than expected. Our bags were packed, the breakfast was served and Vicky stood there supervising every move. Bidding adieu, we moved out of Vicky’s guesthouse.

We stopped by a newly built temple, which is regularly seen in one or the episode of a famous Marathi serial – GAON GAATE GAJALI. The next stop was yet another temple. From here, we made our way to Vijaydurg fort. History seemed to be still alive in here. This is a fort, which was built by King Bhoj, won over by Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj and now in ruins. Luckily we were helped by a guide to understand the history as well as the geography of this fort.

By the time we finished, hunger had announced its immenseness. Local food rushed to our rescue again. After a sumptuous lunch, we made our way to Vaibhavwadi. This is where, right in the middle of crops and with a mountain range serving as the backyard, we were welcomed to Kranti’s (our team leader) native home. The temperatures had dropped. The mosquitoes had grown fierce. As we spent a large chunk of our time at her blessed home, we couldn’t stop ourselves from checking our watches.

At around 8.30 pm, from Vaibhavwadi station, we boarded the Tutari Express back home. All we held closer to our hearts were memories. Memories of Konkan.

When in Konkan… Make sure to have all the fun!

Dedicated to every awesome soul on this trip.

-Virtuous Vociferous | January 01 | January Blog-1A | 2018

Saying a Goodbye 

Visiting the temple

Temple run continues

Vijaydurg fort

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-3

There’s a difference between checking in and walking into a hotel. But it makes a big difference, when you step into a home and are left to think, “didn’t they say this is a guesthouse?” Vicky’s guesthouse in Malvan did exactly the same. We were left to think. Initially I had my doubts as to what a guesthouse could put on offer! Trust me, these guys have put more than one can expect. Had they not done so, they wouldn’t have found a mention in the considerably prestigious ‘Lonely Planet’.

Vicky’s guesthouse seemed to be one of the best parts of this trip. Possibly the best discovery too, through our team leader Kranti’s extensive research. The more we thank her for this trip, the less it feels in the tradition of conveying gratitude.

After freshening up, from the lovely surrounds of Vicky’s guesthouse, we dashed to Tarkarli beach. This was one of those moment, I had been personally waiting for since long. Especially after I had closely missed accompanying my friends from Pune, for a New Year bash on December 31, 2016 (regret it for reasons, not closer to the heart anymore). At Tarkarli, not only did we bathe in the saline waters but, saw the skies change colors, heard the waves grow louder & fall silent too, sensed a different kind of energy run within us.

On returning, we were treated to one of the finest dinner spreads from Vicky and his family. This was the moment, when we realized how Vicky had transformed his guesthouse to a home, for many of his guests. Each of his family member (including his fiancé) worked together to keep us happy. After we rolled in, some foreign guests checked-in too; we got introduced to only in the latter part of the day.

The next day morning by 9 am, we were already sailing around the outer peripheries of Sindhudurg fort. Our only expectation was to spot some dolphins. But we seemed to have already run out of luck. The dolphins had retreated. The boatman apologized. I somehow felt sorry for him and hugged in return. It’s while boarding this boat that I misplaced my camera’s lens cap. I was instantly reminded of my own piece ‘IN THE SERIES OF NASTY REALITY/REALITIES’ (http://virtuousvociferous.blogspot.in/2017/11/in-series-of-nasty-realityrealities.html). In this piece, I had tried to establish that the things we lose might just be hinting at us to do away with the past. This lens cap too was a part of one such past. Post the breakfast, we were back at the beach to try our hands at parasailing. I must say we did pretty well.

In the evening, we sailed to a massive historical experience called Sindhudurg fort. The moment you step in; the fort makes you realize the great prowess of the greatest Maratha warrior & ruler Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj. The legacy that he left behind is fast fading out. I wish, the so called custodians of a million odd things could have, for once saved the forts. I would like to put it this way – Old, unattended, uncared forts are earth’s most helplessly decaying monuments.

To conclude in the next post…

-Virtuous Vociferous | January 01 | January Blog-1 | 2018

On the quest for dolphins

Kissing the skies

Sindhudurg fort

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-2

In our concrete cities, everything is readymade; luckily in the wide expanses of Konkan, things are still natural, human. Take for instance, right here, in our cities; we walk into a restaurant and are sure of getting served on time. But when you are in Konkan or anywhere else, which is considered to be ‘the’ countryside, erase all your expectations, once and for all.

Therefore, taking ahead from where I had left last time - The destination ahead was already beautiful in the mind; I wish to now proceed a little further (and not at all faster).

Once we alighted at Kudal, our bellies were reeling through first & fresh pangs of hunger. Since we had hired a van, we could feel the urgency of our hunger. Similarly, our driver too knew, how to settle us down. So once we had huddled inside the van, he drove a little faster and stopped only when he knew, he had the right restaurant on his mind to host us.

Remember, when we are traveling out of our cities, the rules of eating out changes! Restaurants stop being flashy but, the food starts getting tasty. Restaurants grow a little clumsier but, the hospitality starts growing warmer. We had a similar experience. Not too far from Kudal station, we walked into a restaurant, which moderately advertised itself as Hotel Pankaj and had it written loud within a bracket – Only during afternoons. This meant, we shouldn’t expect the place to be open during other hours or the food to be readily available at any given point.

Hotel Pankaj was thin on manpower but high on taste. The place was packed. Families, lovers, friends, groups, locals, runaways; everyone seemed to be thronging that place. We were politely told that we might be made to sit separately (this also meant, we could be brushing shoulders with strangers…complete strangers). We were also told that the food will take long to come to us. But finally when the food arrived, we were left overjoyed. The fish thalis, the chicken thalis, the veg thalis, the fried Surmais, the fried Pomfrets; all of it tasted so divine that we were no more left hungry. But we were left feeling greedy. For a moment, I thought we could have been blessed with a better appetite to consume more.

We were done with the lunch. We were done with the chewing of a sweet delicacy too. By the time, we stepped out of Hotel Pankaj, other groups rushed in. Their hunger pangs seemed far higher than us. As we geared up to board our van again, we could hear a flurry of burps go up in the air. To conclude, all that is cooked well ends up being eaten well in Konkan.

To be continued....

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 10 | December Blog-2A | 2017

Hotel Pankaj, Kudal

The 'Only Afternoon' rule, the warm little hotel follows

WHEN IN KONKAN PART-1

When in Konkan, the sea never seems too far, the food is never too late, the extended hospitality is never an unpleasant experience. And Konkan is where we chose to be at, for a short span of three days; December 1-3, 2017.

The time spent might seem too little. But the experience will continue to be too special. During this short trip to Konkan, I realized why the natives long to come back to their hometowns.

Konkan kept me excited. Maybe next time when someone invites me home to Konkan; I am going to promptly accept the invitation and pack my bags up.

Kranti, our tour team leader had proposed this trip while we were on a tour of Kaas Pathar plateau in Satara district. Initially I showed no interest. I was not even in a mood to give this outing a thought. Simply because, I wanted to save the weekend from just another trip and the exhaustion that ensues. But nothing was going to stop Kranti from planning this trip for us.

The blueprint was ready. The time had come to simply execute it. Kranti got everyone onboard and there we were; at 5:15 AM, on platform number 5 of Thane railway station. The much awaited journey was to begin now. Our gang was a motley crowd of 9 individuals. All of us were excited because we were travelling by the Tejas Express. On arrival, we didn’t have to hurry. Our seats were reserved in advance. Once we stepped in, Tejas treated us well. The AC temperature within was perfect enough to ensure desired coolness. The breakfast was delicious. The destination ahead was already beautiful in the mind.

To be continued....

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 10 | December Blog-2 | 2017

The Tejas Express

At the core of the sea

The Pomfret Thali

Dual Surmai in one plate

Ready to Sail

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 

A CONCRETE STEP TOWARDS PASSION

Almost two months and it is indeed a long time to find the space, the breath and the voice to share something over the resolution for 2015. Strangely this year, there was an exception. Absolutely no one walked past the whole nine or twenty yards to pop the question, “What is your resolution for this year?”

I did have friends around me who echoed their opinions about the resolutions they had made. Some wanted to stay away from alcohol. Some wanted to experiment and grow closer to it. Someone expressed her anguish over failed relationships and wishes to settle down with a successful one. Someone expressed his happiness over having found the right person to get into a relationship and foresaw a happy life, resolving for more love, more sex, and of course kids. The odds, the evens. The prime, the faded. The heard, the unheard. All of them did resolve; only chose not to be overtly vocal.

Last year, I chose to keep my resolution wrapped. Beneath mountains, deep in a sea bed, suppressed to extremes; it remained a closely guarded secret. Revealed yet to no one and written somewhere, I shall go back to it some other day, other year. But this year, I chose to make an exception. Sometimes a change of perspective helps. And now arrives my resolution; not from the mind, but from my breathlessly pacing heart. A resolution that is not crafted or created. But a resolution, that can be called ‘quite evolved’.

I resolve to ‘take a concrete step towards something I am passionate about; the passion of storytelling’. My ‘now branded as a weekend venture’ goes by the name of EVERYDAY STORY MAKER. The passion of this storytelling is not limited to narrating stories, but extends to creating them, not one, but many of them, all original, inspired from reality around us, inspired by the Indian folklores of yore, global folklores of today and much more. Will I keep this limited only to storytelling? Only time and I shall tell.

This is not at all a late start to the year for sure, neither is it a delayed initiative. The concrete step that I’ve resolved to take to pursue my passion is well founded, deep rooted in my psyche to grow a lot more social, out of the web of social media but through original social presence; almost everywhere, every time.

Some did ask me about EVERYDAY STORY MAKER’s success rate and my plans for life. Some even asked if at all I’ve weighed my options of success or failures. Let me take this privilege of signing off by quoting someone I read from recently or maybe created from many of my facebook posts – “There is more to life rather than celebrating success and grieving over failures...”

-vociferous

THE FIRST HIGH FIVE DAYS OF 2014

Writing never ages. Even if it seems to be ageing, it seems to get better like well seasoned wine. The layers of experiences or the series of events, keep adding on to the passion or rather habit of writing. It was with the first fresh sunrise of January 1, 2014 that I decided to start writing for myself. But that should not be confused of being my resolution for the year 2014. As announced publicly, my resolution for 2014 will continue to remain a secret till the time I realize it. Writing pumps undefeatable confidence in my faith in life and dreams. Writing either adds wings to my desires or takes them to an all new high. And thereby began 2014.

On the first day of 2014, I woke up at ease. No matter how hard I had tried to get a new pair of sports shoes to go jogging from the first ever morning of the New Year, my luck had different plans for me.  A brand new pair of sports shoes did catch my attention at a local Bata outlet. The single sexy shade of grey gave out a very silvery feel to my determination to slip my feet into them at the soonest. Belonging to the POWER clan of sports shoes, neither did it cost princely nor did it end up setting my pocket ablaze. Alongside mom, I walked out with a broad smile on my face. The next day was going to be amazing. But before the next day arrived, I had different plans to begin with 2014.

I was lucky to have booked three tickets to Chander Pahar (The Mountain of Moon) in advance. This was also my first visit to yet another mall (Phoenix Market City) in an otherwise not so likable suburb (Kurla). As a first impression, the mall engulfed my mediocre imaginations about it. The opinions I held about it stood banished. My apprehensions vanished. Here we were facing the mall; a monster of a mall. We walked towards the seven screens multiplex. After collecting the tickets we treated ourselves to donuts at M.O.D and then spent a good amount of time at Hamleys. Stepping inside we were on a joyride. Mom pointed towards the section that comprised almost all the toy cars, one can think of. At the same time, Mrs.Right busied herself with a flurry of soft toys. And then arrived the time to set out on a cinematic adventure. Chander Pahar turned out to be a Bengali movie with Hollywood finesse. Combining all the elements of edge-of-the-seat adventure tales, Chander Pahar pulled us in. Reviewing it would seem very average. The greatest of greats in Bengali cinema and the best of all the bests from Indian cinema have lauded the formula defying effort. It was nothing less than a Spielberg experience in Indian context. Two hours thirty minutes seeped away. The first ever African Safari, filmed in Bengali carried us to a tough terrain and then rapidly flung us back to the strange experience of being in the maddening surrounds of Mumbai. The first day of the New Year ended with an applauding round of dinner – home cooked Misal Pav (a Maharashtrian delicacy that is still best-served at Mamledar, Thane).

The alarm went off at sharp 6 am on the second day of 2014. The new pair of sports shoes seemed to be waiting anxiously to meet their first ever owner. Slipping my feet into them, I jogged, I skipped, I jumped and I walked. The overall experience was extremely sporty. It was that lovely feeling of having achieved something. What did I achieve? My sports shoes know it better. Work wise everything remained calm. The stage seemed set to welcome the third day.

We forgot attending a wedding of a family friend. But I remembered to get my android phone back. This was for the longest time that it had rested at the forgettable LG Service Center, located at a disinteresting location in one of the oldest alleys of Dadar. The little amount of charge that was left in the battery made the mobile spring back to life. The engineers had done something amazing to it. My LG P970 Optimus Black was breathing again. The software had been upgraded. The internal circuit went through a revamp. Right now I am celebrating the fact that I didn’t have to spend a bomb on acquiring another smartphone. But thanks to the Micromax phone that kept me connected to the world. Happiness made a comeback.

Then arrived the fourth day of 2014. It was not the day but the evening that made it much more special. I met my best friend Nikhil. The 40 km bike ride made us turn into bachelors again. Nikhil is still a bachelor. The crazy bike ride without helmets protecting our heads ended at a lakeside restaurant in Thane. Nikhil and I realized that this was our 20^th year of being friends. To celebrate the moment, we ordered for delicious food. And then began a long round of conversation. From the first day of our college to present day complications and simplicities, we spoke all. And then Nikhil commented – From 1998 I have been waiting for my friend to start writing the book that he had always been talking about. I suggest you start now. Nikhil ignited the long lazy desire to pursue personal writing. He shook the heart that had somewhere mildly stopped responding to the calls of my pen and paper. He made me think again. Before him Mrs.Right has been urging me to make a start. Before her many other friends and well-wishers have been advising me to do so. Maybe the journey of writing has to begin now! But I have been travelling for long. Maybe it is time to stop procrastinating.  

The fifth day being a Sunday could have turned out to be yet another lazy day. But I am still reeling with excitement. I finally succeeded in defying routine. I read, I imagined. I laughed, I smiled. Above all, I opened the long closed gates of my mind to accept and welcome the change that has been trying to keep me inspired and motivated. At the turning point of life, looking ahead to the rest of 360 days of 2014!

-vociferous 

GOOD BYE – LAST MONDAY OF 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous 

THE LAST SUNDAY OF 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-vociferous