A Different Form Of Life

 December 14-2020/ Blog #1

Life is at times absolute; 

at times obsolete too.

Life.

So far we know it just by one of its forms.

The form of life, which we are living now.

The one, we say is a Gift of God.

The one, which is given to us by our parents.

Life.

Have we ever thought of it differently?

Have we ever thought of imagining it differently?

No. We haven’t.

There is nor harm in doing that.

Maybe we can discover something which could be better than this form of life.

Life.

I wonder about it often.

Strange questions flood my mind.

Does this LIFE belong to us?

Or

Do we belong to this LIFE?

Life.

I love to imagine it differently.

I often think, life is like a train.

Always in motion.

Travelling from one destination to the other.

And that is where I feel there is a problem.

I wonder what happens to life as a train when it finally reaches a certain destination!

Does it come to a standstill?

Life.

If I say it is like a train; it can be considered an interesting form.

Now consider life being in motion.

A destination; a so-called station is almost round the corner.

Just then someone announces that the so-called station, the train was supposed to stop at doesn’t exist any more!

Or it might happen that someone suddenly reveals - the so-called station has suddenly disappeared!

What will happen to this form of LIFE then?

I meant, what would happen to life, I am imagining in a different form; as a train.

Will Life follow the same?

Life.

I believe it is a strange package of equally strange events and instances.

Life is at times absolute; at times obsolete too. 

Life.

No matter in what form you imagine it as. 

Even if we consider a different form of life.

It will still sound, smell, taste, feel and seem like this LIFE of ours.

Life is life. Nothing else.

-Virtuous Vociferous/ 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

AIR CONDITIONER: PARALYZED

Picture Courtesy: Google

The air conditioner has been rendered paralyzed.

It was performing well, in sync with the real world, real time and real people. The air conditioner installed inside didn’t allow the rough temperatures, which were ruining our outsides to ruin our insides. Somehow, the joy of being in the confines of an air-conditioned environment was pleasant.

None of us had the faintest of idea that the same air conditioner will be rendered paralyzed, so suddenly!

If recollected, from hey days, the air conditioner had a charm of its own. The disruption commenced with the illogical adjustments of temperatures that the air conditioner was subjected to. After a week’s time or so, the wings of the air conditioner wasn’t allowed to swing. Dodging all concerns of global warming, the temperatures were also set at 25^o C, sometimes 26^o C and sometimes, simply unmentionable temperatures!

Till the time, the winters hadn’t lost its grip on the atmosphere, a momentary break from the air conditioner was welcome. But winters are fast receding, summers are charging in. At such a crucial juncture, the air conditioner hangs there, lonely on that wall; seemingly defunct or more directly put – paralyzed. Had this condition being human, we would have tagged it as brain-dead.

Ironically even if the air conditioner is found switched off repeatedly, either the remote goes missing or is found aimlessly wandering in between spaces of our desks. The situation is tricky.

No human group has claimed official responsibility of the now dysfunctional air conditioner also known as the paralyzed air conditioner. Voices of resentment were last heard, out of some hoodies, which kept human faces hidden beneath. They are not directly responsible for the air conditioner being rendered paralytic but, they are indirectly somewhere responsible. This untimely paralytic attack has jeopardized some unsettled body temperatures.

At times, amusement sets in and a question repeatedly pops up – What is a centralized air conditioning system is put in place? If at all this system is put in place, will the souls beneath hoodies still torture it and puncture the inner temperatures? Presently there is no one replying and suddenly I can feel a cool wave of breeze flowing out of the air conditioner. So, has the air conditioner being rendered paralyzed for real?

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 18 | February Blog-2 | Never Settle | 2019

SUNRISE ON THE FIRST SUNDAY OF JULY

My car is parked in the open. The beams of bright sunlight have been constantly hitting its roof since morning. As my eyes stretch out of my gallery and from the window of my bedroom, I see the top portions of some roofs, which are covered with blue plastic sheets, reflecting the brightness of sunlight. I am trying to put a strong belief in place; this is the second month of Indian monsoons. What we are faced with is a sign of delayed monsoons ahead. If told differently, the monsoons may just prolong themselves.

Going by the beginning of this blog and reading through the title, may create an impression of a geological article or an environmental thesis. Sorry to say, none of the both can be associated with this written piece. What I wish to write now has nothing to do with both and yet has something to do or undo, with regards to both!

July is supposed; I hope I am writing it right when I say – July is supposed to be the month of heavy downpour. The skies are supposed to be constantly overcast. At least from the time, I started appreciating or avoiding the monsoons, all months of July in my 39 seasons of monsoons, have looked the same. But one of the Julys from the many Julys could be figured out being different. Maybe this is just that kind of a different July. But why am I speaking so much about this specific month, out of the 4 crucial months of monsoon? There could be a reason.

The sunrise in the title is symbolic of hope. The first Sunday in the title is symbolic of inspiration. The July in this title is symbolic of present phase of life.

From the past few months, I’ve been witnessing the rise of a phenomenon around me. I would like to tag or label or call this phenomenon as something vexatious^#1. Even though I have been trying my level best to ignore this evolution, I still get tousled in its web. 

The minds behind this phenomenon, which I now label as Something Vexatious, come with their own share of history. I would like to raise an alarm in here. This is not exactly the kind of history someone could be proud of. This history is truculent^#2 in nature. Even though, I haven’t dug deeper into their past. But, I am sure, they have remained this way throughout their lives. This is what their present is all about. This is what their future will be all about. The only exception being me and some others, supposedly like me.

As the phenomenon keeps getting heavier and affecting optimism, my mind fluctuates between grimness of heavy monsoons in July and expectation of sunrise someway.

Therefore, when I woke up at some other place this morning and peeped out of the window, my eyes fell on the beams of a sunrise, which prompted me that hope is still alive. When my eyes fell on the calendar, it reminded me of today being Sunday and also made me aware of the reality that inspiration is not yet dead.

To conclude with an ode to present phase of my life, I wish to write – Hello July. This is my month, our month to excel. No matter, where the propellers of the vexatious phenomenon come from, I shall triumph, we shall triumph!

-Virtuous Vociferous | July 1 | July Blog-1 | Making of the beast | 2018

Vexatious^#1 – annoying / Truculent^#2 – aggressively hostile 

YES, ENOUGH

Enough of this life, which is normal.

Enough of this promise, which is unbreakable.

Enough of this faith, which is deep-rooted, inseparable.

Enough of this vision, which keeps seeking the watchable.

Enough of this mind, which is prone to sane thinking, again and again.

Enough of this journey, which takes me to specific destinations.

Enough of this breath, which is laden rich with the choicest of aromas.

Enough of this pen, which rightly shapes the form of my writing.

Enough of this bond, which is too believable, lovable and shatterproof.

Enough of this happiness, which carries the echoes of honest laughter, impressions of humid smile.

Enough of this passion, which is addictive, infectious and magnanimous.

Enough of this devotion, which is a routine every day.

Enough of this book, which is being written, rewritten, rethought and recreated again, again, again.

Yes, enough of everything, which is so accessible, simple, shareable and achievable.

Enough of this soft board, which is flooded with the best moments, happy moments.

Enough of this stubbornness, which intends to win over everything, leave nothing.

Enough of this wardrobe, which is so well-organized, arranged with care and compartmentalized.

Enough of this plan, which seems to get everything almost so perfect, unchallenged.

Enough of this voice, which is louder, over the top and carries a magnetic attitude.

Enough of this melody, which is so well-turned and all the notes producing almost the right sounds.

Enough of this friendship, which is so robust and continues being a strong bond.

Enough of this love, which is so picture perfect, referred to, recommended and given examples of.

Enough of this road, which is well laid, taken often, returned to and continued upon.

Yes, enough of everything, which is so durable, defined, demonstrated and opined of.

Enough of this me too, which was clueless till yesterday.

Enough of this me, being me.

Yes, enough of simply being and wanting to go beyond. Going beyond being this enough.

-Virtuous Vociferous | December 09 | December Blog-1 | 2017

THE ENTRAPMENTS OF DOMESTIC LIFE

All this while, the tasteless mind has been plagued by questions. These sharp-edged questions keep protruding out like active ulcers on passive skin. Causing anguish, demeaning desires, these questions compel us to probe deep into a proverb, which reads: PURPOSE FUELS PASSION. In a life as domestic as ours, the ‘purpose’ seems to have gone missing.

The sun is yet to come to life. The alarm goes off at 5 AM sharp. Switching off the AC, crawling out of the bed, contracting and expanding the eyes, inhaling the remains of last night and exhaling the so called depravity of sleep; we tell ourselves, “Wake up, time to go”. The door leads to the bathroom, the bathroom gives way to the washbasin, the washbasin sports a hefty tap, which we turn on and push a toothbrush deep inside to help us sport a million dollar smile, cavity free jawline, fresh breath (in case, smooching tops the agenda). After the residues of the previous night’s half-digested food finds a way down the flush, we are equally free to declare ourselves ‘Fresh’.

Postponing the bath, we sprint towards the kitchen; boil a glassful of water, slice a lemon into two, undo the lid of Baba Ramdev’s Patanjali honey and consume it to make a statement, “We are health conscious”. It is 5:40 AM by now, we decide to embark on an excursion of a home that belongs to us, exploring deep corners, which hide in them a dead cockroach, a group of paralyzed mosquitoes, a nano crew of marching ants and a spider busy spreading a web to trap them all. Sorry we are in no mood to give these pests a free hand; we pull out the broom, rescue them from the circle of life and death and release them dead or alive straight into the dustbin. Thereafter we continue with the broom, trying not to fly on it but sweeping the floors and other surfaces. By 6 AM, we are out. Huffing, puffing and sweating heavily. This part is globally known as ‘Physical Workout’. By 6:45 AM, we are back to wake up the other members of the home. The God, the wife, the mother, the washing machine, the gas oven and the milk over it, the refrigerator and of course the music system.

The wife and the mother have got their own agendas to chase. If wife and mother are both professionals, boarding the 8:45 AM Mumbai Fast tops the list. Prior to that the moral responsibility of cooking a storm keeps them engaged. Oh shit, it is 8:15 AM. If we don’t leave now, the train (even though starting from where we stay) might get crowded. We run down all the staircase, blow the horn to signal our concern over a supposed delay in making. The wife follows in 50:50 makeup; the rest of it will be taken care of in the train. While we are busy finding a parking space, the wife is already running for the train. We run, board the train and curse those who opt for a return journey from the station prior to ours. The train comes to a halt, the wife alights somewhere else. After we alight, we take a look at the watch and release a sigh of relief. This part is officially known as ‘the train is running on time’.

Humping and thumping we reach our offices, welcomed by the security guard at the reception, we sign in and traverse smoothly through the biometric passage. We settle down and start fondling with the PC, Laptop, Tablet and IPad that serves as our connection to the outside world. This part is universally called ‘being in office’. Till lunch hour, we try to figure out what are we supposed to do. We make phone calls to our loved ones to know their statuses; has the wife reached her office safely? Did mother have her breakfast? What is the bank balance for today? Boss comes in, doesn’t smile, doesn’t react, doesn’t interact and then we scream out ‘communication gap’. Post the lunch hour, we associate ourselves with some menial tasks, which fail to make us feel proud; we gape, we ape, we yawn, we curl and by the time our mind starts concentrating on the tasks at hand, it is it time to leave. Leaving office on time is considered sin in an advertising agency (or perhaps the advertising industry). The moment, we decide to pack up, the client servicing team members come hunting for us. We step out, our phones ring, we are requested to come back to the office and there we are fondling with computer again. Time doesn’t stand still, decisions are postponed, feedback never shared; frustrated and irritated, we call it a day. This part is called ‘finally out of office’.

Once again we are at the station, waiting impatiently for the train to arrive. Even though the indicator predicts an arrival within three minutes, many a times, the train seems to have disappeared. The train arrives, we barge in; finding a seat is a rare opportunity if at all we board the train from another destination rather than the point of its origin. We get back to the destination, we started from in the morning. And once again, we are back home. We bathe, we refresh and we settle down for dinner. We switch on the television, make an attempt to stay up late to catch a movie, we had long heard about but never thought of watching. The eyes start trembling, beg for sleep and naturally we are back to the bed again. The AC is switched on and there we are, indulged in sleep, lost in nightmares and getting lost somewhere, before the alarm rings again.

Days and nights fade, we follow the same routine. Then comes a day when we ask, “What is the purpose we are pursuing in our lives?”

A long silence ensues.

Purpose lost, purpose gained; only this time, it is not the one…we had been thinking about!

-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 

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