SHUBHO BIJOYA

Strengths of all mothers 
in this universe were combined 
together to create Maa Durga.

I guess, I am the latest entrant in the long list of avid readers on twitter. Yes, apart from being an active twitter user and before publishing another tweet out there, I too am a reader. As I continued with my journey of reading, I came across this little piece by Ronita. Titled ‘Bijoya Doshomir Chithi’ meaning ‘A letter on account of Bijoya Dashami’, Ronita left me with intense longing for Kolkata again. She wrote and I quote:

BIJOYA DOSHOMIR CHITHI

Bijoya Doshomi is a testimony
that evil may celebrate 
a momentary win but the victory
belongs to the one who has 
the courage, powered by truth.

Debi Durga comes to visit us every year
to remind us that, we have ten hands 
to fight all evils around us. 
She is a symbol of limitless.
May you win over your own limits.

Choto der bhalobasha, 
Guru jon der pranaam 
Ebong bondhooder janai
Sharodiya priti o subeccha.

Iti, Ronita

The ritual to bid adieu to Maa Durga

Words, which instantly struck an emotional chord and will not fade out too easily from my mind; our minds. Simple lines but so rich in feelings. These feelings will continue to run deep in this system of a so called Probashi Bengali. 

Ronita’s words also remind me of the climax of Sujoy Ghosh’s startlingly original climax of Kahaani, when Amitabh Bachchan’s baritone voice echoes: 

Sometimes even Gods end up committing mistakes of grave nature. Gods themselves created the demons; gave them power. And, when these demons started misusing the same power, Gods created Maa Durga; to put an end to the blood-soaked reign of these demons. It’s said, strengths of all mothers in this universe were combined together to create Maa Durga. Every year Maa comes home. She puts an end to all the sins of this world, and then returns to her divine abode in the skies. So that we can continue living happily, peacefully without any fear in our minds. 

This year too, Maa Durga came and she left. She made sure that she liberates this earth of all the sins. But she left behind an evening of unfinished conversations, discontinued journeys and yet to be written stories. Another twelve months of an incessant wait might sound frustrating. But then the many avatars of Maa Durga started giggling joyously. The Sindoor Khela had just commenced. Even though, the moment is not too joyous, these women, draped in red bordered white saris have come out in large numbers to announce the victory of this year. 

Sindoor Khela 

And, I bow down to touch my mother’s feet. She moves back saying – Son, I am wearing a chappal. 

I smile at her and tell her – Your feet are where my Universe is Maa.

She smiles and I see an idol of Maa Durga slowly being immersed in the waters of Holy Ganges. And I also hear the crowd announce – Ashchhe Bochhor Aabar Hobe (Coming year this will continue in the same manner). 

The evening takes over. Clouds clash with each other. Rains descend. The electricity supply goes off. The electric supply is restored. The WiFi jumps into action; a message on WhatsApp makes me smile; it reads – SHUBHO BIJOYA (meaning Positive Victory).

Note: Picture courtesy - Google. 

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

'UNDECIDED'

But before the train starts

to help us reach our desired

destinations, I hear an announcement –

Trains are running late by UNDECIDED hours.

Today being a Monday, Mom isn’t putting boiled eggs on my plate. Like all other Mondays, I am continuing with my vegetarian routine. Mom isn’t even asking me to peel off the skin of that extra mango, which she picked up from our neighbor's grove. I’ve just taken my bath. I step out of the bathroom with my hair still wet. I switch on the fan; I increase its speed. I comb my hair; offer my prayers; start dressing up and take my position at the dining table.

I stare out of the window; the overcast skies leave me thinking about a million more unplanned things. I break my bread. I dip it into the thick mixture of vegetables. I bite into it and keep chewing that little piece till it takes the form of a delicious paste within the mouth. Post which, I allow it to slowly travel down my throat, through the food pipe, straight into my hungry tummy. I am feeling better.

The wall clock makes for some happy viewing as well. It’s 7.45 AM and I know, I am not running late. My bag is ready. I am done with my breakfast. I pick up the lunchbox and shove it into my sling bag. It’s time, I need to leave. I know, moving out at 7.50 AM sharp is not going to leave me breathless. I am not going to walk in haste but, I shall walk at ease. The station road, at this hour is considerably empty.

Bidding mom good bye, I start walking towards the railway station. One step followed by the other; the other followed by another. I am feeling happy within. Today I am not in a haste at all. I shall be reaching the station within my estimated time of 7.5 minutes.

I skip a skidding bicycle. I take the left to avoid being knocked down by a speeding auto. I walk past the temporary food stalls, which spring up every weekday to sell everything; from breakfast of hot piping idlis to herbal juices. And here I am, finally on Platform Number 2 of the railway station.

The railways station, which I am talking about, is packed to the core. The indicator flashes 7.17 AM Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus bound train. Puzzled, I look at my wristwatch. The indicated train is already running 60 minutes behind its original schedule. My wristwatch tells me, it’s 8.10 AM and my regular train is not expected to come any soon.

Almost restless, I decide to board the now stationary 7.17 AM fast train from Platform Number 2. I am expecting it to be crowded. To my surprise, the train is empty. Most of the travelers seem to have already left by other trains. I get to grab a window seat. The train isn’t moving. The motorman isn’t even blowing the horn. After almost 15 minutes of wait, there’s a power cut within the train. The power resumes, the fans blare, the lights glow. The motorman blows the horn. But before the train starts to help us reach our desired destinations, I hear an announcement – Trains are running late by UNDECIDED hours.

As a result, I reach office late – Undecided.

As a result, I earn a late mark – Undecided.

As a result, this journey continues to get delayed by UNDECIDED hours.

#TrainSpotterUpdate #June17 #2019

- Virtuous Vociferous | June 17 | June Blog-2 | Never Settle | 2019

IT’S NOT TOO EASY BEING ME

I mean it when I say – It’s not too easy being ME.

The ME possesses a name. The name, which serves as an identification of who this ME is.

Addressed as somebody or someone, this ME sounds selfish; yet stays real!

As ME as I might sound, you can still reach out to ME and grow compassionate for being a fellow human being (not mandatory).

Perceived as complicated, adamant, arrogant, stubborn; this ME is immune to nothing and still not averse to anything. Because it is never necessary to agree upon what ME thinks and what that ME in that YOU begs to differ upon.

Is ME a daydreamer? Unsure on that front; but definitely sure that ME dreams; big and small.

ME is taken for granted! Does it seem so? Then there could be an area of concern. Or once again, perceptions could have missed the train!

No more haunted by bets on intuitions of others, this ME is far from being one among them. This is a better version of ME.

ME did take time to realize the fake doctrines, dated principles and rotten motives. Yet ME survived. ME lives on.

Trust ME, this part of ME is a revelation for ME as well. An undiscovered, unexplored ME.

Strangely in every ME, there is a ME and yet the entire community of ME lies in dire state of unawareness. Once enlightened, thoughts of ME multiply, sometimes fly.

ME is mortal; made up of blood and flesh. A heart pounds within. An immortal soul lives within. ME is visible. But longing to be visible with certain group of people, with certain kind of mindsets.

As times change, ME needs to change. Yet resistance is a specific feature, ME loves to harp upon with great pleasure. ME resists bad language. ME resists bad influence. ME resists anything that’s bad at the core.

Right now, ME continues to seek shelter from the only table lamp and continues to write. Too much of a ME that it is all about; definitely is potent enough to grow brutally painful or infectiously lovable.

Yet, to conclude let ME add, it’s not too easy being ME; it will never ever be too easy BEING ME.

- Virtuous Vociferous | May 31 | May Blog-3 | 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

RAINS ETCETERA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Virtuous Vociferous

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 

END OF A RELATIONSHIP – Hindustan Times and I are no more on reading terms

When it debuted in Mumbai, on a monsoon-pregnant day of 2005, I wanted to grab the first copy and retain it as a symbol of my fascination. Prior to that I had to heavily rely on those who traveled between Mumbai and Delhi regularly; requesting them to carry along a copy of it and make it available to me for a mouthful of reading. Thereafter during my innumerable trips to Delhi, I never missed the chance of carrying a copy back home.

The arrival of Hindustan Times (HT) in Mumbai seemed like a fresh breath of journalistic air in the clutter endorsed culture of The Times of India and DNA. Every edition of HT came well packaged with its own set of cliché defying reportage. What was more striking was the absence of advertisement deluge in the newspaper. Being from an advertising background, I do understand the value, every media house attaches with ad releases. But then the noise was too less, with regards to HT. It appeared like a newspaper, which I definitely wanted to wake up to read every day.

Since reading HT was full of pleasure, I opted for a marathon subscription of almost five or seven years in a row, which finally ended on March 17, 2015. But I am relieved by the breakup. HT’s personality had changed, ever since I renewed the subscription, two years back. It was an unwilling move on my behalf; had it not been for the humble sales guy who came pleading at my doorstep, I had made up my mind to strangulate the relationship.

The ties had started weakening from the time HT decided to discontinue supplying THE BRUNCH (a special supplement with Sunday edition), beyond the city limits of Thane. Was it then our fault to be residents of a destination, roughly 36 kilometers away from the central suburb of Mumbai! Then too my friend Prashant and I continued revering the internet edition. In fact I have still retained some of its old printed versions, which carries my name in the letters section. The issues of THE BRUNCH were fresh, awe inspiring and indulging.

But good times don’t last for long. I won’t say I am, in particular, angry with HT alone. But I am definitely annoyed by the repetitive style of reporting issues of all newspapers, which disturb our mornings, spoil our afternoons and leave us feeling anxious during nights. Incidents definitely are to be reported. But the language is strictly uncourteous. Secondly the heinous typo errors in the print as well as e-version kept putting my mind off. Sometimes names, places, events and personalities were misrepresented or misprinted. Finally when the subscription manager of our area called to ask, if I am ready to upgrade my renewal further, I straight away put down the request. This time I was in no mood to heed to their humility or honesty. I knew I had lost interest in HT.

This might seem like an end of the road for my experience of newspaper reading. Well not exactly. I am already hooked to HT Mint Lounge series, published on every Saturday. And I am gradually mending my mind to adapt to the journalistic mannerisms of THE INDIAN EXPRESS. Secondly I have for a long time stayed away from magazine reading. Maybe I will catch up with a couple of them. Apart from everything else, there is always the good company of books I enjoy.

I am not trying to build a negative opinion against HT, which still continues to be one of my favorites. But I clearly remember the day, I chose to not continue being its fan for a long time. On the third or fifth page of the edition, I came across a filthy ad. This advertisement was of someone wishing birthday to a wealthy chap. I believe that was the last nail, to pierce the abyss of the coffin.

Today HT and I are no more on reading terms. The only link between us is the HT Mint Lounge, which comes my way, every Saturday. I am not repenting over this disassociation. Instead, I am moving ahead to a better world of reading the ones, I haven’t tried till now. Maybe it is high time that my collection starts comprising TIME, The New Yorker and The Economist for a change.

The end of a relationship is actually the beginning of a brand new relationship. It also marks the commencement of happy reading, twice upon a time with reloaded energy.

-vociferous 

MY FANBOY MOMENT WITH SIR JEFFREY ARCHER – PART 1

I reached the Kemps Corner outlet of CROSSWORDS at 6.40 pm. A mini gathering of people stood blocking the entrance of the bookshop. One of them was holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands; continuously adjusting his grip and also adjusting his neck, sometimes to the left and to the right. At around 6.45 pm, a white colored AUDI pulled in. Seated inside was Sir Jeffrey Archer, the master storyteller; he had arrived much ahead of the official event time of 7 pm. An executive opened the door for him. Sir Jeffrey Archer slowly stepped out, waived at all greeting him and graciously accepted the bouquet.

At a distance, I was busy pacing. The security personnel politely asked me to stir clear of the way so that they can ensure a safe passage for Sir Jeffrey Archer. I didn’t protest. I wanted to be a part of this first-hand experience. I moved to the left. In less than 20 seconds, the bestselling author walked in. Even though I had expected him to show up in a suit, he seemed at ease wearing a light colored shirt and a dark hued trouser. The legendary lines on his forehead didn’t seem harrowed by the adulation, he found himself surrounded with (he has never been a stranger to all of this). I pulled out my mobile and captured every single second of his short walk from the doorway to the cafeteria located on the mezzanine floor of the bookshop.

The crowd that emerged at CROSSWORDS were all genuine fans of Sir Jeffrey Archer. They were all waiting with baited breath. I wasted no time to grab the copy of his newest launch MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD. Every attendee tightened their grip over the new book and his other offerings. He has been writing the CLIFTON CHRONICLES for long. Honestly speaking, this book, which is supposed to be the fifth in row, is my first ever possession of the globally popular series. I know, I am not going to start reading it, before laying my hands over the previous four (not very far from doing that either).

Sir Jeffrey Archer emerged from the cafeteria, this time escorted by another Mumbai based crime writer, Piyush Jha. He made his way to the dais, stood there for a while, absorbing the loud round of applause that filled the event space now. A mike was handed over to him. He raised his left hand, established an eye-to-eye connection with the crowd and broke into a speech by making an honest confession about the cricketing team of England, the country he hails from. He said, “I think England is going to win the World Cup of 2015”. His declaration attracted a vocal retaliation (in a friendly tone) from the crowd, which claimed it was India again that will retain the title. Sir Jeffrey Archer grabbed this opportunity to put his amazing sense of humor to good work. Even though he called the Indian cricketers lazy, he quickly added that the team was very serious about such a sporting event of global demeanor. He expressed as to how he continues to remain pleasantly surprised by the energy of these cricketers, who understand the game better and take it very seriously to compete with a vengeance.

Being a storyteller, Sir Jeffrey Archer left everyone awestruck with a short anecdote, which was based on his personal observation of the booksellers at traffic signals. His enactment of the bookseller (who was coincidentally a kid), walking with a pile of books was so perfect, I could relate to it instantly. As his car came to a halt at one of the traffic signals, he heard a knock on his window. He rolled down the window glass. The child bookseller pushed his new book in and asked, “Would you like to buy the new Jeffrey Archer book on offer?” Sir Jeffrey Archer looked deep into his eyes and replied, “I am this same Jeffrey Archer who writes these books”. The little child looked somewhat unimpressed. The crowd couldn’t hold back its laughter.

(to be continued in… Part 2) 

-vociferous

MY FANBOY MOMENT WITH SIR JEFFREY ARCHER – PART 2

(continued from Part 1)

Amidst all his other fans, I stood there, emotionally touched by the author’s honest voice; redeeming my personal fanboy moment. As he spoke, my mind pondered over those numerous years of struggle, when I wanted to see him, meet him in person. But I couldn’t. Every year, from the year he started coming to India and visited Mumbai, I nearly missed out on these opportunities, for reasons that I don’t wish to mention, count or recollect. The seed of eagerness to see him, was sown in me by his book A PRISONER OF BIRTH, only to be followed by many of his other books, purchased at a feverish pace of my own. I busied myself absorbing all the passion he showed in describing his books, inspiration for characters, the plots, the handwritten drafts, the corrected versions, his respect for R. K. Narayan, his admiration of R. K. Laxman and the upcoming editions of his old books. Shining bright at 74, he made no bones about his age. What I found interesting about this man, was his love for life and his love for the lives he writes so believably in his books. I was glued to every single word, he let his fans to feast upon. So focused I was. Nothing mattered to me. My mobile phone did ring, an sms did arrive, from none other than my beloved. But she cooperated, knowing very well that this moment was precious than anything else; by anything, I mean to say our wedding anniversary (but more on that later). 

I could sense nothing but the author himself. Standing afar, I was thrilled infinitely. Pushed to the side, sometimes pressed from behind, and holding my copy high; all that I cared for was Sir Jeffrey Archer. I was carrying with me a printed copy of my review of one of his stories CASTE-OFF that I had published on my blog www.urbansurprise.blogspot.in (http://urbansurprise.blogspot.in/2010/06/caste-off.html). It was a precious advice from my wife, who apprised, “What if you do get the chance to speak to him and can quickly share your writing with him?” Heeding her paid off well (not in the expected way, but definitely in a way, I hadn’t anticipated).

So carried away I was by his conversation, which he didn’t prolong a minute more than those 45 minutes of his memorable presence; I didn’t realize that the crowd was now gearing up to seek Sir Jeffrey Archer’s elite autograph. A senior lady murmured in my ear, “Son, if you don’t mind, could you please shift a little to your right?” She added, “If you do so, we will be able to stand parallel to the queue that has started making its way to the dais.” The suggestion was viable. I thanked her for the same, my thoughts about the author remained undisturbed. Even though our queue didn’t move an inch, my determination had long stepped on the dais, got a selfie clicked and walked away smiling. But reality bites. For a second I felt, I have to return empty handed, with a book that didn’t bear my favorite author’s signature. The finale to my dream was just 7 souls away. Finally I stood there, waiting for my turn. My book was laid on the table, he gently raised his hand, the pen’s tip touched the second page, and it moved smoothly. Sir Jeffrey Archer had penned down his signature. I requested, if I could share some space to click a photograph of us both. To which he politely responded, “Son, if I honor your request, it would be tiresome and time consuming to pose with this entire ocean of my fans. Anyways thank you for asking”.

I couldn’t have asked for more. As I started walking away from the dais, I knew how strong my determination had grown. The experience has not yet paled out. The aura that Sir Jeffrey Archer exuded was unforgettable. I kept looking back, if I could once again find the space, to squeeze in and slip across to him, the printed piece of my review of his short story CASTE-OFF. But the day March 2, 2015 didn’t just belong to me, it belonged to his numerous other fans too, who were waiting in the queue, now outnumbered, flowing out of the CROSSWORDS bookstore of Kemps Corner. As I started leaving, my eyes fell on Ms Nisha Jamvwal, the main inspiration and also the central character of Sir Jeffrey Archer’s short story CASTE-OFF. This was the best ever thing to come my way on this special day. I found her standing at a counter, speaking to someone. I approached her, reminding her of the blog that she had also left her comment on, almost five years back. Not only did she recollect the blog, but also shared some vital information, which she requested if I can add and either rewrite the post or present it in a different shade of hope! I agreed. She didn’t refuse to sign a copy of the published blog and said, “I will be looking forward to your email.”

The crowd had started spilling out on the road. I glanced at my watch. It was 8 pm. I hailed for a taxi. The driver was amused and asked me, “Why this place is so crowded Sir, is someone from the filmy world visiting?”

I replied, “No not at all. But the guest is bigger than anyone else, an author from England. Sir Jeffrey Archer.”

I am sure, he knew no one by that name and ferried me across to Mumbai CST from where I embarked yet again on a journey of memories, imaginations and more.

-vociferous